"I honestly don't know where or how to begin," Molly admitted, still studying her hands. "I suppose I should ask if anyone else knew?"

"This being my deception?" Sherlock asked carefully.

Molly nodded.

"If he's managed to install another camera, Mycroft probably knew. Mrs. Hudson, possibly, John tends to blather while watching Eastenders. No one else knew for certain besides John. And Lestrade."

"Greg knew?" Molly looked at him, her eyes wide with shock. She had gossiped with him about how she was helping Sherlock woo John. Grilled him for information about how they acted at crime scenes, if he noticed anything different. Not once did he indicate that he knew what Sherlock was really doing. Of course, Molly wasn't exactly looking for those signs. Christ, she was an idiot.

Sherlock furrowed his brow. "No. Lestrade knew. Who's Greg?"

"You're joking right? Greg Lestrade." Molly emphasized his last name. Did he honestly not know Greg's name? Molly had assumed it was, a rather tired, joke between the two of them.

"I thought his name was Gerald."

"No you didn't."

"You're right, I didn't," Sherlock conceded. "I had no idea what his name was."

Molly rubbed her eyes. A long shift's work was starting to catch up with her. It didn't help matters that she slept like shit the last couple of nights, her mind keeping her up. "Right so just you, Greg, and John for sure?"

"Yes. Why?"

"Oh, just seeing who else was having a laugh at me behind my back." Molly ran her fingers through the spilt sugar on the table, swirling incoherent designs. "Sherlock…"

"Yes?" Sherlock said after the silence grew too long, a hint of impatience coloring his tone.

"You told me why you, you did this." Molly waved her hand about, sending sugar granules about the table, "but why did you tell me? Why now?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Several reasons, honestly. John threatened to tell you himself. I became more and more annoyed with the whole charade as it started to negatively impact our interactions. I've obtained enough information to make a satisfactory start to a relationship." Sherlock swirled his coffee stirrer, lifting it out of the cup to examine the falling drops as if it was the most fascinating thing in existence. "You started to smile too much."

Smile too much? What the hell does that even mean? Shouldn't he want her to smile? She didn't remember smiling more often than normal. "Sorry, what?"

Sherlock sighed as if they were at Bart's and he was annoyed for having to explain an 'obvious' deduction. "Smile. You started to smile, grin almost. All teeth and crinkled skin about your eyes. It was annoying. Fake. You don't smile. You do this," Sherlock gestured at his face, twirling his hand about to indicate his lips, "closed mouth almost amused subtle smirk thing with your lips when you're truly happy. It's like you're trying to hide the fact that you're happy. When you smile and show your teeth, you're faking it. Overcompensating. You started to smile too much around me."

Molly blinked. She had absolutely no idea that she did that. She rubbed her eyes with the palms of her hands. "I just feel so stupid about this."

"Well, you were."

"Sherlock!" She reprimanded him, her mouth open in shock. That was not the way to get himself back into her good books.

"You were. My phrasing may have been…poor, but I would think it was obvious that I spoke about you. When have I ever shown a romantic interest in John?"

"Never," Molly admitted. "However, you also never showed an interest in me. The only time I've even heard about you being interested in someone was that Irene something or another."

"Adler," Sherlock corrected reflexively. He furrowed his brow and looked at her with slit eyes. "How do you know about her?"

The pathologist snorted. Not her most elegant response, but it happened quite without her permission. "Besides the fact that I was there when you identified not her body?"

"No one ever said her name," Sherlock cut in.

Molly pursed her lips in irritation. "She was also mentioned quite often on John's blog."

"God, John's blog. For someone whose job involves sensitive information, the man does not know the meaning of discretion. Her being alive was to be kept secret yet he immediately wrote about it for the entire world to see!"

A short chuckle escaped her lips. "Probably don't have to worry about MI-6 recruiting him."

"I certainly do not."

"My point was, though, that you never showed any interest in me. You would barely admit that I was your friend, you always said that John was your only friend. Which, by the way, is a bit insulting to your other friends. So, why would I think you'd want to date me?"

"'Date' is such a puerile word," Sherlock muttered. "You're right, I never did demonstrate my affection and interest in you, I didn't know how to. Or at least know how to do it so you would know that I was genuine. It's why I seized the opportunity to learn what to do in relationships before entering one. I didn't want to damage our friendship," Sherlock emphasized the word pointedly, "by embarking on a relationship destined to fail. Knowing what you expect in a relationship would at least give us a chance of success."

Molly sighed. There was definitely logic to his thought process. Unfortunately it was inextricably entwined with a complete lack of emotional understanding.

