This fic came out of nowhere.

This may be a bit of a long AN so bear with me because I have to express something that I have been holding in for a while: where the fuck did this fic come from and where did it go?

I confess, this was meant as a joke. I didn't do research, I depended on my Romantic poets and other random information squirrelled away from reading too much British literature - and, frankly, I didn't know why people liked this fic so much anyway. It's a PERSONAL MAID TROPE, for crying out loud. This wasn't supposed to be taken seriously.

But this one actually transcended me. People were fighting over small characters in the comments, telling me how much they thought about what I was writing and generally stressing me out by how much I hadn't thought about my own fic? Someone found a Jane Eyre parallel and I think it was about this time that I threw my hands in the air and said "Okay so I don't know who is writing this but it ain't me." My beta Tingy - too psychology department to function was making literary analysis x 10. I just. I don't even know.

And then there were major names in Sherlolly coming to visit. I swear to God, I meant to write three chapters and be done with it. That was what the plan was - just a funny maid trope for TheLittleSparrow as her exams ended. Turns out, TheLittleSparrow was reading the fic after her exams and she said to me "I actually forgot that there was a real person I know behind the screen writing this." On the same spectrum of emotions, InMollysWildestDreams says "I might like this fic more than I like you."

Thanks guys. Thanks a lot.

Shout out to darthsydious, who helped me with the little research I did do - being the best sherlolly writer for Victorian (trust me on this).

Biggest shout out to Tingy, however, who made this fic fun to write bc she used to make Mean Girls references in the comments. On that note, I should tell you that this chapter may not be very well edited because Tingy was, in her own words "Too engrossed," to beta. And also, Tingy would like me to issue a warning that she feels like the only way to cope with the end of the story is to terrorise reviewers in the comments - so please comment at your own risk.

And finally - the title of the last chapter is something that I actually did have in mind since I started writing this. Not fully a Romantic poet, but this is one of my favourite poems - and it is from my favourite stanzas. As such, the line is presented without any appropriation whatsoever. I give you - William Blake's "The Tiger."

I will have a full list of poets used for the chapter titles at the bottom of the fic. Farewell, friends - and enjoy.

Kimberly: thank you thank you. I hope you like this one as well!

Guest: Hahahaha. I love the sarcastic and prodding tone to your review.

a fan: Hahahaha thank you!

Emma: Hope you like this one!

Al: Yep, here's the last one. And yea, Sherlock won't be happy with your demands because he did have to work for it in the end XD.

1. Chapter 1: Wandered Lonely Without a Job. Poet - William Wordsworth, original poem title "Wandered Lonely As a Cloud."

2. Chapter 2: She Walks in Rationality. Poet: Lord Byron, original poem title "She Walks in Beauty."

3. Chapter 3: Fled is the Music - The Violin Broke. Poet - John Keats, poem, "Ode to a Nightingale." Original line, "Fled is the music/Do I wake or sleep?"

4. Chapter 4: A Painted Maid in a Painted Home. Poet - Samuel Taylor Coleridge, poem, "Rime Of The Ancient Mariner." Original line, "A painted ship upon a painted ocean."

5. Chapter 5: To Follow Logic Like a Sinking Star. Poet - Tennyson, poem, "Ulysses." Original line, "To follow knowledge like a sinking star."

6. Chapter 6: Look On My London. Poet - PC Shelley, poem, "Ozymandias." Original line, "Look on my works."

7. Chapter 7: All Be As Is Now, Love. Poet - Robert Browning, poem, "A Woman's Last Word." Original line, "All be as before love."

8. Chapter 8: Write My Mind Tonight. Poet - Elizabeth Barret Browning, poem, "A Curse For a Nation." Original line, "Shalt thou write/my curse to-night."

9. Chapter 9: We'll Tak a Cup of Sentiment Yet. Poet - Robert Burns, poem "Auld Lang Syne." Original line, "We'll tak a cup of kindness yet."

10. Chapter 10: Now Speak, That Thou Art Left Alone. Poet - Mary Darby Robinson, poem, "All Alone." Original line, "And weep, that thou art left alone?"

11. Chapter 11: Breathe Not Her Name. Poet - Thomas Moore, original poem title, "O Breathe Not His Name."

12. Chapter 12: When The Stars Threw Down Their Spears. Poet - William Blake, poem - "The Tiger." Stanza five, line one.

Sherlock was sitting on his chair, the tips of his fingers touching while his eyes were shut.

She could have died today.

