-PALE IN COMPARISON-

Mrs Hudson was a character who was truly more than met the eye, Molly decided. One would never have guessed her to be one of the ex-leaders of a drug ring. Nor would you assume she still did marijuana each evening. But the most surprising secret Mrs Hudson had, Molly decided, was her talent in dancing.

No one would guess an old lady to out-dance every young person at a wedding, but Mrs Hudson quickly proved them wrong. She swung her hips like no one thought would be humanly possible. Her feet seeming soared over the floor, and her body… She collaborated all her parts so that her hips jiggled, but the rest of her body moved at a different tempo, attracting the eyes of the many two-left-footed wedding guests.

It was almost comical the way she raised her arms and grabbed Tom by the shoulders.

"Why Mrs Hudson! Where did you learn to do all this?"

"Up like this. No- not like that- arse out! Yes, and then forward one, two, three, f-!"

"On earth? Mrs Hudson!?" Molly asked in amusement. Tom looked like he was about to have a panic attack. The older woman was bashing her hips against Tom's and pulling his length downward, trying to mould him into a latino dancer.

"It's called The Bump, Molly darling. Mr Hudson and I used to groove to this like you wouldn't believe." She sighed deeply, "Oh the memories. 1976…"

Tom gave Molly a look. She giggled at him, and Mrs Hudson continued instructing:

"Come on Tom, hips, hips. Feel that beat. Let Billy in."

"Billy?"

"Billy Joel, love." Mrs Hudson said, "The youth of today. Mind you, it is rather pathetic that you don't know music like this."

Molly laughed, and watched Tom's nervous expression. He raised his eyebrows and she smiled, soon losing interest with their dancing. She gazed at the other people in crowd. John and Mary were talking to Scott and whatever Scott's wife was called, next to the cake. Greg was on the phone, desperately trying to hear through the speaker, but it proved useless, because the DJ thumped up the music even louder. He growled in frustration. Molly watched John's mother walk around the room up to the stage where Sherlock-

'Wait, where was Sherlock going?' Molly's eyes followed him. He stepped off the platform and moved across the dance floor to the reception area. The colourful lights caught the tips of his curls, but his eyes were dark and solemn as they looked at the door. Molly felt her body turn around, like a magnet slowly being drawn to it's opposite pole…

'No.' she told herself, forcing herself to look back at Tom. 'Not anymore.'

She plastered on a smile - she seemed to do that often nowadays. She made an effort to concentrate on the beat of the song, attempting to let Billy in, as Mrs Hudson put it. Molly watched the crowd move, still aware that Sherlock was on his way out. Alone.

"I think I know what Mrs Hudson means. I can feel the music." Tom chattered, smiling sweetly at her, "Care to dance?" he asked, lightly touching her shoulder.

"No!" Molly squealed. A few heads turned. "Sorry." she plastered on that smile again, "I really need the loo."

"Oh. Alright." Tom said, letting go of her. He gazed down at her feet. She felt guilty now.

"Be right back, then we'll dance." Molly assured him, turning toward the reception.

"Molly, wait. You're in a weird mood tonight." Tom observed, making an attempt to follow her, "You seem, distracted? Was it about what I said to Sherlock?"

She shrugged. "I'll be right back, okay. We can sort it out later."

"Okay." he said, looking disappointed, "Off then."

Molly skipped to the reception room, but instead of going to the bathroom, she barging out the door and into the cool summer air.

"Sherlock!" she called. It was dead silent, except for the muffled sound of the party. She could see his shadow at the venue's gate. She made her best attempt to speed-walk in the heels, but the cobbles proved to make her very slow in comparison to Sherlock's strides.

When she hit the tar, however, it was easy to pick up speed.

"Sherlock!" she called. His form twisted around.

"It's the night of your best friend's wedding. Where are you going?"

He had his coat on. This confirmed her suspicions that her wasn't just walking out for a quick smoke.

"Where are you off to?" She repeated her question.

He tuned his feet to face her, "You are cold, Molly." he stated.

Molly blinked, only noticing now that she had goosebumps. "Suppose."

They remained quiet for a while. Molly grew more self-conscious. The fluorescent streetlamp made her look overly-bright in her dress, like the sun from Teletubbies. She was everything bright and fluffy, compared to him. Sherlock was in his that coat of his, with his collar up like he always put it. Gloomy. Mysterious. Molly's mind compared him to Neo from the Matrix.

