A/N; I don't own it or make money from it. All hail the Beeb and Moffat.

He felt alone. And he didn't like it.

John had finally met the woman of his dreams and got married. Mary was, well… OK. That's the nicest thing he could say. Anything else formed a lump in his throat because he felt like he'd lost John, lost everything that anchored him to real life.

That's why he was standing here, outside the morgue doors.

He needed adoration. Someone to impress, someone to look at him in utter amazement. To make him sandwiches and tea and do all the tedious things in a case that nonetheless must be done.

He'd given it a great deal of thought, and decided that the logical choice for that now was Molly.

She was smart enough. Pretty enough, despite the cruel remarks he'd made in the past. She was strong and loyal, and, well, he could always train her in the areas she lacked in.

He grinned, actually grinned, thinking about how ecstatic she'd be. All her dreams come true at last. He, Sherlock Holmes, was giving up and surrendering to her. He needed to be cared about and adored, and she had it for him in abundance. He was ready to accept everything she had to offer.

He made his usual dramatic entrance. She was filling out paperwork and didn't even look up at first.

He frowned. How could she not have noticed his arrival? Obviously very preoccupied. He cleared his throat.

"Oh, hello," she greeted him, but her tone lacked its former warmth and happiness at the sight of him. "What can I do for you?"

He blinked. This was… off. But he went ahead with his plan. She'd snap back to normal as soon as he asked her. He reminded himself not to look too arrogant when she accepted.

"Molly, I was wondering if you'd like to have coffee."

She smiled at him. "That would be lovely, thank you!"

Before he could say anything else she added: "milk and three sugars, please."

She resumed her paperwork.

Sherlock was reasonably sure the world was about to end.

Didn't she understand what he was offering her?

Then memory hit him like a stone smashing him in the face.

Oh, she understood.

And she was giving him the same answer he'd given her, oh-so-long-ago.

The flippant, dismissive answer.

A "you've minged it up bad, mate" answer.

A "you are going to bloody well have to earn this, you bastard" answer.

Well. Good for her.

She was showing fire. And Sherlock did so love fires.

Or at least he loved putting them out.

So he'd have to play this her way for now, it seemed. All right. Winning her back would be a challenge? Excellent. He loved challenges.

So he smiled and said: "back in a flash."

As he went to the cafeteria to get them some coffee, he almost laughed at the irony. The day he'd decided to offer himself to her was the day she didn't seem to want him anymore.

Well. That could be changed.

He was Sherlock Holmes, after all.

He got their coffee and bought her a cookie as well. He knew she loved cookies. He knew everything he needed to know to get her back. Even though she'd never technically been his.

But she had: in her heart if not his. He knew it. She knew it, too.

But he'd treated her badly, and she deserved some proof from him.

He could handle that. He was a detective, after all.

As he went back down the hall to the morgue, he wondered what her mouth would taste like and how long he'd have to wait before she'd let him kiss her.

His guess was three days.

He grinned happily. It wasn't a murder, but it was a challenge nonetheless.