First attempt at writing Sherlock. I should get a beta reader later since I am most definitely not British. I plan for this to be a collection of one-shots. Please enjoy and review.

Molly Hooper was quite relaxed as she finished stitching up the cadaver. Today had been quiet and without anything-or anyone –to add any unneeded stress to her day. The dead woman in front of her (sixty-two years of age, average height, overweight, mother of three, grandmother of eight, married forty years) had died from complications from diabetes, just what Molly had suspected. Blood tests in the lab and her work in the mortuary had confirmed that. Statements from the husband and children added to her conclusion. Despite their attempts to get her to eat healthier and take her medication like she should, this woman couldn't commit herself to living a better life for herself.

After the woman was put away and Molly washed up, she was finally able to collapse in a chair and finish up the paperwork. At this rate, she might even be able to go home early and without a visit from a certain consulting detective either. She had not seen him since he was last in here two days before. That day had been rather trying. She overslept, was nearly half an hour late for work, Sherlock had already begun snooping through her list and running experiments in the lab, he pestered her constantly about wanting to see this body and that body and when was she going to get him that foot for an experiment he needed to prove a man's alibi?

She tried ignoring him as best as she could until he decided to make some snide remark on the quality of her work. The she snapped and told him off, proved that he was wrong and she was right about the cause of death of two of the cadavers lying on metal slabs in the mortuary. In her tirade she only managed to register just a little bit that Sherlock was rendered speechless and John Watson and Detective Inspector Lestrade were snickering at the scene. Sherlock Holmes, dumbfounded and shrinking back from a small and normally even tempered pathologist. Molly smiled to herself at the thought.

The door to the mortuary creaked open and Molly could hear light footsteps walk several paces in. They didn't come anywhere close to her. The owner of the footsteps was keeping their distance. Molly turned around in her chair, confirming her suspicions. Of course Sherlock would stride in here right toward the end of Molly's shift. No doubt he would be expecting her to drop any plans for the evening-which were sadly, nonexistent and he probably knew that, too-to help him with some sort of experiment all because he was bored. There was something quite different about him this evening. He seemed almost…hesitant. Sherlock Holmes never hesitated about anything. Of course, he was also a great actor when he wanted something. Then there was the way his arms went behind his back-hiding something, obviously.

"What are you hiding?" Molly asked. Sherlock remained motionless and silent, giving no indication that he heard Molly speak at all. She turned back to the paperwork. If he wasn't going to speak, neither would she. Maybe he was hesitating, maybe he was deducing, and maybe he had an entirely different purpose altogether, but it took almost a full minute before Sherlock walked over to her desk. Molly could detect a very strong scent that was definitely not Sherlock's cologne-and even that smelled different today. Wordlessly, Sherlock place a bouquet of flowers on her desk. Just two days before, Molly had made Sherlock speechless with words. Now he had made her speechless with this silent gesture.

"I was informed, numerous times, by both John and Lestrade, that I might have been an arse the other day. Alright I was an arse," Sherlock added before Molly could say the exact same thing. "Your work has been nothing but phenomenal in all the years that I've known you and I should know better than to question it or imply that your conclusions were wrong. I am truly sorry for what I said." Sherlock cleared his throat. No doubt, admitting all of this was somewhat difficult for him. "I researched on the internet and asked John about what to do when you act like a complete prat to a woman and both suggested flowers."

Molly smiled up at him. "Thank you for buying me the flowers. And for apologizing to me."

Sherlock was looking at the wall, most determinedly not looking at Molly. "No need to thank me for the flowers. I didn't buy them. I didn't steal them, either," he added hastily when Molly opened her mouth to protest. "I helped the owner of a flower shop on a case once. Eliza is always happy to repay the favor. It's why Mrs. Hudson always gets flowers on her birthday."

Molly smiled once again and filed the report away in its folder. "Did you need anything?" Molly asked. "A look at a cadaver? Body parts? Did you want to run some sort of experiment in the lab?"

Sherlock finally looked down at her and shook his head. "No. You are obviously finishing up with work and wish to go home. Your plans for the evening are most likely, eating dinner, feeding Toby, and watching some banal show or another on the telly. You do not wish to stay here any longer than necessary. However it is late in the evening, so I will remain here until you are ready to go and you can get into a taxi. At that point I will be assured that no unexpected attacks will occur on you tonight. You are the only competent pathologist they have here at Bart's. My mind would be at ease knowing you get home safely. Why are you looking at me like that?"

Molly ducked her head down. "No reason, really. You just never offer anything like that. Usually when it's you and John here, he's the one that insists you two stay and walk me out. It's not really like you to do remember to do something like that."

Sherlock adjusted his scarf. "Go get your things," he said quietly. Molly left him in the mortuary to his own thoughts. She was right: he never did things like this. He had been feeling different as of late. He'd been acting different, too, according to John. He was used to being considered odd, but apparently, he had been acting odder than usual. He would have to think about this with his violin later.

"I'm not watching telly tonight, by the way," Molly said from the doorway of the mortuary. Sherlock looked at her, waiting for her to continue. "I'm watching a film from one of my DVDs."

"Let me guess," Sherlock said, holding open the door and letting Molly pass. "Is it a musical?"

Molly shook her head, amused. "No."

"Then it must be a period drama. One based on Jane Austen's works that Mrs. Hudson and millions of other women enjoy watching so much?"

"Wrong again."

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "I suppose it could be some sort of documentary or a comedy. Or an action movie. Filmmakers will add scenes and plot points purely for the sake of drawing in a female audience. A James Bond film?"

"I'll be watching The Sting," Molly finally told him. Sherlock shrugged.

"Never heard of it," he admitted. Molly laughed.

"That doesn't surprise me at all."

Sherlock would forget to be the gentleman and escort a lady safely to a cab late at night. John's influence is strong. Internet cookies go to the person who can spot the My Fair Lady reference. It is rather obvious.