AN: Any references to "August: Osage County" are just that. I am not claiming to own any of the characters and/or lines spoken in the film.

I have not seen this movie yet and if you are a fan of Benedict, you probably have already watched the scene that's referenced in the fic. That is my "spoiler" warning.

I know it may be cheesy, but it's fluffy so I hope you enjoy it!
(And thank you for the lovely reviews :3 )

The dark theatre acted to mask the look of sheer displeasure upon his face. The consulting detective sat with arms crossed next to Mary and John as a screening of "August: Osage County" flashed before them. It was part of the Watson's Get-Sherlock-Out-Of-The-Flat initiative which consisted of Mary and John bringing Sherlock along for a public outing at least once a month. Though he was certainly not a fan of their scheme, he complied because Mary was very insistent and she is well, Mary, after all.

Sherlock thought the plot to be very unlikely and overly absurd. This was the prime reason he avoided television and film in the first place: extreme situations with unrealistic –

Suddenly, a scene caught his attention. The characters of Ivy and Little Charles were gathered together behind a piano, alone in the room. Sherlock observed the way that the man looked at the woman. Strange he thought. He had witnessed it before. Mary and John looked at each other like that. Then Little Charles began to sing. It was horribly out of tune but somehow that fact was ignored by the detective. He instead, was engulfed by the lyrics and the couple's exchange of looks. A song that was spontaneously created out of love.

Sherlock glanced quickly down at his stomach, perplexed by the sensation it was causing him. Tingling, lightness and a feeling of rising and falling. Could it be? he thought. Butterflies. To his astonishment, as he glanced back up to the screen, the characters were no longer themselves. Instead, his mind envisioned himself sitting at the piano. His fingers delicately plunking at its keys. His head was turned to face the woman beside him. Her chestnut hair was pulled back into a loose pony tail and she wore a colorful jumper. His dark curls tumbled to one side as he tilted his head. A smile formed upon his face as she sat beside him, revelling in the moment. As she turned her head, the woman's identity was revealed to be the familiar face of Molly Hooper. She beamed lovingly up at him. The pair's eyes softened, faces relaxed and the man leaned in to close the gap between their lips.

Sherlock slammed his eyelids shut, shaking his head in order to drive away the thoughts. Confused and embarrassed about his experience, he retreated deep into his mind palace to sort through the information on his most recent case.

"Sherlock. Sherrrloock." Mary gently tugged at the consulting detective. A pair of aquamarine eyes sliced open, finding the theatre empty and the lights back on. He removed his hands from steeple formation beneath his chin. Standing up, he flipped his collar and began to exit the aisle.
"He didn't even watch the damn thing!" exclaimed John, throwing up his arms in frustration as he followed his wife out.

The cab ride home was silent on Sherlock's behalf as he worked to bury away the lingering memories of that one scene. Once at 221B he thanked the Watson's for the evening and gave a subtle wave as their cab rode off. The detective retired for the night, reassuring himself that his case was at the top of his priorities.

Marching into the morgue, he snapped on a pair of latex gloves as the doors were left swinging behind him. Molly, at the ready, pulled back the sheet covering the victim. Draping his Belstaff over a metal chair, he stepped up to the body. By his side, Molly routinely handed him a scalpel. She peered over his shoulder in curiosity as he began his first incision. As he proceeded to cut, he could feel Molly's hot breath against his sleeve. In and out. In. And. Out. It captivated his senses and rhythmically caressed the upper portion of his arm as her warmth seeped through his lab coat.

Suddenly his nerves sent out a signal causing his hand to recoil and the scalpel to drop. A reflexive yelp left his lips as his brain received the transmission for pain. Molly gasped as Sherlock's blood began to mix with that of the deceased.

Instinctively her hand clamped around his, squeezing tightly. "Are you alright?!" blurted Molly, looking up at Sherlock with worry.

Still in shock of what had happened, he blinked shaking his head and nodding a "yes".

"Okay," she shot, taking charge, "I need you to grab here and hold as tight as you can while I go and get the first aid kit." Her eyes were wide but dually sincere.

Sherlock complied and watched the pathologist move with efficiency and ease. She tore off her gloves, instantaneously snapping on another pair as she reached the first aid drawer.

Returning with the kit, Molly ushered Sherlock over to a sink. She whipped out the bottles of antiseptic and gauze bandages. Using a pair of surgical scissors, she expertly cut the latex glove from his hand. Molly worked delicately to clean up around his wound; focused but checking Sherlock's face every few moments for any sign that she may be hurting him. Once she was satisfied that the cut was disinfected properly, she broke the silence. "Well," chirped Molly, removing a set of sticky strips from their packaging, "you'd make a very good surgeon! Your incisions are very straight and precise." Her eyes flashed upwards to gage Sherlock's reaction as her lips crammed themselves together in attempt to supress her inevitable grin.

He peered down at her with a knitted brow, but then began to smirk. "Why, thank you, Molly." he smiled.

"Now," she began, holding his hand steady "these are butterfly stitches. They're sticky and will pull the wound together so it can heal. Scarring should be avoided with these and you won't need those classic, more painful stitches. The only catch is that they should be changed frequently along with your bandages."

Sherlock watched Molly apply the strips to his cut, wrap his hand and conclude her work with a ribbon of medical tape.

"There you go!" she piped happily. "All set. It should only have to be switched out again tonight before bed."

"John's a doctor," he started "I'll just get him to –"

"Erm, Sherlock." Molly hummed. "He and Mary have the baby now, and I bet they need all the sleep they can get."

"Oh." Sherlock took a moment to contemplate John's situation. "Then how will I…? Mrs. Hudson would faint at the sight of this…" He glanced at Molly puzzled as he moved to get his coat. He aimed his bandaged hand into its sleeve and winced as it missed its mark.

