A/N: Here we are! Long chapter, as promised. Sherlock's past is starting to come back in more ways than one. I'm sorry I didn't get to respond to reviews last time. I've been a bit overwhelmed this week with work and school work, but every review is loved and appreciated. Thank you as always for reading, reviewing and favoriting!

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They had moved from their table to one of the sofas. Not touching but sitting close together, sipping water, telling each other bits and pieces about their pasts, themselves. They had danced two more times. Once to "Is Your Love Strong Enough?" by Brian Ferry, and the other time to "Come On, Eileen" by a band with the peculiar name of Dexys Midnight Runners. Sherlock hadn't known a whit about either song and had gone and questioned the disc jockey. It was nearly midnight now, and Molly was showing signs of being sleepy.

He reached out and touched her hand briefly, smiling. "You look like you're ready to get some rest."

She nodded sheepishly. "I am. I'm sorry; I'm having the best time with you. I just haven't slept so good since… since it happened."

He nodded. "It's fine that you want sleep. Well, then. Shall we get you home before you lose your finery or turn into a pumpkin?"

She giggled. "Thank you, noble sir."

He rose and held out a hand to her. "My lady," he said with mock gravity, and Molly giggled again as she gave him her hand and he pulled her to her feet.

He'd already settled the tab, and after helping Molly into her coat he put his on. She seemed a bit unsteady, probably the combination of alcohol and weariness, and he took her hand again almost before realizing it.

And stared again. When had this happened? How? He'd never instinctively held anyone's hand in his life. OK, since he was a small boy, at least. Now he, Sherlock Holmes, was taking Molly Hooper's hand as if he'd done it all his life.

Blasted, bloody sentiment, romance and affection. Blasted, bloody Jim Moriarty.

He had honestly enjoyed the night. And while intellectually he knew he'd made a deliberate effort to, the extent of the enjoyment is what surprised him. It was bad. Ordinary people enjoyed dates. Not him, the smartass consulting detective. And yet he had.

Sherlock added this information to the already large mental file Will Think about This Later and started for the doors with Molly beside him, her fingers entwined with his oddly calming him from his inner turmoil.

Relaxed and content, they stepped outside into the cool London air.

And were immediately blinded by the flash of a camera going off three times right in front of them.

"Smile!" a familiar woman's voice called out in malicious cheerfulness as one more photo was snapped.

Sherlock lowered the arm he'd reflexively raised and opened his eyes to glare at the smirking figure standing before them. His lips pressed together tightly for a moment before he spoke.

"Kitty Riley. And here I thought I'd lost my number one fan ages ago."

Kitty lowered the camera and smiled again, more genuinely this time. "No chance of that, Sherlock Holmes. Not when you've gone and done something this interesting."

"Yes: apparently no one in London has anything better to do than stalk me while I am out for the evening. And by no one, I mean you."

"Goodness, what a snit you're in," Kitty said. "I figured you'd be happy: after all, it looks like you finally managed to get a date other than with your 'bachelor' roommate."

Her eyes darted to Molly. "How much did you pay this one?" Kitty asked Sherlock mockingly.

Sherlock started to make an angry remark, but Molly beat him to it. "He didn't pay me. He could get a date anytime. Unlike you."

Kitty raised her eyebrows. "Oh, got claws, does she, your little cat?"

"I do. Would you like to see my sharp pointy teeth as well?" Molly asked, pulling her hand free from Sherlock's and moving directly in front of the reporter.

"Molly," Sherlock said cautiously, watching them carefully.

"Molly, is it? Well, Molly, why don't you save me some bother and tell me who you are?" Kitty asked sweetly. "There's no need for us to get off on the wrong foot because of him."

"Oh, I rather think there is," Molly said softly, moving in slow circles around Kitty, who watched her apprehensively. "You see, you might not know who I am yet, but I know who you are. You're the reporter who printed a bunch of filthy lies about Sherlock: who told the world he was a fraud. You were so eager to get noticed that you would've sold out your own mother for a front page story. That's why you didn't want to hear anyone else's side until you didn't have a choice. And even now, after it's been proven that the man who kidnapped those kids wasn't Sherlock, that someone else did it all, you'd still love to be able to show him as a fake."

Molly moved back in front of her. Even though she was only an inch taller than the other women, somehow she towered over her. "Well, Miss Riley. Let me introduce myself. My name is Molly Kathleen Hooper. I'm a pathologist at St. Bart's. Two "O's" in Hooper, by the way, in case the only way you can spell anything properly is with a spellchecker. And you are very lucky that I believe in peace, bitch, or you could do a write-up about how I got arrested for assault for punching you in the face."

Kitty took a faltering step back, eyes locked on Molly. Molly seemed perfectly calm, except there was a hard glitter to her eyes that Sherlock recognized. He'd given Moriarty similar looks. Kitty Riley had seen the look before too: on John Watson's face after Sherlock Holmes had "died".

"Now get out of here before I get a new religion," Molly said, voice set, level but with an edge of steel.