Sometimes Molly wondered if Sherlock was just ridiculously inexperienced when it came to interpersonal relationships, or if there was another reason he was completely inept at emotions and understanding people. Of course, it wasn't like whatever the reason behind his inability mattered. Despite everything (or perhaps because of it, the jury was still out on that one) Molly still loved the idiot.

"I… understand why you did what you did. After you explained everything, of course. Before I didn't really quite understand or maybe I didn't want to understand, I don't know but," Molly grimaced at how loudly she said, 'but' in her attempt to get her sentences back on track. "But," she repeated more softly, "I need you to know how much you hurt me. Doing this."

Molly's stomach clenched with guilt as shame and horror flashed across Sherlock's face. It lasted barely a moment before he schooled his expression but it was more than enough for Molly. "I'm telling you this so you know, I'm not trying to be cruel. I just, I can't play this off for laughs. These last few months weren't…pleasant for me and I know if I don't tell you now and you or someone else jokes about this it'll just eat me up inside. At least for now. In a few months I'm sure it'll be fine, but just not, not now."

"Was it truly so bad?" Sherlock asked quietly, after the silence stretched on too long.

"I've had worse." Molly chuckled weakly.

"Molly."

It's strange that all he had to do was just say her name a certain way and she was incapable of not answering him. Her dad was the only other person who had had that ability. Molly grimaced at that realization. That was not a mental road she wanted to go down. At all. Though she was fairly confident she didn't have daddy issues or a daddy kink. The one time her uni boyfriend tried to role-play and ask her who her daddy was she just gave him a weird look and said, 'Lawrence.'

"Molly," Sherlock said again.

"It wasn't fun," Molly said firmly. "I really don't want to get into it. Let's just say there were quite a few nights that involved sweets, drinking, crying, and '80s films. Not all at the same time though."

Sherlock leaned back in the booth and stared at her with narrowed eyes.

Oh, she hated when he deduced her from her head to her, still disgustingly wet, socks. Molly pulled nervously at her still wet trousers, shuddering at the sensation of it pulling from her skin. She hated wet clothes. The only consolation was that her undergarments were still dry. If those had been wet…well she'd be in an incredibly sour mood.

"Your jeans are upstairs if you wish to change."

Molly blinked at him.

"Your trousers. If you want to change your trousers, I still have your jeans."

"Oh. That actually sounds fantastic." Her voice was a tad too bubbly, though she was truly happy about having dry clothes. "Have to take them back home anyway, might as well wear them!"

Molly dutifully followed Sherlock as he slid from the booth and made his way back to 221b, quite thankful that there was at least a moment's break in the storm.

"John here?" Molly cast her eyes around the sitting room, looking for the army doctor. She wasn't sure if his presence would be a good or a bad thing, honestly. Molly just wanted to be prepared.

"At surgery," Sherlock said as he disappeared down the hall to his room.

Molly stood in the kitchen, shifting from foot to foot as she tried to distract herself.

Sherlock came back to the kitchen and wordlessly held out her jeans.

"Thanks," Molly muttered before heading to the loo to change.

Peeling off her wet trousers felt both amazing and disgusting, the water residue made her skin feel clammy. Molly looked around for something to dry her legs with. Putting jeans on wet skin was not a pleasant experience. Grabbing a hand towel, Molly quickly scrubbed her skin, praying that the hand towel was just a hand towel. One never knew what dangers or oddities lurked in 221b. It could be natural mold culture for all she knew. She made a note to herself to scrub her legs extra thoroughly when she showered tonight. Just in case.

Sherlock was waiting for her holding a plastic bag open for her khakis when she came back to the kitchen. Sherlock closed the handles of the bag, trapping her hands in his after she dumped in trousers in the bag.

"It was never my intention to hurt you. I had hoped to achieve quite the opposite." His voice was so low that if she wasn't standing inches from him, she never would have made out his words.

"I know," Molly replied, her voice just as low. It was why he was so easy to forgive usually. Sherlock was a bit like a puppy; not in the playful innocent way, but in the way that sometimes he truly just did not understand that he did something wrong.

He even destroyed her shoes on occasion.

"Sherlock." Molly hesitated for a moment. "While what you did was, uh,-"

"Not good?"

"Right, not good," Molly agreed. "It would take more than that to stop my feelings for you and a hell of a lot more for me to stop being your friend. Though please don't test what my limit is!" She added hurriedly at the end.

Sherlock laughed softly. "I won't test it on purpose."

The pathologist stepped back, pulling the trouser laden bag out of Sherlock's grasp. "I'm going to go home now. Laundry to do, Toby to feed, and Guilder to frame for it! I'm swamped."

