Molly tried to stop Robert at the building door. She really did. The man, taller than her and brutishly muscled, as she would expect of a construction worker, thumped against her outstretched hand and glanced down at her in mild surprise. He blinked, dull brown eyes slow to realize what she meant by the gesture.

"But I thought we had a nice date," he mumbled, frowning, confused. His Scottish accent was thick; he rubbed his scruffy chestnut beard and scratched his balding head. Sighing, she pressed her hand to his chest, pushing him gently back as she made her way up the steps to the door. Their date was actually one of the nicer ones on which she had been; he was a sweet guy, surprisingly chivalrous, and intelligent for a construction worker. Not that construction workers weren't intelligent, but he had the mind better suited for a lawyer or even a doctor than a man in manual labor, sophisticated and keen. Unfortunately, she had seen better, and even if Robert had lived up to her unreal expectations, he still couldn't come up to her flat. She imagined he wouldn't be very pleased with what he found there.

Molly reached behind her for the doorknob, trying to think quickly to get her out of what would rapidly become an awkward situation if it continued. "We did," she said perkily, "And I would love to go out with you again. But you just… can't come up. My flat's a complete mess." That was entirely true. When she had left, someone had discarded a half dissected frog on her coffee table.

Robert didn't seem to want to take no for an answer. He reached past her, nudging her out of the way. Of course, strength was relative; she stumbled out of the way, her feet twisting in her heels.

He held the door open for her. "After you."

She swallowed her anxiety and started up the stairs. Talk fast, she told herself. "You really should stay down here. It's such a mess."

"I won't stay if you don't want me to," he promised, grinning boyishly. He did want to, that was plain. Sherlock would be proud. She bit her lip, drawing in a shaky breath. He couldn't even open the door.

"Look," she said, stopping at the top of the stairs, turning and holding out both hands this time, suppliantly. "I had a great time and everything. But I'm just too embarrassed to… ruin… our date by having you see my flat. It's horrid."

But he had decided, apparently, to ignore her. "This one?" He pointed to the one she had her back to, the one she had stupidly chosen to stand guardedly in front of.

"Uh… yeah." She barred his way with one arm. "Robert—"

"Listen, Molly!" he cried, half laughing. "I don't care how dirty your flat is. I want to walk you to your door. Now," He leaned in to kiss her.

Every muscle in her body tensed. She opened her mouth to protest, made a small, strangled sound, just as his lips brushed across hers. She couldn't move. Frozen in shock, she stared up at him, too surprised to move backward, and shut her eyes tight, thinking that if she couldn't see it, then it wasn't happening, and she wasn't kissing a man who couldn't ever compare to the man who…was suddenly standing on the threshold of her apartment, black curls disheveled, elbows bent, hands curled inside his pockets.

Sherlock sighed as if it was a chore to insert his hand between them, startling Robert out of his sloppy kiss. He turned and found himself facing a man, tall and slender, whom Molly had been hiding in her flat. His eyes widened; his mouth gaped. Sherlock smiled mirthlessly at the vacant look in his eyes.

Molly shut her eyes even tighter and pressed her lips together, knowing what was coming. She couldn't imagine trying to stop him from what he was about to do; she knew that he would just turn on her instead. Better to let him unleash his wrath of logic on someone who would be merely flabbergasted rather than wounded, as she would be.

"And who are you?" Robert spat, disgusted. It was completely the wrong question to ask.

"You're a construction worker," began Sherlock, irritation flashing against the ice of his stormy eyes. "Divorced, depressed, and entirely ignorant of women, which might explain the divorce. When a woman says she doesn't want you to come up, I would deduce that the only possible explanation for it is that she doesn't want you to come up, and I would also suppose that she doesn't want you trying to kiss her." He glanced at Molly, giving her a once-over, and continued, "And she especially doesn't want you trying to kiss her the way you just did."

Robert's cheeks burned crimson. His fists balled at his sides. Sherlock's eyes darted to them, then back to his face. He smirked. "And I suppose you could do better?" Robert snarled.

Sherlock's smile broadened. He must have seen something in Robert's face that had inspired true spite, something that had escaped Molly, but suddenly it didn't matter because he took Molly's hand and pulled her to him, trapping her between the doorframe and his body. He pressed his mouth to hers and unleashed a flood of fire through her veins, a blaze that broke the dam of her heart and boiled her blood. Her face felt like it was on fire. Her lips parted; her fingers found the silk of his hair just as he pulled away. She gasped. He didn't notice. Robert had disappeared. Sherlock glanced down the stairs just in time to see him storm out of the building.

He led the way into her flat and flopped on the couch, where the television still glowed. "You were out late. Did you have a nice time?"