Yep...Another Fic prompt fill! This one is for the AMAZING Emcee Frodis, the author of the BRILLIANT "Full House" Sherlolly fanfic here on as well as Tumblr, etc. Her prompt on Livejournal was:

"Molly deals with Sherlock throwing a hissy-fit.

Remember Sherlock's boredom during "The Great Game" and how completely awful he was? How does Molly react to that sort of thing?
Established relationship, Molly is living at 221B and Sherlock is in one of his "BORED! Everyone except me is awful" moods. How does she get him out of it? Any rating is fine."

So. My second attempt at this...Hope it goes well!

Molly sat in Sherlock's highly comfortable chair, petting Toby patiently after giving him his medicine. A wheezing sneeze wracked his frame. The poor thing had a sort of sinus infection. It was probably due to those mold cultures Sherlock had brought in a few days ago; apparently mold had been key in accounting for a man's guilt by way of its growth on an old bag of bread.

Fungus had been a recurring theme in that case, actually. As it turned out, John had been the one to solve it in the end. Sherlock only got so far as to realize who the murderer had been, but not the means by which it happened. Ended up being a nasty case of mucormycosis that was slowly eating out the man's eyes and brain. Intended biological warfare, in other words. John had previously read up on a freak occurrence of it in America, and immediately had recognized the signs, removing everyone from the vicinity of the body within moments and insisting on health checks afterwards.

Sherlock had pretended to be miffed the rest of the afternoon amidst John's eager smirks and cheerful gloats. However, later that evening when he lay in bed, his head against Molly's stomach, after gorging himself with her tikki masala, the consulting detective recounted the entire mission, praising John's ability quite generously.

Molly had replied with something or other about deadly fungi having afflicted many of her subjects at the morgue, and how it must have been horrible for the poor man to die such a gruesome death, but that it really was fascinating how mucormycrosis ruined the flesh so vividly and that she was curious about the process and whether she could look at blood sample slides, etc. However, she wasn't able to properly finish her ramblings, since about halfway through them Sherlock had mashed his lips to hers and insistently pressed her into the mattress. She didn't complain; instead she supposed that she ought to have questioned what sort of things aroused him, but then again, she really didn't care and wasn't one to talk, anyway.

But that was all a few days ago.

Now, Sherlock was a completely different creature than the one that had priorly been so boneless and satisfied in her arms, passed out against her neck until three in the afternoon. Now, he was being rather a menace.

He was bored.

First, it had been the drapes. He blamed their horrid state on Toby's unclipped claws, even though their pet did not have any inclination at any time to plague the window dressings. Molly didn't have a clue as to why Sherlock would bother with ruining curtains…but she really didn't want to know. Probably some experiment with blades and resultant types of rips or something. She merely bought new ones of a complementary, nondescript mauve color which she knew would not be so severely tampered with in the future. She noticed that Sherlock seemed to have an unspoken rule with himself not to completely ruin anything of hers in the flat, unless within special circumstances…at least after the Dollhouse Incident took place…

Molly sighed. About a month after she moved in with him, Sherlock had taken it upon himself to venture into their shared storage in the attic, found her old, nearly decrepit dollhouse from when she was a girl, stripped the innards, removed the roof, sterilized it, fixed it to plexiglass, and used its compartments for a an experiment with mice who happily gnawed anything they could get their teeth on. Molly had been furious, and wouldn't let him touch her for a week after that. He had been immensely sorry, she could tell, and eventually had brought himself to apologize to her. He even called up a favor from a former client who worked for the Dolls-House Emporium and got them to create an exact - if newer - replica of Molly's toy house.

Needless to say, the night he presented it to her - complete with all its beautiful little Rococo furnishings, Molly couldn't keep her hands off him, much to his utter delight.

Next, it had been poor Toby. Molly had returned from work to find Sherlock on all fours, stealthily following their pet around the flat, notebook and pencil in one hand, his pocket-magnifier in the other, pausing every now and then to make notes about this or that. It had even gotten to the point where the detective laid himself out face-down on the sturdy kitchen table, peering over the edge to observe Toby underneath, whilst the latter obnoxiously carried out his cleaning ritual.

