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Sherlock

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“This is an immensely delicate situation.”Sherlock Holmes is pacing – no, prowling – in the hopes that movement will add the further emphasis that his visitor obviously needs. No doubt the human race is getting more and more daft these days, but to offer up only silence in the face of this crisis is taking it too far. Anxiety itches at the back of his neck, something he can't will away with a distracting thought. No, there is a problem and it's under his skin now. Has been for days. This line of questioning is somewhat of a last resort. “In order to save the individual's life, a certain passcode had to be verbally uttered. The subject's life was spared, of course, but there is a particular–price I have paid.”Still the person in the chair says nothing, and Sherlock lets out a long, low sigh. This is stupid. He knows it’s stupid, and yet there are times when he just needs someone – something, even – to ramble to. His skull. John. The wallpaper, peeling in places. A decapitated head stored in the fridge. An audience helps, though this particular subject isn’t acting attentive. “Don't just sit there, you know perfectly well what I mean!”She only peers up with an innocent expression, reminding him so much of John that Sherlock can only be frustrated with himself. Sherlock had done endless research on this phase in a child’s development. He assumes she’s fascinated by the monologue, the pattern of words and tone, understanding next to nothing. Because this little one knows his face and voice as surely as she knows her own father’s, often asks for Sherlock even, and in light of the mutual fondness growing between them he can’t bring himself to ever be angry or bored with her. She’s so young, yet to let her head be filled with the nonsense of this world. There’s only wonder in those bright eyes. Footsteps intrude upon the clarity of his focus, the sound so familiar that it can only be the man who created this challenging visitor. John Watson in the flesh.“You sod,” are the first words out of his mouth. A pink rag materializes to wipe away the drool dribbling down his daughter's chin. “In here giving my daughter the third degree?”John's expression is stern, but Sherlock can tell from his tone that he’s joking. He’s doing that more and more these days, good John. And not in the way of a man who has to weave a cloak of lies to keep the grief at bay, barely hanging on. His eyes are no longer constantly gone with the pain of loss, and this is a good sign. Sherlock does not constantly feel the need to puzzle him out anymore, to wonder, to truly know if John Watson is managing. “Well, she certainly doesn't seem to mind.” John only scoffs, scooping up his daughter with a grunt of effort.“Don't really think a child of one will be able to help you with this.”“She's a girl, isn't she?” says Sherlock mildly, picking at a stray string on his sleeve. “I'd rather hoped she'd be able to provide some insight.”“Child of one.” John repeats, gesturing at the baby's cheerful attempts to pull his ear off with her pudgy little hand. “Why not, I dunno – talk to Mrs. Hudson if you're so eager for a woman's advice?”Sherlock rolls his eyes heavenward. “That’d be awkward, John.”He lets himself imagine that particular scenario. Dear Mrs. Hudson with her too-kind eyes, offering to discuss his lady troubles (her own words, no doubt accompanied with a consoling pat) over a cup of tea. No, there's no bloody way he would be desperate enough to take that route. Not for all the hot scones in the world. As adored as the woman is, it isn't exactly as if she can always be counted upon to keep her trap shut, either. One wrong word uttered to the nosy postman, and who knows what sort of rumors will be buzzing in the paper. Sherlock thinks he’s had quite enough of that sort of attention, thank you very much. To his astonishment, John begins to guffaw. “You do realize how absurd you’re being, don’t you?”Sherlock knits his brows. “I don’t see anything absurd about this. This is a very serious matter.”And it is. When the Sherrinford Incident had occurred, as Mycroft referred to it – often making a face associated with drinking liquor too strong for one’s taste – tragedy and trauma had struck with staggering impact. Lives were taken, ripped away, as Eurus had had her little game. Those who hadn’t perished remained behind, shell-shocked, in the aftermath.People like Molly Hooper.Even though Molly had been nowhere near Sherrinford when Sherlock, John, and Mycroft were being forced to play with the Holmes sister, for a fleeting moment, she had appeared.There are many moments about that day that come back to Sherlock unbidden, but perhaps the most unwelcome and frequent is the plain wooden coffin. The blazing look of glee on his sister’s pallid face. Molly in her kitchen, angry that he was ringing her because he never answers when she rings. His chest practically cracking open from how damn hard his heart was pounding and–His heart is pounding even now, even though it’s so. Damn. Irrational. There’s no stimuli to cause it. A memory shouldn’t do this. There’s only him and John and Rosamund, with the sun shining through Baker Street windows, and yet – and yet. Sherlock’s hands still tremble. A piece of his mind seems to be stuck in the past. A piece of him forever begging Molly to answer the phone so he can save her life. “...But seeing as we’ve got the day off, I think I’m heading out. That alright, Sherlock? ...Sherlock.” John's saying something. Yes, he tends to do that, doesn't he?“Sorry, what?”Sherlock goes back to his pacing. Movement helps the mind, encourages the cogs to keep turning. John is eyeing him in a way that he finds exasperating. Bless him, the poor man's trying to deduce. Sherlock loves John, but really, one day that sandy hair is going to catch fire from the strain written so plainly on his face.“I said, Rosie and I are going to head out. That alright with you?”“Oh. Of course, I'm sure it's…” Distracted, he peers out the window, trying to get some indication of what the world is doing outside of 221B. “I'm sure it's an excellent day to be a baby.”“Every day’s an excellent day to be a baby,” John replies as he gathers up the last of Rosie's things. “But of course, you’d know all about that, eh?”If John had not banned cursing in front of Rosamund, colorful language may have followed him out the door. In its place, Sherlock merely gives him a withering look (all these baby jokes, really? He's a man of forty!) and bids them farewell.It's selfish of him to wish that John would stay, but solitude is growing more difficult. In ordinary circumstances, the concept of being alone would not have daunted Sherlock Holmes. There are cases out there! Murders, victims, thievery, and all manner of hand-dirtying matters that make his blood pump day after day. He’s not content to sit in his flat and be mundane like most of the population. He needs tasks, thrilling tasks, things that many people would find impossible, disgusting, or strange. Lately, though, his mind won't stick to his work. (Mostly because every case is boring – had nearly losing his life taken away the excitement? Dear, dear.) But that isn't all there is to it. He can't concentrate on it. Even in the cases he takes, his mind flings itself back to that prison at regular intervals. Infuriating, inevitable. Like his body is in the now but his brain is still there. Lingering, sluggish.
“Oh, God. Is this one of your stupid games?”

