A/N: Who's up for some discussion? Do you think after Reichenbach Sherlock sees Molly differently? Not in a romantic sense, but sees there's more to her than he gave her credit for? I'd love to know your thoughts in a review!

I know you're all anxious for the DATE, so without further ado: the start of the moment you've been waiting for! This chapter will prolly put me over 200 reviews, so the NEXT one will have the surprise I promised in it as well. Thank you for the love!

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On his way to Molly's, Sherlock listened to two Duran Duran songs, two Madonna songs, a Kajagoogoo song and a song by the Thompson Twins (very odd band: none of them were twins). Eighties music for the most part seemed like any other decade of pop music: dull with occasional interesting bursts. He wondered why Molly liked it so much. Fond childhood associations, perhaps? Did it make her happy when she listened to Madonna singing about being a "Material Girl" or Kajagoogoo lamenting about being "Too Shy?" He supposed for ordinary people there was a certain appeal to filling one's head with mindless fluff, putting the brain on pause and just experiencing the joy of music.

He was actually that way somewhat: about classical music and some other compositions, though. One of which was the song Molly had sang. The lyrics were not important. What had been important had been the passion and power behind the music, the way the keyboard had become an extension of her until it was impossible to separate the musician from the music. It was this quality he shared with Molly: and this trait he hadn't known she possessed had evoked his genuine, impassioned response.

He frowned. Naturally, the sensible thing would be to not have her ever sing or play for him again. Except that he didn't want that. And if he didn't let her, he'd likely get an order from Moriarty to ask her to do it again. He'd say music was good for the soul or some such remark, in that little happy voice he'd been using far too often since this all started. No, he'd rather ask her himself than be ordered to, thank you very much. Too much else of his life wasn't under his control as it was. Beyond his control. Beyond his control…

A line Valmont had used in Dangerous Liaisons. Moriarty had slipped this… this rubbish into his head right under his nose. And he couldn't delete it: not yet. Not until this was over. And it was festering, spreading through his mind like poison ivy. Almost before Sherlock knew what he'd done he felt his hands clenched into fists.

The most recent addition to his romance movie mental library had been the film from earlier today. Girl makes a bet, boy makes a bet, girl tries to drive boy away, boy takes everything girl throws at him and comes back for more. Girl and boy learn about their mutual duplicity, get angry, realize they are in love and get back to happily ever after. THE END.

He was getting better at taking away from each movie what Moriarty wanted him to learn. Moral of this one? He had to put up with whatever annoying woman things Molly did. He could handle seeing a box of feminine products-that was simply a matter of biological necessity-but… sweet mother of all that was good, was he going to have to share a bed with stuffed animals?

The taxi pulled up to Molly's, and Sherlock told the driver to wait. He took a deep breath. Well. Just because he was a hostage to romance didn't mean he was walking to her door like a chastised dog. Head high, back straight, he walked towards Molly's door, the arrogant and absurd thought striking him as he did that she'd rubbed a genie lamp and now only had two wishes left.

Molly heard the doorbell and her heart stopped.

It was him. This was it. A date with Sherlock.

She didn't want the phrase a dream come true to cross her mind, but she couldn't stop it. How could she not think it, when she'd spent the past two years wanting him? The thing she'd never, ever thought could happen. Yet here it was. Here he was.

She took a last hasty look at herself in the mirror. Dark green short-sleeved silk top with an empire waist and straight sleeves. It flowed over her body softly with the slightest hint of cling. Sexy but not slutty. Black skirt that flowed as well and stopped right above her knees. She'd chosen ballet flats over heels: the last thing she wanted was to trip and fall. Minimal make-up: a brush of hunter green eye shadow, a bit of mascara, some light pink lipstick because she'd read if you had a small mouth you should wear light colored lipstick. The slightest touch of perfume: a blend of orchid, night jasmine and sandalwood. Her hair hung loose and flowed in a shimmering curtain around her shoulders.

She thought she looked nice and hoped he did too. But who knew what that maddening man would think, really. Well, she'd given it her best shot.

The doorbell rang again, and she scrambled to the door, then forced herself to be calm as she opened it.

Oh, God. He was… gorgeous. Absolutely amazingly gorgeous. Why had he asked her out again? He needed to be out with a model, some woman who looked airbrushed when she wasn't, not her…

No! She ordered herself. She would not put herself down like that. He knew perfectly well what she looked like at her near worst, and he'd asked her out. None of that.

He smiled, and she smiled back. "Hi, you," she said.

New blouse. Skirt not new but has been in the back of her closet for months. New shampoo and conditioner, perfume that she rarely wears, pleasant but not overwhelming which speaks of her knowledge that I prefer natural and soft scents. New shade of lipstick, makes her mouth look bigger. Green shadow meant to contrast and compliment her brown eyes. Minimal make-up meant to enhance but not really alter her features. Flats chosen over heels for safety, so it was more important to her not to look foolish in front of me than it was for her to look sexy. Doesn't feel the need to look like someone she isn't anymore as she did at Christmas. Suggests level of comfort combined with a desire to still encourage appreciation. Final assessment: appearance attractive without being overdone.

He approved. Now he had to translate all that into a way she'd understand and appreciate.

"You look lovely," he told her.

She blushed a bit and smiled again. "Thank you."

He moved inside to help her with her coat. "The driver's waiting. I hope you're hungry?"

She nodded. "I am. I figured we'd be having dinner."

"Oh?"

"Seven o'clock is dinner time. And you said a proper date. A proper first date involves dinner."

"Well done, you. Shall we?" he asked, offering her his arm.

She took it with a grin. "We shall."