So apparently I've been such a busy bee that I almost couldn't upload this. I had to remove a document from my Doc-Manager page, which I did not know I could do. I guess that means that the actual story is published, but the document for editing is removed? Hope I didn't delete a chapter or something lol.

Sorry. Okay. One-shot. Sherlock and Molly.

Sherlock Holmes was staring. Flat out, eyes wide, ogling. John Watson, noticing his friend had dropped his sullen expression and poked him.

"You okay?" Sherlock didn't seem to hear him. Molly Hooper stood across the way, wearing a red silk frock he knew he'd never seen her in. She'd bought it on a whim while she was away.

Confidence with a touch of nerves. Hair is upswept (she should do that more often). Necklace is her parent's wedding bands on a chain from her grandmother. Shoes are an expensive designer; she broke them in before she wore them.

John looked to where Sherlock's gaze was so intently directed. Across the room stood Molly Hooper, all decked out in a very red frock. It wasn't indecently tight, nor way off the shoulder, or too short in fact. Next to most of the party-goers, Molly Hooper looked all class and poise, despite her seeming need to touch the neckline, making sure her straps were tucked out of sight. The biggest of smiles grew across John's face.

"Well, well, I guess Molly made it back from that conference in Oxford." Sherlock didn't answer.

Molly smiled, accepting the glass of champagne from the waiter.

"Hey Molls, how was Oxford?" Greg beamed at her and she returned his hug.

"It was brilliant! Really fascinating-" she glanced across the room, suddenly self-conscious. She felt the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. She was aware Greg was responding to her, the voices seemed to all muffle as she tried to figure out what made her suddenly so aware. She saw across the room John Watson, Mary on his arm, beside them was Sherlock. More to the point, Sherlock was staring in her direction. She tried to pay attention to the conversation; she greeted Mike Stamford, still glancing across the room. Surely there must have been someone else, but no, only a potted palm stood behind her.

Sherlock found himself quietly backing out of the group, going around the table, moving behind the people who seemed intent to line the walls. Molly watched him out of the corner of her eye until she lost him. Sighing inside, she turned her attention back to the group, smiling again, allowing herself to be engaged in conversation. Suddenly, Mycroft Holmes was at her elbow.

"Miss Hooper," he said, expression clearly masked, although there was a distinct twinkle of mischief in his eye. He admired her for a moment. "What a delightful frock."

"Thank you," she answered, again touching her neckline.

"If you're looking for Sherlock, he's downstairs,"

"What?" she looked embarrassed, and upset he'd seen the entire thing and had been reading her like a book the entire time.

"He's downstairs," Mycroft repeated. "I suggest you make haste before he talks himself back towards the rational part of his brain and deletes this evening."

"He left, I don't think he wants to see me."

"Of course he does, judging by his reaction, the dilation of his pupils and his accelerated breathing, he felt compelled to leave, probably because he felt embarrassed, charming ladies are not his forte, sex alarms him," Molly flushed red, not knowing quite where to look as Mycroft spoke. "At the moment, he's downstairs deciding whether or not to come back and greet you or simply go home," He considered his glass of wine. "I estimate him losing his nerve and leaving in five minutes. I suggest you go now before you're forced to chase after him, and that, Miss Hooper, will simply not do."

"What?"

"For a woman of your character to chase a man." he bent closer, speaking in her ear. "My brother is not one to be chased, you recall Miss Adler's rather unsuccessful attempt at his affections. I suggest you change tactics and make him chase you." She opened her mouth to protest that Sherlock would never chase after her, and wasn't her going downstairs after him the opposite of his advice? Anthea was at her arm, tugging her along.

"Go down the foyer steps, make like you don't see him," she said, somehow knowing where the pathologist's train of thought was going. She felt someone else helping her into her coat. She turned to see Greg, smiling at her.

"Go make sure he gets you this time," he said in her ear, and quickly pressing her cheek. "He ought to put in some legwork for everything you do for him."

"What is this, a conspiracy?" Molly wondered.

Without another thought as to what she was actually doing, what she would say or do when and if she caught up with Sherlock, Molly set out through the double doors, heading for the Savoy's grand foyer.

Click-clack-click-clack-click-clack

Sherlock stopped pacing at the sound of well-made heels coming down the marble steps. He tucked himself away in the shadows to see who was coming. There in the dim foyer stood Molly, this time buttoning up her good coat, rummaging through her pockets for her gloves. She was leaving! Why was she leaving?

"Were you not having a good time?" he heard himself ask aloud and she stopped where she was, but she didn't jump. So she knew where he was. He almost smiled at this. She was seeking him out, or at least it appeared as though she were. He stepped out of the shadows, hands behind his back.

"No I suppose I'm just tired. There's really no reason for me to stay anyway, I'm not one of the higher-ups in the hospital, and no one wants to talk to the pathologist."

"That's because they're morons," he said without thinking. "Have you eaten?"

"What? No, I mean, just a glass of champagne, I don't really care for the menu tonight, it's all foam flavor-infused thus-and-such dribbled over tiny bean sprouts. Dessert didn't even tempt me." Sherlock found himself smiling at her. Molly was very much all about food, good food. She had ranted on more than one occasion on the stupidity of fancy restaurants serving tiny portions the size of your thumb.

"Do you want to go out for fish and chips? I know a man who always gives me extra chips."

"Dressed like this?" she gestured to herself, her coat was half-buttoned, the red silk catching the lamplight, almost glowing.

"Certainly," he said. "Isn't that what people do anyway?"

"What?"

"Dress up for dates." Molly almost did a double-take.

"Are…you asking me out on a date?" he winced at the word.

"I prefer a shared meal between two people of the opposite sex who are as yet undecided about their relationship, but I suppose 'date' fits just as well."

"Who's undecided?" Molly asked him. He quirked an eyebrow.

"Well, obviously, you, Molly."

"Me?! You dare-" She didn't get a chance to finish her sentence because Sherlock was kissing her.

She was faintly aware of the party upstairs. Music and laughter and voices all faded away as he pulled her closer.

"Stay," he said softly. "Please…stay."

"Sherlock I-"

"You were offered the teaching position in Oxford," he went on, almost breathless. "Don't take it, stay in London…"

"With you?" she asked.

"With me."

"Okay." Now it was his turn to look surprised.

"You will?"

"Yes. If you mean it."

"How shall I prove it to you?" he asked, his expression open and honest.

"Well…you…you could buy me dinner first," she said finally. He offered his arm to her and she took it, heading out into the brisk December air.

"Just promise you won't call me your boyfriend," Sherlock said as he hailed a cab.

"What should I call you then?" Molly asked, and he smiled his smile reserved especially for her.

"'Husband'."