Author's note: This is my first published Sherlolly story. I have no beta, so I apologize if anything is grammatically incorrect or seemingly redundant. I hope you enjoy it! And, of course, I do not own Sherlock or any of its characters.

The clock read 11:35 pm as Molly Hooper's heels clicked down the hallway of St. Bart's Hospital, making her way to the locker room to change into her scrubs.

"Shit…" she said as she stared into the nearly empty contents of her locker, recalling wearing her last pair of clean scrubs to Tom's last week after getting Mr. Tuttle's innards slopped down her front. She would have to borrow some over-sized ones from the hospital that would probably smell of moldy rags.

As she started removing her jewelry, she stopped as she reached for her engagement ring. A pain sprung in her chest as she looked down at her naked left hand, recalling the night's events prior to stepping through St. Bart's doors. She swallowed the lump forming in her throat and quickly pushed the memories aside.

'Not right now, Molly.' She thought soothingly.

After changing out of her dress and into the borrowed scrubs, she shut her locker and stopped to assess herself in the mirror. Her hair was still pinned perfectly into curls on top of her head, her makeup still looked flawless, but the scrubs engulfed her and hung loosely around the shoulders. When she saw her pert nipples briefly poking through the fabric as she moved, she was immediately grateful the scrubs didn't accentuate her curves. Not that scrubs were ever form-fitting or appealing, but it was nice to have the extra fabric hide the fact that she was bra-less. Though, it being almost midnight, she was sure she it wouldn't be a problem.

…..

She grabbed the police report Lestrade left on her desk and stepped into the morgue as she read the contents aloud. "Kathleen Morrison, 5'2", found in the bath around 5 pm with longitudinal cuts along the wrist. Bruises were present on the neck and shoulders, Signs of struggle. Possible homicide." Molly continued reading the report as she walked towards the autopsy table.

"Alright, Mrs. Morrison. Let's find out what really happened to you." With a deep breath, she slipped on her gloves and began to remove the plastic.

"Normally I'd say good evening, and then go on and on about how it's ridiculous to tell a dead body good evening when they're dead." She removed the bag completely and grabbed her camera. Click. "And then I'd go on about how I always say how ridiculous it is, and how none of my conversations seem original to you lot."

Click. Click. Click.

"Though, I guess it's hard to come up with different conversation pieces when you're speaking to someone without active neurons to vocalize their opinions." Click. Click.

"Someone's chatty tonight".

Molly jumped and turned around to meet her intruder as the camera dropped from her hand and fell to the floor. She was met with a cool, blue gaze and curly brown hair.

"Sherlock." She said while holding her chest to catch her breath. "W—what on earth are you doing here?"

"Just came to borrow some supplies." Sherlock said matter-of-factly as he walked towards her and picked up the camera, blowing on the imaginary dust before handing it back to her.

"How did you know I'd be here?" Molly said still trying to calm the heart threatening to explode from her chest.

Sherlock flinched, looking noticeably offended by the question. "It's my eighth sense."

Molly didn't bat an eye at his sarcasm and resumed taking pictures of the body. "Sherlock, while I think it's lovely you came in here to steal some body parts, I'm quite busy with Mrs. Morrison here. So if you don't mind."

Sherlock looked at her quizzically—hair pinned up, makeup done, borrowed scrubs, pair of old gym shoes she kept in her locker with no socks, pursed lips, no bra, at the morgue at midnight—conclusion, working to get mind off of a particular bad date night with Tom…no bra.

"Molly—"

"Sherlock!" Molly snapped, knowing that he was deducing her, and not feeling in the mood to hear his conclusions. "I'm busy. Please. Just—leave me be." She was on the verge of tears when she quickly turned her back to him.

Sherlock reflexively brought his hand up to comfort her, but stopped midway, unsure if in doing so he'd anger her further. He observed her silent figure for a moment, and then walked out of the morgue with his brows furrowed.

…

By the time Molly was done examining the corpse the wall clock read 2:55 am. She discarded her gloves and exited the room to drop off the report to her office, but was startled again when she saw Sherlock sitting in her chair with his feet propped up on her desk, his fingers steepled below his chin.

"Oh for fuck sakes…" Molly muttered on her breath. "Sherlock! What the bloody hell are you still doing here? Didn't I ask you to leave?"

Sherlock brought his feet to the ground and popped up from Molly's chair. "Nope!" He said enthusiastically. "I believe your words were 'leave me be'. And seeing as how YOU entered this office where I am currently residing, I'm assuming your request is now retracted." He walked around the desk and then leaned up against it with his arms folded, his face softening. "Molly, tell me what's wrong."

Molly folded her arms defiantly and avoided his piercing gaze, knowing he was deducing, or had already deduced, what each movement or out of place hair meant. She tucked a stray lock of hair behind her ear and returned her arms to their folded position. "Are we really going to play this game, Sherlock? You already know."

"Was it you or was it him?"

"Do I even want to ask how you know?"

Sherlock raised his eyebrow impatiently. "You. Or. Him?"