She internally rolled her eyes. In an attempt to look less like a Teletubby, she folded her arms over in order to hide her yellow belly.

He exhaled. Molly was reminded of the day he asked her to solve crimes with him. They had gone to that Train enthusiast's flat, in order to stop that terrorist attack. The way Sherlock was standing now, with his dead-upright posture, reminded her of when he walked out of that building, down the street - never to be seen again. Molly felt the same disappointment in her chest. Only this time, it was him calling for a cabbie.

She watched the car pull up, but Sherlock dismissed it. He started shuffling along the sidewalk again.

"And now?" Molly asked.

"We're going somewhere where you won't be going into the early stages of hypothermia." Sherlock stated.

"Wha- Who said I was going with you?"

"Why else would you follow me out the building after your fiancé asked to you for a dance?" Sherlock looked quizzical. Molly pondered upon how he knew Tom asked her, but dismissed her thoughts. This was Sherlock Holmes. He knew pretty much everything.

"I can't leave. Tom's waiting for me. I said I'd be right back." Molly argued.

"Perhaps you told him you where going to get a drink, or going to the bathroom, but in reality your plan was to meet me." Sherlock theorised.

Molly's eyes narrowed.

"There is a coffee shop across the street. I went there once with Mycroft, so there's a confirmation from the government that you can't be poisoned." Sherlock said, "Coming with?"

Molly shifted uncomfortably. The cold was coming up her thighs now, and she wondered how it could possibly be this cold in May. Her ears still echoed with the party noise, and in her mind she could see Tom, standing next to Mrs Hudson, looking like a lost puppy.

"It is just around the corner." Sherlock added, walking ahead already. She shuffled toward him, already cursing herself for her lack of self control.

'It's only drinks.' she assured herself, mimicking Sherlock's strides to keep up with him, 'No more than fifteen minutes.'

x

"Two coffees." Sherlock ordered.

"Actually one coffee, one tea. Decaf, please." Molly corrected, smiling at the waitress.

"Are you trying to loose weight again?" Sherlock asked.

"No." Molly snapped, recalling the time Sherlock insulted her by saying she gained three pounds. A prickle of anger showed on her face. "Not this time."

"Have you developed a heart problem?" Sherlock questioned, "Or why have you suddenly stopped drinking caffeinated drinks?"

"I have never drank stuff with caffeine in."

"Yes you have. What about that time you asked me out to go get coffee?" His eyebrows contracted in confusion, "Has thing got something to do with your boyfriend?"

"I'm diabetic." Molly said plainly.

"Diabetic? What? No you're not." he said in arrogant confidence.

"Always been." Molly confirmed, "Also, Tom's my fiancé, not my boyfriend. Besides, we never actually got coffee that day."

Sherlock didn't believe her, "You are not diabetic. How could I have missed this?" His eyes were flickering around the table, watching her stir the contents of her tea cup.

"Type two, I assume. Never noticed you carrying round injections."

"Type two." she confirmed, setting down her spoon, "Before you ask, it's genetic, not because of my lifestyle."

"What about all the wine you drank at the Christmas party? Alcohol has devastating effects on diabetics."

"Always worn it down with water." she said, "Not that you would notice because you have never actually sat down and had drinks with me before, Sherlock." she repeated, smiling slightly.

He decided to ignore her. His mind was solely focused on the diabetes he had supposedly overlooked. "Wait, why are you off coffee? It does not have high glucose content." Sherlock argued.

"Only when it's black and bitter. Then I'd rather have something else. Like this." Molly said, raising her tea cup.

Sherlock remained quiet for a while, staring at his cup, attempting to remember every time he'd seen Molly consume something. His mind raced through the times they've spent together, realising they have not really shared many meals before. Completely amazed at his ignorance, he realised she actually really could be diabetic.

"Guess Sherlock Holmes doesn't know everything."

"Close to everything." He sipped, "But not everything."

She giggled, then got embarrassed by the sound, and looked at her lap. 'Pull yourself together.' the lectured herself.

"So…" he croaked, "A meat dagger."

Molly mood turned exponentially sour, "A meat dagger, yes." she repeated.

