There is something eerie, and somewhat primal, when large crowds assemble. Sometimes it can take the form of a mindless, numbing tedium one feels when part of a human herd droning forth on its way to work; it can be felt in the excited buzzing of fans as they wait for their queen bee to step onstage...And in this case Sherlock felt like he was surrounded by a flock of sheep, waiting for a dog to tell them what to do and how to think.

His eyes darted from one guest to the other, while John took a pamphlet and led them to their seats.

A woman in her late thirties, with large tortoiseshell glasses, was raving to an uncertain, skeptical guest about how dr Lynch had cured her fear of wasps...Well, nearly...And was sure to help her feel more empowered and...

A man came and sat at the back. Sherlock looked at the man's shoes. Top part in good condition, soles changed. Multiple times. Fear of driving.

Close by a young woman sighed as she found her seat at the front row and to the side. Loose clothes, deep breaths...Claustrophobia, but improved over the past few weeks.

The consulting detective frowned as he saw another man walk in. Tall, dark blond, in his 40's, rather handsome by contemporary standards, with a rugged look despite his suit. A confident man. Self-assured... No phobias. Sherlock's eyes narrowed as they watched the stranger reach the front row. Why would such a man come to...

The stranger pulled out his tablet and a woman's face appeared on the screen, ready to watch the seminar.

His wife.

Agoraphobic.

Sherlock's jaw clenched as he turned his eyes elsewhere.

"LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, PLEASE TAKE YOUR SEATS." a lady's attempt at a soothing voice echoed through the hall, dutifully obeyed by the last ovines.

"Fear is the obstacle we create. We can destroy it" John said importantly, reading from the pamphlet in his hands.

"What did I tell you? Utter tripe."

"It's self-empowering, Sherlock."

"It's empty words, feel-good phrases that don't actually do anything beyond offer illusions of..."

Loud music interrupted him as a woman stepped on stage. A formidable woman with big hair and a red suit walked in to stand at the podium. She began an introduction, the usual pleasantries and praises of the amazing Dr Lynch and all his studies...

Some of the audience as Dr Lynch stepped on stage.

"Who's ready to overcome their fears?" Dr Lynch called, getting a cheer from most of the audience.

John cast a side glance at his scowling friend. "It's only two hours." He said helpfully.

Sherlock's jaw clenched.

.

.

A date.

A real date.

Tonight.

Molly fastened the last button of her white blouse. So, the plan was simple: go to Bart's, get as many books sorted as possible, leave for 5pm, giving her ample time to get ready and meet Sherlock downstairs.

For the date.

That they were having.

That he asked her on.

Tonight.

Molly opened her suitcase, a small smile playing on her lips as she pulled out a carefully folded dress. She hung it up to air it and laid out her shoes below, their matching purse ready on the bedside table. Molly took a step back to look at the outfit. She nodded quietly to herself, then walked out of the door.

Sometimes, just sometimes, it pays to be an optimist.

.

.

John had to admit, Dr Lynch had charisma. He made some good points, and there was actual research occasionally slipped among the inspirational but overall unhelpful quotes.

"An important step, my friends, in overcoming your fears, is to recognise how it is impacting your life." Dr Lynch nodded seriously, walking across the stage. "Is your social anxiety getting in the way of you spending time with people you love? Is your agoraphobia stopping you from going outside for some quick shopping? Is your cynophobia keeping you away from taking long strolls and painting stunning landscapes?

Once you identify the ways your fears impact your life, stealing your time, your health and your happiness, you will find motivation to fight back! You don't owe your fears anything, and you won't let them own you!"

John cringed as the music piped up to cheers of the crowd.

"Ok. Maybe the music is a bit much." John murmured to his friend.

Sherlock has been quietly studying the doctor on stage. In his late fifties, his hair was mostly white but he had his hair dyed to look like it was dark brown with silvery gray at the temples. He was divorced and occasionally smoked pot, a father of 4; The eldest child was in his thirties, and the youngest was just a toddler from a different woman…

Not seeing anything else of interest, at such a distance, he had returned to his analysis of the audience, with little luck.

Dr Lynch waved his hand in mock puzzlement. "What actions can you take? Small steps to a happier, freer you? Where to start? Once you realise you are ready to fight your fears, you are going to need allies. A support system for you to turn to is important. This can take the form of family, of friends, of a support group online…"

"John." Sherlock kept his eyes on the stage.

"Yes, Sherlock?"

"I'm going to need to drop by your place after this."

"Oh. Ok, sure. We can…"

"I need to take a shower."

"Wait, why…"

"And get changed."

"Wha…"

"I already have a change of clothes at your house."

John blinked. That was true, Sherlock did have a few clothes in the spare bedroom, a precaution for emergencies, but…

"Sherlock" John frowned. "What's going on? What happened?"

"My dear friends, we are not islands. Some of you might be scared to ask for help, but once you give yourself the permission and the power to be vulnerable, you will find people willing to assist you in becoming better than you ever could imagine…"

"I just need to get changed at your place because I can't get changed at mine. It wouldn't be appropriate."

