Author's Note: A fun fact for y'all is that this fic was originally named 'The One Where Molly Bakes Shit' lol! This is supposed to be a happier toned post-tfp fic (no more than 3 chapters), so I hope y'all enjoy this plot bunny that implanted itself into my head yesterday.

Molly Hooper was a strange woman. Unique, but most definitely strange. This is what went through Sherlock's head as he stared at the package that now sat atop the counter in Mycroft's home. It wasn't large, nor was it miniscule. He wasn't sure what was inside, but he knew it had been personally delivered by her. A lump rose in the detective's throat as his mind flashed back to the day before. That phone call should have torn his friendship—and potential romantic entanglement—with Molly to shreds, and yet, here she was delivering mystery packages to him.

Sherlock stepped closer toward the package as if he were frightened by it. He could smell the light, flowery scent of her perfume, but mixed with the scents of lemon, ginger, and—was that cinnamon? "How peculiar," Sherlock mused.

"What's peculiar, brother mine?" Mycroft Holmes inquired. "You act as if whatever resides in Miss Hooper's package will harm you.

"Perhaps it will," Sherlock snapped in irritation. He paused, took a breath, and continued in a quiet voice, "After all, I deserve it." Though Mycroft wasn't good with emotions, he could tell his brother crestfallen.

"We don't have time for this, Sherlock," Mycroft reminded him. "We must meet mummy and father soon."

Carefully, Sherlock pulled one of the ends of the fabric bow tied around the package, unraveling it, and opened up the box. Peering inside, he found a variety of baked goods: lemon cakes, cinnamon raisin scones, and the ginger nuts he loved so much. There was a letter addressed to him lying on top of the pastries. Attempting to swallow the lump in his throat, Sherlock untucked the envelope's flap and retrieved the letter.

Dearest Sherlock,

It has come to my attention that you were in distress yesterday. Anthea refused to say anything more on the matter other than the fact that all of our lives were on the line—in our case, the phone line.

Sherlock allowed himself a small smile, unable to keep from hearing Molly laugh at her own joke.

I'm not angry with you; it's imperative that you know this. I never intended for my deepest secret to be revealed to you, so for both of our sakes, can we pretend it didn't happen? I apologise for forcing your empty words; that wasn't fair. I should have noticed the rising panic in your voice right away, but I allowed my emotions to get the best of me. I see why you suppress them; they're a nuisance sometimes. Mycroft gave me a teensy bit more information, telling me it was a family matter, and that your parents will be in town today. I couldn't sleep last night, so I thought I'd bake the scones for your parents, as it's their favourite, and lemon cakes for Mycroft. I know you love your ginger nut biscuits, so I thought you might like some. No, you don't have to share.

His heart lurched at her words, unable to fathom Molly's unwavering kindness and love. To just let the situation roll off her shoulders took a strength that Sherlock had always admired about her.

Writing this next portion if only for my benefit. I feel that writing this to you would be cathartic for me. After you read it, we will both never speak of it again…deal? Okay, her it goes…

Sherlock Holmes, I love you. I always have and always will. I know it is unwanted by you, but it's not something that can be controlled; believe me, I've tried. I never said anything, because I don't expect anything. Treat this factoid as if it were as meaningless as knowledge about the solar system.

Regardless of what happened yesterday, know that I am here for you. If you need to talk, you know where to find me.

Love, Molly

"Well?" Mycroft asked impatiently. Sherlock said nothing, but allowed his brother to read the letter for himself, only after having torn it right before Molly's written confession. That was for him alone. Mycroft couldn't read his brother's emotions, as they were conflicting, but noticed him slide the torn piece into the inside pocket of his Belstaff before promptly turning away. Something stopped him, though, and he doubled back to snag the ginger nuts before heading to his temporary bedroom.

Sherlock couldn't help but mull over the contents of Molly's letter. The portion of it he carried near his heart was the bit he was most concerned about.

Meaningless. How could Molly ever believe what she felt was meaningless to him? After all, in retrospect, it was her love that saved him on multiple occasions. But did she realise that? Probably not. Sherlock's heart felt as if it might burst. Everyone he cared about made it out alive last night, and though his sister's vivisection was a nightmare, Sherlock couldn't deny the one good thing that came out of it. His carefully constructed walls were in ruins, but the flood of emotion coursing through him was no longer unwelcome. Sherlock thought emotions and sentiment were only destructive, but he found himself feeling rejuvenated. He never felt so alive, his heart thrumming with uncontrollable emotions.

He looked at the time on his watch, and knew they would have to head to Mycroft's office in less than five minutes in order to beat their parents there. This was going to be the hardest part. There would most surely be tears, and definitely anger. When mummy was angry, she was an unstoppable storm of rage. Sherlock heard Mycroft call to him that it was time to go. Once more unto the breach, he sighed.

Molly flopped down on her sofa, already exhausted. It was only ten in the morning, and she had already seen Greg who had—on Mycroft's orders—searched her flat and removed the cameras from whatever had happened the day before, and she delivered baked goods to the Holmes brothers and their parents. The night before, she had been downright distraught, but upon closer inspection, she realised something had to be wrong and that was when Greg had called her whilst he was on his way to rescue John, Sherlock, and Mycroft. She found out that 221B had blown up, but everyone survived, and that John had been stuck in a well for God knows how long. Sherlock had been frightened and panicky during that call, and it made her heart ache for the both of them.

The weirdest part of the whole thing was that Molly couldn't seem to get ahold of Meena at all for the last couple of days. She had tried again this morning, but still nothing. This was unlike her friend to not immediately pick up her mobile. Just before coming back home, Molly had gone to Meena's flat to visit, but the landlord informed her that she hadn't been home in days. It was an entirely separate mystery that made absolutely no sense.

So, now, Molly just sat lazily on the sofa, flipping through channels on the telly, but nothing held her attention for long. She was feeling restless, wishing she could fast-forward through the day so that she could go into work for the night shift already. This was the kind of restlessness that ended up in her kitchen looking like a disaster as she baked to her heart's content. Maybe, she thought, I'll just see if John thinks Rosie would like some company.