“No, it’s not a game. I...I need you to help me.”

She's never going to do it. Time's moving so quickly and she's never going to say it, she'll die in a billion grisly pieces in her flat, alone, thinking that he's pulling some cruel joke--

“Look, I’m not at the lab.”

“It’s not about that.” His voice pitches higher with desperation – he feels himself beginning to sweat. You are going to die. You will die and I will have failed you.

“Sherlock, what is it? What do you want?”
Why?Why is he being forced to come back to it, over and over, to see its very structure as one views cells through a microscope lens? He doesn't fancy this, being a man who dwells. Nor does he particularly enjoy remembering so vividly, multiple times throughout the course of his waking moments, the crumpled face of Molly Hooper.He so wishes he could have told her, in the moment, what he was trying to do. That it had all been an effort to save her life. Maybe she would have understood. Maybe it would not all be so dreadfully confusing now.Sherlock Holmes is an incredibly intelligent man – anyone who meets him will tell you. But can they claim that he is not an unfeeling monster? Only a precious few would vouch for him in that category, and Sherlock's unsure if Molly is one of them. Very unsure indeed. Perhaps that's why his texts remain unanswered, and why he suddenly feels much like he's on the opposite end of the tentative relationship he’d once had with Irene Adler. He felt that stabbing thing again and curses it, knowing its name. Guilt.Slipping a hand into the pocket of his trousers, Sherlock unlocks his phone and thumbs out a text at breakneck speed.
We need to talk about what was said. Please. Can meet you when your shift ends at 6.