Then, as Molly was reading comfortably in his chair again one afternoon, Sherlock took it upon himself to pull up an ottoman behind her, and for whatever reason, began fiddling with locks of her long hair, attempting to braid it and put it into some elegant chignon. He needed to brush up on hairdressing skills, he had explained, for one of his character disguises whom he had found rather useful in the past - people who visited salons were notorious gossipers and therefore were wealths of information. He couldn't let that avenue go to waste. But Molly had an inkling that he just was fulfilling his fetish for her hair. His fingers sifted through it all too often and too slowly each time for it to be much else.

But now, Toby was ill in her lap and demanding her love and care, Sherlock was unbearably bored and lolling about on the sofa, letting out gusty, despairing groans every few minutes, and Molly was patiently trying to block it all out, wrapped up in a riveting biography of Cleopatra.

Her boyfriend, however, did not take kindly to being ignored.

Making impressively gruesome vocal noises, Sherlock shifted himself on his sofa so that he was upside-down, then raised his feet so that he was practically walking them upward against the wall, bumptiously tapping out some sort of classical rhythm with his bare heels. She distantly noted after a moment that it seemed to be a measure from Beethoven's violin concerto. Sherlock had played it often enough on his violin that she could recognize a bit of it. It was another two minutes before he let out an enormous sigh, righting himself and stomping over the coffee table.

Molly smiled as Sherlock agitatedly paced the flat, collapsed on various pieces of furniture, and dramatically yanked the new curtains apart, lamenting the lack of interesting human degenerates in London. He was fidgeting and growling too, unwilling to voice - in so many words - his own desperation for attention. Soon he would decide to do something like shoot the wall again, or disguise himself as a window-washer and graffiti tall buildings with his sizable collection of yellow spray-paint.

She had been preparing for this; she had not been idle. She and Sherlock had been together for nearly a year now, and lived together for a bit more than half of that. He always went through the same, predictable pattern. He liked having a routine, no matter what he claimed. The pathologist caught on quite quickly to his repeated behavioral stages of boredom, and resolved to help him in any way she could to help stave off the ennui.

So, Molly tried different things. Sex always helped - she found that he was never bored when she varied their bedroom activities. Needless to say, she never was, either! He particularly enjoyed her own secretive [until she was securely intimate with him] penchant for lingerie - especially whenever she wore garters and stockings. The striped, dark-violet satins on her were his favorite.

Food sometimes worked too, under the right conditions. Never whilst on a case - but right after one, if she had something unique and interesting ready, that tended to distract him from the fact that he was no longer as mentally stimulated, and running solely on sugared coffee and intellectual adrenaline. John always appreciated it, too - when he and Sherlock lived together, neither man really cooked; they always went out to eat or nicked a snack of Mrs. Hudson's, so Molly's cooking after a case was one of John's favorite perks. He invited his fiancée Mary Morstan to join them half the time, especially after the 'Tally of Four' case.

Occasionally, Sherlock would come home late, alone, oddly depressed, merely wanting to curl up against Molly like a cat, and silently watch whatever she had on the telly. Usually it was foreign films, modern sitcoms, rom-coms, or period dramas. She knew he preferred crap shows or complex, cerebral action-thrillers when he did bother to watch anything at all, but he harbored a tremendously soft spot for the 80's Miss Marple adaptations and always gravitated to the sitting area whenever he heard its theme music. Molly could definitely understand why. She found out that Mrs. Hudson - who had actually, long ago, been employed by the Holmes family, and who had been his favorite nanny - had introduced the series to him when he was a boy. Sherlock Holmes was, extremely deep down, a sentimental creature.

While all those methods worked, Molly decided to try something else this time. The day she had found Sherlock following Toby around on the floor like a child pretending to be a cat, she resolved that something new had to be done, and so that was when she started concocting her plan.