Sherlock pursed his lips and squinted his eyes. Molly almost giggled. It was Sherlock's classic Am-I-Supposed-To-Understand-That? Look.

"I watched a lot of '80s movies."

Sherlock bounced on his toes, trying to work out some of his nervous energy. This was it. Moment of truth. The day of days. Some other ominous cliché that should be utilized in situations such as these. Point was, today, this hour, this minute he was going to ask Molly on a date. A true one. Straight forward, couching it in completely unambiguous terms so she would know exactly what he meant. Once successful, he'd take Molly…somewhere and do…something which would kick-start their relationship and put this mess behind them.

He made a mental note to spend time thinking about exactly what to do with Molly on their outing.

Perhaps he should wait until he came up with an idea before asking her?

No. He was going to do it now. As soon as possible. Not exactly striking while the iron was hot, but the less time Molly had to dwell on the past few months, the better. Showing Molly that he will be, well he will try, to be an adequate partner for her will hopefully mitigate the damage he may have done to their relationship.

Besides, lesser minds did this all the time so there was no reason he couldn't do it also. Even if it had taken him more tries and much longer than originally planned.

But Sherlock Holmes does not give up.

Especially when in regards to something, or well someone, that he wants.

The fact that John and Lestrade knew about his desire for a relationship with Molly just added to his resolve. The thought of the mocking, or even worse the heartfelt advice, that he would endure from the two of them sent shivers down his spine.

The door to the women's employee locker room swung open and Molly came out, decked out in scrubs, tying her hair up in a ponytail.

"Molly!" Sherlock called, wincing as Molly jumped. Bit too loud.

"Christ, Sherlock!" Molly faced him, a hand pressed to her chest.

"Right, too loud," Sherlock acknowledged, eager to get this over with. "Molly, I would like to spend time, no let me rephrase, I would like to take you out on a date, one with romantic undertones, no not undertones, overtones, not a friend date or a play date or any other platonic variants of a date, on your next free day."

Molly gave him a queer look. Not quite what he was hoping for but Sherlock refused to consider negative possibilities until she spoke. "I don't think anyone past primary school has play dates, Sherlock."

"That's not an answer."

"No, right it's not. A date on my next free day?" She scratched her head as she looked to the side, her eyes darting from side to side as if reading an imaginary piece of paper. "No."

Sherlock blinked at Molly. Was-was she rejecting him? Even after she still admitted that she had feelings for him? And she knew that he returned her sentiments? She's saying no?

This was completely unexpected.

"But I can do the day after that," Molly said softly, not meeting his eyes.

Sherlock just barely managed to stop himself from sighing in relief. "Right. Good. I'll text you the details and see you then. Well unless a case comes up because then I'll see you before then. Or I'll have to cancel and see you late-" Sherlock cut himself off. Christ, he was babbling.

"Okay," Molly acknowledged. "Um, was there anything else you need? Cardiology has called me up for a surgical consult, but if you're just picking up something or need to see a body I can get Cole to help you."

"No, I just came to ask - since when do you do surgical consults?"

Molly rolled her eyes. "Surgical pathology, Sherlock."

"I know that, but when was the last time that you did surgery?"

"Are you calling me incompetent?" Molly raised her eyebrows.

"What? No. No." Sherlock shut his mouth with a click. How did this conversation go south so quickly? "I-you usually don't do surgical consults?"

"Relax, I'm teasing you. A bit. Nnamdi usually does the consults but he's on holiday and on that note I have to go. There's a 58 year old with his chest cracked open upstairs waiting for me to look at a lump on his left atrium. How they missed that during diagnostics, I will never know." Molly shrugged and headed towards the lifts.

"Cardiac tumors are rather rare…" Sherlock let his voice trail off; hoping Molly would catch his hint as he joined her.

"Sherlock, are you seriously telling the pathologist the incidence of cardiac tum-oh. No. No! You can't have it!"

The lift signaled its arrival with two soft dings.

"I may never have this opportunity again," Sherlock wheedled, following her into the lift.

"No, Sherlock, honestly!" Molly punched the button for the surgical floor.

"What if I say please?"

"You never say please! At least not sincerely."

"Please?"

"No!"

Well this was déjà vu all over again.

Molly rocked on heels as she waited for the door to open. It had been almost a minute since she'd knocked and then pounded on the door and Sherlock still hadn't come downstairs. The pathologist tried to swallow down her anxiety. Sherlock seemed so sincere in his explanation of his actions. But, but there was a small part of her brain that refused to believe him. It reminded her of all her fears, insecurities, and deficiencies in a soft almost condescending whisper.

Molly pressed Mrs. Hudson's doorbell. She refused to give into her darker thoughts. At least not now.

