A/N: For the February "Nicknames" prompt post from holidaysat221b. Rated K+. Many thanks to mouse9 for reading over the first draft! Hope you enjoy it!

He hands her the CD with an anticipatory smile on his face. Molly smiles back at him as she accepts it. It's in a plastic case, no fancy cover, simply labeled "Baby" in his scrawling handwriting.

It's his nickname for her, the man who once called sentiment a chemical defect found on the losing side. At least, John says he did; Sherlock consistently ducks the question whenever it comes up, so she keeps bringing it up just to tease him. He takes it in stride, this post-Sherrinford Sherlock, and even teases her back now and then.

She loves it, almost as much as she loves him.

She puts it in the CD player and the first song comes up. It's one of her favourites, inherited from her parents: "Baby I'm-A Want You" by Bread. He sings it to her and starts dancing her around the floor of her sitting room. (Her modern, airy flat is much more dance-friendly than the cramped, Victorian footprint of 221B, but he dances her around there as well, when he's in the mood.)

She smiles and lets him lead her, resting her head against his chest as he croons softly along with David Gates, wondering idly what the next song will be. She's pretty sure she knows at least a couple of the other songs that will be on this 'mix tape' he's made for her. "Hey Baby" from the Dirty Dancing soundtrack. "Be My Little Baby" by the Ronettes. "Always Be My Baby" by Mariah Carey. (His pop music knowledge ends squarely in the mid 90s.)

But there's one song that seems out of place when it cues up. "Janet Jackson?" she wonders aloud, looking up at him with a crinkled brow as her feet stop moving.

He grins down at her. "Yup," he says, gently maneuvering her so they're once again dancing around the room, less of a waltz now and more like a fast Romba.

He twirls her and she laughs as he deftly avoids the sofa and coffee table sat in front of it. She hasn't heard "Nasty" since she was a girl and isn't quite sure why he's put this one on a CD supposedly celebrating his pet name for her...until she hears the part Sherlock's expression tells her he's been waiting for her to hear. "'Cause privacy is my middle name, My last name is Control," Janet sings. Then: "No, my first name ain't Baby, it's Janet. Miss Jackson if you're nasty," she says-not-sings. Firmly. No-nonsense. Molly can practically see her glaring at whoever dared call her Baby.

She laughs, doing that stupid giggle-snort thing she does that Sherlock insists is adorable, and lays her head on his chest.

"I wondered if you'd get it," he confesses, his hands sliding down to rest on her hips, still moving them both to the beat of the music.

She nods, finally getting her giggles under control as she looks back up at him. "Course I do," she says, lightly scoffing. "I suppose playing this song really loudly when you come home would be a better way to tell you I'm mad at you than, say slapping you."

He scrunches his nose, squints, and, most tellingly, stops dancing. "Wait...what? No! I mean, well, yes, of course, that would be better...but it's not…"

He flounders to a stop, the man who always has something to say no matter how inappropriate, and Molly marvels anew at the fact that she is one of the few people who ever gets to see him at a loss for words. He looks genuinely distressed, so she puts her hand behind his neck, fingers twirling her favourite curl at his nape, and gently presses his head down so she can kiss him. "So what's it for, then?" she asks when their lips part.

"Dr. Hotty McHotpants," he says, and she giggle-snorts again in surprise before asking, "Who?"

He squints at her again, this time clearly trying to tell if she's serious or if she's taking the piss with him. Apparently her confusion is clear enough to read, because he adds doubtfully, "You really don't remember?" She shakes her head. "New podiatrist or psychiatrist or some other trist who started the week after you did? Kept coming down and flirting with you? Until he called you 'Baby' and you snapped at him and he sulked for a week until you finally agreed to go out with him and then-"

"And then he mysteriously received an offer to take a post with a group doing some research in Antarctica and I never saw him again because he left the night before our date!" Molly interrupts, the flood of information from Sherlock finally jogging her memory. "Dr. Delacourt, Donald Delacourt who the nurses used to call Dr. Delicious behind his back, all blonde hair and blue eyes...Oh my God, Sherlock, you remember all that? We barely knew each other when Donald asked me out!"

"I've never forgotten anything about you." The words are quiet, but Molly hears the sincerity in his voice and sees it in his eyes and impulsively she kisses him again...but then pulls back immediately, eyes narrowed in sudden suspicion. "That offer he accepted - and he was a GP, you git! - was that legit? Or did you have something to do with that?"

He has the grace to look at least slightly abashed at her question. "Nooo," he tries, but Molly isn't buying it, just gives him a pointed look. "Technically," he tries next, "Mycroft had something to do with it."

Molly blows out a quiet sigh. "That long?" she asks wonderingly.

Sherlock ducks his head, scratches awkwardly at the back of his neck. "In my defense, I had no idea why Dr. Hotpants annoyed me so much. Or 'Jim from IT'. But it did cross my mind when you were engaged to Meat Dagger that perhaps there was a pattern to my reactions to your love interests or paramours or whatever you want to call them."

As if this is too much truth or intensity, he suddenly, unexpectedly, twirls her away from him before pulling her close again, startling another laugh out of her, this one thankfully snort-free.

"Nasty" finishes and "Be My Little Baby" starts playing and they spend the rest of the afternoon dancing together. It might have taken them eight years to get to this point, Molly thinks, but it's been well worth the wait knowing this to be their happily-ever-after.