It was extremely difficult. She had to think like Sherlock, in a sense - something she both dreaded and anticipated. She didn't try too hard though, lest she would have to repeat the process in future and trump her own efforts in terms of complexity, but Molly thought he would appreciate her first attempt at this.

She liked to play games, too. As long as they were actually just games.

And games were more fun when multiple layers were added to them. Multiple meanings, players, plots.

Thusly, Molly had to make a few discreet calls…and send out a few discreet emails…

She couldn't believe everything was ready and done in two days. All she had to do then was wait until her poor Sherlock got desperate enough that his options boiled down to finally getting a suitable case or shutting himself up with Molly for an intense stint of continual conjugal fun.

Not that she ever disliked the second selection, but she had never tried combining a measure of the two.

Molly was nothing if not inventive. That was what got her the job at Bart's in the first place. She was good, and she knew that she was good.

And now, finally, when Sherlock grunted loudly from his place on the sofa and nearly tore out his curls from their follicles, Molly breathed in deeply, steeling herself, and eased Toby off her lap. She knew Sherlock glanced at her as soon as she put her book down and stood, but Molly did not look at him - could not, lest she lose her nerve - while she made her way towards their bedroom, gathered a few items, and slipped into the bathroom.

As she changed, she kept her ear to the door, alert for any noise signifying that he had followed her out of curiosity. But there was nothing as far as she could tell. He must've stayed on his couch.

She looked into the mirror, gauging her appearance. Not bad. She had become much more active as a result of being with Sherlock - he insisted upon her learning basic self-defense skills, nothing so complicated but still quite strenuous, amongst other things - and as such, she was slightly happier with her body. There was nothing wrong with it before, but now she merely felt…fitter. Like she could fill her clothes, move about better, and more comfortably. Something like that. Molly approved of herself; very satisfied, indeed.

The mirror also reflected dainty, comfortable flats - the ones she could run in, a blouse and a demure pencil skirt. Yes. The violet stockings definitely complimented her color scheme today, too.

And her hair…?

Hmm. Well, she would let him figure out what to do with her hair. He seemed to make that his newest temporary hobby these days…

The pathologist left the bathroom, and entered the sitting room once more, registering Sherlock's surprise, and subsequent approval as he noticed her stockings. He stood up at once, rushing towards her, but Molly superseded him, grasping his hands: "Oh, um - Sherlock, dear - I'm in a bit of trouble…" She bit her lip out of sheer nervousness. Perhaps that was all for the best, actually…

He didn't seem to be any the wiser to her plan yet, although his brows were furrowed deeply now. "Trouble? Molly, what are you on about? What sort of trouble? What's happened?" That marvelous baritone voice of his always threatened her with heart failure - now it was unbearably deep; urgent. Demanding.

Oh.

Molly trembled.

No, she couldn't smile. She was such rubbish at this. She pressed her lips together hard, forcing down the corners of her mouth. It couldn't quite be done. "I - well, you're the one to go to, obviously. You're the absolute best Consulting Detective in all of the world. The only one really, as far as anyone knows…and I - I desperately need your expertise…Mr. Holmes."

He stared at her intently, and Molly absorbed his every micro-expression: confusion, smugness, affection…realization. Those cupid-bow lips curled upwards, and a set of clear, catlike eyes burned. He stepped towards her, purposeful, drawing himself up. "Why yes, Doctor Hooper. Of course." One of his large hands reached for her shirt button, fingering it briefly and fixing her with a searing glance before he turned and swept away towards his chair - the one she had been in earlier.

She watched him slide himself comfortably against the plush leather, elbows set atop its arms, hands steepled at his mouth; he gestured vaguely in front of him - a dance of elegant digits in the air. "Do sit down."

Molly could barely breathe, but managed to demurely situate herself over in the chair opposite. Sherlock raised a disdainful eyebrow at her choice. "No. I don't think so."

The pathologist started. Where on Earth did he mean, then? On the floor? Surely not…

Eyes preceding him, the detective tilted his head towards his bent knees, looking distinctly amused, fingers still steepled. Molly blushed, despite herself. Of course. His lap.