"Molly! What do I owe the pleasure, love?" Mrs. Hudson asked the moment the door swung open.

"Sorry to bother you, Mrs. Hudson-"

"Oh, Martha, dear, call me Martha."

Molly fought down a grimace. It's not that she didn't like Mrs. Hudson, quite the opposite Molly thought that the older woman was hilarious and lovely in every way. It just seemed so wrong to call her by her first name. "Right uh, Miss Martha." A fake cough obscured the 'Miss.' Stupid, but it made her feel better. Less like her grandmother would rise from her grave to smack her upside the head with her pocketbook for cheeking her elders. "Sherlock asked me over but he's not answering. Mind letting me in?"

"Oh, of course, love." Mrs. Hudson gave Molly an exaggerated wink that left the younger woman a bit on edge. What did she know that Molly didn't? "Go right on up."

"Thanks," Molly muttered, making her way up to Sherlock's flat.

"Not today, George!" Molly heard Sherlock shout halfway up the stairs.

"Well, why the hell not? I saw the look on your face, you want to take this case."

"Leave the deductions to experts, Lestrade. I have other obligations today," Sherlock ground out. Molly walked as quietly as she could up the stairs. She would be lying if she said she wasn't interested in their conversation.

"Obligations?" Lestrade asked incredulously with a bit of a laugh. "Are you taking the piss? You don't even know the meaning of the word!"

Sherlock spun around, the murderous look on his face suddenly morphing to a more inviting one as he caught sight of Molly. "Molly! Come in, come in, Guy was just leaving."

"Ohhhh." Lestrade looked from Molly back to Sherlock, a shit-eating grin on his face. "Obligations."

Molly was fairly certain that her cheeks were so red that it could be seen from the international space station. The petite woman was just unsure if her blush was from the current situation or the remembered mortification that Greg had known about how she talked to him about Sherlock and John and he had known what Sherlock was doing. "Hi Greg. What's brought you 'round?"

"Got something for Don Juan over there. Right up his alley. Possible attempted murder. Almost certainly a case of spontaneous human combustion."

Molly blinked. "What?" She had heard what Greg had said but her mind just could not process the thought of someone talking about spontaneous human combustion seriously.

"Yup. Went right up in flames in a room full of people. They managed to put her out but she'll be in hospital for quite some time."

"So… you need Sherlock to determine how she caught on fire?"

Sherlock let out a suffering sigh. "Victim has recently been on the receiving end of various threats. All very creative. All very poorly spelled. Lestrade wants me to look over the scene, see if her combustion was less spontaneous and more planned. But," he emphasized, "I have plans for the day and can't go. No, thank you for coming, Lestrade." Sherlock shoved the detective inspector out the door. "Enjoy questioning your charcoal briquette."

"Spontaneous human combustion?" Molly questioned, raising her eyebrows at the consulting detective cum possible (probable?) paramour.

"Highly unlikely." Sherlock bounced on his toes, eyes darting about the flat.

"You are just gasping to go, aren't you?" Sherlock was an absolutely fabulous actor but he was absolute shit when it came to concealing his eagerness for a case. Or maybe she was just very good at reading Sherlock. Either way, it was laughably obvious that the idea of this case was an unexpected treat.

"Uh, yes, we can be on our way, I suppose."

"I meant to the scene. You want to disprove that it was spontaneous. Catch the person who did it."

Molly couldn't even say that Sherlock did an adequate job trying to hide his guilt. He was like a puppy fidgeting anxiously as it sat still for a treat.

"You should go."

Sherlock's head shot up, surprise on his face. "I said that I would spend time with you today. I want tospend time with you."

"Maybe, uh, maybe I could come with you?" Molly's voice was so soft by the end it was nearly inaudible.

Sherlock peered at her. "You're serious."

The pathologist nodded. "Point of a date is to do things together, yeah? We can do that anywhere so why not while you're solving a maybe crime? I've never seen you work first hand like this."

Molly was fairly confident that Sherlock would not have been more surprised if Molly revealed to him that she was, in fact, several rather talented badgers in a human suit.

The consulting detective grinned and grasped Molly's hand pulling her to the door, grabbing his coat along the way, and down the stairs to Baker Street. He hailed a cab while shrugging on his coat.

It was absolutely preternatural the way that man managed to get cabs.

Sherlock hurried her into the cab. "No. 8 Northumberland," he said as he shut the door behind them and pulled out his phone.

After a few minutes of Sherlock madly texting, Molly finally broke the silence. "Out of curiosity, what did you have planned for us?"

