A/N: Dammit, I hadn't planned to post tonight, but then somethinginthewayful had to go and praise me in the latest update of her fantastic story "The Domestic Analysis," and so what could I do but update my own tale? So thank her for this, and I hope you enjoy!

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Sherlock sat in a bathroom stall on a closed toilet lid, arms and legs crossed. It was a bit uncomfortable but he needed some semblance of privacy and quiet to think.

Once he'd decided to put everything he genuinely could into having a decent time with Molly, something very strange had happened. He was having a decent time with her.

She was no Irene Adler. But she also was no Sally Donovan. No, if he had to compare her to anyone else he'd willingly talk to for any length of time it would be…

John.

Sherlock blinked. Where had that come from?

Analysis.

John was his friend. John was fiercely loyal and devoted to him no matter what. He'd risk his career and even his life for him. So would Molly.

John reminded him that he was actually a human being and would he mind awfully to make some pitiful attempt to act like one when it was needed. In her own way, so did Molly.

John was kind, patient and forgiving. So was Molly.

Conclusion: John and Molly shared a number of core personality characteristics.

Secondary analysis: perhaps Molly should be dating John? No. She loved him. John loved him too, just not in a… fuzzy lumpkin way. Sherlock smiled ruefully at how that damnable phrase was going to be forever stuck in his hard drive. John loved him because…well… he was his best friend. Because despite his usual demeanor, John saw the good in him. He admired him, needed and cared about him as Sherlock needed and cared about John.

Extension of secondary analysis: did Molly need him too, then? Did she love him for those same things? He did care for her already. Could he, by extension, come to need and care more about Molly?

Final conclusion: answer unknown.

Sherlock rubbed his eyes. This was going way beyond being a slippery slope. It was turning into an emotional avalanche.

He'd asked her some typical questions over dinner: why did she become a pathologist, how had she ended up at Bart's. It turned out that cheerful Molly enjoyed deducing in her own right. Nowhere near his level of skill, of course, but she liked solving the mysteries of the dead. The science of it. Having questions and getting answers. Something that Sherlock understood all too well.

It was quiet, peaceful work, in a macabre sort of way, Molly had explained. She didn't have to deal with the living much. She had a few friends and her cat, and that seemed to be enough for her. Well. Except for the elephant that always sat between them that neither of them talked about. She didn't realize it, but her answers had told him something else. Something she had not. Something, somewhere, had hurt Molly Hooper very deeply.

Perhaps the death of her father: seeing him pretending to be cheerful while waiting for his last breath. Things like that left their mark, consciously or otherwise.

He'd ask her about that another time. Tonight he only wanted her to be happy: to have this night as a memory to cherish and not despise once all this was over. Romantic relationships furthered friendships as a matter of course. Even though the romance wasn't real, maybe their friendship would be strong enough to survive what was to come. Maybe her forgiveness-her love-would be strong enough for her to absolve him. Even though none of it was technically his fault, he knew emotions didn't work that way.

He realized with a start that he'd been in there long enough. He washed his hands and went back to their table. As he approached he saw her looking at her mobile and frowning. Then she put it back in her purse.

"Everything all right?"

"Yes, fine," she said, smiling at him. He scanned her. No, she was being honest. But she had frowned at her phone. He shrugged it off. If she wanted him to know, she'd tell him.

She had finished her third glass of wine and was leaning back with sigh. "That was excellent. Thank you."

"It was my pleasure."

The waiter arrived with the bill, and Sherlock scanned it for two seconds then handed the man his card. "Well. Are you ready for part two?"

"And part two is…let me guess. Another surprise."

He smiled. "Yes, but I think you'll enjoy it."

"I'm having a fantastic time. I'm sure I will."

"Did you happen to bring a spacesuit?" he asked impulsively.

She looked confused. "Spacesuit?"

"Yes. You know. In case we're going to the moon."

Molly giggled. He really was so amazingly funny when he wasn't being an ass.

"Too late," she said. "I'm over the moon."

Sherlock groaned.

"Too much?" she asked with a smile.

"I need some butter to go with my corn," he said. But he smiled back.

The waiter returned with his card and receipt. Sherlock signed off, tucked his copy into his pocket and rose to help Molly with her coat.

Molly felt a little tipsy as she stood, so she grasped at the table.

Except that she clutched the tablecloth and not the table, started to slide, and as she caught her balance jerked it halfway off, sending dishes, glasses and cutlery crashing to the floor.

The entire restaurant stopped. And stared. And applauded.

Molly wanted to hide and never come out. Oh, why couldn't she go just once without doing something stupid!

She sighed and looked at Sherlock, waiting to see an irritated expression on his face. "Oh, God, sorry, I can, um…" her voice trailed off as their waiter came rushing over, assuring her it was fine as he started cleaning everything up.

Sherlock, she discovered, wasn't looking irritated. He was trying not to laugh and failing.

Seeing his reaction, Molly shrugged and smiled, her wine buzz making her relaxed and bold. "You do like dramatic exits," she said, and she started laughing too.

Sherlock took his wallet out again and handed the waiter some cash. "That should cover it nicely, I think." He carefully moved to stand behind Molly and, with a dignity that made her love him more, helped her into her coat. He shrugged his on and held out a hand to her. "Perhaps I can be of assistance?"

She drew a startled breath, but slowly took his hand, feeling his cool fingers twine with her warm ones. He gave a little bow to the dining room, and she did a quick curtsey, and they all but ran to the door, Molly giggling as they went.

As they stood outside waiting for a taxi, still holding hands, Molly looked up at him. "Sherlock?"

"Yes, Molly?"

"You didn't get upset," she said. "I was sure you'd get irritated, or tell me not to be so clumsy…"

Sherlock sighed, reaching out his other hand to brush her hair back from her face, a simple action that made Molly think she would explode. Then he gave her a genuinely affectionate smile.

"Molly, you have not stammered once since I picked you up tonight," he said. "Get angry over some dishes, when we're making such progress?" He chuckled. "With you, I know how to pick my battles."