A/N: surprise! Another update, and a long one. Didn't plan on it tonight, but, "I'm SO changeable!" (insert wicked laugh) Please review, I love them! Oh, and as if you didn't know… Sherlolly shipped here.

Molly smiled at Sherlock as he entered her room. A nurse was with her, having her sign discharge paperwork, no doubt. When that was finished the woman said: "there we go, dearie. Let me just help you gather your things-" her hand reached for the vase of roses Sherlock had bought Molly.

Quicker than almost even Sherlock's eyes could register, Molly snatched the vase away from the nurse. "Oh, I'll get these, thanks," she said, her voice polite but with an undertone that made Sherlock raise his eyebrows in amusement. So, Molly did have some bite to her.

He strode forward, greeted Molly cheerfully, and began gathering the rest of Molly's belongings. The nurse stared at him, frowning. "Pardon me," she began, but Sherlock cut her off at the pass.

"Certainly, madam. Now, if you'd be so kind as to move this along? I'm sure Molly is as ready to go home as I am to take her."

The nurse blinked, and Molly did a double take. "Yes, sir," the woman said faintly, helping Molly settle into a wheelchair while Sherlock phoned for a taxi.

As soon as they were outside a taxi pulled up, and Molly settled into it with a sigh. Sherlock sat down beside her, and after giving the driver Molly's address turned to look at her with a slight smile.

"Sorry about that. I just figured you were ready to be home."

"More than ready," Molly sighed. "Although it'll be strange having plainclothes policemen keeping an eye around." She clutched her vase of flowers tightly. "I just hope he doesn't come after me again."

"I think it highly unlikely," Sherlock said.

Molly smiled. He wouldn't lie to her, and he definitely wouldn't say something just to try and cheer her up. "Good."

"Thank you so much for this," she added. "Collecting me and seeing me home."

"It is… my pleasure," Sherlock said, and the way he hesitated in the middle of the sentence gave Molly pause. She looked at him closely, but his face was as smooth as ever. It was like trying to get a clue from a slab of polished marble. Useless.

Or was it?

She'd seen him with that calm, neutral face before. "Molly, I think I'm going to die."

Maybe even Sherlock Holmes could have things he didn't want people to see. Maybe especially Sherlock Holmes. He'd looked sad in front of her. She had thought it was because she didn't count so he didn't care if she saw. Then he had to haul off and tell her she did count and always had. She glanced down at her hands, the fingers locked tight around the flowers.

So… why had he done it? Why had he let her see? What was it about her that he'd let her see that but not John? Well, John was his best friend. And she was…

Molly didn't know what she was. If someone had offered her a million pounds at that moment to answer the question she'd have lost. Sherlock Holmes was dangerously close to acting like a real human being and Molly found it very unsettling.

She'd imagined the sadness bit was just he was comfortable with her on some bizarre level. The counting bit…well, of course he could consider her… something. He'd literally put his life in her hands, after all. No one else was going to help him fake his death the way she did. He'd trusted her with something immeasurably precious. Himself. So she did in fact count. She just wasn't sure she understood how.

"Well, here we are," Sherlock said brightly, and Molly jerked her head up, started, to see that they were at her flat. He helped her out, paid the driver and got her bags from the back, then followed her as she went up to the door. A wave of paranoia burst through her and she instinctively tried the door to see if it was still locked.

It was.

"If he wanted in here without you knowing, he'd have done it," Sherlock murmured, and she jumped.

She refrained from saying "sorry:" after all, she wanted to be safe and had no need to apologize for that. She simply nodded and pushed open the door.

He followed her in, eyes rapidly flickering over her belongings, cataloging and deducing. Molly felt like cringing. Not that her flat was a mess, but it was just, well, full of her things. Her books and videos and stuffed animals and keepsakes and bras and knickers scattered all over her bed…

Molly squeaked. She'd forgotten that she'd done some laundry the day before the attack, and now all her underwear was out on display on her bed.

"Is something wrong?"

"Um, I'll be right back," she told him, setting down her flowers and all but running into her bedroom and closing the door.

Sherlock watched her go, genuinely amused. He might have told her it was silly, that he'd already noticed her underwear both on the bed and in person, but he didn't. She was obviously embarrassed, although there was nothing wrong with the items in question. Cotton hipster knickers, simple but in colors instead of plain white, which meant she liked the comfort but also wanted to feel attractive. Bras in matching colors, which spoke of her like of symmetry.

No, nothing for her to be embarrassed about at all, except that it was obviously one of those things women got flustered about. So while he waited he busied himself with studying her living room in more detail.

He stopped short when he saw the keyboard in one corner. Molly could play piano? He hadn't known that. He'd never seen anything that would've made him deduce it. Or that she had a strong liking for some American show called Glee. Or that there would be romance novels mixed with medical texts and spy thrillers.

Sherlock blinked. How did he know so much about her, yet so little?

Because he'd never needed to.

He'd known everything he needed to know about her from the hospital and right after his fake suicide.

Why would he have wanted to know this much more?

That was perilously close to getting to know someone.

He didn't get to know anyone. Not that much. He knew John, but that was his best friend. Molly was…

At that moment, he wasn't quite sure what Molly was.

She was his friend, he knew that. But was he hers? Moriarty aside, did he want to be?

He realized to his shock that he did. Had, actually, wanted to already.

Well, she'd done so much for him. It was probably only natural that he'd taken a bit, a tiny bit, more interest in her life. Even before the attack. Yes. When someone did so much for you, there was an instinct to offer something in return. Of course. Perfectly logical explanation.

Perfectly.