--SH
Of course he knows her shift ends at six because when it's her turn to watch Rosamund, John always shows up to her flat two hours later than he typically would. This means that her shifts now last from 8 am to 6 pm; ten hours instead of the usual eight. Indicative of Molly asking for and receiving more work time. This could mean one of two things. Money trouble, or an emotional issue she wishes to avoid by diving headfirst into work.The latter option is far more likely.The text goes ignored for an hour, two hours, three. It will sit unanswered, Sherlock knows, just like the other dozen that had frustrated him. Though many will claim that he has the emotional capacity of a saucer, this does not leave him entirely inept. Sherlock still realizes that Molly needs space to process what happened. But how much is too much, and has that amount overflowed into a place where he seems more unfeeling and cruel than he already does? Or perhaps, even, he's not giving her enough time. Is that true? It's been four months, how much could she possibly…? Sherlock recalls every disappointed look on John’s face over the course of their friendship. When Sherlock had said something decidedly cruel or unfeeling without a second thought. Better, then, to think twice now. All he'd wanted was to save the life of a dear friend. It wasn’t supposed to become...this. Eurus was right; so many complicated little emotions that they couldn’t even be kept track of. It would be so much easier to forget it had happened, to continue living his life as he’d always lived it. But with Molly concerned, that doesn't seem to be something he can do.“To hell with it,” Sherlock murmurs to the empty flat, glancing at his phone for the time. Just past five. This is already absurd and painful and awkward. What could a little more harm do?Groping for his coat, slung over the edge of a chair, Sherlock debates over his deerstalker before shutting the door of 221B behind him. The way to Bart’s is a well-treaded path, but taking it now feels overwhelming. Why would visiting Molly Hooper in her lab, of all things, make his stomach churn? God, how things have changed. Before, she would have barely piqued his interest. Now, she's been a hurricane in his thoughts for days upon days.These thoughts, as demanding as they are to his addled brain, have to be put aside. He has a mortuary to visit, and for once, he's not interested in the dead.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Molly
—------------A low buzz against the desk, startling her from a daydream.Molly glances at the screen of her phone, scowling at the demanding tone of the message she finds there. Does he still think of her as a service, free whenever he has need of it? Well, she wants no part of him. But of course he’s caught her on her lunch break, (he’s Sherlock, so this had to have been premeditated) when she has plenty of time to mull over what’s been sent. Sherlock Holmes is the most arrogant, entitled creature walking the London streets – anyone who’s met him can tell you. He looks like an ordinary man, and some days he walks and even talks like one. In the end, however, he’s only a beast of cold calculation, fact and outcome. Any emotions he has exist only for his work or for John Watson, as Molly’s learned the hard way over and over again.
We need to talk about what was said.
How many different ways has he asked that of her? When will he give it up and realize that she just doesn’t want to? It was all a lie. Any hope he’d ever given her was a falsehood. Molly places her phone face-down, taking a deep breath and trying to pull her mind back to the tasks still unfinished. So much to do, Molly, you cannot break down right now. Her half-finished soup sits in front of her, and there’s no doubt that it’ll be a challenge to get down. Not that Molly had found it particularly pleasant to start with, but when she doesn’t eat, she gets lightheaded, and lightheadedness leads to not being able to think right or get anything done. So to the lukewarm soup she returns, with a grimace. It does not sit well. The lunch churns in her stomach while the text churns in her mind. Sherlock always manages to wreck her, no matter how hard Molly tries to convince herself that she no longer cares about him. She’d cared for so long that it was a habit more well-worn than her favorite lab coat. Though both need to be thrown away, she’s too sentimental to part with either. The hospital has been so quiet without the tall man in his long, black Belstaff sweeping through its halls. Peaceful was a word that some had used, laughingly. That’s not a word Molly would use. Unsettling seems a better term. It makes Molly wonder when and where he’ll turn up, asking to see a body. Settling in soundlessly behind her shoulder as she leans in over some scalpel work. A whole month and no sign of him here. Does she like that...or not? For the first time in years, in so damn long, Molly’s finally living her life detective-free. Yet now she finds herself caught in a riptide of fury and sorrow over what he had done. Why had he done that? After so long of knowing Sherlock, she thought she had finally earned the right to call him a friend. But that had all been dashed, hadn't it? One of his precious cases later and little Molly Hooper gets tossed aside again.
We’re not going to cry at work, so stop thinking about it.
Right. Okay. Instinctively, Molly places two fingers to her neck to find the pulse there dancing. Again, she tries to set her breathing right. It’s no secret to anyone in London that the world's only consulting detective seems to be missing a kind of neural link that connects his need to solve a case (no matter what the consequence) to caring about anyone's emotions. At all. That may explain why Sherlock Holmes decides to conduct his experiment on Molly the day that her cat died. Clever of him, really, Molly decides the more she thinks on it. He’d claimed to need her words for a case, and what better time to squeeze them out of her than when she was at an emotional low already? Who knew why he needed her to say I love you over the phone the afternoon her cat had died? Who bloody knew why Sherlock did anything? The worst of it all was that she thought he had actually been changing. Their goddaughter had been the most solid and delightful proof of this. When little Rosie had first come home, Molly recalled how fixated Sherlock had been on the newborn. In the rare moments that all three godparents were together, he could often be caught touching one of her tiny hands. Studying, marveling.“Miniscule,” Molly thought she’d heard him mutter once or twice. As Rosie grew older, she’d learned to grip his finger tightly, and even got upset when Sherlock tried to pull away. Most astonishing of all to Molly were the baby pictures taken on his mobile phone. He didn’t use that thing’s camera capabilities for anything other than grisly case photos, as far as she knew. Snaps of severed toes, the occasional bloodied curtain, a dead man’s hairline, and now, an album for a sweet-faced baby girl. It overjoyed Molly to see that Sherlock and Rosie were forming a bond. To be honest, she was a little unsure if he’d get on with a baby at all, with him being, well. Sherlock. Even so, he wasn’t quite what he used to be, was he? As the years passed, Molly grew certain that something was different about him. Something less sharp, more human. Watching the famous Sherlock Holmes arguing with John over which bow would best suit Rosie’s tuft of blonde hair was all the convincing Molly needed. Then Mary had been shot. The bright, smiling woman with the hints of lines around her eyes. Molly’s friend with the ceaseless jokes about motherhood and already being prepared between looking after John and Sherlock was just – dead. And suddenly, Molly’s duties as a godmother became much more needed than they had once been. John was like a dead man himself. Molly hated thinking that, but God, he looked so awful. If Rosie had made him tired before, he must have never slept at all in the wake of his wife’s death. John would bring Rosie over to her place, mutter his thanks, and then leave almost as soon as he passed the baby over. Molly wasn’t sure that he went home, and knew that he certainly didn’t return to 221B. He and Sherlock had a falling out of some kind, something about Mary, and everyone was unsure if they would even speak to one another again because of it. Sherlock turned up at John’s home in the early days of it, looking for him.Bizarre, she’d thought to herself, him asking me if I’ve seen John around. Back before everything had gone wrong, it was always John looking for Sherlock. Sherlock was the one who never stopped moving, the one who needed to be searched for. John was the one you could count upon to be in one place. “I just wondered how things were going, and...if there was anything I could do.” Sherlock speaks to his shoes. She’s never seen him so defeated. Molly has no Holmes mind, but she, too, can read people at a glance – although her eyes sweep up pieces of medical clues instead of those that can potentially solve a murder case. Sherlock is not well, and she’s certain you don’t need medical training