Author's Note: Just to avoid confusion, song lyrics are in bold and Sherlock's thoughts are in italics. Might do a sequel if there's enough interest...or if I feel like it; let me know in the comments. Reviews are always appreciated! Enjoy! Song: Teenage Dream cover by Boyce Avenue.

Thanks to Sarah and Mat for beta-ing!

Mrs. Hudson had been in cleaning again. Obvious from the smell of lemon that still hung in the air and the sound of the radio playing softly in the background; she turned it on whenever she cleaned her own flat but apparently she had found Sherlock's to use this time and had forgotten to turn it off. He wasn't even sure how she had found the infernal thing; it had long disappeared under piles of case documents, sheet music and old coffee mugs.

She had always been adamant that she wasn't their housekeeper, but Sherlock knew better. She doted on him and he doted on her, in his own way, though that mainly consisted of him allowing her to do things like clean his flat while he was out. He had just returned home from a crime scene and needed to think. That mean the music needed to go. Besides, there was a reason the radio had been buried under mountains of paperwork: more and more the stations seemed intent on drowning their listeners with mindless songs from the latest pop culture media darling or (even worse) sappy love ballads; Sherlock didn't go in for sentimentality.

It's not even real music, he thought as he saw his violin resting on his chair. If I wanted to listen to music, I'd write it myself.

I think you're pretty without any make up on

The words made him pause, hand resting on the "off" switch. An image of Molly flashed through his head. What? He needed to go to his Mind Palace to think about the case, this was not the time for idle thoughts. Especially idle thoughts about someone who didn't matter.

Except she did.

She mattered so much more than Sherlock cared to admit, even to himself. He had thought it would be enough, permitting himself to acknowledge her importance in his life. Even going so far as to tell her, asking her to help him with his most daring plan to date. But it hadn't been. Through the two years he spent in hiding, Sherlock had come to see what the people he had surrounded himself with really meant to him. It's true what they say, about not knowing how much you appreciate something until it's gone. Or someone until you're not allowed any contact with them. John, of course, and Mrs. Hudson he had missed terribly. But Molly. Molly who had always been there, Molly who had come so far out of her shell, Molly who could elicit an apology from him when few others could.

I knew you got me when you let your walls come down

Sherlock moved the violin from his chair, absentmindedly, and sat down in its place. Isn't that what he had come to realize two and a half years ago? That he relaxed around Molly even more than around John? John was constantly ready for another case, another adrenaline rush of danger; Molly was safe and predictable and boring, his cynical side pointed out, dull.

Before you met me, I was alright but things were kinda heavy,
You brought me to life

She had been the first one to know about his drug habit, so long ago and still not long enough to forget. He supposed, in light of more recent reactions like slapping me in the face…three times, she must have been angry back then but not brave enough to show it. She had cared, though. Sherlock knew that - she had made him promise that he would talk to her if he needed. He hadn't, obviously, because he didn't need her. Then. Rather, he didn't believe he needed anyone; just a steady stream of cases to occupy his mind, that's all.

But the cases hadn't been enough. Looking back, Sherlock could see how she had made him want to be better. Molly, especially back then, would never have thought to say anything to him about the drugs, but he had seen it in her eyes. The disappointment, the concern.

He had seen it again when John had taken him in for a drug test, except she wasn't the same person. She had been angry and more than that. The anger was new, but the other things were familiar and he had found himself hating it. He hated letting people down and he had disappointed her the most. She was so different from The Woman. Irene Adler was big and bold and in your face and selfish; she knew what she wanted and how to get it and didn't care how many people she trampled. Molly was so quiet and soft and gentle. Maybe that's why it had taken him the better part of a decade to realize how he felt about her. And a slap in the face. Or three. It had shocked him and in his surprise, he had reverted back to 'automatic': insultingly deducing the people around him. It was a verbal tick, his version of words such as "like" or "um". He was using them to buy time to reconstruct his impenetrable mask of permanent disdain for the world, for ordinary people, even though none of them in that room were anything less than brilliant.

I finally found you, my missing puzzle piece,
I'm complete

She had forced him to look at her, to see her. And he was shocked by what he saw: someone he was used to impressing who was not only angry, but profoundly disappointed in him. He was used to that from John and Lestrade (Gary?), even Mrs. Hudson on occasion. But never Molly. She adored him and he had gotten used to it, liked it even. She was someone who would do anything, forgive anything, for a smile and a fake compliment.

But they weren't fake. Never had been.

Obviously, that was how they had sounded because he didn't know how else to treat her. She wasn't like John who would get angry and storm out, but would always come back; she never left in the first place. But she was loyal. She wasn't like Lestrade who, half the time, didn't understand that he was being mocked at all; she knew full well he manipulated her and she allowed him to do it. But she did trust him. She wasn't like Mrs. Hudson, who had a rather coloured past and took 'herbal soothers' to ease, perhaps, more than just physical pain. But she was kind and cared about others and how they felt. She wasn't like The Woman, who was fully aware of her body and used it as a weapon; Molly didn't know the effect she had been having on the detective's subconscious for years. But she was undeniably pretty. Not strikingly beautiful, just pretty in a way that made you want to make her smile. I want her to smile because of me. Not because of Moriarty (serial killer, not nearly as clever as I am). Not because of Lestrade (Grover?). Not because of Tom (what did she see in him anyway?). Because of me. These thoughts appeared as naturally as if they had always been there, just waiting to for the right opportunity to present themselves.

Apparently, Molly had found her way to his heart and his heart (bloody traitor) had just let her in. That was why he hated sentiment. But, Sherlock was nothing if not logical and he had to admit that, beyond all reasonable doubt, he was in love. He was in love with Molly. Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective was in love with Dr. Molly Hooper, pathologist.

He slowly stood from his chair, carefully replaced his scarf around his neck, and gracefully pulled on his Belstaff. He had to tell her. Hopefully then he would be able to concentrate on the case. Except she was sure to ask where this revelation had come from, what it had been prompted by.

He would come up with a plausible story on the way; there was no chance he was going to tell her than he had needed a pop song- no, a sappy, acoustic cover of a mega-popular song from an artist who had written it to appeal to those in the throws of their first serious crushes. Is that what I am now? A teenage girl in need of love poetry to sort out her feelings?

Definitely a cover story on the way. He hurried down the stairs, not bothering to be quiet.

"Off out again, dear? You just got home. I was making tea," Mrs. Hudson called from her flat at the end of the hall.

"Yes, there's something I need to do at Bart's. Something," Sherlock ground his teeth at the word he was forcing himself to say, "sentimental."

Mrs. Hudson laughed. "You? Sentiment? That's a first."

"Yes, well," he replied tersely, irritated for having to admit it in the first place. He just wanted to go, tell Molly that he was in love with her and then get home so he could finally, finally get to work on the latest case. He opened his mouth to continue, but found that no words came out. He couldn't think of anything else to say so he just left, Mrs. Hudson's laughter still in his ears as he caught a cab to St. Bart's.