Molly paused. "Me. It was—me." She finally met his eyes to gage his reaction. She could tell by his silence that he was thinking about what to say. He was doing that a lot lately; biting his tongue.

"Today was your anniversary."

"Wait…how did you-?"

"It's written on your calendar." He said as he directed her gaze with a quick jerk of his head.

"Oh." She walked over to where the calendar hung and removed it quickly, knowing she had written every important date with Tom over the months to come. She stood at the wall, staring down at the date, October 17th. She had put a heart over the "I" in anniversary.

"Do you…want to talk about it, Molly?" Sherlock asked hesitantly as he walked towards her, her back still facing him.

Molly turned around quickly and almost fell over as she bumped into Sherlock. She grabbed onto his shoulders to steady herself. "I'm sorry!"

"Nope nope, my fault." Sherlock's gaze never wavered. He was always doing that to her. Reading her. Observing her. Deducing her. She couldn't say she minded all that much. Over the weeks since he had been back, she had gotten better at becoming impervious to his ice blue eyes, but with him being so close, she felt her stomach doing somersaults, and her mind became a cacophony of words reminiscent of farm animal noises.

"I—um." Molly stared up at him, speechless. Speechless. The somersaults turned into a simmering furnace that boiled internally at that word. Speechless. Mousy Molly Hooper, they used to call her. The hopeless blubbering, lovelorn pathologist around Sherlock. She knew he was unattainable, and yet, here he was, being concerned for her. Giving her "the look". She knew deep down, though, that no matter how their relationship progressed, or how nice he was to her, he would forever be the man she would always love but never have. Her butterflies pissed her off, so much so that she couldn't contain the fury that blossomed in her chest any longer. Her fists clenched at her sides and she pushed passed Sherlock in a huff. "Why do you always do this to me?!"

Sherlock's brow furrowed, looking confused. "Why do I do what, exactly?"

"You—you come back and you're all nice to me." Molly started pacing, her voice becoming increasingly louder and her arms becoming more animated. "Bringing me on cases with you. Kissing me on the cheek. Telling me how I deserve to be happy and how I'm the 'one who mattered the most'! Showing up here in the middle of the night to 'borrow' supplies and sticking around here to make sure I'm okay! You're SHERLOCK BLOODY HOLMES, YOU'RE NOT SUPPOSED TO BE NICE! You were only supposed to be nice in my fantasies, because I knew you were unattainable in reality—"

"Wait, fantasies?" Sherlock said, interrupting Molly's rapid train of thought. She stopped in her tracks and turned her head to face him, her cheeks blushing furiously. She stared at him, her mouth agape, trying to formulate a quick response, but her mind was drawing a blank. She had just told Sherlock she fantasized about him.

"Molly Hooper. Do you fantasize about me?" Sherlock started towards her, a smile creeping up on his lips.

Molly brought her hand up and covered her face. "Oh god. Oh god. I have to—I have to go." She rushed out of the room and ran to her locker to quickly grab her things. She turned the dial on her lock, but she couldn't remember her combination and pounded on the locker in frustration, taking a deep breath to try and recall the numbers.

"36-1-33." Sherlock said from behind her. "Krypton, Hydrogen, and Arsenic, your favorite elements of the periodic table below 39."

Molly entered the numbers into her combination lock and pulled. It clicked open. He knew her combination. She wasn't sure if she was flattered that he knew, or upset that she was so predictable. But she did know she was being an ass. "Thanks." She said solemnly.

She heard Sherlock's sharp intake of breath from behind her. "You don't have to go, you know." He said finally, releasing the air from his lungs.

"I was headed home anyway, Sherlock." She said as she grabbed her dress, jacket, and heels from her locker and turned to look at him, giving him a half smile. "Thank you for your concern. But I'll be fine. And…sorry for going off on you like that. It's just been—" She swallowed a lump forming in her throat. "—it's just been a rough day, is all."

Sherlock nodded his head in acknowledgement. "May I say something?"

Molly nodded her head.

Sherlock paused to gather his thoughts. A very, very long pause. "Molly…I was an utter dick to you before my fake death.. But you…for whatever reason, you were always so kind and forgiving." Sherlock looked down at his feet as he moved them side to side. "I'm sorry, this—this isn't easy for me. Sentimentality." He muttered the last word under his breath and ran his fingers through his hair, taking a deep breath.

Molly smiled and bit her lip to keep from giggling at how uncomfortable Sherlock looked.

"I'm nice because—because you're my… friend, Molly. And I owe you so much for being there for me when you had every reason not to be. There aren't a lot of people I care to be around. In fact, I can count all of the people I find tolerable on one hand. But you…I s'pose you're one of them. Obviously, you're one of them."

Molly's eyes welled up with tears, and before Sherlock could say anything further, she dropped the contents in her arms and met him within two strides, throwing her arms around his neck. He stumbled back a bit in surprise but returned the hug when he gained his footing, patting her on the back for reassurance. Because that's what you did to reassure the ones you cared about.