But…if she did so, Molly knew her control would be lost. She wrung her hands. "No, Mr. Holmes. I'm afraid we must um, remain professional, if you don't mind." For now.

The unspoken words hung in the air. Sherlock's eyes gleamed. "Fine. Awfully lax of me, then. Sit in that old thing if you insist, and state your case. In your own time, no hurry; I'll be otherwise occupied. Plenty to observe."

Molly cursed his ability to make her blush - even after all of this time together, doing all sorts of wicked things for months, and he still could have her imitating a tomato with a simple, silkily-spoken innuendo.

She cleared her throat. "Well, you see, I moved in with my significant other some months ago, and he's in a rather dangerous line of work. He loves it, but it's expected - inevitable, really - that he would acquire an enemy or two over the years…"

"Undoubtedly."

"Right. And I am aware of the risks involved - that may extend to me, you understand. He's done his best to ensure my safety, and even took the time to make sure I learned a few tricks in self-defense, should anything unforeseen happen."

"Certainly. He would never forgive himself should grievous harm come to you, I'm sure."

"I should hope he would, though. I love him dearly and couldn't bear it if he blamed himself for circumstances outside his control. I keep telling him this; he should listen to me - I'm right about more than he's willing to admit." Molly glanced at him with a gentle smile. Sherlock hadn't moved, but his gaze was quite tender. "Anyway, my point was that anyone could have sent this message to my blog - friends, fans, enemies…of his, of mine…it was anonymous." Molly pulled the printout from her pocket and handed it to the detective. "I don't know exactly what it means - possibly some sort of code? It looks like a code."

"Quite so. Standard book cipher. Look at the alignment of the numbers. Do you see it? Page, row, word."

"Well, you're the expert." Molly breathed. "Seems like a lot of numbers for a book cipher, though. Are you sure that's what it is?"

"Positive. I've seen it before - Blind Banker case. It simply could mean that there are a lot of words in the actual message. The question is: which book does the code refer to?" Sherlock shot her a look.

"Right…well, this person did send me another message, but this time through the mail," Molly undid four of her shirt buttons, enough to reveal her violet brassiere, and retrieved the second slip of paper from one of the cups, not bothering to re-button her blouse. She handed it to a wide-eyed Sherlock. "See? Look there. And it had no envelope."

The consulting detective crossed his legs and cleared his throat, studying the message intensely. "Homemade paper - its quality and cut indicate it being mass-distributed, so not truly homemade…possibly meant for scrap-booking. Written in a delicate black ink Micron pen, .25 millimeter tip, hurried writing, shapes of letters elegant even so - this person takes pride in aesthetics…probably an artist of some kind. No one but an artist would need a pen with such a precise, miniscule line and be so careful while writing hurriedly with it; Micron pens are expensive, and not meant for writing but drawing. Writing tends to add more pressure to the tip, which if using a Micron pen would press it flat. While drawing, there is less weight applied to the nib, or so I am given to understand: artists hold pens, pencils or whatever else at an extremely acute angle to the paper…Art supplies…Typically Microns would be ideal for rendering illustrations, I suppose. Not really an expert. Know you any artists? Or anyone with artistic hobbies, Doctor Hooper?"

Molly gulped. "No one in particular."

Sherlock hummed absently in acknowledgement, eyes swiftly scanning the page. "Interesting."

She bit her lip, waiting.

"It's a letter - outwardly insipid and slathered with superfluous, puerile metaphor. Why so important, then? Must be more to the eye. Give me a second or two." He glanced up at her, a hint of a smirk upon his lips. A delicious shiver slid down Molly's spine.

He was about to show off.

For her.