"Sherlock, you're acting really strangely. What the bloody hell is going on?"

"Would the two of you kindly pipe down?" A lady with a large nose and a fear of clowns huffed from behind them. "I am trying to listen to the doctor!"

"Sorry, ma'am" John nodded before whispering to his friend. "Are you in danger?"

"Don't worry, John. There is no danger."

Well… Not immediate danger…

"It would just be…Inappropriate for me to get changed at home."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Molly."

John blinked. "What about Molly?"

"Shhh!" the woman hissed.

Sherlock slouched lower into his seat, crossing his arms.

"We are going on a date tonight. We are meeting outside my house. It wouldn't be proper for us to both get ready in the same place and…"

"Oh. Oh!Ooh..."

"John…"

"Of course you can get changed at my place. Have you got everything you need? You can borrow my cologne if you want…"

"PLEASE keep your voices down."

"Sorry, Ma'am" Joh raised a hand sheepishly.

Dr Lynch continued his speech, as pictures of therapy groups and hotlines appeared on stage. "talk about your fears, explore them. Give them form with your words so you can best fight them…"

The consulting detective coughed.

"I am taking her dancing. That's a suitable first date, I believe."

"It's very…traditional. I am sure she'll like it."

Sherlock nodded.

John grinned. "Aww, Sherlock…"

"Don't start, John."

"of course." John nodded seriously. Then a grin spread across his face.

"…I'm just so proud of you!"

"WILL YOU TWO SHUT UP?"

"Sorry, ma'am."

.

.

A cloud of dust puffed in the air as Molly blew on an old tome before deciding where it should go. It was in good condition, and a relevant text, so she put it on the "university library" pile.

The pathologist turned around to check that the library was completely cleared. A slight silvery fog lingered in the air, but all the books had been sorted. She began to take a big sigh of relief, happy it was all done…Then she began coughing as her lungs filled with dust.

Molly walked over to the window behind Dr Paten's desk and opened it to let the fresh air in.

Almost done.

Only his desk was left.

She looked at it quietly.

Lunch!

It was lunchtime.

The others will be going around now.

She should join them.

.

.

The cheers gave way to enthused chatting and murmurs of doubt as the seats emptied, everyone returning to their everyday lives, the seminar finally finished. A small group of people stayed behind to try and see Dr Lynch before he left. Thankfully, Sherlock had an appointment, obtained through the aid of Lestrade.

As Sherlock walked down the corridor to the changing room, the tall woman who introduced Dr Lynch before the "seminar" stepped into their path, blocking the way, one cup of tea in one hand and a folded copy of the Howler in the other.

"I am sorry, Dr Lynch does not have time for fans…"

Divorced, has an old jack russel, outlet-bought pumps, fake diamond earrings, a really old and worn cheap ring on her little finger she used to wear on her ring finger but has outgrown it since her early twenties…

A woman faking status, desperate to impress while sticking to a budget, but with a sentimental heart. Possible grieving for her first love?

"We have an appointment." John began.

"I don't see any appointments on the agenda." She cut him off, frowning as she glanced at her little, second-hand but carefully kept, tablet. "You will have to…"

"It's ok, Willamina. I agreed to the appointment, just didn't have time to put it up on the server." A man quite similar to Dr Lynch, just younger walked in with a smile. The woman handed him the Howler and took a step back, glaring at the consulting detective and his friend.

"Samuel Lynch" The man shook hands with John, and tucked the newspaper under his arm. "My father will be with you in a minute. In the meantime, is there anything I can help you with? I doubt you are here to discuss personal phobias, Mr Holmes..." He raises a brow.

Sherlock frowned, eyeing the man. Confident, currently studying at university, no pets, non-smoker, single but not deprived of company, reads newspapers frequently and seems to have a coffee addiction...

"There have been a series of murders linked to phobias. Your father is involved."

Samuel Lynch blinked. "What..."

"What Sherlock means to say." John interjected "Is that your father's book seems to be a link, so..."

"I am sure it's a coincidence, my father has nothing to do with..."

"Indeed I did know Mr Goodfellow and Mr Pyrling, Mr Holmes." Professor Lynch calmly stated as he walked down the corridor in a simple polo shirt and jeans. "I had met with them privately in the past. I was very sorry to read about their deaths..." He sighed.

Sherlock nodded. "When was the last time you spoke to either one of them?"

Professor Lynch pulled out his phone and checked as he replied. "Professor Pyrling preferred privacy, but was very much vexxed by his condition; therefore he would not come to my office but rather we would talk on the phone. Last I heard from him was a couple of weeks ago. I believe his phobia was exacerbated by stress, and he had mentioned his intention..." Lynch paused, clearly repeating from memory "...to remove himself from projects that lacked his full confidence."

The professor shook his head. "As for professor Goodfellow, I had not heard from him in little under a year. He had informed me of a new endeavour that would require most of his time, so asked to postpone our session. No further contact was made so I assumed he no longer desired to continue with therapy."

Sherlock nodded. "Do you know Edie Potts?"