Sherlock was laughing. "Not a detective, clearly."

"Never was." she said, "But he can cook well. Very well."

"I reckoned boyfriend was the domestic type. He buys the groceries too, doesn't he?"

"Not my boyfriend!"

"Sorry sorry-"

"We are getting married." Molly reminded him. He raised his hands in surrender. "Next year in March."

"Good, that gives me time to recover." Sherlock sighed.

"Recover? Good god, Sherlock. Weddings are not some kind of illness."

"It could be." Sherlock suggested, "If no one came up with the concept of marriage, I doubt people would formally agree to only have intercourse with one person.

"I do believe marriage is some sort of social virus. People cannot stop themselves from this constant need to pay a lot of money to make their eternal union official. All the decorations, the dress, the venue… And then the traditions - ha, let me not start the traditions. Telegrams, who on earth- and cutting a cake. A cake. Why couldn't it be white bread? Far more economical with multiple health benefits over the oblig-"

"How romantic." Molly joked. Sherlock looked at her from his side of the table, frowning slightly, as if trying to work out the reason for Molly's sudden happiness.

"What is it?" he questioned.

"Nothing." Molly told him. "Just when you rant on like that."

"You like it?" he asked with uncertainty.

"I missed it. Haven't heard it in a while." Molly explained.

"Right." he said, placing his cup down. They remained quiet for a moment.

"Yes, I don't like parties. Least of all weddings."

"Okay, I understand that, but it's John's wedding. Your best friend's wedding." Molly shook her head. "You made it more than halfway through the day, with your speeches and so on. Couldn't you have pushed through the last few hours. For John's sake."

Sherlock considered her. It wouldn't have been so hard. He could have danced again with Jeanine, perhaps with Mary. It would have been quiet nice to have a whiskey, talked to John, perhaps. But then he could hear Mycroft in his head. 'I'm not lonely, Sherlock…'

Yes, Mycroft wasn't lonely because he hadn't experienced anything but loneliness. He didn't know anything but working, and scheming. Sherlock, however, had learnt what it was like to really have a friend. Beforehand, he was always opposed to the idea of friendship, but John taught him there was more to life than solving crimes. John got him as far as making a speech - making jokes - in front of people. Oh yes, John had changed him, but now John had changed as well.

Marriage. The word appears in Sherlock's mind palace covered in dust, made of old, brittle plywood, and in the corner of a room behind a bolted door. He was repulsed by the idea of it, and yes, he knew this was Mycroft in his head again. Mycroft, who raised Sherlock with all of his preconceived ideas of the universe. Sherlock knew marriage was not for him from a young age, but he accepted that it could most defiantly work for people. Like John and Mary, for example. They bettered each other when they were together. For some people, companionship was a definite, and Sherlock accepted this - it was in human DNA after all.

But then Sherlock found himself alone in a crowd of people. The wedding, where everyone had their place and their people. And he could hear Mycroft talking: 'You are the black sheep, oh brother mine. Do not insult yourself by trying to be something different.'. That is when Sherlock decided to leave.

He shook his thoughts off, "I have a case to work on." he said.

Molly's thoughts sunk. 'Of course.' He was still Sherlock Holmes. No charismatic speech or sentimental violin playing would change that.

"And you should get back to boyf- fiancé." he reminded her.

She tensed. "Right." A quick glance at the clock in the restaurant revealed it had been twenty minutes already. Yes, Tom would be out looking for her by now.

"I will walk you back to the party." Sherlock said.

"Thank you." Molly said, surprised by this gentleman-like act.

After he had payed and they hit the streets again, Molly again cursed the weather for being so cold in May. She pressed her legs together as they walked, creating some friction, and made an effort to cover up her Teletubby belly.

Sherlock was quiet again, except for his single word mumble of:

"Diabetes."

She laughed at that, knowing how much it frustrated him not knowing things. Soon the pair was outside the venue gate, and it was time for departures again.

"Well, here we are." she said, standing . Sherlock looked over his shoulder for a taxi, "Thanks for the tea. And for walking back."

"My pleasure. I hope Tom does get to dance with you."

"Yes. He'd probably be waiting." Molly said, gesturing to the hall. There was an odd tension when Sherlock looked at her again.

"I enjoyed this." he said, "And I missed our conversations too."