to be able to tell. He doesn’t have the refined, confident look of someone who has everything under control, as he usually does. Sherlock looks...lost. Broken. Hopeless. Like someone had taken the beating heart from his chest and squeezed, leaving him empty behind the eyes. And just as John had, he appears not to be sleeping. It pains Molly like a physical ache to pass on the message that John requested, if Sherlock were to come round looking for him. Swallowing down the rising emotion in her throat, Molly tries to get it over with. “I-I’m sorry, Sherlock. He says – John says – if you were to come round asking after him, offering to help… That he’d rather… rather have anyone but you.” Molly can’t meet his eyes. She fears that she might see something she won’t be able to forget, something that will haunt her even further than the man standing before her now. Some cowardly part of her knows that if she looks up, the Sherlock she knows and admires will be gone. “Anyone,” she repeats.Blinking back tears, she takes Rosie and ducks away, leaving Sherlock alone on the porch. After that, Sherlock had gone to hell. The death of Mary had wounded him, but the loss of John’s friendship must have been the thing to truly do him in. Cocaine became his regular waltzing partner again, along with a slew of other narcotics. It made Molly sick to her stomach with worry every time she had to interact with him. He was only a ghost of the brilliant man she’d fallen for, a hazy shadow. Simply put, he was no Sherlock that she cared to know. In the hundreds and hundreds of post-mortems Molly had done in her career, few things were nastier to a body than murder or drugs. Drugs...they ate you. No one who knew the rate of consumption Sherlock was blazing through could deny that he was making himself a feast. Although she was sure he was going to die – God, all the danger he'd faced in his life, a faked suicide, and here he was doing himself in with coke – he made it out. That’s what he’s good at, isn't it? Sherlock Holmes knows things and he survives. An attempt on his life was made (by Culverton Smith of all people) and he survived. And for a while after, the famous London detective has been holed up in his old dusty flat, recovering from the strangulation and trying to go clean. Those were good days. Not for Sherlock – shaky, clammy, and a royal pain, to be frank as he fought through withdrawal –but he and John were on good terms again. It seemed to be doing wonders for both of them. John had actually started to smile; it never quite reached his eyes, but it was an improvement. With her sharp eye, Molly could also tell that Sherlock was growing stronger through the irritability. Most importantly, Rosie had all her godparents back. Molly knows that the three of them can never replace Mary, but she’ll do everything that she can to keep the little girl safe and happy in her mother’s name. When it comes to Rosie, Molly feels herself become brave. Protective. Unfortunately, Sherlock felt the need to return to normal, and tear the sweet mundanity apart. She doesn’t know why he’s hurting her like this. Of course he must be aware that her feelings linger. They’ll never truly stop, not after all that had happened. Sure, her stupid little crush had gone. Following him round the lab like a puppy, asking him what he needed, being so humiliated when he shushed her or waved her away. Still, he was Sherlock. And she would always care. In the same way that's all John needs to say to explain his friendship, that's all Molly needs to rationalize why some tiny piece of her refuses to give up. He’s a prat, he’s an ass, he’d broken her heart just recently and no you shit I do not want to talk to you about it, yet still she clings on.
Can meet you when your shift ends at 6.
“Fuck off, please,” she mutters under her breath. The corpse under her, thankfully, doesn’t answer. Not can. No, he will. There’s a sort of spiteful victory about being able to ignore Sherlock for this long, Molly decides. Not only does it feel good to not let herself give in, to not have a moment of weakness and text him back in a blizzard of pissed-off paragraphs, but she also knows how he’s squirming at not being answered. Everyone always gives Sherlock what he wants, don't they? Well, not this time. Amazing that he’s let it go on this long, but the tone of this text means that the wait is at an end. Ready or not, Sherlock Holmes is coming.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Sherlock
—--------Four things.One. Molly had pulled her jumper out of the hamper because she was running late for work – overslept. Unusual; what had caused the lapse in what he'd otherwise known as an incredibly punctual response to her work schedule? Two. She's six pounds lighter than the last time they’d met. No, make that six and a quarter, the jumper's bulky. She isn't eating. Three. There's a knot in the ponytail that's normally kept immaculate, and no one has bothered to tell her. The fourth detail of interest, as Molly Hooper turns, is very clear; she is not at all pleased to see him. True that circumstances are not ideal. But gentle Molly has a look on her face usually reserved for stubborn bloodstains and corpses that, when they had lived, were considered the scum of the earth. Her lip raised in a minimal sneer, eyes narrowed, vein bulging in her neck. He had been expecting sadness. Molly is, he hates to admit, good at that particular emotion. Instead, here she is, regarding him with her own brand of Hooper-esque fury that he has difficulty deciding how to approach. “Sooo…" Sherlock leans forward on her pristine silver counter, trying to catch her glance. Molly ignores him. "Get my texts?” It was meant as a joke, something casual (he’d remembered to smile and everything), but jokes have never been Sherlock’s strong suit. Molly’s expression only darkens further, and the lip that had been sneering now shakes. He chastises himself at once. Really? Months without seeing her and this is the best he can do? What did John say you were supposed to do with people you liked – something about compliments? – but that's useless now. Molly rather looks like she'd like to run him through with the nearest surgical implement. “When someone ignores you, Sherlock, it means they don’t want to talk to you,” she manages, dodging past him to get through the doors that lead out to the hall. “As hard to believe as that may be.” How very hostile, and utterly unlike her. It seems as if every inch of her petite body is coiled with unspoken anger. The more he looks at her, the more Sherlock realizes that he should not have waited this long. It's only given her more time alone with the pain and uncertainty. God, why do people have to be complicated? “Molly –” Sherlock starts after her. “You don't understand what it was about –”Eventually those doors expel them both onto the sidewalk, the approaching sunset a pale orange cloak on their shoulders. Molly spins round to face him, color rising on her pale complexion. “So you're telling me that I wasn't another experiment for some stupid case? Liar.” She spits the word as if it's too hot for her mouth, like she's needed to say it to him for months. Molly slings her bag more forcefully over one shoulder, her gait shifting to a hurried walk. Eager to outpace him. But Sherlock won't be dismissed so readily. Not yet. “Would you just hold still and listen, Molly, please?” His hand grasps Molly’s forearm, a limb so small that his thumb and middle finger nearly close around it. She struggles against him once, digging in her heels, then gives a huff of defeat. Her brown eyes are cold as she waits for him to speak his piece.
Pulse elevated, gooseflesh on her exposed skin.
“It wasn't for a case,” he says in a low voice, looking around to make sure they aren't overheard. “That, and only that, was what I lied about the day we spoke on the phone. The rest...is messy.” Sherlock knits his brows. What a complete understatement. Molly stands here before him, peaked and run-down. Obviously suffering from a severe anxiety disorder among other things. Here he is, still seeing flashes of Sherrinford in everyday life. Still craving half a dozen drugs on any given day the moment that life gets slow. What a bloody pair. “Messy.” Molly repeats. Everything in her posture suggests doubt. Sherlock becomes aware that he still has her arm in his grasp, and drops it quickly, as though it's hot.
The island. Eurus. Molly’s coffin. His knuckles raw and gory. John staring up at him, terrified, from a rapidly filling well.
“More so than you can ever imagine.” She gazes up at him, her eyes as hard as flint. “Try me, Sherlock Holmes.” This is how he ends up spilling secrets of national importance to Molly, to what will surely be Mycroft’s utter horror. Sherlock can't deny that even though what he has to say is grim, the thought of Mycroft’s reaction is somewhat pleasing. (Always the dramatic one, him. It's not as if he's whispering it in the Queen’s ear, for God’s sake.) They travel back to Molly’s flat – thankfully still in one piece – in an awkward silence. All the while Sherlock’s mind turns over as he thinks of where would be best to begin.
Redbeard?

