Hey there! This is my first story, so I'd love to see some critical reviews on how could improve my writing. This is just a little idea I couldn't resist. Enjoy!

Molly Hooper hated confrontation. Feared was the more appropriate term, actually. Molly Hooper feared confrontation.

But every since the jolly little Christmas party where Sherlock had so pleasantly deduced certain, ahem, things, about her present to him, Molly knew that she needed to confront him.

But Molly Hooper feared confrontation. Hence, she had decided to send a text instead. She wouldn't have to look him in the eye through a text. She wouldn't stutter, or accidently say something completely awkward (she would unavoidably write it instead, seeing as the topic itself was a bit… awkward). Yes, texting was much more preferable.

She looked down at her phone, biting her lip and mentally formulating what to say. Then she began to furiously type out her message to Sherlock, the clicking of the tiny keypad echoing on the cold walls of the morgue.

Sherlock, there is something I need to tell you, even though you have probably figured it out by now. I've been in love with you for as long as I can remember. Every time I see you I tell myself to tell you, but I can never find the words or the courage. I love everything about you. I can't help it. Your mind is the brilliant and incomparable, it never fails to impress me beyond belief. Your hair and your face and your body are perfect, and I'm always lost for words around you. I know that you don't feel the same way about me, and will probably never. I just need you to understand. Thank you.

MH

Molly read this over 16 times, desperately hoping it didn't sound too ridiculous. Her finger hovered over the send button, hesitating. Then she inhaled sharply and pressed down on the button before she could delete the message and throw her phone in the corner of the silent morgue.

…

221B Baker Street was quiet. John Watson was at work. Mrs. Hudson was out with her friends to some "adorable" new boutique shop she'd mentioned. Sherlock remained, and was sitting at the kitchen table gingerly placing small droplets of (human?) blood onto fresh, fragrant basil leaves with a small pipette. Just then his phone chimed from beside him. He scowled at it, but put down his pipette to read the message.

Anybody sitting opposite Sherlock would have watched his facial expression contort itself at two second intervals in confusion and disturbance. By the time he had finished reading the message his face had settled on an alarmed expression of shock.

As he read the messenger's signature, Sherlock's normally racing mind could only conjure one single thought.

What the heck Mycroft?

I'm crazy right? Review? Please?

*Note: I did consider that Sherlock would recognize Molly's number. That's not the point. It's supposed to be funny. =P