Sherlock inhaled sharply after the promised two seconds, and expanded, "Obviously this person shares - or realizes, if they are particularly astute - my liking for Edgar Allen Poe…the encrypted works. Specifically 'A Valentine,' a unique poem in which is hidden the name of another writer, a woman named Frances Sargent Osgood with whom Poe exchanged romantic poetry. This letter is similar in construction and shares the same coding technique: the first letter of the first line, second of the second, third of the third, and so on. Put them all together to create a name, or in this case, a message. I need a pen, Molly. Fetch me a pen." He held out his hand to her, fingers beckoning.

She did so, and he bit its cover off, clutching it in between his teeth as he zipped through the letter, marking evenly down the page, flicking the pen shut afterwards with a flourish. "Ha! There we are. A single sentence, possibly regarding you, Doctor Hooper: she owns three vastly mistreated books. Simple. You would not ever mishandle any tome unless it could not be helped - ergo via accidents and/or a repeated usage over time. Three particular favorites, then. You adore Jane Eyre - you've gone through it twice this past year alone, along with everything else you've read. Horridly battered and water-warped, despite the fact I picked up a brand-new copy for you that has still remained untouched on your bedside table, and on top of which you place your extra pair of glasses. You keep reading the awful one for sentimental reasons, hardly out of character. But then that leaves the nameless two others…" Looking off into space, irises shifting rapidly back and forth, Sherlock suddenly jumped to his feet, making a beeline for their bedroom, where the main bookshelf was situated.

Left alone for the moment whilst he likely was scouring every book she owned, Molly let out an ecstatic breath, leaning backwards against the chair, eyes closed blissfully. Oh, why hadn't she done this earlier? He was so incredibly brilliant…of course she knew that so very well, but…figuring out in seconds what she was shocked to have completed in two days with help!

But he was gone from the living room now. Still in the bedroom. All right - that had been a gamble, it was either that or his remembering that she had the other two books in her office at Bart's…but they were nowhere near the state of the copies she had in the flat with them here…and she wouldn't put it past Sherlock to remember and realize all that, anyway. But in any case, while he searched for their titles, it was time for the next step, which, since it was taking place at 221B, was all right since John had moved out months ago to live with Mary. If she and Sherlock had gone to Bart's, well…no one really stopped by her lab other than Mike Stamford, and it was the weekend, so…that meant no one would interrupt them there as well.

Molly proceeded to undress, so that she was only clad in her lingerie, attempting to arrange herself in an alluring position on Sherlock's art nouveau chair, but she couldn't fully pull it off. It was too cold now without him there in the room somehow. Goosebumps pricked her arms.

But then, she spotted a solution - an answer hanging innocently off its own little coat peg on the wall, a blue scarf right next to it.

The Belstaff.

Feeling rather giddy, Molly glanced towards the bedroom, seeing no sign of Sherlock yet, and dashed across the sitting area to the coat, plucked it off its peg, and wrapped it around herself, flicking up the collar like she had seen her lover do so often.

Molly had worn his coat before. Several times. She just had never done so in such an intimate setting. Sherlock tended to like seeing her in it when they took walks around London, or when trailing clues for less dangerous cases. She just had never worn it against her skin like this, wearing so little underneath…

Mmm. Still smelt of his deodorant and cologne, mostly - but also faintly of smoke. She would have to ask him about that. Molly was quite certain he had his coat sterilized and dry-cleaned after the fungus case, so smoke should not be still lingering in the cloth from merely romping about London's streets…he hadn't been on any other cases since that one, either…but he had been frustrated lately, so she supposed he must've sneaked a cigarette. Bit naughty of him. Molly made a mental note to search for the pack and buy him more patches from the chemist's later. She returned to his chair, draping herself horizontally over it, stockinged feet dangling off one side. She did feel rather delectable, like a pinup girl, all done up in her garters and a man's iconic coat…

Oh, she was so silly. But she found it difficult to care.