The professor hesitated, frowning slightly, though few creases formed. Botox. "No...I don't believe so. I can check my archives for you..."

"Yes. Do you still have your notes concerning the other two?" The consulting detective asked, eyes narrowing slightly.

Samuel Lynch stepped forward "That seems very unprofessional! Confidentiality fo..."

Professor Lynch smiled. "I indeed do. There will need to be paperwork, of course, as with all such affairs, but if I can help you resolve this matter expeditiously I will be happy to do so...Provided that my involvement be kept private."

Of course. John tilted his head. Murders are bad for business.

A few minutes later, Sherlock and John walked out from the building. The doctor looked at his scowling friend. "Sherlock, what's wrong? Did you notice something off about the professor?

"No" Sherlock shook his head. "And that is the problem."

"Well, nevermind." John patted him on the shoulder. "At least you have a hot date tonight."

Don't make things worse, John.

.

.

"Sorry, professor." Molly said as she moved his chair to sit on it, taking the place she had seen him in hundreds of times. It felt like the seat was much, much to large for her.

The glossy mahogany desk had lost some of its sheen through use and now through dust. Small post-it notes were attached on the left. "out of carrots." "Dr Spivey appointment 3pm." "Paris flight 9:45 am." She slowly removed them, took a deep breath and threw them in the bin.

It is strange how something can technically be trash, but still be painful to discard. She cleared her throat. Toughen up.

The front of Dr Paten's desk looked like he had constructed a little wall of books, his favourite or most used. She reached for the one closest, on the top of the mini fortress.

Cyrurgie by Henri De Mondeville. As if it had been waiting for her.

Molly smiled, and gently moved it to one side, to keep and look at later.

Not too long later, Molly admired the room, now completely sorted. Big boxes filled with books waited to be carried off to libraries, old friends, charities...While one little bag with a small selection was being gripped in her hands.

She blinked, looking at the study with a soft sight. It seemed so naked without its little piles, with the bookcase so bare...

Molly shook her head. Now isn't the time, one must go on. Someone else would come and fill up the furniture with new books, new knowledge and, hopefully, would inspire future medical students like Paten had done for her.

"Bye, professor, thanks for the lesson." She said quietly, then closed the door.

.

.

"Are you picking her up at your place?" John called, his voice barely audible as the hot water rushed down Sherlock's hair and head.

"Molly will be waiting for me outside." He replied nonchalantly. "She'll be early" He added, not quite as loud.

Sherlock wrapped a towel around his waist, stepped out of the bathroom and saw John grinning at him, a little bottle in his hand.

"What is it, John?"

"My lucky cologne!"

"There is no such thing as luck..."

John waved a hand dismissively "I know, I know, but it's good! Mary really liked it. It will bring you luck. I'm sure Molly will appreciate you making a little effort..."

Sherlock quitely looked at his friend.

John grinned and PSSSST! Sprayed a little in Sherlock's direction.

"It's good, isn't it?"

"I smell like you, now."

"Sherlock..."

Sherlock stepped back into the shower.

.

.

People walking down the busy streets of London might not have noticed the tall man with black curls as he turned a corner into Baker street. A dark blue shirt, her favourite, or at least he thought so, and a bouquet of orange daisies.

She would be waiting at the steps.

He would give her those daisies.

She would want to put them in a vase with water.

He had one ready in the cupboard.

They would go out.

Have dinner.

Talk.

Dance.

They would go home, and the daisies would be there, waiting.

The room would smell of flowers.

He...

Sherlock stopped and blinked.

She was standing at the steps. Too far away for her to easily notice him.

An a-line, light blue dress. Her hair tied up in a ponytail with a matching blue ribbon.

She was looking at her phone, then she pulled out a little mirror and checked her makeup.

She was smiling.

She was beautiful.

A man.

Sherlock frowned.

A man in a brown jumper was leaning against the lampost, looking at him. Concealed weapon.

Another, to the left, stepped out of the doorway. Gun in his green vest.

Two began walking towards him. A tall bald man and the other with a small scar under his green eyes.

The one with the green eyes looked up, for a split second.

Sherlock saw it.

The tip of a sniper rifle from a window opposite his house.

It wasn't pointed at him.

Time. Not enough time. Take greeneye's gun, shoot rifle, break it? No, too long...

Sherlock blinked, thoughts racing as he tried to come up with an escape plan.

He took a deep breath, his eyes lingering on Molly's face, then he turned his back on her and began to walk. The two men began walking beside him, while the others slowly followed, leaving Molly behind.

She looked up, biting her lip.

He's not late. She's early.

She is early.

"He'll be here any minute."

People walking down the street, on their way home, to a dinner or some other appointment, did not notice a man being surrounded and led away. They did not care about the woman in the blue dress, waiting silently, nor did they pay more than a passing glance to a dainty bouquet of orange daisies, left abandoned on the pavement and crushed under the feet of the busy people of London.

A/N

Sorry for the long wait!

Thanks to all those who have read my stories and written reviews. It took me time but you inspired me to continue. Thank you so, so much!