Sherlock Holmes sat in the lab at St. Bartholomew's Hospital hard at work. He heard the door open and he knew that Molly Hooper had slipped inside. The usual sweet vanilla scent of her perfume, Shalimar by Guerlain, that he has refused to admit to himself he loves, filled the room. There was another scent however, she had brought him coffee.

"I didn't ask for coffee."

"Yes, but you've been up here all day I thought I'd bring you some coffee before I head out."

"Out? Where are you going?"

"I have a date tonight, Sherlock." She said placing the cup of coffee in front of him.

"A date? With whom?"

"John." And suddenly Sherlock was paying full attention.

"John, my John? John Watson, John?"

"Yes, he asked me on a date this morning while you two came round to have a look at the body."

"You're not his type."

"Ex-excuse me?"

She thought to herself how Sherlock could be so unimaginably awful sometimes. Never considered her feelings, but it was so easy to forget all of that. Just gaze into his eyes and let go of all the anger she'll build up against him. This, was not one of those times. But Sherlock was no longer listening to her. He returned to his microscope and shut out the room. Molly stood there fuming for a minute before turning around to leave, slamming the door shut behind her. After she had left, Sherlock looked up. He couldn't quite understand why he was so infuriated by the idea that John had asked out Molly. She's the pathologist. He barely knows anything about her. And she wasn't John's type, but in a good way, Sherlock didn't want her to be his type. The insufferable small talk made by all his girlfriends, the complete idiocy of their questions. At least, even though Molly could barely look at him in the eye and was constantly nervous and clumsy, she wasn't an idiot. She was a wonderful help to his job, she was wonderful.

Molly Hooper walked into work the next day to an asleep Sherlock Holmes in front of the microscope. All the anger and resentment against him she'd been bearing like weights being dragged by her feet suddenly dissipated. He looked so peaceful with his head on his arms and his eyes closed. Angelic, even. She immediately turned around and made him a cup of coffee and returned to wake him up. How late had he been working till? Knowing him, she decided it must have till the wee hours of the night. She could never imagine him sleeping before, he's a steam engine on an endless track when he's awake. It seems so strange to see him shut up for a more than a minute. Instead of condescension and facts, silence came from the detective. She wondered what he dreamt about, probably cases.

But that was not what Sherlock Holmes was dreaming about in the laboratory. He was dreaming, rather he was having a nightmare of sorts, of the woman sitting watching him sleep and his flatmate. They walked into a cafe he was in to investigate suspected drug trafficking. His eyes immediately darted to their entwined hands. The urgent need to pull them apart flooded his mind but he quickly dismissed it. John pulled the chair out for her and she smiled at him, looking deeply into his eyes, her own sparkling with something Sherlock had only seen when she talks to him. Smiling at her from across the table and John takes her hand again. She orders and John laughs claiming that, "he was thinking of the exact same thing! How peculiar!" She giggled, looking at him amazed at the coincidence. It's no coincidence, Sherlock thinks to himself, John does that to make it seem like it. It's one of his only moves, and a very poor one at that. He wants to scream it across the room, but he can't, he has this case. He notices how relaxed she acts with him, not jumpy, never stutters, never falters, she's sure-footed. Unlike when she's alone with Sherlock in the laboratory and she seems to trip over thin air, forgets what she's about to say to him constantly, and blushes frequently. Jealousy racks his brain while he watches how she acts around John. What makes him so different? After they finish eating John leans across the tiny cafe table, he runs a hand through her hair resting it on the nape of her neck and pulls her in for a kiss. A faint smile lingered on her ruby lips before giving in. Sherlock, sitting across the cafe watching, filling with rage.

"NO!" Sherlock screamed.

"Sherlock? Sherlock, it's alright, you've just fallen asleep."

"Where am I?"

"St. Barts, Sherlock, you fell asleep in the lab." Noticing the cup of coffee he took a very slow, solemn drink from it. Shadows under his eyes, his hair a mess, he seemed a bit disgruntled.

"And what day is it?"

"November the 19th, listen, you should really go home and get some sleep, Sherlock."

"What? Oh, why? I've just slept, besides there are things to do." Molly had noticed the Lord of the Lightning book that had arrived at the hospital two days ago.

"It's peculiar isn't it?"

"What is?"

"You get sent a book about lightning and a week later you are examining a body of a woman who was electrocuted."

"What," Sherlock said coming back to reality rather violently, "Did you just say?"

"That you got a book about lightning and then a body turns up who's cause of death was electrocution."

"That's it. That's why! But how? How does this relate?" He said picking up the book and flipping frantically through the pages. "My God, Molly Hooper you are a genius!"

He grabbed her face in both his hands and kissed her on the cheek. She immediately felt her face flushing red, but when she looked back he was already reading the book. His blue eyes darting from one side of the page to the other. She had work to do, she couldn't stand here like a statue marvelling at the fact that she had just been kissed by Sherlock Holmes. She started for the door when she heard his voice behind her, "You know, when I said you aren't his type, I meant it as a compliment. His type is so dull."

Molly didn't respond she just continued to leave. She didn't want to him to see that ridiculous smile that spread across her face or exactly what shade of red she had become. She leant against the door and her hand reached up and brushed against the skin his lips had touched. He complimented her too, twice in one day. She was so filled with euphoria, she felt like she could jump off the top of the building and fly anywhere she wanted. But then she remembered the body downstairs, she had to call in family members and friends to identify her. Give a name to the face.

Sherlock smiled to himself between pages. Molly Hooper was just as clever as he had suspected. And that fact made him almost as happy as serial killers made him. It's almost too bad that this wasn't one.

Little did he know exactly how happy he'd become in the next couple months as the novel The Lightning Thief would appear at 221B Baker Street addressed to a Mr. Sherlock Holmes.