John knew he had to have this conversation. He'd known it before his wedding day, but had put it off. Now, with the wedding and its aftermath almost a year past, he finally ventured back to that night...his stag night with Sherlock, when his best friend confessed his love. He did more than that, of course. As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Sherlock had crawled on top of him and graced him with an inebriated kiss on the mouth, pleading that he never leave him, to please come home and stay. Without his usual coat of armor, Sherlock Holmes was the most vulnerable man John had ever seen.

"I love you, John. More than anything. I need you; I need you to come home, to Baker Street, to me...please, darling. Just the two of us against the world, like always. Wouldn't that be wonderful? My friend, my dearest friend, please say it. Say you love me, too. Please. No one's ever said it to me before..."

Fortunately, that had been when he'd fallen asleep for the first time that evening. More fortunately still, Sherlock didn't seem to remember it. He truly seemed happy for him and Mary, even when she turned out to be more than she seemed. John was still coping with that particular bombshell, but shelved the matter for the sake of his and Mary's new life together. Sherlock had them over regularly, and if his smiles seemed forced or didn't meet his eyes, or if he drew too close to John for too long...well, everyone knew that Sherlock was always a little strange.

John sat down in his old chair at Sherlock's flat; he leaned over thoughtfully and gazed across at his friend. "Sherlock...there's something I've been meaning to talk to you about."

"Go on," the detective invited, genuinely curious about what's to come.

"Why...why didn't you ever tell me? Before, after? While you were sober? Why did you just stand back and let it all happen? Just...why?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at him, steepling his fingers under his chin. "Tell you what?"

Watson shook his head, "I'd have chalked it up to you being drunk at the time, but it didn't fit. Looking back, I should've seen the signs of it ages ago, but you know...idiot," he gestured deprecatingly to himself. "Went right past me until it was right in front of my face." He looked at him somberly, remorsefully. "I hurt you. I know it now and I'm just so sorry. So sorry, Sherlock. I know that saying it doesn't change anything, but I-"

Throughout the halting apology, Sherlock's face became drawn and worried. What could I have said to him on his stag night?! Surely not...oh god, I did! It's the only thing. "The reason I didn't tell you should be obvious: in the time we worked and lived together, on each of the dozens of occasions in which someone suggested that we were 'together', you denied it with such force that would make it abundantly clear how distasteful a notion it was. You mocked and derided any idea that you might be in a romantic relationship with me. I...clearly disgusted you. It hurt. About as much as it hurt that day at the bank all those years ago, when I introduced you to Sebastian as my friend, you immediately corrected that you were merely my colleague."

John winced as though he'd been struck, reminded afresh of that day, and instantly recalled how Sherlock deliberately excluded him from the rest of the investigation after that. He finally saw the connection. "I'm so-"

"Sorry. I know," Sherlock interrupted with narrowed eyes. "Of course, you had no way of knowing how lonely I'd been, how I'd longed for someone to call my friend. Such a prize, a treasure," he sighed. "You made up for it since, you've shown me unwavering loyalty, for which I'm still grateful...but that first denial was, honestly, quite painful. Then to hear it time and again that the two of us being together was so very laughable...and you wonder why it took a night of drunken idiocy to make me confess my love for you? You wonder why I never said it again after I regained my senses? I may be lacking people skills, John, but even I know better than to intrude where I'm unwanted. What good would it have done to tell you, hmm? What would you have said? Done? Would you have laughed at me, brushed it off like it was a joke? Would you fade into the background and not risk coming near me lest I attack you? You say you could see the signs after knowing the truth, but I wonder how many of them you noticed. Was it when I held your hand as we ran from the police? Froze in your arms when you hugged me at your wedding? Spoke of myself and Mary as the two people who love you most in all the world? Any idiot could have seen those. What of the times when I sent you in my stead, acknowledging you as my right hand? Faking my own death to keep you safe? What of all those times in our day-to-day mundanity that I would be rudely dismissive of you to keep myself from acting on my impulses? Yes, those times that probably made you wonder why you even bothered to put up with me were the times I was most in danger of making a fool of myself. If I hadn't gone so far the other way, I would have been begging you to hold me!" His voice broke and he ducked his head down into his hands. "What would you have said if I told you I loved you while I was completely in my right mind? You'd have ignored it, pretended I hadn't said anything, reminded me we were out of milk again and then dashed off with one of your girlfriends-of-the-week."

