"So which of the 3 F's is it?"

Molly turned to the handsome stranger with sparking eyes who had taken the seat next to her at the bar.

Crikey, he was fit: Young—a bit too young for her, but only just-blonde, shorter than average, but well built. The outline of his strong shoulders could be seen through his bright red sweater, the curve of his muscular thighs obvious through his dark denim jeans. He was exactly the opposite of her usual type.

Perfect.

"Which 3 F's in particular are those?" She flashed a brilliant smile at him and he returned it in kind.

"Well," he gestured to the barman to refresh Molly's drink, "in my experience there are only three reasons why a beautiful woman sits alone at a bar on a Friday night. The first is to have fun; but you don't look like you're enjoying yourself."

Molly frowned, unintentionally proving him right.

"The second is to forget; but while you're beginning to get tipsy, you're not nearly hammered enough to obliterate what ever is bothering you, judging by your scowl."

"And the third," Molly asked sipping her Appletini, already realising that although he was nice, getting under someone wasn't really going to help her get over someone else.

A familiar, low rumble whispered from just behind her ear, "To fuck. But if that had been your objective you wouldn't have chosen this place to initiate a coupling."

"Why ever not?" Molly asked the curly haired interloper, chagrined.

"Because," he smirked at Molly's companion, who winked back, "this is a gay bar, frequented by gay men, who tend to not cop off with women, no matter how beautiful they are."

Bugger, Molly berated herself. Clearly she was shit at this pick up lark.

"Forget it is then," sighed red-sweater-guy, "Well, sweetheart, if Mr Sex-on-legs here is the one you're trying to forget, you're going to need a LOT more than the four drinks you've had. At least I know I would."

Sherlock flitted his eyes across the man; 24, banker, a younger sister who looks just like Molly, protective. He'd joined her at the bar to make sure she was alright. Nice of him, but it was time he left the grownups to their conversation.

"Yes, thank you for your input," Sherlock waved a dismissive hand at the man, "now scuttle along."

"You're being rude, Sherlock." Molly put her hand on her companion's arm to stop him from leaving.

The detective cocked his eyebrow at her; So?

"That's alright sweetheart, I think we'll both have better luck tonight if I move on." With that the handsome stranger slipped from the bar stool, and Sherlock immediately occupied it in his place.

Molly stared straight ahead at their reflected images in the mirror behind the bar, "How'd you find me anyway?"

"Your security detail."

"My what?!"

"Security detail," Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Mycroft has had one assigned to you ever since you helped fake my death."

"Oh God," she groaned embarrassed, what on earth had they reported back to him over the years?

"Your detail was a bit concerned that you were drinking in a bar alone, so I offered to keep a closer eye on you."

"That doesn't explain why they told you I was here though."

Feigning a casual air that he just didn't feel, he said, "I take an interest."

Molly snorted. Interest? In her?Pull the other one. He'd comprehensively ignored her for years-that is until she'd get within a hair's breadth of a man who took notice of her. And now, he'd done it again; well ok, red-sweater-cute-gay-guy wasn't interested in her as such, but Sherlock always bloody did this; swooped in every time she tried to move on and remind her that it was him she really loved. How she hated him. Except for how she didn't. Not even a bit.

They sat in an awkward silence for a few moments before Sherlock asked a little cautiously, "So was he right? Is there someone you want to forget?"

"Maybe," she sipped at her drink to stop herself from saying more.

"Has someone hurt you?" The detective asked staring resolutely straight ahead; he was going to make sure whoever the hell had hurt her suffered for it. "Is it Tom? Do you..still love him?"

Molly shook her head, No.

That perplexed Sherlock; Tom had been Molly's only serious relationship in all the time he'd known her. In fact, he'd only ever know her to have feelings for one other man—Oh!

"Me? You're trying to forget me?"

"As if that's even possible when you're everywhere. You're omnipresent, like Jesus sodding Christ, I can't even pick up a gay guy to have recreational sex with, without you putting the kybosh on it—"

"Molly, he wasn't ever going to have sex you."

"Not the point Sherlock."

"Sorry." He said a little awkwardly.

"The point is, if I ever want the first two F's in my life again, I've got to do the last one—forget."

His brow furrowed, a bit unsure of himself, but it was time to take the plunge. If he didn't do something now he'd lose her. For good.

"What if Iwas amenable to offering you fun, and..the other F, would you then abandon your endeavour to forget?"

Molly looked at him incredulously. "Are you saying what I think you're saying?"

"I'm saying," he swallowed hard and gently covered her hand with his, "that I never, ever, want you to forget me, and all that that implies."

"Sherlock." Molly said, exasperated and overcome all at once.

"We could, er, start on the other F's as soon as you like, although not while you're impaired by alcohol, maybe later when you've had a chance to sober- Wait. Where are you going?"

Molly had already gathered her bag and coat, and was heading for the door, "If you think I'm giving you a chance to lose your nerve, you're wrong. I'm having a strong coffee, a cab and you—in that order. You joining me or not?"

Chasing her though the door and out onto the street, he pulled her close and pressed his lips to hers when it occurred to him that there was something he should tell her first.

"I've just thought of another F you need to consider. Because if we do this," he beamed at her, "I'll insist on it being forever."

"And just one more," she laughed, kissing him until he was thoroughly dazed, "fine by me."