A/N: I'm new to writing Sherlock fic. After seeing S2E3, I became interested in the idea of Sherlock and Molly together. Although I love the character of Irene Adler, she is so unique that it's hard to fully identify with her. Molly, to me, is the "nice girl" that every boy's parents hopes he'll marry and is more real as a person. So I decided to see if I could do a good job of putting them together.

This story assumes that Molly helped him fake his death and that he's staying with her while the world forgets about him for a while.

The BBC owns all of it, I'm writing for no monetary gain and no copyright infringement is intended.

I love Moffat and hope we get more Sherlock from him for the next five years.

Hero Worship

"You're wrong, you know. You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you…"

"What do you need?"

"If I wasn't everything you think I am, everything I think I am, would you still want to help me?"

"What do you need?"

"You."

Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper, Sherlock, "The Reichenbach Falls"

It had been five days since Sherlock Holmes had faked his death with her help, and Molly Hooper was a nervous wreck.

The reason she was a nervous wreck was currently standing in her kitchen, frowning at a box of cereal. "How on earth do you eat this?" Sherlock asked her. "It's got more chemicals in it than your lab. You're a scientist more or less: you should know better."

"And good morning to you, too, Sherlock," Molly answered, suppressing the urge to flinch at his criticism and assessment of her occupation.

He blinked.

"I eat it because it's high in fiber, low in cholesterol, and tastes good," she told him. "And at least when I die I'll be well preserved."

He tossed the box into the trash. "Get something better. I don't eat that rubbish, and neither should you."

"I'm so glad you're looking out for my welfare."

He glanced at her sharply. "Are you being sarcastic?"

"Yeah," she said simply, and walked past him to take a shower, leaving a confused and ever-so-slightly intrigued Sherlock in her wake.

She sighed as she stepped into the shower. She hadn't meant to be cross, but having him living with her was wearing on her. Oh, in some ways it was a dream come true: Sherlock needing her, staying with her, using her as a lifeline to the world. But after five days of it Molly was coming to realize that all that glittered wasn't gold. It wasn't even iron pyrite.

Fool's gold, she snorted. The only fool around the flat was her, for allowing herself to think for even one second that he had changed at all since what happened, that maybe he could see her in a different light now. No chance of that. She'd always be Molly, the ordinary plain girl he looked through instead of at.

And yet, she couldn't get his words out of her mind.

The night he'd come to her for help planning and executing the scheme to save him. Telling her she'd always counted and he'd always trusted her. That he needed her. How could she have said no? At that point she'd have crawled over broken glass and walked into a gas fire if he'd said it would help him.

Then, that first night he'd stayed. He'd been tense, restless, and he had that haunted look in his eyes. At first he'd wanted to be alone. Then he'd kept her up half the night talking, finally stopping when she almost fell to the floor from exhaustion…

"Sorry," she muttered. "So tired…"

He raised his eyebrows. "You should get some sleep," he said.

She nodded, started to stand up and almost fell again.

He sighed, but it wasn't an irritated sound like usual. He put an arm around her waist to steady her and walked her to her bedroom. He propped her up against a wall while he turned down her covers, then to her amazement he put her to bed.

"You'll feel better in the morning," he said brusquely.

"No I won't," she murmured, half asleep.

He blinked twice. "Why not?"

"Because… you won't…"

And she'd passed out cold.

Molly shivered in the shower despite the heat of the water. She wished she had never made that wish so many months ago, to have the chance to be close to him. Being close to him was like being apart from him. She felt the pain either way, but which was the lesser of the two evils she couldn't say.

When she had showered, dressed and gone back into the kitchen, he was sitting at the table sipping some tea. "I left you some water in the kettle," he told her, not looking up from the newspaper.

"Thank you." She made herself some tea and toast, since he'd thrown away the cereal, and sat across from him, glancing at him occasionally as he read.

"Anything new?" she asked.

He snorted. "The usual mix of vile sensationalism with the slightest hint of truth."

"Are they still writing about you?"

His hand clenched slightly, but his face remained smooth. "No. They got what they wanted from me. My death and my funeral. Dead people are boring to the media."

She dared reach across the table and touch his arm. He jerked his head up and his eyes met hers.

"I'm sorry," she said, withdrawing her hand.

"For my plight, or for touching me?"

"I… I'm just sorry."

Molly got up quickly before she embarrassed herself again. "I'll be late getting home tonight," she told him. "There's some dinner in the takeaway box in the fridge."

She hadn't taken three steps before she found him standing close in front of her. Too close, she realized: so close she could see the glitter in his eyes. She forced herself not to back up.

"Why?"

She tried to deflect. "Why is there dinner for you in a takeaway box?"

"This is hardly the time for you to try and learn to be clever, Molly," he said, the intensity of his voice making her tremble. "Why will you be getting home late tonight?"

For a second she considered lying to him. But she never had and she wasn't about to start now.

"I have a date," she told him, lifting her chin higher as if daring him to comment.

A muscle twitched near his mouth. "A date."

"Yes. A date."

"I'm supposed to be dead, staying here with you for safety, and you're going out on a date?"

"I hadn't planned on moving him in tonight," she replied defensively.

"So when are you planning on moving him in?"

"I'm not! It's our first date!"

He snorted again. "Probably some tabloid reporter trying to get new information about me to dredge up more interest."

Sherlock realized his mistake four seconds too late.

All the color drained from Molly's face. "You bastard," she whispered. "You selfish, uncaring, arrogant bastard."

He had the good sense to appear slightly alarmed. "Molly…"

"So that's it? That's the only reason a man could be interested in me? To get some details about a disgraced dead detective?"

"I didn't mean it that way-"

"Then how did you mean it? Because it seemed pretty clear to me," she interrupted, blood coming back to her face as she got more furious. "Oh, well, what man could possibly be interested in stupid little Molly Hooper, who can't make a decent conversation and acts like a silly schoolgirl around the great Sherlock Holmes?"

He took a step back, shocked at the intensity of her emotions. She followed him and took another step closer, close enough for him to see the full effect his words had caused.

"Well, let me tell you something, Sherlock Holmes," she said, her voice calm and strong. "I might not be anywhere near as clever as you, but I'm not stupid. I am an intelligent, passionate, funny and kind human being, and anyone would be lucky to have me. Which is more than I can say about you."

He stared at her in amazement and something else she couldn't read. She grabbed her purse and walked away from him.

"Molly…"

She turned at the archway to the hall. "I'll see you tonight."

He heard the door slam a moment later and dragged himself to his seat, tossing the paper aside. He needed to think.