Sometimes, he thought of her when John and the city were tangled in the depth of blissful slumber. His eyes were wide open and stuck to the wall, and his breathing was still and shallow. Images of her face raced in his mind, and, although quite rarely, his mouth twitched.

Since she had revealed to him that she could discern melancholy in his eyes when only the apathy carved into his face was what anyone else could see, he began to feel the slightest doubt when he was around her. He would suddenly remember, if only for the shortest moment, all the times he unintentionally, clumsily hurt her. Yet she kept running right back into that lab to gaze, with the softest brown eyes, at his stoic figure. That fact about her became a mystery. The fact that she could love such a careless man with all her might became a mystery. And he did not at all rejoice in its prospect. Sometimes, although quite rarely, his mouth would twitch at the thought.

He tried comparing her to the one woman that had struck his wits, Irene Adler, the woman who has enough enigma and charisma in her concealing green eyes to represent every ounce of treacherous elegance of her sex. She did not, however, resemble Irene Adler in any way, and therefore he found himself in a dead end once more.

Molly Hooper did not have the most attractive name or lips, she did not look at men under thick lashes with a devilish curve of the mouth, and she did not have the intellect to outsmart them with compassionate and dangerous avoidance of personal enquiries. She would much rather speak about them. Molly Hooper was, to him, an open book that bore the naive quotes of a young romantic. Under his rebellious scrutiny, she would often blush. And as her skin would gain colour, he would chuckle inwardly, for no other woman's cheeks would resemble perfect cherries whenever their eyes would reach his. Yet he would never dare say that Molly Hooper was anywhere near pathetic by harbouring love for him – that would not be something a British gentleman would do. Sometimes, he even had enough of that trait to smile at her from time to time.

At first, he reckons, he was genuinely oblivious to being the object of her affections. Later on, though, small details such as rapid blinking or lack thereof, adjusted lipstick, and uneasy smiles gave away her secret adoration. Finally, when he had guessed at the Christmas party, with much arrogance, that she had in fact been cherishing a particular soul, his breath died down a little after learning it was him indeed. That's when the puzzle pieces fell together, and the situation became clear as day. Although it would do more pain than good, he decided a peck on the cheek would be a rueful gesture to wash away some of his rudeness. After all, he was aware that Molly Hooper liked pain that made her insides churn, and her heart beat faster.

And now... Now he lays stiff on a couch, observing the rain hit the window. Little does he know, the figure in the next room listens to the downpour just as he, unmoving and cold.

He had come to her that night, tall and majestically haunting. The words "You've always counted", and "I've always trusted you", the way they rolled off his tongue, crispy and broken, strangely conveyed tears to her eyes. When he had finally turned to face her, he was not the man she was used to see. This man, this new man she dares say, stood a few feet away from her with fear forming in the pit of his irises. When he advanced toward her, slowly, he in turn frightened her. She was surprised to find her voice, audible enough to ask two identical questions. His final reply, a fragile fragment of a damaged hope, "You", left a thousand emotions swirling within her. His icy blue eyes were fixed on hers, and she found her strength compromised by his gaze. A few tears nestled at the corners of her eyes, but they did not trickle down her cheeks.

Her head turned down in defeat. Of course she would come at his aid. Even if it meant breaking her heart till the pieces were mere crumbs.

And now, this man, this "dead" man, was lying on her couch, probably thinking about philosophical statements, or Einstein's theories, or perhaps imagining an interesting set of murders for him to solve.

However, as far as she knew, Sherlock Holmes would never leave her mind. She was simply worried he would leave her before dawn, and never come back. That's why she lay awake, thinking, and listening to every crack of the floor, praying it wasn't the sound of his steps eluding her apartment.

A/N : Very important!

So, this is my first Sherlock fic. Unfortunately, I've not read the books, but I certainly plan to.

Basically, for now, there's no action, but I'm pretty sure I will have it start in the next chapter.

It would really be great if I could get some encouragement on the plot, because I'm not entirely certain about this idea.

Thank you for reading!