A/N: Thanks for all the reviews!

Thanks to Irishwoman for pointing out that the British English term is pavement and not sidewalk! If you happen to find other stuff like that or horrible grammar mistakes, let me know so I can fix them.

Disclaimer: No copyright infringement intended. I don't own Sherlock Holmes. If I would, I would have a lot more money ;-)

Molly had never seen Sherlock drive before. She had known he had a licence, but still, she had never imagined Sherlock Holmes driving before. Somehow he seemed out of place behind a steering wheel. He was the type to sit in the backseat while a chauffeur took care of the driving. But of course he was a good driver. Why was she not surprised? He was good at everything – apart from dealing with people and sentiment. He detested sentiment. At least that's what he wanted everyone to believe. But for Molly it was obvious that it was not the case that Sherlock Holmes didn't feel or was unable to reciprocate feelings. No, for her it seemed as if he was confused by them. He didn't know how to deal with them, because they could be overwhelming and they were irrational. And if there was one thing Sherlock Holmes was fond of, it was logic. And feelings were anything but logical. So he tried to stump them down and lock them up in the cellar of his mind palace for no one to see. But she knew he had deep feelings. Otherwise he wouldn't have jumped off a roof.

All these things were running through Molly's head as she was sitting beside Sherlock in his (? or Mycroft's?) car taking her somewhere. He hadn't said a word since they had left the flat and Molly was curious where their Sunday trip was going. She decided just to ask, "Well, you want to tell me about the case?"
"Which case?"
"The one we're going to."
"I didn't say anything about a case."
"So, we're not going on a case?"
"Nope."
Molly was silent for a moment. She wasn't really sure how to respond to that. Why else would he need her to come with him if not for a case?
Apparently Sherlock took Molly's silence for a bad sign. He took his eyes off the road for a few seconds to look at her.
"Are you disappointed by that?"
Molly rushed to answer, "No, not at all!" Then she added with a shy voice, "I just don't understand." Sherlock nodded and looked again straight ahead.
Another thought crossed Molly's mind. "Is John out of town or unavailable?"
"This has nothing to do with John."

Again he didn't elaborate and the pathologist felt tired for getting answers that weren't really answers. "Sherlock, would you tell me what thisis all about?" She gestured between the two of them and the interior of the car.
He sighed. "I told you, you're not ok." Molly could see that his grip on the steering wheel had fastened. Still she felt irritated and let that show in her voice. "I'm well aware that I'm not in one of my best moods, but…" She was about to say something like, "… but I have a good reason for it," but she thought better of it. Instead she settled for, "… but you wouldn't understand." Again he turned towards her. She couldn't place the look he was giving her. It was a mixture of hurt, sadness and could that be - sympathy?
"You know, I do pay attention," he said. Molly was confused. What was that supposed to mean? The moment he was looking at her seemed so long, she started to worry about their safety. She wanted to tell him to pay attention to the traffic, but no words left her mouth. The look he gave her… as if he willed her to understand something profound. But by the love of God she couldn't.

Just before she started to panic in earnest about him still looking at her, he turned his attention back to the road. The pathologist released a breath she hadn't known she had been holding and looked straight ahead as well.

She tried to get comfortable in her seat again. She hadn't realized before, but her whole body was tense. Something about this whole situation was so… weird. Out of the corners of her eyes Molly could see that the consulting detective was at least as tense as she was – if not more. The only time she had seen him like that had been the night before the fall. That thought frightened her. What was going on? She swallowed hard to clear the lump in her throat.
She decided to try again. She would never give up on trying with Sherlock Holmes – it was her curse. "Where are we going?" That brought something like a smirk on his face. "Try to figure it out, Dr Hooper."

Of course the only thing Molly Hooper could figure out was that they were leaving the city of London heading north. From time to time Molly saw Sherlock glancing at her out of the corners of his eyes. After another half an hour drive, which passed in total silence – but not an uncomfortable one – they were in the countryside and Sherlock pulled into a narrow street. Neither to the right nor to the left were any houses, only lawn and trees. They followed the road for a few minutes, until Molly could make out a red cottage at the end of it. As they came closer the pathologist saw a low masonry wall surrounding the front yard. There were a lot of bushes and pot plants surrounding the cottage. It looked lovely.

Sherlock parked the car in front of it, got out of the driver's seat, and before Molly could unbuckle her seatbelt, he had opened the passenger's door for her. She couldn't help but perk up her eyebrows at his gentleman-behaviour. His respond was to roll his eyes and gesture her to get out. She did as he asked. The consulting detective rounded the car, opened the wrought iron garden door and made his way up the two steps to the wooden front door. He pulled out a key and opened it.

Molly was watching the events unfold from her position by the car. Why was it that she was surprised that he had a key and not picked the lock? Irritated that she hadn't followed him, he turned around. His tone was impatient, "Are you coming, or are you too surprised that I actually had a key and did not pick the lock?" How could he have guessed that? A mischievous little smile tucked at the corners of his mouth. Molly chuckled and walked over to Sherlock who was holding the door open for her. Before entering she spotted a black tin cat on the steps and instantly thought that the owners were likeable.