"I might have been nicer to you, if I'd known."

"You wouldn't have dared," Sherlock snarled. "What if it gave me the wrong idea? What if it gave me hope? Gave me the mad idea that you loved me back?! Dammit, even when we were running for our lives in handcuffs, when I asked you to take my hand you still couldn't forget how it would tarnish your image. That was your priority!"

"I still remember taking your hand, then, Sherlock. Yes, I was concerned about what people say, but it wasn't about you!" John burst out. "It's like those pictures of you in that stupid hat! You hated it, hated that that's all the public saw of you, and it wasn't you! That's why it bothered you. Same goes for me. Like it or not, Sherlock, we were never in a romantic relationship. We were never lovers, so I got pretty tired of hearing that we were when there was nothing I could to do make them think otherwise! You don't disgust me, you never have. Annoy, astound, amaze, flabbergast...yes, but never disgust! Imagine if people thought you and Lestrade were lovers, and they kept at you about it, not listening when you corrected them. There's nothing wrong with Lestrade, but I'm willing to bet the constant assumptions would grate on you after a while. So...I'm sorry for all of the times I've hurt you. I'm glad I was able to redeem myself a little, that you still want to be my friend. You are still the best friend I've ever had, and I love you for it. You're my brother, Sherlock, my family. I hope you always will be."

Sherlock was silent for several minutes, obviously thinking. He turned his gaze back to his friend, his eyes deep and full of feeling. "I...don't disgust you?"

"Nope."

Here, he smiled. "Good. That's good."

John smiled back cautiously. "Just not gay. If I was...who knows? I...might've taken a fancy to you. What the hell am I saying? Of course I would have. How could I have resisted you?"

Sherlock pursed his lips and sighed, "Flattery."

"Looked like you needed some. So...are we all right?" Sherlock nodded, still pouting moodily, but he seemed to be back to normal. "Good." John stood up to go, Holmes followed suit, trailing him to the door.

"John, would you...?" He broke off, biting his lip and blushing.

Watson stopped at the door, giving his friend a concerned look. "Would I what?"

With closed eyes and hands folded pleadingly, Sherlock stammered with a choking voice. "Would you...please..." he looked down at his shoes. "Let me...just once... Please hold me," he whispered.

He looked so sad and lost, finally letting those feelings surface visibly after all this time. John let go of the doorframe and turned to face him. He paused for a moment in thought before agreeing, "Yeah...sure." He took two steps toward Sherlock and took him in his arms. He felt his friend gasp and choke back a sob as he pressed his face down into his shoulder, squeezing him tightly. Too tight, too long to just be a friendly, manly hug. Sherlock wept openly, pressing halting kisses into John's neck, murmuring half-formed words of love and gratitude, pleasure and sorrow. After a few minutes of this, John weakly struggled against his friend's embrace. "All right, that's enough. Sherlock, that's enough."

"Never," he breathed against his neck. "Never enough. My love..." he nuzzled in lightly before obediently breaking it off. "Thank you."

John nodded, certain he was blushing as much as his friend was. It certainly looked strange to see such a rosy glow on those pale cheeks. He cleared his throat, rubbing his face and neck self-consciously. "Well, I'll see you later. Don't forget you're coming round on Sunday."

If Sherlock was at all surprised by his continued inclusion with John's family, it didn't show. He'd been named godfather to John and Mary's daughter, and was already her favorite uncle by default. One thing he'd secretly feared was that John would shun him if he'd ever made his feelings known, and take his only "real" family away from him in one fell swoop. For all appearances, everything was the same as always. He nodded briskly, gave John a swat on the shoulder and sent him out the door.

The afternoon had certainly given Sherlock food for thought. After addressing the issue head-on and getting as good of results as he could have hoped for, he pondered what his next course of action should be. While John was ultimately accepting of him, it was obvious that he wasn't to go mooning around him after this official revelation. It simply wouldn't be allowed. He'd content himself to just being friends, as always, but knowing now that John would be watching him like a hawk for any 'deviant' behavior made him realize he'd have to keep things even closer to the vest than before.

