"But you're just sitting there."

Molly simply sighed.

The day had begun with relative normalcy. She came in to work several minutes early in order to tackle the paperwork she knew would be waiting. When she received a call that the body of a suspected murder victim would be brought in an hour into her shift, she understood that along with it would arrive a certain consulting detective, his doctor-blogger-best friend, a request for coffee, and a few insults.

It was normal for her anyway.

When said consulting detective did arrive several hours after the body did, however, he was without his best friend, there was a request, but it was of a different kind. The insults were still there though.

"Molly. Take that silly coat of yours and let's go out for Chinese, there's a good one that stays open until two." he had said immediately after barging in dramatically through the morgue's double doors.

"W-what? I'm busy, Sherlock." After everything that has happened in the past year and a half, she rarely stammered in front of him anymore. Helping someone pretend-die did have an effect on people after all. Right now, however, she was completely and properly confused.

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed. "But you're just sitting there."

Molly simply sighed. She turned and faced him, gesturing to her desk. "I'm sitting filling out paperwork on that Mr. Roy that Lestrade sent over." She lifted an eyebrow. "Aren't you here for him?"

He shrugged. "Solved that hours ago. He was walking his pet Labrador. It chased a passing stray cat, he didn't let go, which was very stupid, seeing as he was hardly physically fit to keep up with such a large, energetic breed. He tripped, fell headfirst on a steel-toe boot attached to the unfortunate and understandably very alarmed Mr. Fitz. That he was also a black market art dealer was merely a coincidence." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Boring."

"Oh. So that was what that contusion was." Molly smiled. She recalled seeing the corpse's bruised hand, the marks of a thick nylon cord almost cut into the palm, and the curiously shaped wound on the side of it's head, which was the cause of death: blunt force trauma. "So you're all done, then? You didn't leave Lestrade before you've given you're statement again, did you?" She giggled, imagining the detective inspector's exasperated face.

Sherlock merely shrugged, raising an eyebrow when she giggled. "Are you almost done?" He had his hands clasped behind him, and hadn't even bothered taking off his coat and scarf. He just wandered around the morgue, sometimes looking over her shoulder.

Molly gave him a shrug of her own, knowing that it was pointless to argue. A few quiet minutes later, she asked, "Why do you want to go out for dinner? Is John having Mary over again?" She liked John's girlfriend and had become fast friends with the school teacher over the last few weeks.

She rubbed the back of her neck, trying to lessen the stiffness that had been lingering there ever since she'd started the autopsy on Mr. Roy. She continued looking over her notes, deciding which ones can be put off, and which ones need immediate attention. It was nearing the end of her shift anyway, and she didn't fancy staying around any longer on a weekend.

Hearing no response, she turned around and caught Sherlock staring at her, his shoulders tense, a hand gripping the end of a low shelf, worrying his bottom lip. It was a sight she'd never seen before.

"Are you all right?" She asked, standing up and slowly approaching him, worry written on her face.

Sherlock cleared his throat and straightened up, seeming to shake himself. "Of course." he answered tersely. "So, Chinese?"

She breathed a sigh of relief. "Fine." Molly wondered what brought this on, and why he seemed out of sorts that day. After "The Fall" as she, and eventually the press refer to it, happened, she'd pretty much been privy to a view of Sherlock very few have been able to witness. She never wanted to see an uncertain Sherlock again.

As usual, Sherlock seemed able to read her thoughts. "Nothing's wrong, Molly, I assure you. But I am hungry."

"I'll drop you off then." She said, gathering her things and grabbing her coat. Sherlock rarely ate, so even if it was inconvenient, she'd gladly do it.

At this last, she felt a hand tug her elbow, stopping her movements. Surprised, she turned and nearly hit his chin with her head; he was standing flush against her side. The look on his face showed confusion, not something one would consider normal for Sherlock Holmes.

"Sherlock?" she asked, her cheeks flushing, acutely aware of his hand on her elbow, of his proximity. Her heart sped up, and she knew it was not out of fear. She tried to regulate her breathing.

He tilted his head closer to hers. "I thought that was what people who like each other did? Have dates?" His eyes pierced hers, his brow furrowed in what Molly could only call worry.

"Wait, what?" Molly tried to pull away, but when Sherlock held fast, gently but firmly, she had no choice but to stay where she was...not that she really minded. "Have d... you mean you wanted to go out on a date with me?"

This seemed to confuse Sherlock even more, as his free hand rose to fiddle with his scarf. "I want to. With you, yes." He looked away from her then, his eyes flitting around the room. "Which is obvious by the fact that I asked."

Molly shook her head, chuckling. "You didn't ask, Sherlock. You just came in here and said we'll go out for Chinese."