Molly was surprised by the directness of his speech.

"Of course it's not all gone. There is still many hours at Bart's to do experiments." Sherlock said. He wasn't sure if he was reassuring Molly or himself.

A taxi pulled up on the far side of the street, and Molly looked at counterpart.

"Thanks again for tonight. I will see you in the lab, Sherlock." she said.

He didn't thank her back. Instead, he did what he does when he feels like being nice to her, and reached down and brushed her cheek with his sharp, dry lips. Molly closed her eyes at his touch, breathing in the moment.

She was struck at the final-ness of it all. Now he'd be off, and she'd return the Tom. He'd be concerned over where she went, and Molly almost laughed at telling him the truth about where she was. If Tom knew Sherlock was kissing her goodnight, it would defiantly lead to another row.

And then it hit her. This was certainly the last time Sherlock could just kiss her on the cheek in the dark. Because next time she did it, she'd be married, and assumptions would be made.

But tonight, tonight she had so savour the normality of this. Hooper and Holmes, being Hooper and Holmes. No eyebrows raised - they were just what they were, for now.

He'd be heading home, doing what he does. Insulting his clients. Driving John up the wall. Taking advantage of Mrs Hudson. Being a detective other detectives consulted. Being Sherlock Holmes.

She'd be happy too, she urged herself. Happy with Tom Cedricks. Happy working at Bart's. Happy in their new flat with Baxter the schnauzer and Toby the cat. Happy with her happy, ordinary life.

If someone were standing outside on that street, they would be able see how the kiss caught both Sherlock and Molly off guard.

She had pulled him down by the lapels of his upright collar, and timidly pressed her face to his. Shock spiralled through Sherlock's entire body when she kissed him. His toes rose up almost as high as his eyebrows, and his arms swayed out at his sides. He looked like one of those inflatable tube men outside car outlets.

Molly was tense. She had a strong sense of panic in her chest, which she only comforted by running one hand up to his curls, and letting the other cradle around his neck. Sherlock's hands still stuck out at his sides, but they were still. It seemed he finally realised what was going on. Before he could respond, she broke it.

He looked at the floor, and then at her, and then at the floor. Molly retreated her hands away from his shoulders, and realised with horror what she had just done.

"You-" he started, then stopped, taking an impressively big step back backwards.

"I-" she started, clasping her mouth shut.

What on the living earth had she just done? Molly swallowed, hard; but the lump in the throat did not disappear. She was going to get married! She was with Tom, she was in love with Tom. They own a house together and-

She stopped the heavy breathing that she could feel on her fingers, realising that seconds before Sherlock's mouth had been there. Speedily, her hands returned to their stiff positions at her hips.

"Molly!" he accused.

"Christ! I know." she said, teeth chattering from the cold. Her mind went from panic to realisation. Realisation that she had just betrayed all her commitment, and her trust, and her love with her fiancé. And she did it with Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes.

What was she thinking? She was over Sherlock! She was done with him. She wasn't that stuttering girl anymore, she was an independent woman. And she was engaged. She told him that she had moved on.

So caught up in her own head, Molly hardly had the time to focus on what he was doing.

Sherlock mimicked the telephone pole next to him. Frozen, upright. He watched her with intent. Molly's eyeballs were stammering with thought. Behind her hair, burnt umber eyes were wide with fear and he could tell she was going though a whole cocktail of erratic thoughts, based on the way the she was gnawing the inside of her cheek.

"Sociopaths not you type then?" Sherlock asked, grinning.

She look she gave him was purely acidic.

"Ah, come on, Molly, it was a joke." he gave a few chuckles, ruffling his hair where she made it stick up.

"This is not funny, Sherlock. At all!" she snapped, turning away from him. What was it with this man? Even when faking his own death he failed to realise the implications it has on others, "This is my life, Sherlock-"

And then she was falling, hard, onto the pavement.

He caught her wrists, pulling her back upright. He looked at her for a while, content. Curious. Handsome.

"In all the multiple outcomes that I calculated when you first followed my from the wedding afterparty this was very much in the, how do they say it? In the minority." He started mumbling in that loquacious way of his.

"But nevertheless, I understand that it was a mistake." Sherlock rationalised, "If others find out, it will lead to awkward questions for you. And for me. And for boyf- fiancé. I suggest we both forget about it."