On Monday morning, Sherlock entered the morgue, gazing in the lab where Molly Hooper was working. She didn't see him yet. He fought to remain as calm and controlled as always.

"Ever think of Molly?" John had suggested the previous day after lunch.

"Think of Molly what?" he'd drawled obtusely.

"You know, asking her out. I mean, unless you aren't...that way," Mary supposed, taking her husband's hand.

Sherlock flicked his gaze between the two of them, exhaling sharply. He wondered how honest he ought to be, but it looked like Mary already suspected a thing or two. "There was only ever one man for me, and unfortunately, someone got to him first." He raised his eyebrows significantly at Mrs. Watson. "No offense meant, of course. I'm happy for you both. My brief entanglement with Janine is the extent of my experience with women...do you think it would be wise for me to...try again?"

"Well, at least in this case, you wouldn't have to bother with ulterior motives," John reminded him. "Molly's a sweet girl, she's always loved you. I'm sure she'll be willing to give it a shot. It doesn't even have to be a big deal, just take her out for coffee. See where it goes."

Sherlock suspected that this friendly advice had a point to it, probably to the purpose of helping him get over John. He walked into the room, dragging his feet just a bit. He stood over the latest entry in Molly's in-box and cleared his throat.

"So, what's this one?"

Molly looked up with a blank expression. "Car accident. Fractured spine, three broken ribs, head trauma...Family's coming to identify him."

"Should've worn his seat belt," Sherlock remarked coldly. At least a normal person would perceive it as coldly. Molly, however, could tell when he was trying to be funny. She gave him a smile and made an assenting sound before rolling her subject back in. She took off her gloves and threw them away before starting in on the next one. Sherlock followed her like a shadow. "Molly...would you like to join me for coffee?"

Busily examining her next corpse, she answered distractedly, "Haven't made any yet, but feel free to."

"No, I mean...later. When you've finished." Each word came out with more difficulty than the last. "Would you like...to go out...for coffee...after work?" Sherlock breathed a heavy sigh of relief at getting that sentence out properly.

Molly looked up at him with a suspicious expression. "All right, what do you need?"

"Hmm?"

"What do you want me to do for you? You're only nice to me when you need a favour," she reminded him. She set her tools down and crossed her arms expectantly.

"I'm abandoning form, it seems. I just...thought we could give this a try."

She still stared at him distrustfully, but reminded herself that she had been the most important piece in his disappearing act...and it was only his seeming obliviousness to her that spared her life. She'd been his conscience and his confidant. For a man with such limited social skills, she had to take that fact for what it was worth. "You really mean it? Nothing funny?"

"Not intentionally, anyway. Now who do we have on slab #2?" He changed the subject quickly, glad to have gotten the asking/accepting business over.

"Suicide. Usual stomach full of sleeping pills and vodka. Nothing very interesting for you today, I'm afraid."

Sherlock made a face, unable to disagree with her there. "If so many people have to die every day, the least they could do is make it interesting! Seems poor manners on their parts, really. Better luck with the next load, hmm?"

Molly had to laugh at her friend's morbid sense of humor. She'd take all of the "boring" deaths the job could deal her. "That's the spirit. Got to stay optimistic about these things." He actually smiled back at her, holding her gaze intensely. "I'll call you if anything comes in."

"Send me a text when you've finished. I'll pick you up."

"You're serious? About...going out later?" Molly's voice sounded light and shaky, as if the idea pleased and frightened her at the same time.

"Of course. See you this evening. Unless something interesting shows up, of course," he gave her a jaunty wink before breezing out.

Sherlock spent the rest of the day at home, checking his phone every few seconds, thinking he'd heard it go off. He changed his clothes three times and came out looking identical to what he'd had on that morning. He did a few internet searches for possible help, received contradictory advice about every aspect of a simple coffee date, and subsequently had a tantrum about it. Finally, his text alert went off and he got at least some measure of relief. The game is on!

He went downstairs, hailed a cab, and sent Molly a message that he was on the way. As soon as he pulled up to St. Bart's, Molly scurried down and slid in beside him, looking very excited. She'd changed out of her work clothes and was dressed in a summery green camisole and blue blouse with a pair of well-worn and well-loved jeans. Sherlock simply looked ill. He suddenly felt very awkward and didn't understand why. It's just Molly! You've seen her a thousand times, spent hundreds of hours in her company. Yes, but always on the job. This might be a bit different. Just treat it like work. It'll be fine! It's only Molly.