He let go of her elbow then, and took a step back. She realized she strangely missed it.

"Well then, Molly Hooper, shall we go out for Chinese?" He said, his eyes finally back on hers.

Unsure but at the same time quite thrilled, she gave him a tentative smile and said, "Okay?"

At that, Sherlock grinned, and Molly could swear the morgue grew just a little bit warmer.

"You do realize you just admitted to liking me?" Molly turned from the driver's seat to look at Sherlock, street lights playing on her features. Sherlock gazed at her a moment. "Yes." was all he said, before turning to look out the passenger side window.

They drove in silence. Molly could tell Sherlock was uncomfortable, and she resisted the urge for idle chatter. She knew he wasn't the kind to participate in those, and besides, she might start stuttering again.

When they arrived, she was surprised to find Sherlock holding the door open, helping her with her coat, and then, once they'd found a corner table, even pulling out her chair for her to sit on. Once they'd placed their orders, Molly gathered her courage and asked. "Ok, Sherlock. What's this about, exactly?"

Sherlock turned a puzzled frown on her. "I already told you, Molly."

"Yes, you said this is a date. But why?"

"I've also answered that." He replied, clearly uncomfortable. Clear to her, at least. To the rest of the restaurant he remained as stoic as ever.

Molly rolled her eyes. "But you don't like me. I mean, not in that way. Not really. So what's this for?" She gave him a knowing smile. "Do you need to fake your death again?" She added, chuckling.

Sherlock surprised her even further by looking genuinely hurt. He'd given her puppy eyes before, to be able to get what he needed when compliments didn't work, but this one, this was too raw to be an act. Her smile dropped, and guilt poked her chest. She was about to apologize when the waiter appeared with their order, placing their food on the table. Once done, she opened her mouth to try again, but he beat her to it.

"I meant it, Molly." When she didn't answer, he continued. "When I said I needed you. Granted, it was said in a different context, and under deplorable circumstances, but the..." he squinted, cleared his throat, and seemed to brace himself before continuing, "...sentiment...remains the same. I did...I do like you in that way." At that, he picked up a fork he'd requested with his chow mein and started poking the noodles.

If anything, Molly became more confused, unable to reconcile everything she knew about Sherlock with the version of him that apparently now exists. They had grown closer after everything that had happened, yes; she can confidently count herself as his friend now, he'd even said as much. But in the process, she'd resigned herself to the fact that it was probably all she'd ever be to him. She should have been elated at this revelation, after all, she'd pined after him for years. All she was at that moment, however, was confused and just a little bit frightened; wary of the man seated in front of her. She proceeded to eat quietly, not knowing what to say.

Their dinner—nearly breakfast—proceeded in silence, the only sounds emanating from their table the clinks of their glasses and Sherlock's fork on the plate. They would steal glances at each other, each one tense and unsure.

After a few more minutes, Sherlock spoke. "I apologize. I realize I didn't think this through." He sighed, leaning back in his chair, intently gazing at her. "I thought the feeling was mutual."

She sat up, startled. Still a bit confused, she nonetheless bravely put a hand on his. "It—it is, actually. I'm just...this is just a bit...unexpected, that's all." Sherlock, relieved, turned his hand so that their fingers intertwined, and a corner of his mouth lifted in a smile.

"Please know that I...I've always...always liked you, Sherlock. I don't think that will ever change. But, you can hardly blame me for being confused. John's told me what you said, about how this isn't your area." His hand in hers warmed her, and she wished it was as easy as in her dreams, where he would tell her the things he'd just told her now, and she'd happily embrace him; she'd finally get her happy ending. But Molly had learned the hard way that reality isn't as easy, and not always nearly as sweet. She resisted the urge to just go along with him, to say yes and finally, finally get what she'd always wanted. Sherlock was her friend now, really her friend, and she worried that if they took this step, and it didn't work out, she'd be back to square one, or worse.

Molly tried her best to get this across to Sherlock, and he, for his part, listened intently, though when she tried to take her hand from his, he silently refused, merely gripping tighter, his eyes never leaving her face. When she finished speaking, Sherlock nodded and finally let go. He stood up, helping her out of her chair, and left a wad of bills on the table. He waited as she donned her coat before leading her out of the restaurant. Molly let herself be led, knowing that Sherlock needed to think, and would speak when he was ready. Once at they were in front of her car, he took the keys from her and opened the driver's side door, leading her in. Before he closed it, however, he lowered his head and gave her a peck on the cheek.

"I'll always be your friend, Molly Hooper. But if you'd let me, I'd like to try to be more." He whispered, his lips brushing her ear. Before she could respond, he closed her door, smiled, and walked away, his hands in his pockets.