Title: In F il minore

Author: porpoise-song

Characters: Molly Hooper, Sherlock Holmes, and Dr. John Watson.

Rating: Pretty much a G.

Disclaimer: Unless I want Weeping Angels and the Crack to follow me (Steven Moffat), umbrella marks on my body (Mark Gattis), red coats storming my place (BBC), and a Victorian Age dressed zombie chasing me (Sir Arthur Conan Doyle), I need to say that I own absolutely nothing.

Summary: From sherlockbbc_fic: "Sherlock tells Molly he's in love with her (OMG,for realz you guys!) and Molly thinks he's high or something.

I guess I just want Molly to be a little sceptical about Sherlock's announcement, even if, for once it is true!"

Warnings: Nothing really; just mentions of Moriarty and such.

A/N: Written for anonymous for sherlockbbc_fic prompt. Title means "In F Minor" in Italian; I could not come up with a better title and, seeing as I kept listening to "Nocturne for piano No. 15 in F minor, Op. 55/1, B. 152/1" whilst writing this, I thought, "Why the hell not?"

Molly is working, peacefully, in the morgue on Mr. Gerald Collins when Sherlock bursts through the door, clearly unlike his normal self. He's agitated, but not his normal type of agitated, she notices. His type of agitated is more restless and corybantic in nature. This seems more of a frustrated type of agitated, as if he's on the threshold of a discovery, within its grasp, but, alas, cannot reach it. It unnerves her, a bit, as she has only seen him like this once; after the explosion at the pool, she remembers, and it had scared her then too. She cautiously glances at him out of the corner of her eye and tries to make as little noise as possible.

He walks up to her, in a hurried manner, and is less than a foot beside her. "How are you today, Molly?"

She suspiciously eyes him, before, answering warily, "I'm getting along, I suppose." She turns her eyes back to Mr. Collins, silently inhaling and exhaling to calm herself. "How...how are you, Sherlock?"

He turns and walks about the morgue, only answering Molly's question with cold civility. He's done this, or something similar, so many times that she doesn't take it personally anymore, especially as of late due to the sharp increase of Moriarty's puzzles and games.

She turns her attentions back to Mr. Collins; she'd learned long ago not to drop everything for Sherlock, even if he was in one of his moods, and even if it threatened the physical, mental, and emotional safety of the surrounding people. It'll pass soon enough, she thinks as she inches her scalpel towards Mr. Collins's bloated liver.

After a silence of several minutes, he comes to her and says, in a troubled manner, "In vain, I have struggled—but it will not do. My feelings will not be repressed. I must tell you how ardently I admire and love you."

This makes Molly stare at Mr. Collins, silent, doubtful, and blushing. Her mouth is in a frown and her brown eyes void of any comprehensible thought; Mr. Collins's liver plops back into his body. Sherlock takes this as a sign to continue and, so he does. "I know that, by confessing this, I have just made you a target for Moriarty's sick and twisted games and I apologize deeply and in advance for this. In addition, I realize that our dynamic and relationship has now changed because of my announcement and, if you accept, I will be obligated to fulfill certain expectations and duties, such as dinners, signs of affection, and the occasional flowers. Indeed, as a rational man, I cannot regard these endeavors as such, but they cannot be helped."

He pauses and then continues in a softer, but hurried voice, "Almost from the earliest moments of our acquaintance, I have come to feel for you a passionate admiration and regard, which, despite my struggles, have overcome any rational objection. So, I ask you—beg of you—to relieve my pains and accept my invitation to dine with me tonight."

Once he has finished with his announcement, Molly stands there with Sherlock's intense and impatient gaze focused on her, unaware of what to do next. She slowly takes off her gloves, thinking and trying to make as little noise as possible, although, instead of thinking what to do next, she is thinking how awkward the silence is and how unfortunate it is that it is taking her such a long time to think of something to say.

"This is some kind of joke, isn't it?" she manages to say, low and quiet.

Sherlock's eyebrows furrow and asks in a somewhat offended tone, "What?"

She looks at him, anger blazing in her eyes. "C'mon Sherlock—what do you want? A body? Some samples?" She grabs him by his shoulders and, although he is still wearing his thick, wool trench coat, she's pretty sure that he can feel her nails digging into his skin. "Are you on drugs? You're on drugs, right?" She stands on her tiptoes and looks at his pupils. They're normal.

"No—I'm not on drugs nor am I saying this to get something. I love you." He then mutters, "I'm quite insulted that you said that, actually."

Molly lets go of him, then points and snaps at him, "Stop saying that you love me! And isn't your 'confession' from Pride and Prejudice?" Sherlock frowns. "It is, isn't it? I haven't read the book since university and, granted I disliked it intensely, but I know poppycock, hackneyed confessions when I hear them." She turns back to Mr. Collins. "No, siree—you'd have to get up pretty early in the morning to trick Molly Hooper."

"But, I love you! Can't you get that into your head?"

Molly heaves out a sigh. She does not have time for this, even though she is a week ahead on everything. "What makes you think you're in love with me then?" She looks up at him and stares him square in the eye. "Take me through it—Mr. Holmes—take me through all of it. Starting from day one", she tells him curtly.

"I cannot fix the hour, or the spot, or the look, or the words which laid the foundation. It is too long ago. I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun. Every time you're near, my heart beats quicker, my muscles tighten up, and the constant ramblings in my head go silent—therefore, my conclusion is that I'm in love with you."

"Pride and Prejudice!" she yells at him. "Again!" She turns away from him and grips the edge of gurney until her knuckles turn white. "Sherlock", she growls, "if this is some kind of cruel bet with John, or your brother, or even that vile man, Moriarty, well—you just tell them that I fell for it. I got duped and you win the bet—I'll say anything for you to leave at once and not to show your face around these parts for, at least, a fortnight." She looks at him in the eyes again and asks him, firmly, "But, listen to me very carefully—I do not nor have I ever love you. Nor will I ever. You got that?"

"Yes", he nods and smirks, cockily, at her. He turns and leaves, in his normal hurried manner and not the manner of a man who had just gotten his heart broken, "Goodbye Molly."

"Yeah", Molly turns her attentions back to Mr. Collins and puts on a fresh pair of gloves. She's silent for almost a minute before she lets out a "Yuck".

"So—what's the verdict?" John looks from the newspaper to the newly arrived Sherlock.

Sherlock gives John the same smirk he gave Molly only an hour earlier. "She digs me." Sherlock flickers his eyes to the massive pile of dishware in the sink. "You best get on the dishes." John lifts himself out of his armchair and to the kitchen.