"Sorry, what?" she asked, leaning in close to catch her date's mutterings.

"It's just Molly," he repeated under his breath, then realized she could hear him. "No! That's not how I meant- I just...Uh..."

Somehow, Molly could see past how bad his remark might have sounded, and focused instead on his quavering tone. He was clearly nervous and was trying to talk himself down from it. She would gladly be "just Molly" if it helped him calm down! "You're right, Sherlock, it's just me. Nothing to be scared of." She gave him a reassuring smile and patted his hand with a happy squeak that she couldn't suppress. Since he didn't brush her away, she wrapped her fingers loosely around his. Not quite holding his hand, but almost.

"Yes..." he breathed. "Yes, of course. Nothing to be scared of. Who said I was scared?" He cleared his throat and spoke once more in his level baritone. "I assume the rest of your day was as dull as the morning, then?"

"Thankfully, yes. I get enough excitement with you involved." Molly clapped a hand to her mouth and blushed. "Oh, god-"

The driver peeked back at them with a smirk. First dates never change. Take two grown, functional, intelligent adults and set them up with each other, and suddenly they're stammering adolescents again. Soon, they pulled up to the cafe, and the date officially began. Little did either of them realize that the cab ride over there would be the high point of the evening...

Sherlock and Molly sat in a secluded little nook at a small table for two. A local band was warming up at the small "stage" in the corner. Molly looked around, smiling vaguely, patting Sherlock's hand again with a giddy smile.

"Thank you for this," she murmured, leaning in close as if afraid of being overheard.

"Oh. Yes, well...no trouble, Hooper—uh, Molly," he groaned, driving his knuckles into his forehead. Bravely, he tried to amend it with a lame joke. "Well, whoever you are." Molly tittered politely, starting to feel just a bit embarrassed by his odd behavior. He was beginning to act as though he were being stuck by needles.

"You all right?"

"Yes, fine, thank you, fine," he muttered, looking all around himself and drumming his fingers. His attention kept getting diverted to the other patrons, he found himself subconsciously analysing them before glancing back at his date with an expression that was trying to be a smile but it really looked like he felt a spider crawling down his spine. "So...what sounds good? I'll run up and put in our order."

"Medium part-skim chai latte, light foam and cinnamon," she requested with a smile.

Sherlock gave her a momentary baffled expression before skulking up to the counter. "One small coffee-"

"Which kind? Medium, dark roast, or decaf? Today's medium's Ethiopia, Dark is New Guinea and Decaf is Sumatra. We also have Tanzania Peaberry on press to sample." The barista recited, gesturing with a bored air at the menu to his left.

Sherlock peered at the chalkboard, "Uh, medium, I suppose? Black, two sugars-"

"Sugar is behind you."

"Oh. Also a medium...part skim? Chai...light foam with cinnamon?" He phrased it like a question, wondering if this was an actual drink order or if his date was playing a trick on him. With the trouble it took to order a plain black coffee, he expected another round of follow-up questions to Molly's order. To his surprise, the barista started that drink without another word. Moments later, the drinks appear on the end of the counter in paper cups.

"Oh, these were for here."

The barista gave him a dirty look, sighed, and poured them into ceramic mugs. She thrust them at him and stalked away.

"Excuse me, miss, you've just ruined my date's drink. The foam's all deflated and..." He stopped his faltering and squared his shoulders, giving her a good once-over. Shoulders slouched, glazed expression, been on the clock since...6 this morning. No lunch break, hates the manager, I was the 20th person in the space of an hour with an irritating ordering pattern—not my fault, still worth considering. Trouble at home, agreed to work a double today to cover unexpected expenses...hospital, most likely. "You know what? It's fine. I'm just on a first date here and I'm a bit wound up." Sherlock gestured to Molly, giving her an OK signal. Molly waved back cheerfully.

The barista's expression changed, she actually smiled. "Oh. That's all right, I can make it again." As she remade the chai, she talked. "You don't frequent cafes, then? I can tell. You don't speak the language. Sorry for before, it just throws off my groove when they don't have the patter down."