"I managed to get us into the Black Museum at the Met. I thought it would be interesting. Apparently there is a new exhibit on Ruth Ellis. Last woman to be executed." Sherlock clarified. "Killed her lover."

"You wanted to take me to an exhibit about a woman murdering her boyfriend? Doesn't really speak to a promising beginning."

"Well, should you come to the conclusion that you need to kill me," Sherlock said, still madly typing on his mobile, "I would hope that you would have the courtesy to chose a more inventive way than shooting me in the street. At least make it a mystery. Preferably one good enough that only I could have solved it. An appropriate ending I think."

"I don't know if I'm good enough to kill creatively, I'd think you'd have to build up to creative killing." Molly glanced at the cabbie to see if she was listening to their conversation. She didn't look like she was but perhaps she just had a good poker face.

"It would definitely be difficult for a first kill, which would make it even better. I'm sure we can figure out a satisfactory way for you to kill me. The thought of being a boring murder victim makes me shudder." Sherlock punctuated his statement with an actual shudder.

"You're going to help me plan your theoretical murder." Honestly, she wasn't even really that surprised.

"Well you know what they say, if you want things done right, might as well do it yourself."

The horrifically boringly named Ballroom at no. 8 Northumberland Ave was one of London's grandest and most expensive Victorian styled venues. The white tablecloth covered tables had been shoved haphazardly to either side of the ballroom. Obviously the result of emergency services trying to clear the way to the victim.

A low whistle brought him back to reality. "What?"

"Hmm? Oh nothing, just goodness this is posh," Molly replied, her head tilted back as she examined the ornate recessed ceiling panels.

Sherlock shrugged. Most posh venues blurred together in his mind. The gilded haunts of London's elite tended to stay as static and tiresome as the upper class that frequented them. Minor differences such as a marble floor at one or blue walls at another didn't mask the overwhelmingly cookie cutter design.

"Ah, Lestrade."

The detective inspector waved them over to an alcove. "So, you brought Molly?" He said as they approached him, wiggling his eyebrows.

"Obviously and honestly, we're at a possible crime scene," Sherlock scolded. The policeman and John were always harping on him to behave, the very least they could do was set a good example. A good example in this case also had the added benefit of the DI not prying into Sherlock's personal affairs.

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Aishwarya Sankaranarayan. 35 years old. Virologist at London School of Hygiene & Tropical Medicine. Came to the party 'round 12:30ish or so, mingled for around two hours, nothing of interest happened according to witnesses-"

"But they never know what is of interest," Sherlock cut in.

Lestrade shared a commiserating look with Sherlock before continuing. "She was walking away from the refreshments table and began screaming as her dress burst into flames. She drops to the ground." The detective flipped to the next page of his notebook. "Someone throws the bowl of lemonade on her. Other people throw various liquids on her. Thankfully none of them alcoholic. Fire is put out soon after but not before the victim sustained third degree burns to a large portion of her trunk, thighs, and parts of her right arm. She's still in treatment but according to the last update, she's expected to make a full, though painful, recovery provided she doesn't succumb to an infection."

"I need to see where she was, any CCTV, and her clothes. I assume the scene is over there where Anderson is stomping." Sherlock didn't bother waiting for confirmation, already walking towards the crowd of technicians and police.

"Um, I'll just stay here, yeah?" Molly called after him.

"If that's what you want to do. I don't suspect I'll be long," Sherlock replied distractedly. There likely wasn't going to be many clues at the scene of the suspected crime, but one did have to be thorough.

A concept Scotland Yard should think about adopting.

Sherlock crouched at the edge of the scene, ignoring Anderson's quips. Really it was too easy sometimes to verbally decimate him that it was almost embarrassing to engage him. Bit like stealing sweets from a child. So easy it was wrong.

For being the scene of a near immolation, the carpet was mostly unscathed. Most of the damage came from putting out the fire than from the fire itself. Sherlock tilted his head to get a better angle of the rug. Ah, just as he thought. Carpet was made of polypropylene. So it melted instead of burned.

Sherlock jumped up and took a step back to take in the pattern of melted carpet. It was spread out over roughly a square meter of carpet. Most likely from Dr. Sankaranarayan's thrashing as she attempted to smother the fire. Looked like she took stop, drop, and roll to heart.

Sherlock pulled out his magnifying glass and knelt in order to examine the little bit of ash that was sprinkled on the carpet. He picked up one of the larger pieces and brought it to his nose. Burnt leaves and no discernible smell of any accelerant. Sherlock rubbed the ash together between his thumb and first two fingers to confirm his suspicions. The ash crumbled easily under the light pressure and fluttered to the carpet. Cotton.