"Got them! The Secret Garden and The Princess Bride, Molly!" Sherlock bounded out of the bedroom into the main, with two equally tattered novels in his hands, looking them over as he approached her. "Both retain significant wear on the bindings - you've gotten them wet in the past, too…reading in the bath, I imagine. Yes, you do that, don't you? When you haven't me to entertain you there, of course…all three are hardcovers, good paper, illustrated…each with inscriptions from family members, I presume. Your mother's affections and 'hopes of your finding a Rochester of your own one day' in Jane Eyre - sentimental and appropriate but for the fact that her basis for your romantic partners is Rochester of all characters and not someone else infinitely more sensible, truthful and deserving of you. Your deceased father's rather impartially written note on the title page of The Princess Bride, although you knew him well and are quite able to read between the lines…also there is the fact that he is dead, and this is another means by which to remember him. The Secret Garden I confess I am at a loss…seems to be enthusiastic crayon scrawls of a child under six years of age, done in blue and yellow. Cheap crayons - the sort you'd expect to receive at family-oriented bistros to occupy younger children. A sibling? No, your brothers are all significantly older than you. Childhood playmate? Hmm. Both colors used together like that are decidedly gender-neutral, according to the stereotype. Both your favorite colors, as you've said, ever since you were little…Perhaps you are the author of such horrid scribbles. That seems most likely - one of the only letters I can make out is a 'Y' and only you seem to write them with that oddly slanted loop at the bottom. Hmm. Carried that on since your childhood, I see. And as to why…." He trailed off abruptly once he looked up and registered her new position on his seat.

Molly smiled demurely at him, trying desperately not to giggle. "Hi. I was cold. I hope you don't mind this." She kicked her feet, toes curling daintily in the air.

Sherlock was staring at her. "Notatall."

"Hm? Sorry?"

He seemed to shake himself. Clearing his throat, he repeated quickly, "Not at all, Doctor Hooper."

Molly beamed and snuggled into his coat even further; nearly drowning, the collar almost completely obscuring her face. She peered up at him, eyes visible over the edge of Irish woolen tweed. "Good. And yes, you're absolutely right, like always. Those are my other two favorites."

Still having not deviated his eyes from her, Sherlock spoke again. "Yes. And their significance to your…plight," he shot her a scorching look from underneath his brows, "would be what, hmm?" He snatched Jayne Eyre from the coffee table edge and perused all three books speedily, although Molly noticed his touch was gentle so as not to damage them further.

The pathologist grinned, kicking her feet back and forth. "That's the thing, Mr. Holmes. I have no idea at all. Whatsoever."

He took the time to lift his head and smirk deeply at her. "Indeed."

Oh, how dare he do that! His sodding fantastic voice. Molly knew he knew she loved it when he altered his already gifted baritone like that. Her toes curled.

Well, if he was going to do that, it was about time she retaliated.

Molly breathed in his coat's scent once more, to fortify her. "Erm, Mr. Holmes…won't you sit down again? I don't want to crick my neck looking at you from down here."

Sherlock raised a brow at her. "Where shall I sit, then?" There was a dare coloring his tone.

His lover smiled. Coyly. "You can sit here. With me, if you'd like. We do know each other a little better now, after all. Isn't that right?"

Ooh, his expression was positively feral. "We do, don't we?" He replied softly, approaching his chair. "Well, since the offer now stands…" the detective leaned over her, placing an arm on either side of the chair, his head dipping to nuzzle her neck, murmuring lowly in her ear; "I suppose taking advantage of it is wise…"

Molly gasped and jerked under him. He was slurping fiercely at the delicate skin of her throat, shoving the Belstaff out of the way for better access. Unwrapping her. "Uh, erm. Ahmmm…" she attempted to form words, tried desperately to think coherent thoughts. "Ahh. Well, Sherl - Mr. Holmesssss….We - we can't dooooo that quite yet, you know…youuuu - OH!" He had nipped her breast through the fine satin. Molly held on. Barely. "You have to…mmph…solve the case!"

He continued to do things with his mouth that made her tremble and shriek. Lips and teeth kissed, licked, and nipped her. Sucked her. Molly squirmed, but Sherlock only shifted, chuckling deeply against her neck as he fairly sat atop her thighs. Vibrations from his voice sent shivers through her, electrifying every nerve.