"Never knew there was so much that went into getting a plain cup of coffee."

She handed him the remade chai, telling him, "Good luck. She looks nice."

Sherlock returned triumphantly to the table with a sharp sigh of relief. He slid Molly her drink and started to slurp his down with more than usual gusto.

"Next time we do this, I'll study beforehand," he remarked casually. "Although I thought I did sufficient research this afternoon."

Molly giggled at him, "You did research before taking me out for a coffee?"

"Yes!" He snarled, suddenly defensive. This was an awkward situation for him and he didn't appreciate his date laughing at him. "What's so funny about that?"

"Nothing," she murmured, sipping her drink. "It's just not something a lot of people do."

"I'm not like most people," Sherlock reminded her pompously.

"Tell me about it."

They sip their drinks in silence, neither of them knows what they're supposed to say.

"You said 'next time we do this'...did you want to do this again?" Molly asked.

Sherlock was back to his nervous fidgeting, casting his gaze all over the room as if watching a very active fly. "If you have no objection. Although, any explanations you could provide would be most helpful. You seem more familiar with this sort of thing."

"Explanations?" Molly was starting to look annoyed at his twitching. "Look, if you don't want to be here, we can finish this now. I'm going to go to the bathroom-"

"Didn't need to know that."

"-and when I come back, we'll discuss our options, shall we?"

This sounded most agreeable to him, he completely missed the mild threat her tone suggested. Sherlock nodded gratefully. "Yes, good."

Once Molly stalked away in a semi-huff, a stranger turned around to address Sherlock. "You know what the matter is, mate?"

"I'm all ears."

"You asked her to join you for coffee, right?"

"Yes, and here we are, imagine that."

The stranger chuckled to himself. "You know that 'coffee' is usually meant as code for 'sex', right?"

Sherlock went completely ashen. He felt his blood go cold. "You're putting me on."

"My guess is, you invited her over for coffee, she thought 'sex is on!' and now you're a caffeinated, fidgety mess while she's wondering when you two are going to adjourn to your place. Just me sayin', though. Good luck."

Sherlock watched his date return, looking a bit calmer than she had been. He gulped. Molly Hooper wants to have sex with me. She thinks I'm...oh, no. John, where are you?! He tugged at his collar, clearing his throat. "Look, Molly, I hope you're having a decent enough time to warrant a repeat experience."

She took in his physical attitude: he was as scrunched together as it was possible to be, looking very much like a cornered animal. She can't make out what's wrong with her normally charismatic friend. "It's, well, honestly, I just don't appreciate being made fun of!"

"Wh-what?" That statement completely blindsided him. "Making fun of you?"

"You've barely looked at me since you picked me up, you can't sit still, you obviously made a fuss about the drinks to that poor barista...Frankly, I'm more than a little embarrassed." Her voice dropped low and dangerous. "And you have the nerve to ask if I'm having a good enough time?"

Sherlock made an effort to keep his eyes from wandering. He fixed them straight at his date as he thought out his next move... "Yes?" Wrong answer! In his mind's eye, he saw bold red words flashing: Vatican cameos! He braced himself for the anticipated attack, gripping the table.

"What's wrong with you?! Must I remind you that this was your idea, so I don't know why you're acting like this is all some sort of surprise. I mean, researching?! Did you actually do a web search for this? Is this what it said to do?"

"I don't know!" He finally burst out, having grown tired of the interrogation. "I just...I just need to breathe." I suppose going back to the morgue wouldn't be the best of suggestions in this situation, he wisely told himself, covering his face. "They all said something different and I can't...I just wanted to take you out, do something that people do, apparently! None of it makes any sense, Molly. Try to understand. I'm really trying here!"

Molly then let up, reaching for his hand again. "My god, you're shaking! What in the world? What's the matter with you?"

"Do you want an itemised list? I'm sure John has one on his blog somewhere," he muttered from behind his other hand.

Seeing his nerves for what they are softened Molly considerably. She'd just never seen someone so worked up about an innocent coffee date, he looked terrified! And she'd just had to go and berate him for not knowing what to do. "There's a pub across the street. Let's go get a pint and calm down, all right?"