It was not statistically possible, he knew. Someone would have stopped the desperate Lord trying to leave the populated building. She had been bruised, a little hurt – but not particularly badly off. Nevertheless, one minute here and there – one concealed weapon – anything and she may have died.

And that was just not today, Sherlock thought irrationally. Anything could happen to her at any time – she may be walking across construction areas, without concern for her surroundings – and equipment might fall on her. She may die at sea – never mind that she had never shown the inclination for going to sea. She may choke on small pieces she accidentally swallowed and die. She may die any day.

Sherlock had never been more aware of her mortality. Small Molly Hooper was just as vulnerable to disease as Anderson, even if he was a more worthy candidate.

He remembered the way his heart had raced ridiculously, or the way his body had broken into cold sweat.

This was absurd. The same was true for John, for Mary, for Mrs. Hudson and – to some extent, Lestrade. Why was Sherlock reacting so irrationally to Molly's escape from death?

It was because he hadn't seen her in a while. Because she was angry with him, as was evidenced by her reaction to him. Some misplaced sense of sentiment lingered, he decided.

But when he had seen her face again the only thing he had thought of was thank god. When she had smiled at Watson he had never been more grateful that her lasting memory of him would be his cruelty.

Molly – like Watson – would not take advantage of his worry. She would not play games with him over it. But he was more terrified of how comfortable he was of showing Molly his worry than he was of showing Watson.

"He hasn't stepped out of the house, Mrs. Hudson," said Anne in a hushed whisper.

"I know, dear," said Mrs. Hudson with would-be placidity.

"Constantly playing the violin!" added Anne, emphasising a point.

"I know," said Mrs. Hudson.

"Well, what do you make of it?" demanded Anne.

"I don't know," said Mrs. Hudson with a sigh. "I really don't. Never been like this, Mr. Holmes. I wonder what's wrong."

"Well, aren't you going to find out?" asked Anne.

"Heaven alone knows that he will not tell me," said Mrs. Hudson. "Meanwhile, I enjoy listening to him play."

"Mr. Holmes, your brother is here to see you," said Mrs. Hudson. "Get yourself together, Sherlock ," she added softly.

Sherlock ignored her, choosing not to bother with doing anything about his mangy appearance.

"Sherlock," greeted Mycroft coolly.

"Evening," said Sherlock. "I'd ring for tea, but that would only prolong your stay – so I am not going to."

Mycroft smiled sardonically. "Have you been in so bad a temper since you started having regular tiffs with Molly Hooper or after she left you?"

"She did not leave me," defended Sherlock, at once.

"It certainly did not come from your side, even if it was encouraged by you," said Mycroft. "You are far too attached to your goldfish to abandon them, Sherlock."

Sherlock glared at him. "Don't you have a few wars to start?"

"Maybe by dinner. Right now, Scotland Yard is finding itself without a brain for over four days. I decided to step in and see what was causing you so much pain where solving murders is concerned."

"What are you here for, Mycroft?" asked Sherlock, uncharacteristically tired.

"Good God, if you like the woman so much, marry her," said Mycroft, rolling her eyes.

"This, coming from you," said Sherlock sarcastically. "What next, sing songs, take a ship to the Caribbean and find out the meaning of life?"

"Hardly," said Mycroft. "I do not espouse –"

"Chemical defects," completed Sherlock.

Mycroft smile again. "No, I do not. I do not believe in attachment – you know this," said Mycroft.

"Then why are you telling me to marry her?" asked Sherlock, not expecting an answer.

"Because while I manage to operate best without attachment, the same cannot be said for you," said Mycroft. "Clearly," he added, his eyes raking across the mess of the room and finally – across Sherlock's person.

Sherlock frowned. "What are you saying?"

"Brother mine, what I am saying is – you might as well marry her, if not being married to her is going to bring you down to your knees like this. Not everybody can operate without attachment, and it is regrettable yet unavoidable."

Sherlock honestly did not have any answers to that.

"Honestly, Holmes, what is wrong with you?" asked Watson in a low voice.

"I'm practicing. Go away."

"For five days?" asked Watson, incredulous. "What on earth happened?"

Sherlock looked away.

"Sherlock – honestly, what's wrong?"

Sherlock got out of his chair and shook his hair, running his fingers through it. "What if I told you that a woman caused this?"

"I would say, 'was it Molly?'" said Watson. "Followed immediately by 'don't tell me it was Irene Adler.'"

Sherlock frowned. "The Woman never managed to do this – whatever this is."

