"You know, I honestly don't understand why this is so difficult. It's espresso with steamed milk, not foam," Molly was complaining to the utterly inept barista. "And as I understand it, a latte is much more easy to prepare, you'd think you's prefer it to a cappucino."

"Sorry, miss…I must have misunderstood the direction," he opined.

"Whatever," and Molly shook her head.

She took the beverage and headed out of the cafe.

Molly was pissed. She had gotten into a heated argument with Mike about her taking time off, which was ridiculous, in her opinion. She was a very reliable worker, she took her job seriously, and she resented the fact that any argument had ensued at all on the subject.

Her footfalls were heavy in her agitation as she reached her flat's entrance.

Molly had begun to pack for Edinburgh, and she was anxious to get on with it.

She headed up the stairs and noticed a large envelope laying on the floor in front of her door.

Ms. Molly Hooper, it declared, so she opened it.

Inside were rail tickets, to and from Edinburgh.

A pamphlet containing pictures of the place.

A list of restaurants.

$1,000 pounds, cash.

And a set of keys, one looked like a house key, the other appeared to be for an automobile.

No note.

What the…?

Molly's head turned around quickly…

Silly. The giver wasn't still there.

Molly opened the door to her flat and walked in.

She didn't know many people…fewer who would offer her such kindness…

But perhaps if the giver was in such a position to offer her such extravagance, to stealthily get into her building and leave it there outside of her door…

Would Mycroft really do such a thing? They hardly knew one another.

But it made sense, really. Perhaps this sort of thing wasn't a big deal for him. Perhaps he did something like this for many acquaintances…

Because honestly, that's all she was. An acquaintance.

Molly went to see to the packing.

But her mind was on the envelope.

She filled her bag.

She took a shower…

She was leaving tomorrow.

Molly took the sweater from the hook and left the flat for Downing Street.

She would never be able to go without knowing if Mycroft was behind this…

"No, I'm not going to repeat myself. See to it, or I'll be seeing your resignation," Mycroft spoke with a hint of anger into the phone. He sighed.

People could be so incredibly exhausting…

"Sir…a young woman is here to see you," Anthea's voice rang out.

"Young woman?"

And Molly walked in. "Hi Mycroft."

"Molly, this is an unexpected surprise."

"Is it?" she asked with a hint of doubt.

He looked crookedly at her. "Well, yes. Did we have an arrangement I have forgotten?"

"I doubt that you'd forget something like a meeting," and she sat down.

Mycroft sat as well, and looked at her expectantly. "I suppose you're right about that," he paused. "Are you here for something in particular?"

"Did you leave something at my flat?"

Ah. She was a clever girl. "I did."

"Why?"

"Well, I suppose that I thought you might appreciate some help with your holiday."

"That's very sweet, Mycroft. I do appreciate it, but I think it was a bit much."

"Indeed? How so?"

Molly returned his gaze with a hint of doubt. "Seriously? $1,000 pounds? A car? A house? I have those things arranged…"

"I was merely attempting to make your stay as comfortable as possible," he said defensively.

"And that's lovely, but I cannot accept it," and she handed him the envelope.

"It's nothing, Molly. Please do take it. You have no idea how little needed doing to see to these things. I was happy to accommodate you…"

Molly stood. "But you have no idea how uncomfortable it would be for me to accept them."

Mycroft swallowed. He had only intended to show her a bit of kindness, to be generous where he seldom was, and somehow, he had mucked it up. "Very well," and he took the envelope. "But do stay at the house. It is lovely," and he gave her the key back and the address.

She smiled a bit. She had no intention of being ungrateful. "Ok. Thank you, Mycroft," and she turned to leave. "I'll see you next week sometime, I guess."

He nodded and she left.

He hadn't meant to make her uncomfortable, he only wanted to make her smile, since he felt like she seldom did so.

Molly opened the door to the little house Mycroft had arranged for her.

Wow. It was lovely.

The walls were whitewashed, and delicate furniture was to be found around the place. It was a time out of mind place, she thought, and she went upstairs to put her things away.

A small wooden bed was in the bedroom, and old wallpaper on the walls.

It looked like an old lady had loved it once, and saw to its care with meticulous attention.

Molly went over to the window, and opened it.

Under the bedroom was a garden, and heavy redolence lifted to her face. Molly sighed and breathed it in.

Yes.

She would be comfortable here.

