A/N: For the January 2nd prompt - "A time someone said no." Stand-alone. Rated T. I just had to work in a reference to one of Benedict's short films and, IMHO, the best pick-up line.

"Will you marry me, Molly?" Tom asked, down on one knee and holding up a diamond ring. The stone was small, all he could afford as an accountant.

She was about to say yes when Sherlock pushed Tom out of the way and got down on one knee himself, holding up another ring, this one much larger, confirming her theory that Sherlock had more money than he let on and was sharing his flat for kicks. "Forget him, Molly. You could do so much better. Me, for instance."

Molly was about to respond when she woke up. Bloody hell… She sat up, groaning. Sherlock was still God-knows-where, playing dead. She hadn't heard from him in months. The only reason I know he's still alive is that Mycroft hasn't said otherwise.

She was about to roll over and go back to sleep when she heard a noise coming from the bathroom. What the hell? She quickly got up and pulled on her bathrobe then cautiously approached the door.

"Bloody fucking hell…" she heard Sherlock mutter.

Rolling her eyes, Molly opened the door. Sherlock was standing in front of the sink, trying to clean his various wounds. There was blood dripping down his face from multiple cuts, his left eye was swollen shut and she could tell he was going to have the mother of all black eyes, and the front of his white tank was dyed red with blood. She hoped it wasn't all his but she had a sinking feeling it was. A small part of her couldn't help noticing his perfect arse in the tight jeans.

She dragged her eyes to his. "Please tell me the other guy looks much worse."

"I would but you hate it when I lie to you," Sherlock drawled.

Molly rolled her eyes again then took the flannel from him and got out her bottle of hydrogen peroxide. She cleaned his wounds properly, decided none of them needed stitches, then proceeded to ask how he managed to get in that state. Sherlock, of course, refused to tell her anything. He left the bathroom and she followed him.

Sherlock glanced at the bed. "I'm surprised the boyfriend's not here."

"He went to a convention in Las Vegas."

"And you trust him in Nevada, land of chorus girls and legal prostitution?"

"Yes, of course." She wondered if she said that a little too fast.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. "Honestly, Molly, I don't know what you see in him. You could do so much better."

She shivered at the echo of his words from her dream. "Actually, no, I couldn't. Until Tom, I've had no luck whatsoever in the dating pool. First there was the arrogant prat I had a complete crush on who only saw me as someone who could keep him in body parts, then there was the criminal mastermind who pretended to like me just so he could get close to said prat. Then the prat faked his death and disappeared to parts unknown. There's no one who can compare to him, but Tom loves me and I am making a good life with him."

"You didn't say that you love Tom," Sherlock pointed out, smirking.

"And this is why you're an arrogant prat," she muttered. "What I feel for Tom isn't up for scrutiny."

"If you love him, just say it," he said, grinning wide.

"Go away, Sherlock. I patched you up, you can go back to whatever bolthole you were using."

"What if I want to stay in this one?"

"You can't. I have a boyfriend now, it's inappropriate for me to have another man around when he's not here."

"Am I a man? I thought I was a prat."

She groaned in exasperation. "You're both and I really want you gone."

"I'll leave on one condition."

"Anything."

He gave her a wolfish grin. "Anything?"

"You know what I mean," she muttered.

"I want you to promise me you won't marry anyone you don't love."

This coming from the man who hates sentiment? "Love isn't the only reason why people marry, Sherlock."

"It should be. Promise me, Molly."

"Alright, fine, I promise – I won't marry anyone I don't love."

Sherlock grinned. "That's all I needed to hear." With that, he climbed out her bedroom window and was gone.

A week later, Molly and Tom were in bed. They had just had sex and a small but vocal part of Molly knew she'd had better. Okay, so he's not great in the sack. That can be fixed.

Tom wrapped an arm around her waist and nuzzled her hair. "Love you."

The small but vocal part was getting bigger and louder. Don't you dare say you love him. You know you don't.

"Molly?"

"Hmm?" She turned to face him.

"I should probably do this on one knee but this seems like a good enough time." He opened the drawer in the nightstand and pulled out a ring box. He opened it and Molly could see the ring was just like she had imagined. He smiled at her. "Molly, will you marry me?"

"I looked into his eyes, Mary, and I knew I couldn't do it," Molly muttered as she stared down at her beer. "Even without the promise I made to Sherlock, I just couldn't say yes."

Mary smirked around her cosmo. "I was wondering when the world's only consulting detective was going to figure into this narrative." The former assassin glanced at the man sitting by himself at a nearby table, his face buried in a newspaper.

Molly didn't notice. "I'm destined to be alone."

Mary smirked. "Hardly."

Her focus still on her beer, Molly didn't notice when the man at the table set down his newspaper and came over to her until he spoke.

"Excuse me, Miss. I'm Mr. Right, I heard you've been looking for me."

Mary groaned. "Sherlock, that has to be the worst pick-up line in history."

Sherlock kept his eyes on Molly's beaming face. "Not if it works."