"What's happened, Holmes?" said Watson patiently.

"I do not know," said Sherlock, frustrated. "I border on wanting to see her, kiss her, marry her, talk to her, and run away from her."

"What?" asked Watson, surprised. "Marry? You? Holmes? You? I don't – you?"

Sherlock glared at him. "This is why I hate speaking to you about this, Watson."

"No, honestly, you?"

"Yes," he said with a directness that Watson was clearly not expecting. "It would be preferable if I could kiss her without it being a secret," said Sherlock delicately.

"This is bizarre," said Watson, reeling. Sherlock wanted to tear his hair out.

"Sounds like you should do everything except the latter – that is, run away from her," said Watson. "And please do not tell me about whether you want to kiss her or not. Best saved for private ears."

"Watson, I am not an easy man to live with."

"Yet she did it for two years," said Watson.

"She was being paid to," said Holmes, collapsing on his chair again.

"Yes, that was why she assisted you with cases," said Watson. "Or why she helped you with experiments – or even why she agreed to befriend you. Holmes, Molly Hooper was never meant to sit at home and be wifely."

Sherlock didn't say anything.

"Besides the obvious issues you are having with grappling with your new-found liking for this girl, what's stopping you?" asked Watson finally.

"I did not say kind things – the last time we spoke at length," said Sherlock, skirting around the problem.

"Apologise," said Watson at once. "Flowers, maybe. That normally works."

"It's not exactly something that can be water under the bridge with one apology."

"Do it twice," said Watson. "Grovel. It doesn't matter."

"How did Mary marry you?" asked Sherlock.

"Out of the two of us, who has a wife?" asked Watson. "Therefore, who has the more relevant opinion on the matter?"

Sherlock had the childish urge to stick his tongue out at Watson.

[Scribbles from Molly Hooper's Notebooks, Christmas, 1895

- Collect groceries from Jimmy.

- Buy some fresh milk.

- Prepare yourself for a long and lonely winter, Molly Hooper.

Sherlock squared his shoulders before he entered the morgue. He was really not certain whether this would work, however, Watson had, at least, tried to point him in a certain direction – unlike Mycroft who had grimaced and had nothing to offer.

"Be kind. Compliment her, Holmes. Try to make it sincere. And, under no circumstances should you say something which is intrinsically manipulative."

Molly was busy running some experiment when Mr. Holmes entered. Her recent studies on bruise formations was going fairly well, and she felt comfortable in the morgue now. Christmas was coming – and she was working during the holidays.

This was partly because she did not want to go to Newcastle again and partly because she didn't want to be lonely during the holiday season. In addition, most of her colleagues were not going to work during this time.

Molly was used to being left alone. Although she did have a lot of doctors working around her, the morgue was a relatively quiet place with lesser people. It helped her position – she could ignore her colleagues for disliking her.

She had not expected it to be easy. She had expected to be worked to the death with cases which were not worthy of her time, to be treated as a secretary, or worse – to be a woman who was forced to leave. All of this was possible – and she grudgingly admitted this to herself – due to Mr. Holmes.

Be kind.

Right. He could be kind. It was possible.

"Hello, Molly, do you require some assistance with heavy objects?" said Mr. Holmes uncharacteristically from behind her.

If Molly was not used to it, she would have jumped a mile in the air.

As it was, she blinked at him. "No..." she said cautiously. "I'm doing an experiment, Mr. Holmes. No heavy objects – for now."

"Right. Of course," he said. He seemed ill at ease. "Anything else?"

Molly narrowed her eyes. "What do you want, Mr. Holmes?" she said, exasperated.

"What?" asked Sherlock.

"You. What is it you want? Some more thumbs? An arm? Perhaps a few fingers?"

"No – I don't need –"

"There's a jar with a fresh pancreas on my desk, Mr. Holmes. Help yourself," she said, returning to her experiment.

The man was a complete nuisance. She ignored him entirely.

Sherlock clutched the jar with the pancreas.

That went... well?

Females made no sense whatsoever. Constantly requiring help and then denying it when most needed.

Sherlock had the nagging suspicion that Watson was going to blame him squarely for how this interaction went. At least he had a pancreas.

Sherlock Holmes was behaving very oddly. He tended to hover around her and she didn't know what to make of it. It wasn't something that she could escape, either – since the holidays meant an emptier hospital.

Molly was baffled by the way he was trying, very obviously, to secure favours that she was already very willing to give without his grovelling. It made no sense – and out of frustration, she had given him a whole liver. Doctor Anderson lost his temper at her when she did that.

