Molly quickly tucked the small pill bottle into her handbag and made the short walk to the bus stop, where she was relieved to find that there space on the bench, out of the rain. She wondered how she would remember this day in years to come? Would she think about the shoes that she was wearing, completely ill-suited to the weather? What about the music that had been playing while she searched the shelves at the pharmacist's?

It was amazing how calm she now felt about the situation, and Molly felt that was worth acknowledging. Perhaps it was because the past few weeks had been so other-worldly and unreal that, actually, this was at least something that could be approached with practicality.

It had been a Tuesday, she remembered that because Tuesdays were usually laughable in their ordinariness. A call had come through from the front desk to say that she had a visitor, which was odd in itself, because Sherlock Holmes didn't usually find such social niceties necessary. Molly recalled the maelstrom of emotions that had immediately sparked inside her – the way she always felt when she heard his name, coupled with the sinking feeling that she was about to have her strength and resolve tested again.

Trying to control the thudding in her chest, she had gone to meet him – no need, really, as she was right outside her door. So much for those social niceties.

She had instinctively glanced around looking for John Watson, and it threw her when she realised that Sherlock had come alone.

"For what do I owe the honour?" Molly had asked, when he didn't immediately speak. "Or should I be asking what you've done to offend John Watson again?"

"Happy birthday, Molly," were the words that came out of Sherlock Holmes' mouth.

She had stared at him, probably slack-jawed, for a moment.

"You're a week early," she had managed to reply. She was braced for the real explanation, which was sure to come any second.

"I know," he replied. "This way, it means I get to say it first. Come on."

She remembered the feeling of complete bafflement then, wondering whether she'd managed to miss something entirely – it wouldn't be the first time.

"We're going out to dinner," he added.

"You're…taking me to dinner?"

She remembered the way Sherlock cocked his head momentarily before answering.

"If you like."

This was all incredibly strange, and she kept waiting for the punchline – the real reason he was there, the big reveal that would remind her why it was she was right to guard her heart so carefully.

"I have plans," she told him, immediately knowing this was a stupid tactic. This was Sherlock Holmes – he knew full well that she didn't have plans, and even if she did, he knew she would drop them in a heartbeat.

"I could buy a lasagne for one as well, and we could eat them together at your desk. I suppose it might be bearable with a decent Barolo. Unless it's absolutely imperative that you get home for the start of 'A Place in the Sun'?"

That was how, more or less, they had ended up at an Italian restaurant around the corner from the hospital. Molly's knowledge of places to eat was, she knew, woefully limited, but she had been to this one a few times with colleagues and knew it was safe territory – nothing could be misconstrued.

It took until they were halfway through the meal before she started to accept that there did not seem to be an ulterior motive to this occasion. She had wondered, perhaps, whether Sherlock's actions could be related to the phone call. That was weeks ago now, and Molly had assumed that he would never speak of it again – she knew how hard it had been for him to come to her, alone, unprompted, and ask for her forgiveness. Of course, it had had the rather unfortunate side-effect of her wanting him even more.

But in a way it had been liberating for her. Horrific, eviscerating though that phone call had been, now he knew – she had said it, and it was out in the open. She now knew that the declaration she had drawn out of him was a means to an end for him – even as she repeated the words back to him, she'd known he wasn't being truthful, but she'd said it anyway.

And now here they were, and Sherlock was attempting something that was trying to pass for conversation. It was stilted, and she had had to stifle a smile as she watched the agony of awkwardness and uncertainty in his expressions. She had even tried to give him a break by asking about recent cases, but he had let those conversational lifelines drop away. Instead, he had asked lots of questions about her, and to his credit had done his best not to look bored by her careful, tentative answers.

How the next part of the evening played out was still impossible for Molly to explain, such was its dreamlike quality and – at the same time – its heightened playout. Somehow, Sherlock Holmes invited himself back her flat, and, no sooner had they crossed the threshold, he had kicked the front door shut and grabbed her in what was the most unexpected and explosive kiss of her life. She had responded immediately, of course, and within seconds she was allowing herself to be steered backwards towards the bedroom, his lips still on hers, her hands in his hair. She remembered how she fleetingly wondered how he knew where her bedroom was, chiding her brain for posing such a question at such a time.

Sex with Sherlock Holmes was everything Molly had imagined, but also completely different. He was a strange mix of hesitancy and certainty, clearly wanting – feeling like he needed - to take the lead, but sometimes meeting her gaze and seemingly needing non-verbal reassurance from her. There were moments when she felt like she surprised him, perhaps even shocked him, but what did he expect when she was finally able to express how she felt about him after all these years? The sensation of Sherlock Holmes nuzzling her neck, murmuring into ear, even chuckling as she pushed his curly hair out of her eyes. Suddenly, right there in her bed, he was just a man.

And what had surprised her the most was that he stayed. Not the whole night, but when their heartrates returned to normal and flushed complexions faded, he hadn't fled as she had assumed he would. After all, sex was one thing – and for all she knew, perhaps he had just been curious and she was convenient – but intimacy was completely different. He had looked slightly lost, but when she reached up to take his cheek in her hand, he accepted and returned her kiss before allowing her to arrange them both in the bed, pulling his arms around her.

That was nearly seven weeks ago. She should have guessed when she woke up on Saturday and felt wretched; when the nausea faded, only to return with a vengeance every couple of hours for the next six days. Molly Hooper had been careful all her life, but trust Sherlock Holmes to make her break that habit.