The detective groaned. "Mm. Already did. Was only a matter of solving the first message. Code. Simple cipher. Three books. Three sections of the numbers. Sorted according to the pages." He spoke succinctly through the haze of kisses.

Molly opened her eyes at that, unaware she had shut them in the first place. "What do you mean? But -"

Sherlock surfaced, his lips swollen and breath hot, his nose brushing hers. "Obvious," was his husky whisper. "You, my darling Molly, must realize that I have a distinct advantage in this case." He pressed himself against her, pinning her to the plush leather cushions. She mewled happily, and his eyes glittered. "I know you."

Molly arched underneath him, anchoring her hands within his dark curls. "Yes."

"Intelligence, yes…A different sort though - and you don't like to show it off. Not like I do. You prefer to comport yourself as an anticlimax, don't you? But you aren't. You rise to every meaningful, essential occasion, Molly. Clever, clever little Molly. You don't disappoint. Steadiness. Incredibly effective. It's more you…Also able to retain countless facts in your head and access them efficiently. Always surprised me in the lab, from the day I met you. Only competent doctor at Bart's. Did you know - you probably didn't: your education, your doctoral achievements are vastly superior to even John's. Of course I kept coming back! Yet you just puttered away in the morgue, dissecting cadavers in your little, quiet, unremarkable way. Hiding beneath your horrid clothes. Hiding in your little, overbearingly feminine flat? No - you are hardly obsessed with pink frills and lace. You would've decorated 221B as such by now. You buy tasteful cotton sheets and non-offensive mauve drapes instead of electric magenta, or some other nonsense. All of that before was to just please your mother because the woman has no one else left to really do so. Frequent visitor, was she? Brothers grown and gone long ago. No one left to see but little Molly. No wonder you practically lived at the morgue. Hiding from your flat, more like, just as I did from mine - until John came along. That's what you do, Molly. Please others. Put others before yourself. But especially those who matter the most to you, as I only knew to do. But unlike me, you don't fail to be kind first. To everyone. Even myself. Molly…You and John always taught me so much…Astounding to remember that you were actually there first. You were always there first. I didn't see it. Every time, there's something important I miss, isn't there, Molly? Of course you can confirm that, can't you? Yes. You know me just as well, too, don't you? You always have. Implicitly. And I missed it all the time…Always could count on you…to catch important things that just slip through…Not everything of course, but those that mattered. The things I thought didn't matter."

His pathologist held him to her body, massaging his scalp, merely listening to him now. Listening to him and holding him tenderly as he ranted on, his own arms wrapped about her tightly: "Highly sentimental as you are, and seemingly the obverse of myself in many respects, it's a wonder that any of this happened at all. The old adage 'opposites attract' could hardly apply since it is scientifically proven that the majority of successful couples are actually quite similar to each other."

Molly laid soft kisses along his jaw. "Oh, Sherlock. Dearest, dearest Sherlock…that's it, though, isn't it? Even two reversely charged magnets must have at least half of their respective magnetic fields in alignment in order for them to bond."

He came back to life again, attacking her throat, speaking feverishly. "Both you and I wanted some form of companionship; you wished for it more fervently and for a far different purpose. I was married to my work and needed a trustworthy assistant outside of Bart's, you wished to find a person with whom to engage in a romantic relationship. Namely, me." He studied her, incredulous. "You're a silly, surprisingly determined woman, Molly Hooper."

She laughed as Sherlock's fingers dug into her sides, alternating the heavy caresses with tickling. "Well, so are you, Mr. Holmes!"

"Not a woman," he declared against her breast, voice muffled. "Nor am I silly."

"OH! Very much not a woman, yes. But I'm afraid you are a bit silly, dear," Molly insisted through his ministrations. "Just…in a different way. In your own way."

"Hmph." His face buried itself into her side, one of his hands in the back undoing her brassiere clasps. "I suppose you mean with regard to the aptitude for sentimentality again. I thought I'd progressed admirably in that area by now." A long finger stroked her bare belly.