She didn't know what to make of it.

"It's not working, John!" said Sherlock, smoking his pipe furiously.

"It's not going to work if you continue to operate as if she's a glass figure in danger of shattering!" said Watson. "Mary, tell him!"

Mary flipped through the newspaper. "Oh, I'm sorry, I lost the conversation entirely. What are we talking about? Right, the same thing that we spoke about an hour and a half ago."

"Mary!" said Sherlock and Watson in unison.

She rolled her eyes. "I'm sorry Sherlock. I am not helping you here. Whatever you did to that woman is your problem."

Compliment her. Sound sincere.

That seems simple?

Sherlock would prefer an axe murderer, to be honest.

Molly was working on some files. She had to give in a lot of reports that she was yet to fill out. Sherlock walked into her office, and smiled at her in a way that made her consider whether or not he was being threatened by an axe murderer.

Molly looked behind her, disconcerted by his smile.

"Mr. Holmes?" she asked, turning to her papers with an expression that she hoped conveyed 'not-this-again.'

"Molly. Blue suits you. Compliments your muddy brown hair very well," he said.

Molly paused in the middle of writing something. "I'm sorry?" she said.

"And your body is shaped very aesthetically. The small stature is very pleasing," he added.

Molly scrutinized him.

"Mr. Holmes," she said carefully. "Are you particularly nauseous?" she asked.

"What? No!" he said.

"Any pain? Any fevers? Any signs of bodily harm? Did you box again?"

"Molly, I am not mentally unstable."

"You're complimenting my muddy brown hair!" said Molly indignantly.

"Is that wrong?" he asked. There was something wrong with him.

"Alright, Mr. Holmes," she said patiently. "I really do not have any new body parts. The liver was the last thing in my power. I cannot quite give you a whole body, can I?"

He looked so frustrated, Molly could swear she saw steam coming out of his ears.

[Scribbles from Molly Hooper's Notebooks, Christmas Time, 1895]

Meena is busy with Christmas, so I cannot ask her to visit. I will visit her sometime soon, but in the meanwhile, I have to voice my doubts about Mr. Holmes' sanity somewhere.

He's behaving in so strange a way that I cannot coin what is wrong with him. He tends to compliment in the most bizarre way, and his tendency to hover has become even worse than before. I do not know what to say to him, much less what to do about him.

Compliment her.

This time, it would work, decided Sherlock. Idiotic Molly Hooper and her idiotic obliviousness.

He burst into the Morgue this time. Molly actually did jump from her papers this time, and looked at him, blinking.

"Molly!" he said, loudly. One or two odd workers in some of their last days looked up at him.

"Yes?" she said, a bit taken aback.

"I read your analysis on bruise formation after death," he said. "It was excellent."

Molly blinked again. "Um. Thank you?"

He nodded. "Right."

And he was gone. Molly blinked at her colleagues.

"He's... having a difficult week," she managed.

"Tell me again," said Watson, rubbing his eyes. "You managed to compliment her, you managed to have her responding – but you forgot to initiate the apology and ask for marriage?"

"I forgot!" said Sherlock, collapsing on a chair at the Watson's.

"Never send a man to do any job, am I right my dear?" said Mary to her tummy.

"Not this time, Mary," said Sherlock viciously. "This time. I have a plan."

"What's wrong with Holmes?" asked Lestrade.

"I suspect my brother is only trying to win Molly Hooper over," said Mycroft, boredly. "In any case, it doesn't concern me. What is it you wanted, Inspector?"

"Your brother hasn't been taking cases for a while," said Lestrade. "Watson refuses to tell me anything, and Anderson is too worried about livers. Honestly, I don't know what's happening to everybody around me."

"Pity. You would understand a lot more, Inspector," said Mycroft.

"Well, watchoo say?" asked Meena.

"He said 'blue suits your muddy brown hair!' " said Molly, pacing around Meena's home. "He told me that my 'small stature' was pleasing? Meena!"

Meena was laughing. "What?" she asked. "'Ee's an odd bird. Not my problem."

"It is mine," said Molly.

Meena yawned. "Look 'ow much I care. Far as I know, 'ee's tryin to apologise to you in 'is funny little brain."

Molly sat on a chair and buried her head into her arms.

Dear Sally,

I know I haven't written in a while, but I have been very busy with work. Thank you for your insights in the Warner case, I passed them onto Detective Inspector Lestrade. He's promised to keep an eye out for you more often, and I intend to hold him to his word.

