John: Sugar

February 14th

"Happy St. Valentines, John," Molly chirped, smiling up at him as he entered the kitchen.

"Ah…Happy Valentines to you," he replied, somewhat taken aback. He looked down at the concoction she was stirring in a bowl. "What is…that?" It was bright pink and the consistency of thin mud.

She beamed at him. "Pancake batter!"

"…Pink…pancakes?"

"It's something my dad used to do," she explained. "On St. Patrick's day he made green ones, on Easter they were multicolored, and on Valentine's…" she gestured at the bowl. "Pink!"

John couldn't help but smile. He glanced at the clock—only seven in the morning. "Are you doing anything for Valentine's?" he asked, afraid it might be prying. "I mean—it's none of my business, but—"

She shook her head. "I'm not seeing anyone. Just me and Toby. And you, now."

John smirked, and started getting out plates to set the table. "You should really stop taking in strays."

"Don't be silly." Molly spooned the first dollop of batter onto the skillet on the stove, where it spread out with a hissing sound. She grinned at him. "Toby wasn't a stray."

The pancakes, John discovered, tasted no different than ordinary ones, for all that when you cut into one it was nearly neon pink inside. Molly surprised him by shaking powdered sugar over her pancakes, rather than syrup. She convinced him to try it, but he made the mistake of inhaling as he took a bite and ended up choking on the sugar while Molly hurried to pour him more milk to wash it down. In the muddle, Toby somehow got a hold of John's pancake and dragged it into the floor, where he ate it as daintily as a cat covered in powdered sugar can eat anything—that is to say, quite daintily.

When they'd cleaned up the mess and John could breathe again, he asked, "So…you're not seeing anyone?"

"No." She looked at him sheepishly, and John understood.

"Ah," he said, taking a bite—of syrup-covered pancake this time. "You should send him a card."

"Who?" Molly blushed to the roots of her hair and got up to top off her already mostly-full glass.

"Sherlock." He knew she still had a massive crush on Sherlock. He wondered—though he'd never ask her or even suggest such a thing—if that was why she had gone out with Moriarty, if even through the criminal mastermind's clueless-and-harmless act, she had seen some of the same feverish intelligence that drove Sherlock.

"Sherlock?"

John grinned at her. "Just for fun," he suggested. "Something silly—not serious." It would almost be worth the danger of a trip to Baker Street to see Sherlock's face when he opened it.

Molly shook her head, but John could see the wheels turning in her head. "I've got to get to work," she said, glancing up at the clock. "I'll see you later, ok?"

"Bye." John waited until she was out the door, and then said conspiratorially to Toby. "She'll do it."

Sherlock: Spice

February 14th

Sherlock paid the cabdriver and stepped out onto the sidewalk in front of 221b. Results had come in on the hand, and both fingerprints and DNA confirmed: it was Signora Gabrielle Biondi. Sherlock had to admit to a bit of grotesque admiration for Moriarty's efficiency: the woman had acted on her own in trying to kill Sherlock, and Moriarty had punished her for it. Perhaps his methods were a bit…strong, but one could admire the control under which he kept his organization. And not only had the criminal mastermind dealt with the insubordination, but he had sent a token of apology to Sherlock…Granted, it was an apology that let Sherlock know who was really in control of this whole game, but still.

Now if he could only make some sense of that gibberish of John's. There probably wasn't anything valuable in there, but if Sherlock could crack the code before Moriarty, he would be one up on him.

He pushed open the door of the flat and stepped inside, already slipping his coat from his shoulders. He paused, tilting his head.

Laughter—feminine laughter—echoed down from upstairs. Who in the world…?

Shedding his coat and draping it over the banister as he went, Sherlock climbed the stairs—not to the second level, but to the third. John's territory.

Sherlock paused a moment on the landing. He hadn't been up here much when John was alive, and not at all since…Well. But that laughter sounded like—

He gave the door a little push, and it swung open, revealing Mrs. Hudson and—of all people—Molly Hooper.

"Oh! Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson said, her hand at her heart. "You gave me a fright. Why, you make no noise at all coming up. Like a cat, he is," she added aside to Molly. "Sometimes I don't hear him make a noise for days—and sometimes it's like a war zone."

Molly, kneeling on the floor amid a pile of folded clothes, was biting her lower lip, watching him. Sherlock let his eyes sweep across the room, noting the layer of dust that had accumulated on everything, the open-and-empty dresser drawers, and the box beside Molly that was half full of clothes. John's clothes.

"We're…We're collecting for charity," Molly stammered, two bright spots of color staining her cheeks.

"You don't lie well, Molly," Sherlock said. He could tell by the way she'd styled her hair and the fact that her trousers were ironed with a sharp crease and the bit of makeup around her eyes—along with the new lines at her temple—that there was a new man in her life. Probably one she worried a bit about, possibly because he kept odd hours…But more likely because after the debacle of her relationship with Jim Moriarty she over-analyzed every man that showed her any attention. He was a bit surprised, he rather thought her schoolgirl crush on him would hold out strongly enough to fend off any other suitors for at least a bit longer, but it would be a bit of a relief if this new fellow managed to distract her from Sherlock so he could finally get some work done.

"Your boyfriend is welcome to any of the clothes," he said, though a small pang went through him at the words. He kept his face aloof. "Leave the coat, and don't bother anything else. I'll be downstairs."

He turned to go, wondering why in the world he could possibly care that they were taking John's old clothes. It wasn't as if John would ever need them again. They were just gathering dust up here—though to be honest, Sherlock had tried very hard to keep from contemplating the job of going through John's things, which would need to be done at some point. He'd been busy enough, though, jetting around the world, that he'd let the thought settle in the back of his mind, comfortably procrastinated.

"You don't…You don't mind, then?" Molly sounded both relieved and somewhat…hurt, which was odd, and he'd have to figure out that particular combination of human emotions later.

He half-turned, giving her a quizzical look. "They're clothes. Meant to be worn. John won't be wearing them, but they're still perfectly good, ergo: someone else should wear them."

Mrs. Hudson, who had been folding a grey jumper, smoothed it with her weathered hands. "I remember John wearing this one," she said fondly. "Made him look very grown up."

Molly bit her lip again and looked up at Sherlock.

He didn't want to hear this. Didn't want to hear them reminiscing, as if it were all over. John's killer was still out there—Sherlock would have time for nostalgia when Moriarty was dead at his feet.

Turning, he went back downstairs to his own portion of the flat and put on water to boil for tea. He heard Molly come down behind him, but didn't look around to acknowledge her presence until she cleared her throat.

"Caught a cold, have we?" His voice was a bit more biting than he had intended, but Molly didn't take the hint.

"I brought you something," she said. Sherlock pulled open a cabinet and reached up for a mug, looking over his arm at her.

"Well?"

She gave a half smile and pulled a small, red-ribboned box from behind her back. "Happy St. Valentine's day," she said, extending the box over the table. "I mean—it's not like that. It's not a gift like that. It's just—I thought you would like it, and someone told me to and…" She sighed and looked down, still holding the box outstretched. "It's for you."

Deliberately, Sherlock set his mug down on the counter and took the proffered box. "Mexican hot cocoa?" he asked, raising a brow.

"It's good," Molly insisted. "It's got cinnamon or red pepper or something in it. It's…It's good."

Sherlock's mouth twitched. "Thank…you," he managed.

Molly took that as permission to leave. "We won't be much longer," she called back, scurrying out of the room and back upstairs.

Sherlock looked at the box in his hand. Mexican hot cocoa. Well. He had the water heating, he might as well try it.