Sherlock looked at her with relief written all over his face. Molly thought he also looked vaguely like he was about to throw up. "That sounds good." Just don't get drunk; things get all weird and I can't think, he reminded himself.

Molly smiled and gave his hand another squeeze. He took this as a good sign that all may not be lost.

"Did you know that some people use 'coffee' as code for 'sex'?" Sherlock asked, keen to bring about friendly conversation.

This brought a mortified look to Molly's face. She'd just been able to forgive his outlandish behavior, and now this?! "Yes, Sherlock, of course I did," she whispered.

"Oh. I didn't. Someone just told me while you were in the loo. You...you, uh...didn't think I meant sex when I asked you out for coffee, did you?"

Blushing violently, his date looked around apprehensively, certain that they were gaining an audience and that they were the center of ridicule. "No, I'm sure you just meant coffee."

"Oh, good!" he replied brightly, suddenly relieved. "That's better, then."

"Let's go, Sherlock. We're attracting a scene." And with that, she got up and traipsed out the door with her date trailing behind her.

They sat together at a table near the window with a pint each and a basket of chips between them. Sherlock ventured bravely, "Molly...did I do something to upset you?"

She wasn't sure how to answer that. He looked truly ignorant of his behavior! She pinched her lips together, trying to figure out where to begin. "You're just acting very strangely, that's all."

"Strange for normal people, or strange for me?"

Now, hearing the question framed this way certainly cast a different light on it. "Well..." she allowed, "I guess, fairly normal for you. I just...didn't expect...you know, for this to be how you really acted. I always figured that was just how you were at work."

"I'm always at work, or, nearly always," Sherlock reminded her lightly, sipping his beer. "I don't change how I act unless I'm trying to get information out of someone."

"Well, first of all, when you're on a date with someone, it's considered normal to talk to them. Make conversation, tell about your day. Any interesting stories from your past, that sort of thing. You don't just sit there and make faces. Oh, you were doing that thing, weren't you?"

Sherlock looked up from his glass. "Thing? Oh. Yes, that thing. I can't really help it, you know."

Molly gave him an encouraging smile. He was actually acting like he was on a date now! "So that's why you're always...like that." She'd always assumed that his constant flow of observations was his way of showing off. To some degree, she was sure that was still the case, but if he really couldn't control it... "I think it's pretty amazing what you can do."

"Really?"

"Makes me a bit jealous sometimes, actually. Wish I was that sharp. Except, of course, it does tend to make you look like a crazy person."

Sherlock was used to slights on his sanity, so he let that remark slide. He was just relieved that things were going better at last. They each had another couple of pints, and ordered some burgers as well. Half an hour later, both of them were feeling like they were actually having a good time, when...

"You know, Molly, you do look very pretty today," Sherlock slurred with a relaxed grin. "I really do like you, really, as far as people go...I never went out with a girl I actually liked."

"I thought you were engaged once?"

The drunk detective waved that away decisively, "Didn't like her. Guess she was pretty if you like that kind of...face-thing, but I had to pretend so hard with her. Act like a person." He shuddered. "I like you; it's easier. Just not when I'm trying to behave," he giggled too loudly at this. Their waitress came up to their table with the bill. Sherlock fumbled through his wallet and came up with a couple of £50 notes and muttered "Keep it," sending her on her way.

"You're saying that in the cafe just now, that was you trying to behave?" She laughed as well, feeling the effects of the alcohol.

"That was me on my very, very best behavior. I wanted everything to be so nice for you, cuz you're nice and deserve nice things, and...what was I saying?"

"Sherlock," she giggled, "you're very, very bad at behaving."

"Really?"

"Really."

"Can we just go back to the morgue and talk shop with the dead bodies? I like that. I just like hanging around dead people with you, it's fun. Oh! Better idea. Skip the morgue. Let's go to my place. Yes. Let's just...go home. Okay?" He didn't even wait for her to respond. He grabbed her hand and dragged her along with him out onto the curb.

He hailed them a cab and ordered, "Baker Street."

They stumbled up the stairs, giggling. "I'm...I'm going to try to kiss you now, Molly," Sherlock warned her, grinning idiotically. "I practiced and everything. I...observed specimens in their natural habitat," he proclaimed in mockery of a professor. He pressed her against the door as it closed behind them. He inexpertly dragged his mouth across hers before he got the hang of it. Then he backed off, taking her hand and laying wet kisses across it. Meanwhile, she was starting to sober up, and was consequently realizing this was likely to be a bad move.