The inside was as cosy as Molly had expected it to be. After hanging up the coat, she followed Sherlock through the hall into the kitchen. There was a wooden table, a wooden shelf, filled with cups and spices and a small stove. Given by the supplies in the kitchen, it was obvious that whoever was living here liked to cook. Sherlock walked over to the counter.
"Would you like some tea?"
"Yes, that would be lovely." Molly was getting more and more confused. Sherlock seemed to know his way around in the kitchen. While he filled the electric kettle, he suggested, "Why don't you get yourself comfortable in the sitting room while I take care of the tea?" He pointed with his hand to a door to his right.
"Alright."
Sherlock turned back to the task at hand and Molly went through the door into the sitting room.

This room was as comfortable as a sitting room could get. The walls were painted green with a lot of paintings on them. There was a white mantelpiece decorated with all kinds of small figures. A sofa and a chair where in front of it – looking very inviting. Behind the couch was a dresser, with a collection of photographs. That's where Molly's feet dragged her. She already had a suspicion about the owners of the cottage, but she wanted to be sure. The photos proofed her right, although she had to admit she had imagined it to be totally different. She found herself looking at the smiling faces of a happy couple and a smiling Mycroft and Sherlock – well, it was as close to a smile as Mycroft could muster. The photos covered a period of about 20 years. There were baby pictures of the Holmes kids, as well as some from their graduations. The older the Holmes brothers got, the stiffer their smile became. On his graduation picture Sherlock was looking point-blank bored. Molly had to smile fondly at that – it was just so typical Sherlock. It didn't escape Molly's notice that there were no photos of either the elder or the younger Holmes after their 20s. Suddenly a picture in a silver frame, hidden behind some others, caught her attention. It showed Sherlock at the age of ten or twelve. His hair was a dark curly mess and his piercing blue eyes twinkling with mischief. He was kneeling and tightly embracing a brown dog. Molly didn't know very much about dogs (she was a cats' person), but she figured it was an Irish Setter. She picked up the photo. The dog was almost as tall as the little Sherlock and the boy had a look of utter contentment and ease on his face. Molly had never seen him like that. And suddenly she felt very sad for Sherlock. There was such a discrepancy between the boy in the photograph and the man in the adjoining room. She wished she could do something for him that would make him feel that at ease again. Without thinking she let her finger run over the glass.

"I guess you've figured out then where we are." She jumped at the voice coming from the doorway.
Feeling like being caught while doing something forbidden, she hastily put the photo back on the dresser and turned around to see Sherlock walking into the room, placing a tray on the couch table.
"Well, I'd say it's you parents' house," she answered shyly.
"Clearly."

Molly walked over to the sofa and both sat down. Sherlock filled her cup, added just the right amount of milk (of course…) and gestured her to take some biscuits. Molly couldn't help but snicker at that. Sherlock being almost… domestic… it was somehow disconcerting. The consulting detective put the tea pot back on the tray. "What?" he asked his snickering guest. He didn't look pleased.
"Nothing. Sorry… it's just… it's surreal."
"What is?"
"This." She made an expansive gesture.
"I see." His mouth was a thin line. He took a sip of his tea. His movements were stiff.
The last thing Molly wanted was for him to feel uncomfortable. So she tried to explain. "Sherlock, it's not surreal in a bad way. What I mean is…" She didn't really know how to phrase this. And him looking at her with a grim mask on his face didn't help at all. She felt a little bit like mousy Hooper again. But she wanted to get this right. She wanted him to know that she liked that side of him – how bizarre it might be.

"What I was trying to say is that I really appreciate you making me tea and stuff, but you don't usually do that kind of thing. It's not that I don't know that you're not capable of kindness, because I know for a fact that you are. It's just, when you show me that side of you something is usually very wrong and you need something from me. And that's okay, because there's nothing I wouldn't do for you. You know that, don't you? Of course you do, but…"
"You're rambling," Sherlock interrupted her. Although his tone sounded cold, his eyes betrayed the fact that he seemed to find her speech endearing.
Molly drew a breath to cool her nerves. "The point I'm trying to make is, you make me a little anxious with your behaviour. And I would appreciate it if you would just ask me what you want from me, instead of leading me on and manipulating me."
Sherlock was appalled. "I'm not manipulating you!" His voice had been louder than he had intended, because Molly flinched slightly. So he continued in a reasonable tone.
"I know I used to do that in the past. But I thought you have realized that since I've been back from the dead I haven't done anything like that. All the compliments I paid you have been genuine, I can assure you, and weren't meant to lead you on – as you so wonderfully put it." He made a pause to look her deeply in the eyes, to make sure she understood what he had said. The pathologist nodded. He took that as a sign to continue.
"Believe it or not, but us being here has nothing to do with me. As I was informed you have had a few bad days and I wanted you to…," he was clearly looking for the right words. When he ended the sentence he told it the sofa cushions. "I wanted to make you feel better. And I think I might know from experience what might help in your case."
Molly tried to will him to look at her, but he did not. He seemed to find the flower pattern on the cushions quite interesting. She took a sip of her tea.
"So, what is my case then?" So it seems we are on a case…

Finally Sherlock looked at her and there was it again, the honest sympathy she had seen in the car.
"Come." He got up and Molly followed him out of the sitting room. On the way through the kitchen he picked up something from the table, but she couldn't see what it was. They went through the corridor to the back door and Sherlock showed her to the garden.

A/N: As you might have noticed I tried to describe the Homles-house as you see it in the series - at least the bits that you see. I know there was another sitting room (red one) in which Sherlock's dad was sleeping (or unconscious from the punch...), but I found the one we see Mary sitting in way better for the course of my story.
There will be one more chappy... :-)
Thanks for reading!