The first full day of her stay was Saturday, and she headed into town to find a cafe.

The barista successfully prepared her latte, and Molly sat with her book, but her mind drifted, it was untamed in Edinburgh, having experienced wild dreams the night previous.

Sherlock filled her thoughts.

She must be such a glutton for punishment. Why did he haunt her so?

He misused her.

He treated her with unabashed sarcasm.

And though he had apologized to her a handful of times, he always reverted back to his old habits.

Molly deserved better.

She winced.

Sometimes, she thought she got exactly what she deserved, for she was nothing special, and nothing special yielded unremarkable reactions from others.

Damn Sherlock and his intoxicating mind, a mind which she could never hope to captivate.

She headed back to the house.

But Mycroft had been kind and attentive.

And she smiled.

Bit too attentive, she thought.

Molly went to the kitchen and poured herself some water.

Why should she continue her blind adoration for someone who has no desire to return her emotions? Why should she punish herself so?

And it was punishment, dwelling on such an impossible man with impossible habits in an equally impossible situation.

She decided to abandon it.

There and then, Molly Hooper shed her skin. She resolved not to be so blind to his charm, however dubious. Not be taken in with his odd attractiveness, however intoxicating. Not to be a bumbling fool, despite her proclivity for such a state.

And the remainder of her time spent in the tiny house in Edinburgh was a peaceful one, filled with flowers, with lattes, and with an unburdened mind.

"Morning, Molly. Pleasant holiday?" Sherlock glided into the morgue.

"Very."

"Excellent. I have the need to see this body," and he handed her a slip of paper.

"Is this for a case?"

"Yes…but not for Scotland Yard," and he sat on a stool.

Molly nodded and looked up from her work, taking the paper. "Alright. Give me a minute."

He cleared his throat and folded his hands in front of him. "And how was Edinburgh?"

She looked at him with a hint of doubt. "Um, it was lovely…"

"I'm not very good at this sort of thing, Molly, engaging in pleasantries and such, but I hope that you recognize the effort and that you appreciate that I am trying to be a bit more…amiable where you are concerned."

Molly stared at him a moment. "Ah, sure, Sherlock…I guess…" and she turned to obtain the body.

"It is not in my nature to behave in this way, but my brother did bring to my attention that I have been rather unfeeling," he winced at the word. "And I am attempting to rectify that."

"I'm not sure what you want me to say," she paused. "Here's Mr. Miller, as you asked."

"Well, acknowledgment for my pains wouldn't go amiss."

"It's painful for you to exercise kindness?"

"It's out of character, so painful in a way," and he went and leaned over the cadaver.

Molly laughed.

"What?" he asked defensively.

"Oh come on, Sherlock. You are being dramatic."

And the term "drama queen" emerged into his mind. "I resent that."

"You can resent it all you like," Molly returned, going back to her work. "That doesn't change the fact that it's silly for you to expect me to make a big deal out of a few days of your more kind attentions after years of abuse."

"Abuse!" he was offended.

"Yes, I think that that's a fair term," she replied not looking at him.

"Abuse," he muttered. He began to examine the cadaver's fingertips. He then shot upright. "Have you ever seen me treat anyone any different from anyone else, Molly?"

"I'm sorry?"

"I mean to say, have you ever seen me be kind to anyone?"

Molly considered this and turned toward him. "No…not really."

"Just so. In fact, I'd wager that I've been more kind to you than anyone. Maybe even John."

"So…all the same for everyone?"

"Precisely."

Molly chucked. "How very Henry Higgins of you, Sherlock."

"I don't understand the correlation."

"Read Pygmalion and get back to me."

That night, Sherlock Holmes read Shaw's play, and by the end he was utterly disgusted. He threw the volume across the room and scowled.

How dare she suggest such a thing!

He wasn't anything like that idiot, nor was he in love with any sort of creation that he didn't create.

There.

More reasons why he wasn't like that loathsome character.

Molly Hooper was mistaken.

This was all Mycroft's doing.

He had changed Molly…he was more like that Higgins character…

And Sherlock paused.

Was Myrcoft falling in love with Molly?

He smirked.

Surely not.

They hardly knew one another.

But it was curious, the attention he gave to her.

Perhaps there was something there.

Sherlock laid his head back on the chair.

How did he feel about this?

Should he feel anything?

Perhaps he should first discern his brother's thoughts, and then decide if and how he would act.

This…this was going to be good fun.