A/N: Okay, I'm taking something of a risk with this story. I feel like Sherlock is acting out-of-character here, though to what degree is probably a matter of opinion. This story was inspired by an OTP prompt - "called the wrong number and confessed my love to you in a sappy way before you could get a word in." I might add that there's some definite Tom bashing here.

Disclaimer: Not mine, it all belongs to the BBC.

Today's the day, Molly Hooper thought as she eyed her mobile. Today's the day I tell Tom how I feel. How much I truly love him. I know he doesn't love me back but that will come in time, right? Right. She sat down at her kitchen island and dialed her boyfriend's number, her hands shaking slightly with nerves.

He answered on the second ring. "Hello?"

His voice sounds deeper than usual. Maybe he's coming down with something. "Honey, hi, it's me. Don't say anything, just listen. I might not get all of this out if you say anything." She knew she was speaking too fast but she didn't care. "I know we haven't been dating long. Six weeks isn't long by anyone's standards. Well, except for maybe mine, I haven't really had a lasting relationship before. Anyway, I wanted to tell you that I love you. You make me happier than I've ever been. And, um, that's in and out of bed, I might add."

"I'm not-"

"Not in love with me, I know." She sighed quietly. I knew that was coming. "I just hope that your heart is open to maybe loving me at some point. You're a good man, Tom, probably too good for me."

"That's just it, I'm not Tom. You've dialed the wrong number."

"Oh God…" I cannot believe this… "Um, please, forget this call ever happened."

"What call?" the man asked casually.

"Bless you," she murmured gratefully before she hung up. Feeling utterly defeated, Molly laid her head on her arms. Stupid, stupid, stupid…

A couple of streets away, Sherlock Holmes sat in his favorite chair, staring at his mobile. He didn't notice his best friend had entered the flat until the other man spoke up.

"Something wrong with your phone?" John asked. He sat down on the sofa and opened the Sunday newspaper he'd brought with him, taking a sip of his Starbucks coffee. Since his daughter Rosie was now teething, John often came over on weekend mornings for a little peace and quiet, leaving Mary to care for the baby. They switched in the evenings, giving Mary a chance to go out with her friends.

"I just received the strangest call," Sherlock said, a bit dazed.

John looked up from an article about the latest celebrity divorce. "Is it about a case?" He took another sip.

"No, a woman just told me she loves me."

John spat out his coffee. "What?! Please tell me this isn't another Janine."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I just said this isn't for a case. Some woman called my number by mistake. She then proceeded to tell me she loves me, thinking I'm her undeserving boyfriend."

"Who says he's undeserving?" his former flatmate asked, looking interested despite himself.

"She said Tom is too good for her. Therefore, she is insecure and he is doing nothing to help her self-confidence. She also said that at six weeks, this is her longest relationship so far. From her voice and manner of speaking, I estimate she is thirty-three. A bit old for never having a serious relationship."

"You should talk," John muttered.

Sherlock ignored him. "It's another sign of insecurity. And yet, she said he makes her happy." I don't need to tell him the "in and out of bed" part. "So, he must be doing the typical boyfriend things – holding the door for her, taking out her chair at a restaurant, patiently listening to her talk about her day – without giving her the support she truly needs. She actually thinks there's nothing wrong with loving someone who doesn't love her, who might never love her. He's the one who doesn't deserve her."

John raised an eyebrow. "I take it you didn't tell her that."

"She didn't give me a chance." Sherlock absently took a sip of his tea, which had grown cold since the phone call. He grimaced in disgust.

"What did she do when you told her you're not Tom?"

"She asked me to forget the call ever happened." Sherlock got up and went into the kitchen to put his cup in the microwave, which was, for once, empty of experiments.

John followed him, his exasperation clear in his face and voice. "Well, obviously, you haven't. If you're so concerned about this woman's welfare, the best thing you can do is exactly what she asked."

"I can't do that, John," Sherlock said as he took his reheated tea out of the microwave and took a sip. "I can't let her waste her love on a man so undeserving."

"Since when do you care about love?" John asked. "You've never felt romantic love yourself, what's it to you if this woman wastes it?"

"You're the one who keeps reminding me I have a heart. Shouldn't you be happy that I'm finally using it?"

John took a deep breath then let it out slowly. "Sometimes, Sherlock, it's better to let people make their own mistakes, especially when it comes to matters of the heart. You don't even know this woman."

Sherlock looked down at his tea, saying quietly, "When she told me she loved me, even though it wasn't really me she was talking to, I felt … something. It was small, like a single beat of a bee's wings, but it was there. I can't even define it." Now I sound like a lovesick poet. Marvelous.