The drugs?

Eurus?

The call?
There's so much, too much. Will Molly believe any of it, or will she suspect (as she had from the moment she laid eyes upon him) that their conversion is a cocaine-induced blather of madness? Sherlock would place no blame upon her for the assumption. There had been too many occasions when her face had swum above him in a haze, furious, after his most recent urine test. Disappointing her over and over. Breaking her heart. She'd said that once. Breaking all our hearts, Sherlock, you know that? Don't you? He couldn't answer her then. He couldn't feel his mouth. Drugs were the only thing Sherlock had ever seen make her passive features grow cold under the weight of rage, before today. “Alright.” Molly leaned on the edge of the counter, near where she'd been making tea the night of their call. “So tell me. What was it about, then? Why would you – do that to me?” Her expression tells him that he had better have a damn good reason. Sherlock feels his own goosebumps break out; hell hath no fury like a pathologist scorned. Sherlock takes a breath, stealing a moment to think. His heart thinks it's necessary to beat a little quicker, as well, for whatever reason. Possibly a side effect of the drugs, and the damage they'd done to his cardiovascular system. “Would you believe me if I were to tell you,” Sherlock begins, “that I have a little sister?” Molly blinks, unfazed. This is not what she cares about, not what she wants to hear. Nonetheless, it's where he needs to start. “Hate to be stuck between you three at Christmas Dinner, then,” she says. Half of her pert mouth goes up in an attempt at a smirk, but it's wan and forced. Truer and far more graceful smiles have flitted across Molly Hooper’s face, but Sherlock has gone months without seeing a single one. She's just going along with the prompt to be polite. Another nonsense social rule. Quite frankly, Molly doesn't give a damn about any sister he has. Her real question is written on her face, plainly as if text has replaced her facial features. It's so clear to Sherlock it's almost as if the phrase has been uttered aloud;
Did you mean it?
Though Molly’s true question is plain for him to see, though he knows it's rude to dance around a subject she wants to discuss so badly, Eurus is where he has to begin. If not for Eurus, things would still be as they've always been. He and Molly would still have their friendship intact instead of this frayed thing it is now. Hanging on by threads that could be burned away at any moment. Still, Sherlock smiles a little at her quip in answer. One thing about Molly Hooper; even when she's giving up on herself, she still tries for others. Always trying, always caring. Sherlock finds himself fascinated and even inspired by her irrational goodness. "Family dinners aren't the problem. I'm afraid it's somewhat worse than that." Confusion chases the burning question off of her face. Haltingly, he tells Molly of how he had tried to save her life with one phrase, three words. How it had all been the cruelest of jokes. How it leaves them standing in her kitchen today, leagues away from anything that can be called closeness. The sheer senseless evil that had taken place dwells, massive, in his mind. Eurus is a damaged woman. There's no denying that. There are so many things she's lacking, growing up the way she had. Sherlock knows this. In his mind he feels as if he's come to forgive her, but there are times when his heart cannot. Because Molly Hooper is trembling. She tries to steady herself against the counter, to hide it, but Sherlock’s eyes miss nothing in such close quarters. Out of a learned courtesy that'd taken him years to master, he says nothing of it. He knows she's unsure of whether to take his words for truth. Thinking back on the call, trying to reconjure every detail, to match it to what she's just been told. “Very noble of you,” Molly finally croaks, not meeting his glance. The fierceness has gone out of her in one fell swoop; now she seems as light as a strand of hair and just as thin. Sherlock tilts his head, not understanding. “What?”“Did you not hear me, Sherlock?” Molly swallows, and the tension in her body grows more obvious as she straightens to face him. “I said, it was very noble of you. To tell such a lie. To save my life with the biggest lie you’ve ever told. I’m forever in your debt.” The venom in Molly’s tone is a near-physical pain as he registers her sarcasm. Delivered with purpose, cutting deep and detailed. Always handy with a scalpel, Molly. “Molly, do you not remember what I told you? The only…" He swallows, finding his throat strangely dry. "The only thing I lied about that day was our reason for speaking. Do you understand? Do you remember?” His tone is soft, and still she's shaking. Does she know what he's trying to say? Sherlock has no clue if he can speak that kind of thing into existence again. It had felt so powerful all those months ago, sweeping through him with the force of a hurricane. Uncontrolled. Dangerous. Something he doesn't even understand. Yet the longer the months go on without speaking to her, the less he can deny it. There are feelings there, something strong and aching. Something he can't shut down – not with the most fascinating case in the world. There would still be the memory of Molly Hooper when he closed his eyes, tugging at him. For one long, agonizing moment, she says nothing. He watches her chest rise and fall with every breath, those deep brown eyes closed, as Molly struggles to find the words. “Do you realize…" She's quiet again, and Sherlock waits. To his horror, there are tears gathering in her eyes, and he hasn't the slightest clue what to do. "That I think about that godforsaken conversation every day of my life, Sherlock? Do you?" Her words fill the empty space of the kitchen, expanding to every corner, and Sherlock feels himself duck his head as if to escape them. “No matter how I try to push it down or tell myself it's all a lie? I wish it into reality and I h-hate myself for it.” Here she breaks, face already reddened with emotion, and the tears spill into cupped hands. Trying to hide from him. Unfortunately, Sherlock sees everything. Everything. Her sobs are so loud and they sound painful, and she folds over in two against the counter as if to disappear, and still he's immobile. Rooted there. The sounds tear out of her like they've been hidden for decades, forcing up out of her throat against her will. All the while he stands there, helpless. I'm sorry, he could say.
I know you were so scared. I was scared too. I wish it didn't happen but I'm here now and we could try again, I want to try. With you.