Sherlock took off his coat and jacket, flinging them aside and he unbuttoned the first few buttons on his shirt. He came up close to her again, gazing deep into her eyes, pouting adorably. His addled brain was still trying to process the evening. Coffee=sex? Had coffee, now sex? Sex good? How? Don't remember. Deleted it. But Molly...friend? Friend...dead people playing-with friend. Helps with stuff. Like her. "Molly, I know you thought you were nobody, but you're not. You're somebody. And...I can't believe you actually went out with me. 'specially after whats-his-name."

He took her by the shoulders, leading her backwards into the bedroom. He dropped her on the bed and slid in next to her, kissing her again.

She let him kiss her, selfishly relishing the moment. Bad idea or not, Sherlock Holmes was finally kissing her! She moaned softly, kissing him back, her hands full of his hair. She'd imagined this so many times, dreamed of this moment for so long. Then...it started to get strange...Sherlock had taken his trousers down, but still had his underpants on...and he was rubbing against her leg, vigorously.

"Sherlock...what are you doing?"

He didn't answer, just grunted softly, then his excuse for a climax hit him. He collapsed nervelessly on her, groaning, "Hold me, John!" Molly raised her eyebrows at this, and tried to push him off. He clung on tightly, though. "That felt really good. You're all soft and pink," he mumbled, laying his head against her stomach.

Molly stood up sharply, bowling Sherlock over. "What—the—hell?! What? What do you think...? Of all the...! Goodbye, Sherlock, find yourself another assistant! If I never see you again, it will be too soon!"

Sherlock got up, stumbled with his pants around his ankles. "Wait, come back! What went wrong?!"

"You think I'm some stupid little girl you can pull a stunt like that on? Or was it something you and your old boyfriend came up with!?"

"He's not my boyfriend, he was never my boyfriend," Sherlock denied, his head beginning to clear. He rubbed a hand over his face. "Molly, I'm sorry!"

"Stop being sorry, Sherlock! You can't just say 'sorry' and have everything be okay! What you did...that's unforgivable!" She stomped off to the bathroom to wash up.

He sat back down on the bed, clutching his head as he tried to process everything. I made a mess of things again. I'm always screwing things up with her. What did I do wrong this time?

Molly was about to leave when she heard the strangest sound...the sound itself wasn't strange, but the location and person made it so. Sherlock was crying! She gritted her teeth, turning the doorknob, when she heard it again. Cursing her sentimental heart, she let her hand drop, looking back. She set her jaw, steeling herself and slowly returned to the bedroom. He was talking on the phone, and he sounded a mess. He'd called John, from the sounds of it, and she could only hear his side of the conversation-

"I don't know what happened; I tried, though! I tried so hard! I did! Yeah, a bit. Three pints I think? She was so pretty and nice, I wanted her to have a good time but there are so many rules. Don't know where I went wrong. I wanted to do it right but I don't...well, you know. Oh...! John, she's...! She's come back! Sure, here she is." He handed her the phone.

She took it, her expression unreadable. "Hello?"

"Molly, are you all right?"

"Fine. He didn't hurt me, he just...mounted my leg and dribbled on it after about ten seconds. He acted really weird all night. I actually thought this was your idea of a joke."

"Look, you have to understand Sherlock. I thought you did, and you ought to, but I'll fill you in. First and foremost, this was likely his first-ever real date with someone. I mean, can you honestly believe that many people would go out with him? Wanting to because he's handsome is one thing, actually doing it when they know him as a person is another. You're in very limited company, Molly. You and about four other people are the only ones who can even stand him, myself included."

"So he really never...?"

John guessed her train of thought, "It's possible that Janine seduced him, but knowing Sherlock, he'd have deleted it since the memory of it didn't seem important. He played his part with her to get what he needed from her and promptly forgot all about it. He has no clue, really. Kind of sad, when you think about it."

Molly's gaze drifts back down to the wretched creature on the bed, sniffling and rubbing his nose. "Yeah, I'd say so. Look, I'll stay with him a bit, until he calms down at least."