Kitty backed up slowly, never taking her eyes off them. "You haven't seen the last of me, Sherlock Holmes and Molly HOOper," she sneered. "I'll be watching you two."

"Thanks for the warning. SO nice to have met you," Molly said with a sweet fake smile of her own. "By the way, have you ever wanted to see an autopsy room? I could arrange a visit for you…"

Kitty turned and fled.

Sherlock released the breath he'd been holding and looked at Molly.

She sighed and held up a hand. "Don't, please. Don't lecture me about how I just stirred her up and gave her all sorts of ammunition and now we won't hear the end of it. It will happen anyway. There's things I'll put up with and things I won't, and she is on the 'won't' side of it. No one is allowed to talk like that about you in front of me." She looked him in the eye. "No one."

Sherlock had a sudden vivid flash of that Reichenbach night: of John saying it was against the law to chin the chief superintendent.

Like John, indeed.

Sherlock smiled. "Sharp pointy teeth indeed, Molly Kathleen Hooper."

She smiled shyly, looking down as though embarrassed. It was rather charming in a way. He'd never suspected Molly could be quite so fierce.

What else don't I know about you, Molly Hooper?

He moved to her side and fleetingly brushed his fingers down her cheek. "Well. Shall we go?"

She touched his hand briefly and smiled. "Let's."

He was strangely silent on the cab ride back: well, maybe not strangely. He could alternate between utter silence and nonstop manic talking in the blink of an eye. It was easy to tell he was deep in thought, so Molly left him to it, happy just to be with him.

"What's it for?" he asked her suddenly.

She blinked. "Sorry?"

"Kathleen. Your middle name. Who were you named after?"

"Oh," Molly said, glancing down briefly. "It's for Kathleen from Wuthering Heights. My mum loved that book."

Sherlock frowned. "There is no Kathleen in Wuthering Heights."

"Well... no. But... see, she heard the Kate Bush song "Wuthering Heights" and she loved it, but she misheard the lyrics. She thought she was singing "It's me, your Kathleen." It wasn't until she read the book that she realized her mistake, but she liked Kathleen so much she kept it."

He nodded slowly. It seemed to settle something in his mind, but Molly had no idea what.

He lapsed back into silence. After a time it became too much even for her, she who was normally fairly quiet herself. "Sherlock…"

His gaze jerked away from the window at once, settling on her face. "Yes?"

"Thank you for tonight," she said quietly. "I had a... fantastic time."

He nodded. "Fantastic," he repeated, as if he'd never heard the word before and was trying it out on his tongue to see if he liked it. It seemed he did, because he smiled. "I'm glad. I've enjoyed your company very much."

She smiled back, somewhat nervous at his almost casual demeanor. Had she crossed a line, telling him that? Was he just being polite?

The taxi pulled up in front of her flat. Sherlock got out and opened her door for her, then accompanied her to her front door. He was still silent. Molly got more apprehensive. Oh, God. Was he about to tell her it was a one-off? Had she bored him to death? Was he…

"Molly, I'd like to take you out again tomorrow night, if I may?"

Oooooo.

He was smiling.

A warm, open smile.

Her heart melted.

"I'd like that, Sherlock."

"Good. I know a lovely place for an evening picnic. Shall we say seven o'clock again?"

"That's fine."

"Good. Make sure you're hungry," he said, words that sounded innocent, but there was something in his eyes that was not.

It was suddenly hard to breathe. "I…I'll be hungry."

He smiled again, a fleeting smile that disappeared as he moved closer to her, a curious, almost childlike expression on his face. He cupped her face in his hands, studying her as though she was some sort of rare book he was about to open. Molly stared into his eyes, feeling her heart hammering desperately against her ribs like a beast demanding to be let loose from a cage.

He closed the miniscule amount of distance between them and slowly, carefully, kissed her.

Molly's world exploded.

He was kissing her. He, Sherlock Holmes, was kissing her.

OhGodOhGodOhGod…

It felt so unbelievably, amazingly GOOD.

She reached up and rested hands on his shoulders, trying to savor every detail about him: the soft coolness of his lips, the faint scent of cologne and taste of Tom Collins, the slightly scratchy warmth of his coat and the slender power of his shoulders.

It was over too soon: it could've gone on for hours and it wouldn't have been enough for her. He pulled back gently, eyes opening again to stare into hers. She smiled, and it suddenly seemed as if the entire world was contained in that simple joyful gesture.

He lowered his hands, took hers in them, and squeezed. "Good night, Molly."

"Good night, Sherlock."

He waited until she was inside and the door locked to return to the taxi, so many thoughts filling his brain he couldn't contain them all. He needed to go home and sort out every detail inch by inch.

He climbed in the back again and closed the door. Was it his imagination, or was there a slight clicking sound after he'd shut it?

"Take me to 221 B Baker Street, please," he said, then studied the partition that separated him from the driver. Something was different.

"Certainly sir," the driver said cheerfully, slowly turning to look at him.

Sherlock jumped back into the seat, heart pounding like a jackhammer.

Jim Moriarty smiled. "Shall we take the scenic route?"