When she pulled away, her arms were still around his neck with tears streaming down her face. She reached up on the very tips of her toes and planted a kiss on his cheek before gathering her things and retreating to the restroom.

Sherlock stood in place, warmth springing into his chest. He puffed it out, feeling proud of himself for saying the right things and meaning them. There was something about the honesty that was freeing somehow. But mostly, he knew Molly needed to hear it. He knew his pathologist was hurting, and he knew his words would lift her spirits. She deserved to feel happy. And he knew that he could give that to her.

When Molly exited the restroom with all of her curls unpinned and falling around her bare shoulders, dressed in a strapless, lacy gown with a slit that hiked halfway up her thigh, and wearing a pair of strappy black heels, the warmth in Sherlock's chest ventured south, causing the muscle to twitch . He noticed her makeup was touched up, indicating she was conscious of her appearance around him. 'Good sign' he thought arrogantly, followed up quickly with a mental kick for thinking that way.

He cleared his throat. "Interesting choice of attire for a morgue."

Molly rolled her eyes. "My date was just a few blocks away. I didn't go home to change, and came here because I thought I could use a distraction."

"I know." Sherlock said while thinking 'I could distract you' but quickly deleting that impulse.

Molly put her jacket on and pulled out her phone to call for a cab service. She noticed 11 missed calls and 11 voicemails from Tom. She hovered over the "ignore" prompt for a moment, but ultimately decided she wasn't ready to hear Tom's voice just yet, and proceeded with ignoring him. She dialed the number for a cab instead.

"Share a cab?" Sherlock asked as she hung up

"I'd be delighted." Molly said. Sherlock reached out and offered his arm to her, which she accepted without hesitation.

He was a perfect gentleman, opening all of Molly's doors for her and helping her into the car. She couldn't help but feel the butterflies again, assaulting her insides relentlessly. But the fluttering excitement quickly turned into nausea when the cab driver asked for their destination. She didn't have her own place anymore since moving into Tom's six months ago. She couldn't go back there. Not tonight. She panicked.

"Miss, where to?" The cab driver asked again impatiently.

"Umm—where's the nearest—"

"221B Baker Street." Sherlock said finally. Molly looked over at him quizzically. "John has moved out and is with Mary, so I have a spare bedroom you can stay in for now…until you get everything sorted, of course." He explained, fidgeting with his hands and looking out the window.

Molly just stared and marveled at the man seated next to her. She always knew there was more to Sherlock than his sturdy exterior. She had seen glimpses of it before. Hell, she had seen lingering moments of it. But this, this was different. He was different. His tone, his body movements, everything seemed softer somehow.

"Sherlock."

"Hmmm?" Sherlock replied, still staring out the window.

"Thank you."

"No thanks necessary, Molly. Just returning the favor. Because that's what friends do." He kept emphasizing the word "friend".

"Thanks all the same." She reached over and gave Sherlock's knee a squeeze. He turned slowly to look at the hand placed on his leg, then up at Molly. She was staring out her window, her forehead against the glass, the profile of her face illuminated by the street lamps, and silent tears streaming down her cheeks. He looked down at Molly's hand, and before he could think about all the reasons why such displays of affection were beneath him, he placed his hand on Molly's and returned the squeeze.

….

"So. This is, or rather, was John's room." Sherlock said, standing in the doorway of John's old bedroom. Molly walked in and took a look around as she removed her jacket. The room was bare, save for the queen sized bed, a dresser and a nightstand with a lamp. She sat on the mattress and slowly ran her hand along the top, testing the material beneath her fingers.

"Excuse me one moment." Sherlock said as he exited the room.

Molly heard him shuffling around the apartment, until he finally returned with a pile of bedding.

"Here." He said, slightly out of breath, and talking at a rapid pace. "Here are the bedtime necessities. Sheets a blanket a pillow some pajamas they're my pajamas so they may be a bit big but I've never worn them and there's a tie on the bottoms to you know cinch up the waste."

Molly stood up and grabbed the pile from his hands. "Thank you."

"Of course." Sherlock said more slowly. Molly began to make her bed, but he remained unmoved from the doorway.

"Sherlock." Molly said finally after several moments of silence, slipping on the fitted sheet beneath the mattress.

"Hmmm?" Sherlock replied with a quick shake of his head, as if awoken from a trance.

"I can take it from here. You can get some rest, if you'd like. I'll be fine." Molly pulled on the sheet to smooth out the lumps.

"Oh. Right." Sherlock said as he grabbed the door knob to her bedroom to shut the door. "Good night, then."

"Good night, Sherlock. And thank you."

Sherlock nodded his head and shut the door, retreating to his own bedroom and shutting his door rapidly behind him. Realizing he was holding his breath, he released the air from his lungs in one, long drawn out sigh. Molly was here. In his apartment. Spending the night. For possibly many nights. She would see him being…Sherlock. Not the brilliant consulting detective with the long coat and perfect hair. But the man beneath it all. He wondered if she would still fantasize about him when she found her own place. And for the first time in…maybe ever...he pondered about what it meant that he cared.

…