I, on the other hand, have been working around a thousand different bodies – well, I am exaggerating. However, murder is difficult to put into your routine. I was doing it with Mr. Holmes, obviously, but not on such a personal level. I'm working through the problems I am having with my colleagues – but it's not easy sailing.

Speaking of, how's Roger? I hope he's coming for Christmas this time. If he is – he ought to have already reached, obviously. I am completely unaware of the circumstances of your family right now, Sally – and I do apologise. I had to adjust work hours in my life, which seems to take up a lot of mental space.

Right now, I have to go for the same work I complain about so much. For all my complaints, I am being allowed to do what I love – and at very little price that most women pay in terms of dignity and time. I cannot and will not complain about my circumstances. Even if Consulting Detectives walk in every now and then to destroy everything by behaving out of character.

Yours,

Molly

This time. This time for sure.

London glittered under Christmas Eve decorations. Sherlock headed to the Morgue.

This time.

Molly was finishing the reports for the day when Mr. Holmes decided to walk in once again.

"What?" she asked, immediately. "More strange compliments? I don't need your assistance, if that's what you wish to give. What?"

"I was wondering if you could show me Mr. Warner again," he said crisply.

Molly's shoulders fell. "Of course," she said at once.

She opened out the body for Sherlock, wondering if he was back to crime solving instead of whatever he had been doing so far. "So – Mr. Warner appears to have suffered from asphyxiation –"

"Miss Hooper, would you care to get married to me?" he said.

"- And there... are – wire... marks... around – his neck," Molly's voice trailed off.

He looked at the body, flipping through Molly's reports. "Wife. This was far too simple."

"Excuse me?" said Molly.

"The wife. You can see it from the way –"

"No," said Molly, shaking her head to check if she had anything in her ears. "The bit before that."

"Oh, right. I felt the need to shock you into believing my very sincere efforts to apologise to you for the last week or so," said Sherlock. Molly blinked at him. "Every time I tried to be kind, you thought I was trying to manipulate you into giving me body parts – ridiculous, I never need to manipulate you. Every time I tried complimenting you, you thought I was suffering from personality-altering diseases. I had no option but to make my meaning clear."

"Which was that you wished to marry me?" asked Molly sarcastically.

Sherlock nodded.

"Mr. Holmes, you cannot give a woman no warning before asking her for her hand in marriage!" declared Molly.

"I did give you warning!" said Sherlock.

"Yes, I do remember you courting me in the most elegant of fashions," said Molly.

"Honestly, if more courting is required then I'll just ask you to cut my neck with your scalpel."

"No!" said Molly. "What makes you believe that I would say yes to you after the way you treated me?" she asked angrily. "You made me feel like a dishcloth, Mr. Holmes. Worse, an experiment performed on a dishcloth. You made me feel like I should never have aspired for your kindness, and even lesser for your love. Why would I want to be with a man who treats me like a dishcloth?"

Sherlock paused, looking decidedly ill at ease. Molly waited.

"I wish to apologise," he said, finally. "Molly – I am not good – with words. Well, not the sentimental ones. But I wish to apologise, because I was cruel – and terrible. But most because I made you cry. I don't ever want to stand on the other side of the room and not have the power to comfort you."

Molly's mouth dried. Despite herself, her heart was relenting. She stood her ground.

"Why did you do it?" she asked softly.

"Because I was scared," he said, without bothering for more excuses.

"That's not enough," she said. "This isn't a romantic novel, Mr. Holmes. I do not swoon at blood, and a lot lesser at men who apologise to me."

"I have nothing else to give you," he said. "I was scared of how much I cared, even more of how much you did. People who care for me end up either hurt or dead, Molly Hooper."

"We will die anyway, Sherlock," said Molly. "That's not a very good excuse."

"There are thirteen ways this was supposed to end, and you are not heading in any of those directions, Molly," said Sherlock, frowning.

"What?" asked Molly.

"Well, I calculated thirteen responses to my approach, and you are following none of them," he said, looking frustrated.

"Are you telling me that you scientifically calculated the best proposal?" asked Molly, torn between laughter and severity.

"Well – yes. You see, you cannot leave such things to – oh. Was that wrong?" he said, looking at her poker face.

"You tell me whether the perfectly created mathematically calculated proposal does not sound manipulative, Mr. Holmes?" said Molly, despite her amusement.

"I – no – Molly – you have to –" he ran a hand through his hair. "This was certainly not in the outcomes."

