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Sherlock bloody Holmes is using her microscope.
Molly glares at Sherlock's bloody perfect shoulders in his bloody perfectly tailored jacket hunched over her bloody microscope. It's stupid to be irritated, but it's bloody Valentine's and she's bloody single and even though she's convinced herself that she's bloody fine – really, just fine – with that, the flowers and hearts and saccharine "surprise" gifting that make up this bloody commercial holiday have worked her into a right bloody strop.
"Molly, come look at this." That deep voice drags her away from her fuming, and her feet are moving all on their own, drawn – always, always – towards its owner.
Gleeful as a little boy, he guides her into his vacated chair with hands curled over her shoulders. They remain there as Molly peeps through the eyepiece. The object under inspection is an oval cutout from a stained tissue slide, framed in silver and fashioned as a pendant.
"This is heart tissue." Sherlock hums, agreeing. "Diseased heart tissue."
"Not diseased, Molly." His breath ghosts over her ear. "Inflamed." Her brain stutters and her lips brush his cheek as she turns – he's that close.
"Oh," she gasps.
"I told John you'd get it," he says as his mouth covers hers.
Much later, she finds the engraved inscription around the edge. To Molly – for whom my heart beats.