Molly, please don't. Please.
He could say something, anything, but he can't move. Social norm dictates that he should cross the room. Go to her. Hold her, something…but he doesn't. Coward, a voice in his mind snarls. All you’ve done and you'll always be scared. After a time, he can bear to listen no longer. Face flushed with shame, Sherlock gives her one last look and walks away, hating himself a little as he does. “I’m very sorry about your cat,” he murmurs as he leaves her there. The front door shuts with the gentlest of snaps, leaving Molly alone in her flat. Just her, the empty rooms, and two clean bowls on the kitchen floor, untouched for months.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

I shouldn’t have just left like that.

It was idiotic.

Please forgive me.

Molly.

What can I do?

--SH
The screen is bright against Molly’s sleep-bleared eyes. She tries to make out the phone screen, but as she does, it only sickens her further. Embarrasses her, angers her, shakes her. Depositing the phone with a hard whump, Molly buries herself further in the blankets. The hope is that if she stays here long enough, avoids enough calls, the world will forget her. Unfortunately, this trick has been tried in the past and it's never done any good. After he'd left her there, exposed and afraid in the kitchen of her own flat, something in Molly seemed to give way. Yes, Sherlock had been here. Not rake-thin with his jaw shadowed with beard, shuffling towards an early grave as she had last seen him. No, he looked...fine. Like his old self, almost. Clean shaven, as he prefers, well-dressed. The light in his eyes driven by cognition and not a fever of drug-clouded stupor. All the struggling that'd gone on in her mind, the wrestling it'd done with her idiot heart. All of it to collapse with a glimpse of him whole and well in front of her. You’re okay matters much more than am I okay. But isn't that how it always goes? Not even just with the incomparable Sherlock Holmes, but with everyone Molly cares about? God. It's as if she tries to make everyone matter but herself, but why? Not today. Today is for selfishness, and the warmth of her little cocoon. The plethora of missed calls and texts proves that. Never has she ever skipped work, yet today the punctual Molly Hooper phones her boss and tells him how woefully ill she is. That she will not be making it to Bart’s. He's surprised; after all, she’s never taken a sick day. (Am I even putting corpses above myself? She muses.) Still, of course he wishes her the best of health, etcetera, all the sweet things that people have to say to one another. As soon as they hang up, Molly lets herself slip back to sleep, and now it's one o'clock in the afternoon. Completely irresponsible; it feels fantastic. Every part of the bed seems to cradle the side of Molly that she never lets have any power; the side that wants to be an absolute sloth at all times. Every workday it’s always, up, up, up by seven a.m sharp, but this? This is paradise. Not dying homeless on the streets is better than paradise, stupid, an irritable part of her reprimands. Molly has a feeling that the bed would house her for the rest of the day, if not for the growing hunger in her belly and the foul taste building up under her tongue. Being human is frustrating that way; it forces you into action. As she slumps out from the covers, her mobile again scolds the room with a low buzz. “Christ,” Molly mumbles to herself, wrapping her bathrobe tight round her waist. Hunger dictates that the kitchen should be the first place that she goes, but Molly's feet come to an abrupt halt where the carpet meets tile. Of course the whole stupid mess had to happen in one of her favorite rooms. Conveniently, the room that’s also home to the refrigerator and pantry. Breakfast for her is a prompt thing and happens no later than twenty past seven a.m. That’s six hours overdue now, however impossible it seems.
For God's sake, walk into the kitchen and fix yourself something. It's easy. You do it every day.
Still she remains immobile, inept. It isn’t just that she’d blown up at Sherlock in here the night before and humiliated herself. The idea that that woman – his sister, a monster – had cameras planted in here horrifies her. After Sherlock had left, Molly, hysterical and sobbing, had clambered on the counters, reaching in the corners of the cabinets. Her back was crawling, as if thousands of microscopic eyes had grown there in seconds. Suddenly the whole world was watching her crumble. The doors were locked, the windows shut, and yet Molly was utterly exposed. After a few minutes, Molly realized that she was too dizzy to look properly for the hidden cameras, the intrusions in her home. She’d pieced together the dizziness, the rawness in her throat – she was hyperventilating. She tried to get down, but slipped and cracked her shin on the edge of the oven. Pain lit up the contact point like a blaze, and today, the bruise is as dark and ominous as an impending storm. She’d crawled to her bedroom, a true mess, and collapsed on the sheets. It had been all wrong, a black mess where her heart’s supposed to be.Now, Molly bites her lip and turns away from the kitchen. Maybe today, she’ll have lunch out somewhere. Yes, today she’ll be a coward, but maybe going out to lunch will be a nice change. This empty flat can hurt too much sometimes. Getting ready doesn’t take long at all; Molly didn’t primp anymore. Even if she did, today wouldn’t be the day to care. Instead, she simply showers, finds herself a clean blouse and skirt, and locks the door behind her, wincing a little from the bruise on her shin as she makes her way down the stairs. Going out is never something she fancies doing these days, either. It isn’t that she fears walking the London streets alone, as she knows some women might. It’s a matter of feeling...small. Swamped in the babbling mob that this city can be, one lone person in the throng of everyone, overwhelmed. Dates are usually her go-to for ever leaving the flat for fun (not that she’d seen one of those in a long while - not since Tom), or the occasional outing with friends.A few times – a few lovely, bursting, wonder-filled times – John, Mary, and Sherlock had invited her out with them. Before and after baby Rosie, they had all been memorable nights. At first the idea of it seemed so bizarre; a night of drinks with London’s greatest crime-solving pair? Normally they met at the lab, or huddled over a corpse on a dark road. They had Baker Street, yes, but even that was full of Sherlock’s deep pull to his work lurking everywhere. To do something so...ordinary seemed strange. She and Mary going out, now that had happened. It had