Molly gulped in more air. And then more, trying process what he said. Her eyes were daggers.

"You just- you don't get it, do you?"

"Get what?" he asked, blue eyes glossy now.

Molly's bit her lip in frustration.

"Fine, I give it to." Molly roared, "You're a genius. You are the smartest - you have the greatest man - mind, I know, Sherlock. You understand science - and your logical thinking… Hell, you can give Hawkins, Newton, Da Vinci, that Elon Musk guy-"

"Mycroft." he added.

"-The whole lot seem blunt in comparison to your brilliance." Molly said, "But you do not understand human emotion. You do not understand me, Sherlock." Her eyes were stormy, "I am nothing like you. I run on my emotions. I can't simply wake up tomorrow - in five years from now-"

Molly gazed down at where his hands still encircled her wrists, "- and forget, about this."

She snatched her hands back to her sides. Then she turned around, walking back to the party, making sure of where she stepped this time.

Now it was his turn to call her name.

"Molly. Molly!"

He bounced up and through to the gate, trailing behind the very yellow Molly. They were so close to the party now, that Molly could make out The Time Warp playing.

"Molly don't be an idiot about this." Sherlock called.

'Not again, Molly. Tom needs you.' she instructed herself, using all the concentration she had to get her hands on the door. She was already done with Sherlock, this was just pre-

"24 March 2004," he spoke, his voice cutting through the sounds of the party.

She pushed down on the leaver.

"The day Mycroft bet me 1000 Pounds that I couldn't solve the mystery of Louisa Gelden." he said. The leaver was all the way down, all she needed to do now was apply pressure forward.

"Also the day I met Molly Hooper." he said, knowing she would freeze. Sherlock smiled, satisfied that he got her attention back. He took a breath. He'd been wanting to tell her this story for a long while.

"Louisa Gelden, part-time hairdresser in her mid-fifties, was found dead in a sewer under Hyde Park the previous week. Cause of death: petrol-burning. Not very special, except for the small fact that she was discovered in meter-deep water, and she had been rotting there for a couple of months. At the time the case seemed particularly fascinating. Shameful, isn't it?"

He paused, wandering why she hadn't turned around yet. Her back still faced him. He noted on how the lights from the party played on her arms.

"The only place I could see Louisa Gelden's corpse for further inspection was at St. Bartholomew's Hospital. And coincidently, you - Molly - started your internship on the morning of Saturday, the 24th of March 2004, at approximately 9:00 that morning. The doctor you were training under had just given you your first white lab coat, and you walked around the pathology department for the first time, fetching supplies a nurse asked you to get.

"Meanwhile, I made my way through the security and receptionists downstairs using the power of manipulation. I found the forth floor. I saw you. Because you looked rather young and looked slightly lost, I walked up to you, seeing you as a easy way to get to the refrigerators where they keep the bodies.

"When I walked up to you, you were startled, and told me you didn't know where they kept the bodies. Then I told you, that you were a forensic pathologist, and that you had to know where the woman's corpse was, to which you responded, 'I don't work here.' "

Molly turned to face him now. She was leaning onto the back of the door.

"And I thought - that is odd. Usually I would notice something like the bright red 'INTERN' badge on you chest. Something must have distracted me. I have previously blamed this on the equally bright jumper you were wearing that day. Or on the fact that it was ten years ago and my deduction skill were hardly like they are now. But more recently-"

Molly glared at him. He closed his eyes and repeated the next sentence like it caused him pain.

"I have concluded that I must have gotten distracted by your beauty." he said, looking straight at her.

Molly's eyes were at risk for popping out her skull now. She did an nervous giggle, and felt the bloody rushing to her face. Thankfully he didn't make anything of it, he was fixated on completing his story.

"I found the morgue without your help, in the end. You followed me into the room. And when I asked-"

"You think I'm beautiful?" Molly asked in bewilderment. She noticed how much it annoyed him that she interrupted his speech.

"I think you are breathtaking, Molly," he said, only afterwards realising now different thoughts like that sounded out loud. Molly sighed when he crinkles around his eyes showed. There was a moment of silence, when their eyes met. Molly cried a little on the inside. 'Not in love your arse.'