Cotton. No discernable accelerant smell. Polypropylene carpet. Victim attempted to smother the flames. Lemonade and water was used to help extinguish the fire.

The detective furrowed his brow at the damp patch. He needed clay in order to make bricks and the clay that the current data had wrought was nowhere near enough.

Sherlock shouldered his way out of the crowd and back to the alcove where he left Lestrade and Molly. The detective inspector was talking to one of policewomen milling about. (Hitting on a subordinate at a possible crime scene? Tsk tsk detective inspector.) Molly was sat at a nearby table, her head resting on her hand as she poked at her phone's screen. Judging by the annoyed expression on her face, she was playing Sudoku and was currently at a block. She gave him a small smile as he approached, one that he briefly returned.

"Nothing of importance to gain here."

The policewoman whom Lestrade was flirting with jumped at the sound of his voice. Not very observant for a police officer. Sherlock glanced at her (Second, no third generation Southeast Asian. Most likely Pakistani judging by her surname. One dog. Insomniac and currently having a mighty row with her girlfriend) before turning to Lestrade. "Who has her clothes?"

The inspector's sigh and grimace told him everything.

"Here is what's left of the victim's clothes," Sergeant Donovan said, gesturing to the burnt fabric that was roughly arranged to look like a dress. Twisted metal and loose buttons were placed next to the fabric.

"What on earth is that?" Molly pointed to a quarter sphere of bent and misshapen wire.

"I believe it's part of her bustle." The policewoman tilted her head, examining the remnants.

"Bustle? At a birthday party?"

"Fancy dress," Sherlock, crouched down to look at the clothing remnants at eye level, muttered. "Hmm, made not bought, interesting…"

"Apparently along with manipulating viruses, Dr. Sankaranarayan also liked recreating vintage clothing. Too bad most of her hard work has been destroyed." Sally limped around to the other side of the table, the rubber tip of her cane thumping softly as it hit the tile. "This is part of her corset. Looks like it was a nice one too, whalebone. Might even be authentic."

"Whalebone? Like actual bones of whales?" Molly asked. Why would whalebone be used? Why not cow bone or sheep bone or other readily accessible bones?

Sherlock straightened from his perusal of charred something or another (Skirt? Jacket?) to raise his eyebrow at the policewoman.

"I have a life outside work, Sherlock," Sally said with a roll of her eyes.

"Obviously. And that 'outside life' is how you received your injury. Best leave football to the professionals, it doesn't seem to be doing you any good."

Molly wasn't entirely certain of the source of enmity between the two of them. The few times Sergeant Donovan came to her morgue, she was respectful and efficient, unlike many of her brethren at the Met. The tossers.

According to John, the two of them had been at war before he ever met Sherlock. Sally would provoke Sherlock into saying something, well, Sherlockian and then get incensed. Of course, as Sherlock's best mate, the former army doctor was prone to bias even though he would claim otherwise. Greg's take on the matter was decidedly more sympathetic to his second in command. And honestly, a lot more believable in Molly's opinion. She loved Sherlock but she was well aware of his habit of provoking people for a reaction. The sergeant was the perfect victim, as she didn't seem like the type to just roll her eyes and ignore Sherlock, the only effective way of stopping him. Fighting back usually just made him worse as he would try to come out on top in the resulting tiff.

"What's that?" Molly asked, pointing to a blob of…something. Hopefully the question would turn their attention away from goading each other and back to the case.

"Looks like a fan." Sherlock poked the blob with a pencil, showing that what Molly thought was a large blob was, in fact, several smaller blobs piled on top of each other.

"It looks like plastic, though." If this woman was serious enough to have an authentic whalebone corset, it didn't seem right that she would have a cheap plastic fan. Hell, Molly had a nicer folding fan than that and she bought it for like 10 yuan while on holiday.

"They had plastic in the 19th century. Well, a precursor of plastic. Could be a replica," Sally chimed in.

Sherlock jerked up from where he was bent over the table. "Of course! I need to see the security tapes."

"'Of course?' What 'of course?'" Molly called after Sherlock as he ran out of the room. She turned to Sally who just shrugged her shoulders and followed the black haired detective.

"I hate it when he does that," Sally muttered to herself.

Molly hummed in agreement as she kept pace with the injured policewoman as they walked through the halls of New Scotland Yard. His sudden proclamations drove her batty in the beginning but now she'd grown so used to them she barely noticed.

"So whalebone corsets?" Maybe now that they were sans Sherlock, perhaps Sally would answer her question. Though, Molly supposed she could just Google it later.

"Hmm? Oh, yeah. They used the bendy bit of a whale's mouth, not like its ribs or something. My mum always preferred using whalebone corsets if possible though metal ones were cheaper."