"I'm sorry for how badly your date went, Molly, but the fact that he went through with it at all surprises me." In the background he could hear Sherlock whining, "She's so cross with me and won't tell me why!" John cracked a grin over this. "Better tell him why, for starters. I mean, really spell it out for him. He's absolutely brilliant, except when he's an idiot. He's just a different sort, you know? He's surrounded by people and he's just not one. He just needs one of his own kind."

"Yeah, and he's one of a kind," she mutters with a scowl.

"Actually, no," John corrected her, as the thought occurred to him. "There's at least one more. I gotta go, I have another call to make. You try and calm Sherlock down and I'll see what I can do. All right?" And he hung up.

Crossing his fingers that he wasn't going to wake the elder Holmes up and incur his wrath, John dialed Mycroft's number.

"This had better be important," a surly drawl answered the phone.

"It is, it's about Sherlock."

"What's he done now?"

"He's...having a bit of a crisis, to be honest."

"Drugs?"

"Worse. A date."

Mycroft sat up, switching on a light. "You're telling me that my baby brother is on a date?"

"Yes."

"With you?"

"No, not with me! With a woman he knows from work."

"A woman?! Odd..."

"Mycroft, just please listen. It went about as bad as you can probably imagine..."

The smile was evident in Mycroft's voice as he answered silkily, "Oh, how dreadful. Poor boy."

"And now he's having a bit of an existential meltdown. I think it broke his brain."

"It certainly breaks mine to think down to your level. Constant headache, I tell you," he sighed melodramatically. "Why are you telling me this?"

"He needs to hear from someone who's the same as him. He just would really benefit...if you two could have a nice little chat. You told me the first day you met me that you were genuinely concerned for him. He needs you now, so help him! He's surrounded by people and he's utterly flummoxed by them. Say something encouraging for once!"

Sherlock's phone trilled in his hand once more. He and Molly had made some slight headway, but there was still quite a way left to go. "Hello?" he answered dully.

"Hello, dear brother. I heard you were in a spot of trouble."

He grunted an agreement, glad he'd stopped crying in time. He was sobering up, too. "Glad to hear that good news travels fast. To what do I owe this particular pleasure?"

"Oh, you know, brotherly love."

Sherlock's lips twitched in a parody of a grin. "Is that what you call it?"

"Really, Sherlock, I want to help. Now, I can't imagine how you fraternize with these people. You can't relate to them, and they can't possibly understand you. I can, though. All too easily. Normal, or close enough to it. Not normal enough, though, to pass for one of them."

Strangely, hearing his brother's voice was actually helping Sherlock build himself back up. The conversation was the usual meaningless sibling-rivalry twaddle, but it was familiar, it made sense, it followed the expected pattern. "Well, what can I say? Try, try again."

"Why do you bother thrusting yourself upon these goldfish? They're morons and you know it!"

"Not all of them. John isn't, or his wife...and Molly isn't. They're not...quite like us, but they're different. Different enough. They can understand me if they try. We...don't mind being different from each other. It keeps things interesting. We rely on each other...our strengths."

"Now, Molly...there's a name I haven't heard in a while. Is this the same eager young pathologist who helped you rise from the dead? Clever little thing, as people go."

"You approve, then?"

Mycroft chose not to answer, but he didn't give an outright 'no.'

"It's good to hear your voice, brother dear," Sherlock purred softly. "It's been immensely helpful."

"That was my intention." And without another word, he hung up.

Sherlock looked at the blank phone screen for a moment and laughed, laying it aside. Leave it to John to know what I need to hear, and who I need to hear it from! He faced Molly with renewed hope. "My brother is a complete and total berk, but he has some good points," he smiled up at her.

"That's family for you," she agreed loosely. She didn't know Mycroft well enough to give an honest opinion of him. She knew that the two of them didn't see eye-to-eye, but were still in fairly regular contact.

"Can we try this again sometime?" Sherlock asked. Molly nodded and kissed his forehead.

"Just don't try so hard, and no drinking. Those were your biggest problems tonight. Be yourself...just dial it down a bit. Now get some sleep, I'll see you tomorrow. Maybe we'll have some interesting corpses in by then," she suggested with a genuine smile. One that he returned.