"But that is beside the point. I walked out on you that day, because of my work." Sherlock continued, "Because I am married to my work, and it will always come before everything and everyone. I will not, and cannot, be with you Molly because you deserve better. If you and I -"

"Now hold on. You-" Molly said, a weak attempt to get a say. She took a step forward, in which time Sherlock promptly took another stride back.

"Let me have my say first." he cut her off, and she rolled her eyes.

"Molly, I mean what I said before. You matter to me, you've always mattered to me, and you always will, but I am selfish. Molly, I will always put you second. My work will always be more important, and that is why you need to be with someone like Tom.

"Tom will get you all of his time, and his dedication. He help you to raise the children you want to badly. He will be a good husband, supportive, loyal. He will be there when you need it, and more than anything, he will love you. Like John loves Mary."

Silence stretched through the night. Sherlock's words ringed deep into Molly's mind. She leaned against the door with all her weight, realising that of course, as usual, Sherlock was right.

Tom was everything she was taught to look for. He was soft, and sweet. Her family all liked him, and he had a solid foundation of understanding when it came to her. They would be happy together. But…

"I cannot be with Tom." Her voice was a small thing.

The tears came slowly. He studied her.

Tom, oh perfect, predictable Tom Cedricks. How easy they got on. How much she wanted, needed, to fall in love with him and how hard she tried. It was pointless. Molly learnt ten years ago that you cannot choose who you fall in love with. It is even harder to stop loving once you've started.

Molly thoughts feel back, like they always did, to Sherlock. She thought of the intense comfort that radiated from Tom. Then she thought of the impression Sherlock made when he came into a room. Heads turned, people whispered… And she, Molly, felt the restlessness that came with him. The burning curiosity of his mind, the jump in his stride when he walked. His wandering grey eyes. The energy, the mischief.

Sherlock was staring at her now. Her skin looked like ceramics in the light. She wiped her cheeks, and attempted the blink away the tears. Her voice was breaking now. "I don't know what to do, Sherlock. Everyone that I will ever meet will be pale in comparison."

Molly's head somewhat instinctively leaned into Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock being Sherlock - not an alien to human contact, but never an enthusiast - stared down at Molly's shaking figure.

For the first minute he just left her to rest against him. It was awkward, because Sherlock didn't feel the need to break this contact like he usually did. She was whimpering, and Sherlock wandered why he hadn't made an attempt to get out of this uncomfortable social disaster.

'A woman? Crying? Really, Sherlock?' he could hear Mycroft say. Yet the more Molly hovered there, the more he grew conscious of her gentle weight. Her gentle, shaking weight.

He deducted. Here was a woman, an intelligent woman, who had a problem that was never going to go away. A frail thing, with so much more to her than first came across. He pondered. How many people walk past her each day, completely unaware of who she was, what she stood for. She was Molly Hooper. A emotional pathologist with a liking for cats and romance novels. A woman in constant competition with her two married sisters, who both had small children and successful marriages. A quilting enthusiast. A woman torn between the man who was good for her, and the man who she never stopped caring for.

Somewhere between the sobs, Molly's head rose from under his coat. Not quiet looking at his face, but at his illuminated black curls. She recovered her breath, listening to the sounds of the night. Sherlock exhaled. He then did something that would forever change the both of them.

With his hand he cup he cheek. He tenderly stroked his hand over her chin and back into her hair. Then, Sherlock pressed her form close to his chest, and made sure her naked arms in his coat, sheltered form the night.

And there they stood.

x

At the address of 221B Baker Street, a greying detective still sits in his armchair. The kitchen remains cluttered with dirty scientific equipment. The stench of the organs in the fridge still burn the nose of any visitor if they should enter, and the ever-wearing skull still strictly surveyed the contents of the apartment.

The consulting detective has his eyes closed. He is roaming the corridors of his mind palace. He is alive with burning curiosity, and lost from the outside world.

Hours will pass, and when his mystery is solved, a petite pathologist will bring him with dinner. There they will sit and share their stories of the week. She will make him coffee, and he will play her the violin. She will giggle at his temper and he will stare leisurely at her eyes. Later, before she leaves, when it's dark, they will dance in the living room to an old opera CD. When she kisses him; charged with every fibre of her being; he will, quiet simply, let her.

A/N: Thank you for sticking until the end.