"Sherlock, you really are one of the strangest men I have met," said Molly finally. "Why do you suddenly wish to marry me?"

"It would be ideal," he said. "My spouse shares financial benefits, not to mention more protection after I die. You are scientific, and you care about me. You understand my work – I am getting fairly old, and it would do my mother good to see me married –"

"None of that, Mr. Holmes," said Molly. "Why do you want to marry me?"

Sherlock opened his mouth and closed it again. "Do you love me?" she prompted.

"I don't believe I can love," he said.

"Chemical defect on the losing side, I know," Molly rattled off. "Then why?"

"Molly, I may not know whether I am in love, or whether love as a concept exists in humans," said Sherlock deliberately. "But I know that I find you illogically beautiful, that I care to hear your voice – and that if you did manage to disappear from the world entirely, I may even start taking my cocaine solutions again. I need you. I don't know if I love you, but I want you. I want to kiss you, and I want to touch you – I don't want to forget that. You don't have to be in love to appreciate that."

Molly's face burned. She could feel the tears forming.

Sherlock reached for her. Molly almost fell into his arms, but preserved her dignity when he touched her face with just as much desperation. They did not kiss, simply holding each other for the sake of touching – afraid of how improper it would be considered if they were found.

"How do I know you will not leave again?" she asked, finally. She stepped out of his embrace. "What is it that is going to have you running away this time?"

"You don't," he said. "But you have to trust me."

"I did that the first time," she said softly. "I don't want to do it again." She didn't want to forgive him that simply. It would be too easy... too convenient for him.

She knew what Meena would say. She wondered what Lizzie would say.

Lizzie may be ridiculous and hard to get along with; but she was a romantic at heart – more so than Molly. Molly maintained her cynicism, while Lizzie had never known enough hardship to believe that romance couldn't exist.

"Everything makes love so difficult as it is, Molly," she would say. "Why do you create more obstacles for the blessed thing?"

There was merit in that argument, but Molly didn't think that it was as simple. Love may be hard without additional effort, but love was also stupid. You could not trust it.

"I understand if you don't," he said. With those five words, Molly knew that Sherlock had made an effort. People didn't change, she not overnight. But the effort should be relevant. "I will leave for now."

He turned around, and Molly knew where her decision was going before she said the words:

"Oh for heaven's sake, turn, Sherlock," she said. "I refuse to run down the street. It's another cliché, and half my life is a cliché right now. It would be convenient if I turned up at Baker Street, but frankly, I don't want to spend the cab fare."

Sherlock turned around, and Molly resisted running into his arms. She was avoiding clichés, she decided categorically.

"You say yes?" he asked, looking genuinely incredulous.

"I say maybe. I might consider it. If you do the right things," she said. "And that doesn't mean you come and pester me with sweet little speeches. I want to be courted," she added. "I want you to take me to dances, I want you to take me for different dinners. I want everything. I cannot believe I have to demand this before the wedding."

"Alright," he said. "Why, though?"

"It would be highly suspicious if the maid to Mr. Sherlock Holmes ended up married to him before someone has time to say 'it's a shotgun wedding.' I'd rather not have my colleagues talking. It would be inconvenient," she said. "And I'd like an excuse to wear pretty dresses."

"Right," said Sherlock. Molly scrutinized his face.

"Don't ever make the mistake of holding me back, Sherlock," she added. "Don't underestimate my dedication."

"I did so once," he said. "Only an idiot makes the same mistake twice."

He strode towards her, crossing the distance in three steps. Without warning, he kissed her, and Molly did not have the mental strength to protest as his lips pressed into hers. She felt his tongue flick across her teeth, and she remembered – with a shudder, how much she had missed it.

"Oh, heaven help me," Molly muttered. "Meena is going to laugh at me to no end."

Sherlock chuckled against her lips.

"Sherlock, really," she whispered. "I said 'no'. I wish to be courted, remember?"

He left her, and Molly regretted her words almost immediately. "Miss Hooper, would you care for an escort home?" he asked her politely.

"Why yes, Mr. Holmes," said Molly with a smile. "And it is Doctor Hooper."

His lips twitched. She put his arm around his, and for the first time, she considered how brilliant it would be to have public claim over his arm. As they hailed a cab together, Molly grinned at the way she could be with him in public now.

The cab disappeared into the winter fog of Christmas Eve night.

This was wild from start to finish.

You've all been an awesome - and stay that way, thanks very much. World needs people like you guys, who stress authors out by how much more you have thought of their own story.

As always, I love reviews.