He looked up to see John staring at him in disbelief then throwing his head back with laughter. "Oh, this is rich! You're so emotionally constipated that a perfect stranger mistakenly declaring her love for you is enough to jump-start your heart. Did she tell you she wants you, too?"

Sherlock felt himself blushing and mentally cursed his fair skin. "She said 'I' made her happy in and out of bed."

"The poor woman has awakened a sleeping dragon and she has absolutely no idea," John said, shaking his head. Seeing Sherlock was about to protest, he held up a hand. "She is going to stay ignorant, Sherlock. The last thing this woman needs in her life is an overgrown teenager with a history of illicit drug use and no experience whatsoever when it comes to relationships or sex."

"That's not entirely accurate," Sherlock muttered, completely embarrassed.

"Which part?"

"I'm not a virgin."

"And that's as far as we're going with this conversation," John muttered. He went back to the sofa, grabbed his newspaper and coffee, then turned to Sherlock, who had followed him. "I'm going home, you're going to behave yourself."

"And if I don't?" Sherlock asked, one eyebrow raised.

"I'll tell Mary."

That was enough to momentarily give him pause, but then the woman's words came back to him, along with the odd fluttering sensation in his chest. He knew he was quickly becoming addicted to that feeling. Who knew emotions were their own little high? Keeping his voice and expression neutral, he promised, "I'll behave."

John assessed him for a moment then nodded. "Call me if you have a case."

"Of course, John." As soon as John left the building, Sherlock grabbed his mobile and pulled up the recent calls then dialed the number of one Molly Hooper.

Molly was still in her kitchen and just taking brownies out of the oven when her mobile rang. She set the pan on the stove then picked up her phone. Who on Earth is Sherlock Holmes? His number is almost the same as… This must be my mortifying wrong number. Why would he call me back? "Hello?"

"Miss Hooper? This is Sherlock Holmes, I'm the person you mistakenly called earlier."

God, that deep voice is so sexy. Pull yourself together, Molly. You have a boyfriend, remember? "Mr. Holmes, I thought we agreed that we would forget the call ever happened."

"Yes, that is what we agreed, but I've found that I can't forget it. Miss Hooper, the things you said told me that you are in a very unsatisfying relationship. I would be a complete heel if I allowed you to stay with him."

"Allowed?" Molly asked. I cannot believe this. "Mr. Holmes-"

"Sherlock, please."

"Mr. Holmes," she said firmly, "until that phone call, you had no idea of my existence. You certainly have no right to tell me who I should or shouldn't date."

"I am well aware of that but please, hear me out." He paused and when Molly didn't object, though she couldn't explain why, he went on. "You are a woman dealing with a certain level of insecurity. Whether that comes from your work, your looks, or something else entirely, I don't know without more data to go on. Regardless, this Tom is not giving you the emotional support you desperately need. The fact that you are still with him, and want to take your relationship to another level, as they say, baffles me. You are an intelligent woman, why can't you see that he is completely unworthy of you?"

Molly's throat was choked with emotion and she felt her eyes tearing up but she took a deep breath and managed to keep her voice steady. "I'm with Tom because he's the only man I've dated who accepts all of me. You don't know me, Mr. Holmes, and you certainly don't know what I need."

"What if I were to get to know you? If I knew exactly what you needed and decided Tom is able to adequately fill that role, then my conscience would be clear."

"I don't care about your conscience, Mr. Holmes," Molly said quietly, "but if that's what it takes to convince you to leave me alone, then alright. I suppose you want us to meet in person."

"That would be the best way to assess your needs, yes. It's almost lunchtime, let me treat you. There's a chip shop near Charing Cross."

"I know it. How will I know you? Can you describe yourself?"

"Six foot-one, thirty-six, curly black hair, blue-green eyes. I'll be wearing my Belstaff – black with red thread on the buttonholes. And you?"

"Five foot-three, thirty-three, straight brown hair, brown eyes. Um, I'll be wearing a white jumper with embroidered cherries all over it."

"Alright. An hour, then?"

"That'll be fine."

As soon as Molly was off the phone, she put the brownie pan on a cooling rack, mentally cursing herself the entire time. Idiot. This is only going to get you in trouble. Assuming this guy isn't a rapist-murderer-psychopath, you're still having lunch with another man behind Tom's back. A man with the sexiest voice you've ever heard. Of course, there's no guarantee that the rest of him is as sexy.

That done, Molly went to her bedroom to change. What do I have that says "confident but unavailable?" She settled on a pair of red jeans she hardly ever wore, a black sleeveless top, black ballet flats, and the cherry jumper. Checking her appearance in the hallway mirror, she grabbed her purse and keys.