"Oh, what did your mother do?" She didn't know Sally well enough for them to have companionable silence, so hopefully idle talk would keep them occupied on their journey.

"She is, well was -she's retired now - a costume designer. Mostly plays, but she did a couple of movies here and there. She used to make my brother and I help her when she was close to deadlines. There are a fair number of dresses and suits on West End that have my blood on them." Sally gave Molly a wry smile that Molly returned.

If it wasn't skin, Molly was a shit seamstress. Sewing was one of those skills that she had meant to learn (along with knowing how to change the oil in a car, but since she hadn't owned a car in 7 years that wasn't a pressing concern). Her mum tried to teach her how to use her sewing machine, but then banned her from touching it once Molly managed to sew the presser foot into the fabric she was sewing. Neither she nor her mother could ever figure out how the hell she did that.

Molly pulled the door open for Sally as they entered Lestrade's office to find detective and DI crowded around a computer.

"See! Right there! That's where the fire started." Sherlock pointed at the screen emphatically.

"I still don't see it, Sherlock."

"Keep an eye on the woman with the feather in her hair," Sherlock instructed as Sally and Molly headed around the desk to join them.

Molly stared at the rather statuesque woman with a large peacock feather in her hair. Her movements were jerky due to the CCTV recording, but she could see her rubbing her hand idly on what appeared to be a muff hand warmer as if it were a pet. Dr. Sankaranarayan entered the picture, bumped into the woman with the muff, said something and continued to walk away until her skirts burst into flames moments later.

Sherlock paused the film and looked expectantly at the trio. Molly immediately averted her gaze and began to inspect her nails. No way in hell was she going to be the first to admit that she had no idea what significant event she was supposed to have witnessed.

Apparently annoyed at the lack of replies, Sherlock sighed dramatically. "Look at her! She's rubbing her handwarmer, which I suspect is made of real fur, while wearing, most likely, silk gloves. You can tell she's a professional socialite, no way would she wear anything less than silk. She's generating loads of static electricity. Dr. Sankaranarayan brushes against her, transferring some of the electricity to her, which causes her fan to combust, fire ignites her clothing and she goes up in flames. Therefore a freak accident. And not spontaneous combustion."

"Oh honestly, Sherlock," Lestrade groaned. "Her fan set her on fire? I have a controversial scientist in hospital who has reported numerous threats against her and you want me to tell my bosses that it was an accident via fan."

"If it was made of celluloid, chances are Fre - Sherlock is right." Sally looked a bit like she swallowed something sour as she spoke from where she was perched on the desk.

Lestrade's mouth dropped open as he stared at his second in command.

Molly got the feeling that Sherlock and Sally didn't agree with each other too often. Or at least didn't admit to agreeing with each other.

"Celluloid is very flammable and can spontaneously combust," Sally defended. "Remember the fire in evidence a couple of years ago during that heat wave? It was caused by old celluloid film combusting."

"To be honest, I'm a bit disappointed it wasn't actually a case of someone spontaneously combusting. That would have been brilliant," Molly muttered. Oh Christ, did she say that out loud? The pathologist clapped her hands over her mouth, as if by hiding her mouth no one would have heard her. Judging by the shocked looks on the police officers' faces and the amusement on Sherlock's, she was wildly unsuccessful.

Sally shook her head. "You two are perfect for each other."

"This was not a very satisfying date was it?" Sherlock poked at his barg, avoiding Molly's gaze. Sitting by idly as your date mucked around crime scenes and evidence could not have been all that interesting. Ending the date with Turkish takeaway at Baker Street instead of at the quaint restaurant he had intended probably didn't really help either. Sherlock's fist tightened, the ridges of the plastic fork he was holding digging into his skin.

He glanced at Molly out of the corner of his eye. She was setting down her plate of koobideh kebab on the coffee table.

"It was not what I would have planned," she said neutrally. "It was interesting to see you work out in the field, so to say, since I only see you work in the lab. The case, well at least the premise of it was intriguing."

Sherlock tossed the barg on to the table sending rice all about the wooden top and surrounding floor. "I should have ignored the case and done what I had planned."

"No!" Molly protested. "No. I-I think it was good that I came with you."

Sherlock shot her a look of disbelief. "You just said it was not a good date."