"O-Of course you have," Molly breathed. "Wonderfully. More than wonderfully. But of course, even if you hadn't…and not that I don't much prefer how things turned out…even so, I would have loved you. You would always have me. I hope you know that."

Sherlock curled himself around her furiously. "Of course I know. That's why I shall keep you. Now get on with it, Molly. How am I so silly then? Hmm?"

"Oh, I'm sure I've told you loads of times!" she laughed.

"Irrelevant. Tell me again. Now." Sherlock hissed in her ear, breath hot against her skin; "Deduce me."

Molly squirmed, giggling; "Sherlock! You still haven't told me how you solved my problem! Never doubted you would, but still…I'm curious about the answer and what you think of it…"

"Very well, since you insist," he muttered against her neck. "'She owns three vastly mistreated books.' Therein was the clue, if intentional on your part or not. Quite an easy deduction at the heart of it, but then most cases are, really. Wanted to draw it all out for you, Doctor Hooper, to make this lovely little game last a bit longer, of course." He nuzzled his nose against hers. "But the main idea was blatantly presented in that vital piece of information. Who did you get to send you that handwritten note in the mail, hmm?"

She blushed. "One of my brothers. The one you haven't met. Arnold. He's still in Ireland. And you certainly haven't seen his writing, so…"

"Ah, quite. Man must've taken up drawing classes. Pencil and ink design. From what you've told me of him he likes humor - he was the main one to tease you in your childhood…Comics. He wants to draw comics. Do ask him that in your next email; see if I'm not mistaken. Of course the content of the note was all your own work, Molly. Cleverly done."

"How could you have known that? I could have just given him the hidden sentence!"

"Pronouns. Increased usage of pronouns dispersed throughout; men use far less than women while writing. Not a foolproof indicator, I'll admit - there are exceptions, but I have also been privy to your writing style for years now, professionally and otherwise, therefore I recognized many expressions and phrases that you familiarly use. The note positively reeked of Molly-ish-ness." The detective smirked wickedly.

She smiled and ducked her head. "Hmph. I suppose."

"Good. Now, the phrase - that little key - had extended its use far beyond merely telling me which books to look for. You are a hopeless romantic, Molly. And being without it for so long must've only ameliorated your liking for it in media. Don't look like that, you know it's only a fact. You love romantic classics. And romantic novels. Television shows. Films. It's no wonder some bits of pages in many specimens of your collection are more well-thumbed and dog-eared than others…"

Molly plopped her forearm over her eyes and moaned despairingly.

She heard him chuckle again. "As usual, it's no surprise to me. However, it helped tremendously with the number combinations. It was only a matter of comparing each particularly battered section in each book to a respective section of the code's page numbers - the first numerals in the order. Interesting that they all aligned themselves accordingly. Very interesting. Of course they were the supremely romantic bits, so unsurprising. Pleasant...additional excerpts, by the way." He added.

The petite woman was all attention now. "Really? You figured those out too! Well, of course you did. But really? You really think so? I wondered if it was too soon to mention such an idea, but -"

He silenced her with a kiss. "Molly, Molly, Molly. Did you really think things weren't to come to that inevitable conclusion? I'd say those were very appropriately timed choices of text for our game today."

"Oh, good. That's so very, very good. Marvelous, really. Because I didn't want to presume, you know, and I wondered if you even planned for something like that at all, what with all this even being very new for you and I know you don't mind living with me, but that would make it be for good - well, unless for some reason there was a divorce, but I'm sure we both wouldn't ever dream of -"

Again, he interrupted in the usual way. "Molly, I accept. We shall look into it tonight. I imagine you'd like to do most of the planning, although I insist on clothing. Your taste has not improved that much in the last year. Although the infamous little black dress you picked yourself three years ago was well chosen. You should wear that more often. Shouldn't be relegated to only Christmas parties. Now shut up and play. I expect we should have hundreds of these private cases in future."

Molly beamed. "Certainly, Mr. Holmes."