Sherlock entered the chosen chip shop and looked around at the other patrons. None of them matched Molly's description so he placed an order for two then found an unoccupied booth in the back. He sat down and immediately went into his Mind Palace, looking for all the data he had on healthy relationships. None of the information came from personal experience, of course. The closest thing he'd had to a relationship was with Irene Adler, and that was far from healthy. Not to mention long over. His parents and the Watsons, however, were the best examples by any standard.

By the time he opened his eyes, in front of him were two plates of fish and chips, and an attractive young woman wearing a cherry jumper. He blinked in surprise.

"Mr. Holmes?" she asked, smiling a bit.

Sherlock felt the pleasant flutter in his chest again. He nodded. "Miss Hooper, I presume."

"Yes. I tried talking to you when I got here but you were completely lost in thought."

"I was in my Mind Palace." He started to eat his fish and noticed Molly was already half-done.

"Your what?" she asked, a chip halfway to her mouth.

"My Mind Palace. It's a memory technique. I store bits of information, memories, in various 'rooms' I picture in my head. It enables me to recall pertinent data quickly."

"I see," she said, and he could tell from her tone of voice that she actually did. "I could have used something like that in medical school. What were you looking for?"

"Information on healthy relationships. Lacking any personal experience in that area, I have to rely on the relationships of my friends and parents."

Molly choked a bit on the sip of her soda she had just taken. She coughed a couple of times then stared at him, incredulous. "Wait, how can you lecture me about healthy relationships when you've never had one yourself?"

"Personal experience in anything is not necessary if one can rely on the experience of others." Sherlock found himself hoping he didn't look as smug as he felt.

Molly raised an eyebrow. "I can think of several scenarios where that's completely untrue, but never mind. What do you need from me to complete your assessment of my life and relationship with Tom?"

"I have all the information in front of me, thank you." At her raised eyebrow, he went on. "You're not insecure about your work as a pathologist, therefore it must be your looks."

Her cheeks reddened but she plowed ahead. "How do you know I'm a pathologist?"

"There are telltale signs on your hands, while your sleeves and collar tell me you are proud of the work that you do. I would go into detail but that's not what we are here to discuss. You wear colorful jumpers and loose clothing to distract people from what you perceive to be a general lack of curves. I'd have to see you without them to be certain, but from what I can see, your measurements are nothing to be ashamed of."

Molly's blush deepened as she muttered, "We really shouldn't be talking about this."

"We wouldn't be if your boyfriend appreciated you," Sherlock pointed out.

"Tom likes my curves just fine the way they are," she said defensively. She absently fiddled with a bra strap.

"He wants you to wear a push-up bra," Sherlock deduced. "Or perhaps even have augmentation surgery."

Molly didn't say anything at first then she sighed quietly. "The former. I would have left him if he suggested the latter."

"You should leave him anyway. From what I can tell, your breasts are perfect the way they are." He took care to have nothing that could be considered lascivious in his tone – he was simply stating a fact.

"Sherlock!" Molly stared at him aghast, her cheeks flaming.

He leaned back and folded his arms, smirking. "At least I got you to call me Sherlock." She gaped at him so he continued. "If he can't accept, no, if he can't celebrate you the way you are, he doesn't deserve you. You are an intelligent, talented, and beautiful woman and as I said, you are clearly too good for him."

Molly stared down at her almost empty plate, saying quietly, "I can't remember the last time Tom called me beautiful."

"Did you tell him you love him?" Sherlock asked gently.

"God, no – it took all the courage I had to say it to you." Her head jerked up and she looked at him, surprised. "I mean, to say it to you, thinking you were Tom."

He nodded. "The fact that the words don't come easily should be another sign, Molly."

"You said you've never had a healthy relationship yourself so how would you know?" she asked bitterly. "Lots of people have a hard time saying those words for the first time. It's a big risk, saying them when you don't know if the other person feels the same."

"But you do know – you're convinced Tom doesn't love you back."

"He might."

"He doesn't – if he did, he wouldn't treat you this way."

She stared at him in a way that told him she was giving that serious thought. After several minutes, she said quietly, "You're right. I'm going to call him tonight and break it off." She ate another chip. "God, the last thing I want to do right now is go back in the dating pool. I am the current world record holder for first dates that never turn into second dates. No one wants to date a pathologist with a morbid sense of humor."

Sherlock smiled a bit. "I wouldn't say that. I've never had a problem with death and disease. And as far as having a morbid sense of humor, while I can't say that mine is, I can say with complete confidence that I can appreciate your sense of humor."

Molly's jaw dropped. "Are … are you saying you want to date me?"

"Does the Earth go around the Sun?"