"No, I said it was not what I would have planned. I won't say that it was the best date I've ever been on, but I like that I went with you. Your work is very important to you, everyone knows that. You've told me before, about how cases help keep you sober. So, instead of canceling our date or being left behind or making you give up an interesting case, I thought it would be the best to join you. That way you don't have to compromise and I can still spend time with you, which is what counts. I think it will help us not to feel, uh, resentful? Resentful of each other when cases come up when we had planned time together. If it's good enough, you can take it and occasionally I can come with you so I won't feel abandoned." Molly grabbed a handful of her hair and began to nervously toy with it. "Obviously I wouldn't go on the dangerous ones, that's all John's, I'd be rubbi-."

Sherlock reached over, grabbed her face between the palms of his hands and fervently pressed his lips to hers. The movement was completely unplanned and artless.

Sherlock knew that Molly was very good at seeing him, but it wasn't until this moment that he realized that not only did she see him, she understood. She understood why the work was so important. She understood that sometimes cases would take precedence. She understood that if she made him turn down cases repeatedly he would grow resentful and suffocate in the chains of a relationship. She understood that if he repeatedly cancelled plans for cases, she would begin to feel unwanted and abandoned. Molly understood him, understood him and was doing her best already to make them work.

Molly wanted them, Sherlock and Molly, as a couple to work. Something that Sherlock was honestly beginning to doubt would ever happen.

Sherlock pulled back slightly before leaning in to kiss her again. The first kiss could barely be classified as such, more a rough and rather poorly performed pressing together of lips. Too much enthusiasm, not enough thought. This second time was gentler. He could enjoy the softness of her lips and the lemony taste of sumac on her lips from her koobideh kebab. Now, Molly could respond instead of sitting frozen and, oh, how she responded!

They pulled apart again, their foreheads touching each other.

"You know," Molly said, her breathless voice sending a smirk to his face. "you know that relationships are a compromise and I get something in return for going on cases instead of dates."

Sherlock's eyebrows rose at that. "Oh? And what would that be?"

"Every time you interrupt a date or planned time together for a case, you take me to a play or musical of my choice."

"Ummm, nope," Sherlock replied, popping the 'p.' "Every five cases."

"Ummm, nope," Molly mimicked. "I think we both know where this negotiation is going. Every three, final offer."

Sherlock gave Molly a light peck on the nose. "Every three, but no musicals. That's why you have your girlfriends."

He rather liked a fair few plays, but musicals on the other hand were right out. He still had flashbacks from the one time his mother managed to drag him to Cats.

Molly heaved a dramatic sigh. "Fine, no musicals. Plays and ballets."

People dressed in tight clothing prancing around a stage for several hours? Dear God, it was exactly like Cats. How could anyone find that entertaining?

"C'mon," Molly cajoled. "You can close your eyes and pretend you're at the symphony."

Well, at least no one sang during ballets. "Fine."

Molly scooted closer to him so she was half in his lap. She wrapped her arms around his neck and kissed his cheek.

Sherlock looped an arm around Molly's waist and fell back onto the couch, pulling her on top of him. "I think we can find better things to do than negotiate."

Molly laughed and leaned down to kiss him again.

Better things to do indeed.

I admit it, you were right. This did 'bite me in the arse'' as you said-SH

It's only been two weeks! What do you do?-J

Nothing. Things are going well.-SH

Uh…then why say it bit you in the arse?-J

I was not speaking metaphorically.-SH

Please, oh God, please tell me you mean that Molly's cat bit you.-J

You know I don't-SH

THAT'S TOO MUCH INFORMATION. CHRIST, SHERLOCK!-J

...And that's all folks!

Thanks to thatred-hairedgirl and the-doctor-wtf for looking this over and all their suggestions! They're absolutely lovely (and they fixed up my grammar so you can read this without scratching your eyes out.).

I can't thank you all enough for having stuck with this story (and me!) for this long. I hope that this is satisfying conclusion to the story. So many people have encouraged and helped me make this story possible. Honestly, thank you all so much!

If this story at all entertained you or made you laugh, I would greatly appreciate it if you could leave a review, or a kudos, or recommend this story to others who may enjoy it.

A few notes re: the case:

It might sound ridiculous but celluloid is extremely flammable. Celluloid fires have burnt down houses (a spark from a fire once landed on the celluloid head of a doll and burnt down most of the house), maimed people, and were responsible for roughly the deaths of 3,000 women in the mid 19th century. Celluloid does spontaneously combust, especially if it is old and degraded. Usually you'll hear about celluloid fires as it related to old film.

Static electricity can and has started fires and caused deaths before. Unlike celluloid, the chances of static electricity causing more than just a mild shock is very, very rare. But in the right circumstances a perfect storm can occur.

So far, there is not any strong evidence that spontaneous human combustion exists. Most cases have an outside starter like a cigarette or candle, that ignites the…you know maybe you should google it if you're interested as I don't know how comfortable people are with the subject.