been Mary to raise the idea of taking the boys out as a group in the first place, at which Molly had balked. With Mary and John as a couple, that left her and Sherlock as...what? She knew none of them were thinking of it like that, but God help her, the idea kept nagging and nagging. In college, Molly had a friend who would take her to parties. Always insisting that they would stick together throughout the night, and always leaving with a boy by the end of it. Initially, Mary’s idea gave her that same uneasiness. Of course, it turned out to be nothing like that sour memory. Mary wasn’t the half-hearted college girl whose name Molly’s long tossed from her mind. She was a true friend. And it isn’t exactly easy to abandon someone for a shag when you’re pregnant enough to waddle, Molly muses as she pulls open the door to the restaurant she and Mary used to favor. It feels like a lifetime ago. It’s a small place, this. Even now, at what should be a busy time for customers, only two tables are occupied. Dropping her eyes to avoid any unwanted stares, Molly slides habitually into the wide booth in the far corner. It’d become the one that the four (and then five) of them had always shared. Right away, she regrets it – all the empty space is far too much for her alone. They haven’t been back here since Mary. Why had her feet led her here? It feels wrong. It makes her so troubled that she almost wishes she could call, well, Mary about it. There are days when Molly has her phone in hand, Mary’s number pulled up, before she remembers that the woman who’d birthed her godchild can never text back. A lot of things happening make her wish that Mary was still here, with her high chirruping laugh and her chin-up-chickadee attitude. Almost as if on cue, Molly’s mobile phone buzzes in her purse. “Oh, shut it, Sherlock,” she whispers harshly, distracted with putting the thing on silent. “I’m sorry, miss?”It occurs to Molly that a waiter is hovering at the end of her too-large booth, pen and pad poised in each hand.
Damn.
“Oh! Er, sorry, what did you say? M-my – my phone keeps. Well.” She must be blushing scarlet clear down to her toes. Stupid, Molly. “What to drink as a start, miss?” He's a young man, a teen even, and his eyes are patient. Molly manages to choke out a water will do before sinking down in the corner of the booth to hide. At this point, cooking in the cursed kitchen would have been better. In the wake of that, she guesses there's nothing left to do but wait for her ears to stop burning. Suddenly it feels as if she's under the scrutiny of the four other people in the place.Of the other two tables occupied, one houses an ancient couple who squint at each other over a shared plate of chips. The other is a man and his infant daughter, the father turned away. But the daughter – The daughter looks remarkably like Rosie. The little girl twists around in her high chair as Molly’s heart skips with a hot thud of recognition, hiding her face again. Yet that has to be her. Just a flash of those eyes, but they're John’s. Molly's looked at that little face so many times. She could pick it out among dozens and dozens of babies. That duck-fluff hair is all tousled, as if threatening to blow away in the wind. Sherlock likes to stand it up on end, fluff it up right after John finishes brushing it. It drives John mad – yes, that's Rosie, but who the hell is she with? Without a thought spared to being embarrassed, Molly strides up to the table, to the man. He has sandy hair and broad shoulders – not a single person familiar to her matches that description. Her phone is clutched tight in one hand, ready to dial for the police and snatch Rosie if she has to. “Excuse me –" “Oh, hello, Molly.” The sandy-haired man turns to her, a thick mustache dancing on his upper lip as he speaks. Peering past him, Molly gets a proper look at the little girl. Definitely Rosie. Flyaway blonde hair, kind John eyes, and a mess of food all over the front of her clothes. “Mobby,” Rosie says seriously, pointing to her with one chubby hand. The other holds a fistful of pancakes. The man struggles not to grin at Molly now, and in an instant she understands. “Sherlock!” She hisses. Those eyes, now that she looks into them, are hard to mistake. Almost feline in their shape and indescribable in the multitude of light greens. If Molly could just be better at looking people in the face, she would have found him out sooner. “Why – what –? Scared me to bits –” “You don’t seem to answer your phone anymore, Dr. Hooper, so I had to resort to disguise.” Sherlock shrugs one too-broad shoulder, which she now suspects may be stuffed with feminine hygiene products. “And to extorting our godchild!”Voice rising with annoyance, Molly snatches a napkin from the table and attempts to clean some of the syrup off of Rosie’s face. She might as well have tried dancing a jig with the morgue residents for all the good it does; the stuff is caked all over. “Anyway, nothing said in a text could fix… never mind.” Now is not the time or place to reheat that argument. For now she'll get Rosie clean, keep her temper, and go home. “Rosamund was not extorted, per se, but I won’t deny that she provided an advantage. Without her, it would have taken you six minutes longer to make your way to my table.” Sherlock ditches the wig and is now peeling the fake mustache from his lip, wincing a little as he does. “You think everyone’s mind is just a fun little game, Sherlock?” He pauses to look at her, the mustache dangling between his fingers like a limp ginger caterpillar. “Molly, you know that’s not what I think. Not when you're concerned."
Is that supposed to be a compliment?
Molly heaves an exasperated sigh. "Alright, Sherlock. I – I really don’t want to talk about this here. Can you give me a hand? She’s an absolute mess, you know John never lets her have this much syrup on the pancakes. She puts her face – right in it.” The last sentence is a struggle to say as Rosie twists and turns her way out of Molly’s cleaning grip. “I figured she’d earned a little liberation in return for her services,” he replies, grabbing another napkin and dipping its tail in his own glass of water. He leans in closer, shushing Rosie’s fussy protests at all the scrubbing in a soothing tone. All at once, Molly can't concentrate at all on what she's doing. Sherlock is close, far too close, leaning over her where she kneels by Rosie’s high chair and acting like this isn't anything unusual.
He smells so good.
