Dropping by Baker Street after her shifts has become commonplace for Molly recently. Today however, she plans just to drop off a liver Sherlock's been pestering her about for weeks- not stay for an experiment or a takeaway like she often does- but her date with her bed and a night watching crap telly is delayed by a simple white envelope.

"What's this?" She asks curiously, plucking the envelope from his messy kitchen table. His name is scribbled on the front in blue pencil, accompanied by a squiggly pink heart.

"Nothing," Sherlock replies too quickly, too dismissively. His eyes purposely stay fixed on whatever chemicals he's mixing.

She wouldn't normally be so nosey, but Sherlock's evasiveness and the unusual writing have her intrigued. Quick as to sate her urge to know what is inside, but careful as not to damage the contents, she opens the envelope. Inside is a lined piece of paper, clearly ripped from a notepad, with a messy, but sweet note.

Dear Mister Holmes, I know you are very busy being a detective and catching bad guys but I was wondering if you could come and visit my class? Me and all my friends really like you and want you to come and talk to our class.

From Abigail, aged 10 and three quarters.

Molly struggles to pinpoint what exactly is the cutest thing about this letter. The multitude of spelling mistakes, the terrible drawing of Sherlock in the corner, or the perfect address and phone number for the school written at the bottom, with a small, hopeful smile etched in pencil beside it.

Molly is grinning widely, unbeknown to Sherlock, who is trying his hardest not to look up at her. If Molly didn't know better she'd say the consulting detective looked rather embarrassed.

"Oh Sherlock, you have to go!" Molly implores, waving the letter in front of him.

"Absoutely not," Sherlock bites back, swatting away her hand. His face is puckered in faux concentration at whatever experiment he's pretending to conduct.

"Why not?" She demands, looking affronted.

"Given the phrasing and the address of the school, this child clearly goes to a public school," Sherlock deduces in a bored voice. Or at least, it's supposed to sound bored, but there's something else hidden there too. "My parents were wealthy and I went private school. What could I possibly say to these children?"

"It doesn't matter to them that you're from a different background," She retorts, surprised by his argument. "They just want to meet you and hear your stories."

Sherlock's mouth twists at her words. "And what stories should I tell them about? The one where I jump off a building?" He spits with a harshness that Molly is taken aback by.

"You might have to edit a few bits out," She jokes in attempt to lighten the mood. Sherlock remains stony faced, so she tries another tatic. "Come on, you can't disappoint a little girl!"

Guilt has never been an emotion that settles well with Sherlock. "They say never to meet your hero," He says, his eyes looking at Molly, but his stare is so blank it almost looks wistful. "It'd be disappointing for her either way."

A lightbulb goes off in Molly's head. "Oh I see," She responds, a mirthful smile that lacks any true joy. "You're scared."

"I'm not scared," Sherlock denies, his brow furrowing at the accusation.

"You're afraid if you go and meet her she won't like the real you. That'll she'll be disappointed that you're not just a man with a fancy coat and a big brain." Molly plows on, despite Sherlock's lack of reaction. Because she thinks he needs to hear this, and she needs to say it. That this is about more than disappointing a young fan, but a deeper set issue. "You are good person, Sherlock, with an amazing mind. You should share that more with people."

"Have you ever considered motivational speaking?" Sherlock asks sarcastically, his serious eyes burning into her, dismissing the sincerity of her words. Pushing away her attempts to make him see sense.

"Sherlock…" She starts, persisting on, depsite all attempts to deflect her.

"I'm not going, Molly." Sherlock grits out, fist clenched, jaw set. Molly knows she has lost this battle, and maybe, she fears she's losing a bigger war.

Molly sets the letter back down on the table angrily. "Suit yourself," She whispers. She storms out onto Baker Street, the cold, biting wind chasing her as she walks to get a taxi.

On the journey home, she finds herself left with a troubling thought. That her and that little girl, who'll peer out her window at school for the tall man in the grey coat, aren't so different. Both cling to the hope that one day, one glorious day, the man will show up and their foolish, childlike dreams will come true.

The entrance of St Barts has always been a welcoming sight for Molly, but this particular morning, she finds herself unmoved by brightness of a passing nurse's smile or the laughs of the women at the receptionist desk.

She's been in a foul mood for the past week- since the terse conclusion of her conversation with Sherlock at Baker Street- causing even Mike to question her well being after seeing her snap at one of the nervous students. She apologised immediately, but a heap of guilt stayed with her for days.

Her luck, and her mood in tandem, seems to worsen as the days went on. She'd slept through her alarm this morning, and as a result, forgot to grab an umbrella in her haste, leaving her drenched to the bone while trying to catch a cab to work.

She peels off her jacket as soon as she arrives in her office, sighing as she frees herself from the soaked wool.

The material of her trousers squelches as she heaves herself down on her chair, taking a moment to pause, close her eyes and refocus her mind on today's tasks. Her sudden inspiration to throw her mind into her work, not sparing a single thought for a certain git detective, was stalled by a strange item on her desk that she hadn't noticed.

A spread out newspaper- a local London paper, shown by bold writing she notices at the top of the page- opened at specific page. She bolts up from the chair as her gaze finds what she didn't know she was searching for.

No, her tired eyes and hazed mind were not deceiving her, she thought, a delighted grin erupting on her face. Her fingers graze over the small, pixelated image and the printed words that were underneath. Famous Consulting Detective Sherlock Holmes visits local primary school to the delight of the pupils…

Her eyes water, blurring the already grainy image. But it's burned into her mind- the ear to ear beaming grin of a child who's just met her hero, and the genuine smile of a man who's proud to be that hero.

Molly, clutching the paper tightly with her fingers, concludes that perhaps not all hopes are in vain, and that ridiculous dream might turn out not to be so unlikely.