Ooh. Molly grimaced, seemingly sharing in his pain. "How about you come over to my flat and I take care of you for a bit, eh? Just until it starts to feel somewhat better."

Sherlock's mind flashed back to the movie. He was sitting with Molly; the two just smiling at one another. Her head leaned against his shoulder and his hands gently enveloping hers.
"Alright." The words left his lips without the permission of his rationale.

Molly's brows raised in surprise at Sherlock's lack of hesitation, but she quickly replied with a reaffirming "alright" and sweet smile of her own.

That night, the consulting detective followed his pathologist colleague home (after stopping by 221B for his pajamas, toothbrush, pillow, satin blue robe and slippers). As Molly unlocked her door, there was a thud sounding from the other side. Upon opening she was greeted by a quiet mew as the feline rubbed against her legs. "We've got a visitor, Toby! Yes we do!" she cooed in a baby voice as she scooped up the cat in one arm. After giving him a quick kiss, she plopped him back down on the couch and gestured towards the entire flat. "Welcome to my humble abode. Sorry about the mess." she said as she dropped Sherlock's overnight things on her kitchen table. It wasn't like he hadn't been in her flat before, given the countless times he had barged in unannounced. But she still felt the need to address the formalities.

"You hungry? I'm starving. Are leftovers alright with you?" Molly said nervously in one breath.

Sherlock found himself feeling socially awkward. He had told Molly she mattered back when she was with Tom. Now their engagement was broken off and he, the one she had pined over for so long, had agreed to spend the night without any hesitation whatsoever. Sherlock swallowed hard.

"Sure!" He caught himself again. Stop answering without thinking about what you want to say! Urg!

The two found themselves chowing down on a late supper of Molly's homemade stew, which was surprisingly okay. Molly giggled excitedly over the interesting and strange post-mortems she had performed recently, while managing to get Sherlock discussing his case and Mrs. Hudson's most recent antics. She was pleased to see that her company was actually smiling.

After a cup of evening tea, Molly stretched out some blankets on her couch and fluffed Sherlock's pillow in attempts to set up a makeshift bed. "Go get your jammies on!" she called out, disappearing into her bedroom. Upon returning, she had on her own pajamas, covered in little cats and mice and a first aid kit tucked under her arm. Sherlock sat on the couch in a pair of solid blue pajamas. Molly plopped down beside him with a smile saying: "Alright, time to take a look at that hand of yours."

At first Sherlock observed her unwrapping the bandage, but then his gaze fixed onto her. A small pink tongue was pinned between her teeth. Her eyes were focused with little lines forming at their corners. A wisp of her chestnut hair had fallen out from the confines of her pony tail and licked at the side of her brow as she moved. Before he knew it, the bandage was replaced and the lid of the first aid kit clicked shut.

"That feel alright?" she spoke.

"Yes." Sherlock replied, returning from his trance.

"Perfect!" smiled Molly, looking into his now, peridot colored eyes. "Can I get you anything else before I head off to bed?"

Sherlock stared back into Molly's eyes, irises flicking back and forth as he took in every inch of their depth.

Then he closed his eyes and while wrinkling his brow, sighed. "No, I'm fine."

"Okay." Molly frowned slightly, placing her hands on her knees to get up from the couch. "I'll be off then. Good night Sherlock. If you need something, don't hesitate to wake me up." Her fuzzy slippers thudded across the wooden floor as she began to head down the hallway towards her bedroom.

"Oh, Molly." Sherlock called out, seemingly forgetting something.

"Yeah?" A head popped back around the corner of the wall.

"Thank you." A genuine smile formed upon his face.

"Anytime, Sherlock." replied Molly. She retreated back behind the wall, stopping to comprehend what had happened. Looking down, she cocked her head and a huge smile of her own stretched from ear to ear. She then continued down the hall, the circular grips underneath her slippers lightly clasping against the floor.

Hearing Molly's footsteps trail off, the consulting detective swung his legs up onto the couch and pulled up the blanket. Feeling something plop on top of him, he looked up to see a feline curling into a ball at his feet. Sherlock was about to shoo Toby away when he felt the vibration from the cat's contented purrs. Chuckling at the moment's rarity, he was pleased to let the feline stay.

A few hours had passed and Sherlock gazed at the moon through the window. His thoughts had become dizzying.

All of a sudden, Sherlock got up. He made his was quietly down the hall, stopping at Molly's bedroom door. It was open, probably to allow Toby free range in and out. He saw her laying there peacefully tucked under her covers.

He walked in; the moonlight guiding him on his way. Approaching the side of her bed, she faced away from him with her shoulder length hair splashed across her pillows. Her breathing was deep and steady. Asleep.

Carefully he sat on the edge of her bed, nearest her head. He took a moment to take in the sight of her. Beautiful.

Then, a low voice rose up from within him.

"Well, I never been a man of many words." he began shakily.
"And there's nothing I could say that you haven't heard.
But I'll sing you love songs 'till the day I die.
The way I'm feeling,
I can't keep it inside."

The words had somehow committed themselves to his memory and now flowed out in a gentle melody.

"I'll sing a sweet serenade whenever you're feeling sad.
And a lullaby each night before you go to bed.
I'll sing to you for the rest of your life.
The way I'm feeling
I can't keep it inside.
No, I can't keep it inside."

Sherlock sighed, as he softly smoothed back a strand of loose hair from Molly's face.

Carefully, he got back up and began to exit the room.

"I love you too." whispered a voice from beneath the covers.

Sherlock stopped and looked back over his shoulder; the large smile upon his face illuminated by the moonlight.