Sherlock frowned as his eyes fell upon Molly's small form across the lab. Underneath her lab coat, she was dressed in all black from a snug turtle neck shirt to slim-fitting dress pants. She even wore a dainty pair of black women's oxfords. He flexed his fingers at his sides as an odd sensation rippled under his flesh. He wasn't quite sure why, but he kept rescanning her diminutive frame. She looked like she was about to shrug off her coat, somersault out of the lab, and sneak off to commit cat-burglary. His breath felt abnormally warm leaving his nostrils.

"Oh, afternoon, Sherlock," she said when she saw him.

He nodded, unable to quite find his words as she approached with a quizzical brow.

"Can I assist you with something in particular?" She asked as she studied her clipboard.

Sherlock plucked it from her grasp, causing her nose to scrunch in confusion as she glanced up at him again.

"Wh-What?" She asked warily.

He couldn't help flicking his eyes once more down to her shoes. On their return journey, they paused at her ridiculously tiny waist. He had forgotten that detail, the memory of her in a black dress at Christmas a few years back roared to the forefront of his mind. He shook his head.

"Why are you not dressed in your usual manner?"

Molly shrugged. "It's Valentine's Day."

He felt his forehead bunch and his nostrils flare. "Do you have a … datetonight?"

Sherlock tilted his head back in a stretch as his muscles tensed. It seemed his plans for the evening would have to change. If Molly was going out with someone, he had to make sure he wasn't a criminal or psychopath. She had the odd tendency to date the most unworthy of men. However, her face fell and her eyes cast downwards. He instantly knew he was mistaken. He blinked a couple times, his eyes danced back and forth as he heard the phantom ringing of a bell deep in the recesses of his consciousness. The black flowers on the wallpaper in his mind palace began to bleed ink into the white backdrop.

"No," he answered for her in a hollow voice, "no, you hate this holiday. Your father died on Valentine's Day."

She smiled sadly.

"Ah, so you do remember," she whispered.

He cleared his throat of the uncomfortable lump that had formed. "Why are you working?"

Molly sighed. "It was better than wallowing at home alone."

Normally Sherlock would lecture her on the fabricated nature of the holiday but he choked back his derision for the commercial trappings of this particular day. Molly was … lonely and there really was no justification for it. With one final look at him, she removed her lab coat and rubbed a crinkle from between her brows.

"Sherlock, you may cease your ruminations. I am not so sad, really, I am fine. In any event, the lab's all yours. I am finished here-"

Sherlock stepped in front of her as she went to brush by him. She bumped into his chest which swelled and contracted like the rolling of a wave. He tossed the clipboard aside and stared down at her for a few seconds. He wanted to banish her loneliness to the pages of her memoirs.

"I didn't come here for the lab," he murmured.

She looked up at him with unblinking eyes. Her pert nose wrinkled in adorable bewilderment.

"Wh-Why then?"

His gaze fell to her lips. His breaths slowed and drew out as he watched her lick them nervously. Inside his mind palace, a corner full of boxes of files on Molly Hooper stacked high to the ceiling began to topple. They crashed down and tumbled everywhere, obliterating the careful organization of his central parlor. Desperate for an anchor, some fixed point of reason, he reached for her and dragged her forwards into his arms. Her lips parted in a soft gasp. He paused there a moment, panting. Then he felt her shift ever so slightly against him and her fingers pinch a bit of his shirt. Driven by instinct, he lowered his head until their lips were but a whisper apart. Her grip on his shirt tightened. Still, he hesitated. A vortex had started spinning amidst the chaos of his mind palace. The wallpaper pulsed and flashed like the skin cells of a cephalopod.

To his surprise, Molly pushed herself upwards on her toes and kissed him. Suddenly, everything stilled. Swirling papers and books paused in mid-air and then fluttered to the floor. The wallpaper transformed into a muted pattern of bees buzzing about cheery blossoms. Then, he snapped to reality and the feel of her mouth moving under his. He shuddered, clasped her closer and dove into the kiss. His whole body tingled as if every nerve ending had been stripped of its covering and rubbed with a soft wool cloth. His stomach felt as if the bottom of it had been opened and the contents dropped out. He was all at once lost and found with the soft curves of Molly pressed against him both eroding and reinforcing his sanity.

Finally he pulled back just enough to regain his airway. He struggled to breathe for what felt like an eternity.

"Sherlock," Molly whispered, "why did you come here today of all days?"

His fingers crept up. He pushed a stray strand of hair from her face and smoothed his fingers over her brow.

"Molly," his voice was suddenly resolute, "as always, I came here for . . . you."