AN: Greetings all! This is my first venture in this fandom. To be honest, I never thought I'd write any Sherlock fan fiction as I don't think I will ever be able to capture the essence of any of the Sherlock characters. I still don't think I ever will, but this plot jumped into my mind and I just began to write. Please forgive me if this is utter drivel, and if you have any advice on how I can improve please message me!

Anywho, this fic is a slightly A/U as it's sort of a Whitechapel crossover – but not really as most of it will take place in Sherlock's London. If you've never watched Whitechapel I recommend you check it out; it's not as rich and decedent as Sherlock, but I enjoy it.

This story is Sherlolly, Molly/DI Chandler.

Sorry about the short chapter, but I had to post it before I lost my nerve.

(Update: This chapter has been edited by the brilliant Daisherz365. Thank you for being a fantastic Beta and friend.)

Disclaimer: Don't own Sherlock or Whitechapel. The only thing I can be sued for is a half empty box of PG Tips and Hob Nobs.

The lab at St. Barts was quiet, as per usual, the only sound occasionally coming from the young pathologist as she typed up her latest post-mortem and the occasional groan or mumble coming from the world's only consulting detective as he looked through various specimens on his slides.

Molly Hooper didn't even notice the groaning or muttering, she'd become accustomed to it after nearly two years of Sherlock Holmes' coming and going from her flat while he was in hiding.

Over that period of time the dynamic between the pair had shifted, Molly became more assertive around him and Sherlock was kinder to her. In truth he'd began to greatly respect the woman. He'd always cared for Molly, she'd always mattered, but he'd never been able to realize it or admit it to himself until she'd been able to read his sadness – her deductions had shocked him and been a comfort to him. He'd always arrogantly assumed that no other could see through his façade save him; that he had no equal, not even Moriarty – Molly had proven him wrong that day - she, Molly Hooper was and always had been Sherlock's equal; he'd just blinded himself of that fact. That was why Sherlock had turned to her in his greatest time of need. She was the only person in whom he could trust.

Throughout his time of hiding and bringing down Moriarty's network he'd appear at her flat randomly and for varying lengths of time. Every time he'd show up Molly knew what questions to ask and not ask, no matter what state he arrived in. He knew that no matter how long he was gone, that she'd always have his favorite pack of crisp (Walker's Cheese & Onion), chocolate (Crunchie) and that his room would be as he left it, except his clothes and linens would be washed (with Arial detergent as it was her preferred product, and now his).

Sherlock leaned away from the microscope and looked at Molly from the corner of his eye.

Sherlock had originally thought that after having to put up with his peculiar way of being that she'd get over him. She had not. Her feelings had grown during those months where she was his only constant. In fact, she had come to love him.

The dark haired man fully turned to look at the woman, as she went over her hand written report on a deceased patient's chart and compared it to what she'd typed on her screen.

He also knew that she did not act on those feelings as she thought he'd never reciprocate them, which was smart, but very wrong.

The petite brunette felt the detective's stare on her, and turned to him, smiling gently.

He returned the smile in kind before turning back to his experiment.

Yes, Molly Hooper was very wrong because Sherlock Holmes, the man who didn't do emotional attachments did love her. And it wasn't the familial love he felt for John, Lestrade, or Mrs. Hudson (or Mycroft though he'd never admit that he loved his brother), no, it was a romantic love – well, as romantic as Sherlock Holmes could ever be.

The pathologist typed a few more words, before saving the file and mailing it off to the records office, "Done"

Molly hopped off her chair and stretched while she looked at her watch, "would you like a packet of crisps?"

Sherlock nodded and was about to reply when she beat him to it, "it's alright. I know which are your favorites."

When Molly walked out of the lab, Sherlock looked at the door, his lips forming a straight line.

He loathed how she affected him, and how he had to constantly fight the urge to do something about it. If he were any other regular man then he would give into the temptation and show Molly how he felt; but he couldn't. In his complex mind the only logical way to express this emotion… this feeling of love (even mentally admitting that he could feel something so human was difficult) was by not acting on it. He would never be able to offer her what she deserved. In time, she would find the right man and she'd be happy, and he'd be happy for her.

Because that's what perfect love was, being happy for a loved one's happiness, Sherlock groaned at his inner monologue. "I sound so – average, dull"

He groaned as realization suddenly hit him, "I am starting to sound like John!"

The self-professed high-functioning sociopath thought of his best friend who was now married to Mary Watson nee Morstan. He thought of how insufferable John became when he spoke of his married life, how he'd wax poetic about her every single breath.

Sherlock covered his face with his hands

"Molly, better find that happiness fast, or I will really jump off of this roof."

AN: So, that's the first chapter! What did you think? It wasn't too terrible was it? Reviews are much appreciated!