A/N: you do know I love your reviews, right? Well, I do! For everyone wanting more Sherlock and Molly… cheers!

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Inside his taxi, Sherlock drew a ragged breath.

All right, he'd been able to fool Lestrade. Well done there. But Molly wasn't Lestrade. One down, one to go. John, now that he knew something was amiss, would understand but still be genuinely shocked enough to make it work.

Against his will, Moriarty's instructions replayed in his head.

You'll ask Molly on a proper date today. And she'll be stunned. And she'll question your motives. And you've got to convince her you're sincere. Pretend it's all real. If you really had changed after what happened, if you really did want to see if you could love her, how would you go about it? What was that Dickinson poem? Oh, yeah: 'tell the truth, but tell it slant.'

To help you get ready, I want you to spend the taxi ride to the hospital thinking about Molly. Nothing but Molly. And don't think about your usual little analysis you do of people to show them how clever you are and how ordinary they are. No. Think about Molly like you were the leading man in a romance movie. You've finally realized how amazing the girl is and you want to tell her. Think you can mange that? I don't. But then, I'm the one holding the shiny red button, aren't I. I'll win either way, but you'll lose big if you can't. So break a leg, Sherlock.

There was no way, of course, that Moriarty could know what was in his head. But Sherlock did need to think more. So he forced his heartbeat to slow down and his mind to focus, and turned his thoughts to one Molly Hooper.

Leading man. Romance movie. Right.

Well.

In some ways, Molly really was amazing. She was fiercely loyal, could keep secrets, was completely trustworthy. She wasn't flashy or showy and spoke her mind regardless of the consequences sometimes.

He blinked. Rather like him. Except he didn't always realize or care whether or not he hurt people and she did. Compassionate. That was the word.

She was more observant than he'd once thought and more perceptive than he used to give her credit for. And despite her mouth being small, she was not exactly unattractive in an inconspicuous way.

Right. Lots of good things he could say about Molly Hooper now that he thought about it.

But where was that… something? That piece to the puzzle that made the men in these movies realize they desperately wanted the woman? What was it? He didn't feel it. Then again, why would he? This was all a game, a heinous charade he was being forced to act out by a lunatic. Why would he feel a desperate need to be with Molly?

He wouldn't, of course.

So why did that bother him?

He snorted. It would help matters, was all. If only he did have some feelings for her. Make it much easier. That was all.

Sherlock refused to think that it could be anything else.

All right, he'd come up with a concrete list of things he… well… liked, he supposed, about Molly. Now for the next part: how to convince her he now saw her in a different light.

Moriarty had more movies for him to watch that were supposed to help him before the date tomorrow night. He brought up the text again, frowning. Jerry Maguire…Bridget Jones' Diary… oh, God, more romantic comedies, he just knew it. He wondered for a moment if Moriarty really thought he needed help, or if he just liked making him ill. Probably both.

He'd tried on the sly the night before to get a location on Moriarty based on the texts, but no go. He needed to figure to get a trace while they talked. He had an idea on how to do that, but it was too soon. He needed to wait for the right time: a time that wouldn't seem out of the ordinary to talk longer. That time would probably be tomorrow morning.

The taxi pulled up at St. Bart's, and Sherlock paid and left, staring up at where Molly's room was. He opened the door and headed for the stairwell, wrapped in half-formed ideas and disquieted thoughts.

The plot was about to thicken.