A/N: New posting schedule. In order for me to have time to earn a living and do school work, as of today I will be posting every other day. I'm sorry, but I haven't found a tree that grows money yet!

Please Tumble with me if you like: sherlolly on Tumblr.

One last thing. Dear Anon reviewer "RegularReader": thank you for your feedback and suggestion. However, I will not be changing the way I write my story. Because if I did, it wouldn't be my story anymore, really. And I wouldn't be able to tell it the right way. Right.

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Club Aquarium looked busy but not packed, lively but not overwhelming. Probably because it wasn't a weekend. He observed Molly carefully as they approached it, uncertain if she had ever been to a club or if she even liked them.

"Dancing," she whispered so softly he almost didn't hear her. Then she turned to face him, glowing with excitement. "I've not been dancing in ages! I mean... if you wouldn't mind to," she said quickly, wondering if she was about to get "the look." The one that spoke without words. The one that in this instance would say I'm Sherlock Holmes and I don't dance.

"Well I didn't bring you here to play Scrabble," he replied with a smirk. It was getting easier, he noticed. Easier not to snap out the derisive retorts: to use his wit in a kinder, gentler way with her.

She grinned. "Do you like Scrabble?"

He shrugged. "I'm not one for board games, though that one is tolerable if played with someone whose I.Q. is greater than a bread basket."

"So no playing with Anderson, you mean," Molly offered, and was ecstatic when he gave a rich, warm chuckle.

"Sometimes you catch on fast, Molly Hooper," he said. He paid their cover charge and led her in.

It wasn't until they stood off from the door surveying their surroundings that he realized that he'd taken her hand. He stared at their twined fingers in shock. How had he done this without even realizing it? He'd only had one glass of wine and two nicotine patches!

Molly craned her neck, stood on tiptoe and looked towards the back. "I see a good table open near the back," she told him, and he nodded and led the way, holding her hand still because he knew he couldn't simply drop it at this point. Her hand was warm and soft and not entirely unpleasant against his. Most interesting was that she wasn't nervous or making a big deal out of their holding hands. She had responded to him naturally and instinctively.

The same way he'd taken her hand to begin with.

Sherlock suddenly found himself wishing that he had something else to occupy his thoughts. Something other than what he'd done or how she felt. Something that didn't set bells off in his head.

Once they got to the table he got her settled in her seat and said: "Would you like a drink?"

"Ah, Tom Collins, please."

He nodded and headed for the bar. Molly watched him as he walked; admiring the dashing and elegant figure he cut. You could put her in a dark room with a thousand men, and she'd still know which one was him. Or that's how she felt, at least.

She took a deep breath, the three glasses of wine still lingering in her system. She was having an absolutely amazing time with him. It went beyond anything she ever could have hoped it could be. Even thought she hadn't stammered, she'd still said some things that made her cringe as soon as they'd left her mouth. But he had only reacted with amusement and a bit of sarcasm. It was like, well, a proper date. With someone other than Sherlock Holmes.

But it was him. It was a bit confusing and strange. But she didn't want to think about it. She just wanted to enjoy being with him and show him more of the woman that had made him finally ask her out. A woman that couldn't match his intellect but was smart enough to fit well with it: who would stand by his side no matter what. Who could stir his laughter and his passion for music in equal measure. Who would love him completely and unconditionally for the rest of their lives.

Molly knew she could be that woman. And she intended to do everything in her power to show him.

While he waited for their drinks, Sherlock split his brain into two halves. One half analyzed some nearby people and deduced everything he could about them. The other half thought about Molly. And Moriarty. And himself.

Moriarty obviously wasn't going to stop until he thought Sherlock was in love. Sherlock knew it was not possible for him to fall in love. It couldn't be. How could he let it be?

So he'd need to let a reasonable amount of time pass, then pretend he'd fallen in love with Molly.

But that meant more dates. And from what Moriarty had implied, sex.

Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, was going to be forced by Psychopath Jim Moriarty to give his virginity to Doctor Molly Hooper.

The thought made him want to retch. Not because of Molly. Knowing he would be forced, that all this was being forced… that was what was making him feel ill.

He didn't like feeling ill. He didn't like feeling anything at all, usually. But it was there, lurking like a bogeyman in the closet. Joy, doubt, pain: they had all visited him of late. Faking his death, being isolated from everyone he cared about but Molly…

There it was again. Caring about Molly.

He sighed. There was no use pretending otherwise. He did care about Molly. They were friends. Wasn't that part of the reason he hadn't tried to tell her anything?

Sherlock was walking a tightrope, and he wasn't entirely certain he wouldn't fall.

He stopped himself: stopped that part of his brain. Tonight wasn't about his brilliant deductions or razor-sharp reasoning. It was about Molly. Molly was what counted.

She's what counts in this relationship, Moriarty had told him.

He wanted to punch the man in the face. Repeatedly.

How the hell had Moriarty known him before he knew himself?

Oh, right. They were the same.

Sherlock frowned. If they were the same, did that mean…

"Here you go, sir," the bartender said cheerfully, handing him two Tom Collins'.

"Thank you," Sherlock managed to say. "Keep a tab for me."

"Yes, sir."

He shook his head. Back to Molly and their perfect date.