A/N: For the January 20th prompt - "Look out your window; write what you see." Rated T. Another stand-alone.

What a dreary day, Sherlock thought. Perfect for a good murder. The rain was coming down in sheets and the wind was cold enough that all sensible Londoners were indoors. He spotted a familiar figure with an umbrella on the sidewalk headed for his building. Well, not all of them.

She stopped in front of his building and started to oscillate on the sidewalk, walking towards the front steps then changing her mind, turning around, and starting to walk away, before doing it all again.

Oscillating on the sidewalk means love affair, Sherlock thought, and scowled at the jealousy that started to rise in the back of his throat like bile.

Finally, Molly squared her shoulders and, mind apparently made up, started to walk away.

For God's sake… Despite the rain, Sherlock opened the window and stuck his head out. "Get in here, Margaret Anne Hooper," he said, loud and irritable.

She stopped and looked up at him, scowling. "Really shouldn't have told you my full name," she called back but did as she was told.

Sherlock put the kettle on while he waited for her and wondered if Mrs. Hudson had any biscuits. Before he had a chance to yell down to his not-housekeeper, he heard Molly come into the sitting room.

"Sherlock?" she called out.

"Kitchen," he replied.

She came into the room in stocking feet, soaked jeans, and her favorite cherry-print cardigan over a white button-down. Her hair was frizzy from the humidity and her cheeks were red from the biting wind and Sherlock couldn't help thinking she looked beautiful.

He didn't say that, of course. "Better take those jeans off before you catch a cold."

Molly rolled her eyes. "You can't get a cold just from being cold." Still, she went into the bathroom, coming out in his blue silk dressing gown over her shirt, her cardigan in one hand and her jeans in the other.

Sherlock took the jeans and hung them up in front of the roaring fire in the fireplace. Molly hung her cardigan on the back of one of the chairs at the table then she sat down in John's chair.

"John, Mary, and Rosie are still at his sister's?" she asked.

Sherlock nodded. "They'll be back next week." He sat down in his chair and assessed her. "You need some advice about your love life."

Molly nodded, blushing. "I can never hide anything from you." The kettle whistled and she got up before he did. "I'll make it." She hurried into the kitchen.

Why would she come to me about her love life? Mary or Mrs. Hudson would be a much better choice. I know nothing about relationships. If she wants a man's perspective, she should ask John "Three Continents" Watson.

Then again, maybe not.

Molly came out with two cups and gave him one. "Just the way you like it," she said.

"Thank you," he said, smiling a bit, then he took a sip as Molly sat down again. "So…"

"I need a second opinion on what to do," she said, her eyes on her cup. "There's this man I like. Well, more than like."

Sherlock felt his heart sink to his feet and spill onto the rug. "Your engagement ended over a year ago. According to conventional society, there is nothing wrong with you dating again now."

"It's not that. I've liked this man for years but he only sees me as a friend."

It's Graham. She wants to know if she should ask Graham out. He could feel the bile rising again.

Heartburn.

"How … how do you know he only sees you as a friend?" he asked hesitantly.

"Because of what he's said over the years."

When did Graham ever say anything like that? I always miss something. "Graham's a fool," he declared firmly.

Molly finally looked up at him, confused. "What?"

"He's a fool. You're a beautiful, intelligent, passionate woman and if he can't see that, he doesn't deserve you anyway."

She shook her head a bit. "Why would you think I was talking about Greg?"

Sherlock stared at her. "You're not?"

"Of course not. Greg's just a friend."

"Then who…" He trailed off as he considered the possibilities. Can't be John, she'd never go after a married man. Oh God, is it Mycroft? Or worse, Anderson? "Please, God, tell me it's not Anderson."

She groaned in frustration and stood up. "I'm leaving – it's pointless to try to talk to you about anything involving emotions."

He stood up quickly. "Molly, wait…" He reached out to take her hand. "Just tell me who it is and I'll help you."

"Why should it matter who it is?"

Because I want to know who to hate. "It just … does."

She shot him a look then held out her other hand. "My jeans, if you please."

Instead of handing them over, Sherlock took that hand as well. "Molly, please..."

She refused to look at him. "God," she muttered, "this is just like that Christmas."

That Christmas? She must mean the infamous party. Wait, that's when I was jealous of no one but myself. If this is just like that…

He suddenly pulled her into his arms and kissed her hard. Molly froze for a moment then kissed him back, her arms around his neck. She only broke the kiss to squeal in surprise when he picked her up bridal-style and carried her to the bedroom.

Case solved.