Can he hear her heart beating from here? Snake that he can be, the answer is probably yes. She finds herself stiffened as if paralyzed, the wadded napkin still in her hand poised to wipe away whatever mess remains on Rosie. By the time she realizes that she is actively ogling the curve of his cheek and the length of his lashes, the way he smiles at their goddaughter while cleaning her little face, she is of no use to anyone. “And – done. Much better. I’m afraid the poodle jumper is a lost cause, but that’s another battle.” Rosie looks disgruntled by all this, her cheeks pink from the vigorous cleaning, but John will be a little happier with the state of her. But however pink the baby’s cheeks are, they can't compete with what Molly’s own must look like. By some miracle, Sherlock doesn't notice, makes no mention. Molly stands up, all previous thought of her appetite forgotten. Her focus now is on getting away from Sherlock as fast as possible, going back home. Curling up into the safety of her cocoon to forget this incident had ever happened. “Make sure you give her a bath – a proper one,” Molly sighs, slinging her purse onto her shoulder. She gives her goddaughter a kiss on the head. “And for God’s sake, Sherlock, take the pads out of your jacket.” Aware that a single glass of water is sitting at the booth she's abandoned, Molly leaves them there, running a hand through her hair nervously. That was terrible. Awful. She’d frozen up, inches from him. Of course he'll realize what had happened. Well, it's still early. Plenty of time yet to hide from the world and not have to think about —“Molly!” And there he is. Hesitant, Molly turns to face him on the sidewalk. Sherlock Holmes is standing there, a baby balanced on his hip, looking for all the world like the most beautiful man she’s ever seen. “You’ve forgotten lunch,” he informs her once they're within speaking distance. “But I didn’t order any –”“ –trifle,” Sherlock cuts in. Shifting Rosie to get to a paper bag he’s holding, Sherlock brandishes it out for her to take. “You were going to consider the bangers and mash, but decided to say hell with it and get something sweet.” Perhaps I already have, a voice murmurs in a corner of Molly’s mind. A voice that is never, ever allowed to speak in Sherlock’s presence. “Thank you,” she says, quiet and genuine. “One other thing,” he adds. For the second time that day, Sherlock is far too close, but in this instance Molly is certain that he's doing it on purpose. He takes two steps closer, and his face, despite their height difference, lingers close. Molly can feel his breath warm on her lips, and it's rendering her thoughtless. In one fluid motion, Sherlock closes the gap between them, his mouth meeting hers. His lips are soft and full, and oh god. This is so devoid of the chasteness of those cheek kisses he's been giving her for all these years. Sherlock is kissing her. Truly kissing her. Not in a little sister way or a friend way. This is intentional, slow, and heavenly. He lingers there for one beat, two beats, three...and then pulls away. “Keep in touch, Molly Hooper,” Sherlock breathes against the shell of her ear. She can't help herself at all; Molly shudders. It's not just his proximity, or the slow, deep kiss that he’d given her right on the sidewalk for the world to see. But the way he’d whispered to her, the somewhat dazed look on his face and the fact that his eyelashes are tangled together as he looks down at her. It's everything. A combination of everything she’s ever imagined and all the things she never could. The lunch bag is pressed into her trembling hands, and Molly takes it. Sherlock hitches the unknowing Rosie higher on his hip, flashes Molly one last smile, and walks away. She stands there speechless, watching him go. Waving a weak goodbye to her goddaughter, who's watching over Sherlock’s shoulder. After they've disappeared out of sight, she fishes in her purse, takes out her mobile phone, and taps on Sherlock’s name.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Dopamine. What a potent rush of the substance, all from simply--well-- Sherlock adjusted Rosamund on the edge of his hip and opened the door to the well-worn flat at 221B Baker Street, his mind whirring away senselessly. It was the only option left to him to take action when words were no longer the weapon of choice. Years in the field of his work had taught him that. Yet Molly was not a case or a problem to solve; she was a woman, his friend. Now that Mary had left them all forever, she was the closest friend he had next to John. Not that that had much merit, seeing as he'd somehow managed to leave her sobbing in her flat last night. The fact that women needed to be so much more emotionally complex than their opposite sex was something Sherlock knew was necessary - mainly for the defense and care of their young - yet it could still be so painfully challenging to deal with. Mary had been a real fright in the months leading up to Rosamund’s birth, and now here Molly was, proving herself a formidable woman as well. “Formidable”? Have you forgotten every time Molly Hooper has slapped you for getting back into the drugs, or for stepping out of line? And don't be a prat, Sherlock. Women aren't their chemicals, no more than you or I. The dreaded, scolding voice of John in all its righteousness spoke up, and Sherlock had to roll his eyes. “I know that, I was only-” Stop it, then. Bugger. It was awful when John prodded into something and made him out to be the villain. Even if he was only all in Sherlock’s mind. He'd been thinking of chemicals because of the calculations that needed to be done to figure out if the level of dilation in Molly's pupils was because he'd just put his lips to hers, or the fact that she had felt the need to take her emergency medication the night before. Either was possible, but which was more likely? This conclusion required a little more -
BANG.
The heavy resounding crash made Sherlock whirl on the spot in a panic, his thoughts all a jumble of Rosie and grenade and where--? He'd set the child down for less than a minute's time, and that was all it took for her to upend the bowl of doorknobs he'd been examining for a case on his coffee table.As the doorknobs scattered to the far corners of the flat, Sherlock grabbed her up, almost too roughly. Surely one had fallen and injured something on her miniature, breakable body. After so much time spent keeping Rosamund safe under his unsupervised care, this must be the day that things went wrong. John would never allow her here alone again, and with her jumper all a mess- But Rosie was laughing. The sudden snatch-up had delighted her, a little shriek bubbling out of her mouth as Sherlock frantically tossed her under his arm, checking for any welts or redness, even a tear in her eye or an upset look. No sign of distress at all. “You are a frightening little creature,” Sherlock sighed. “BOOM!” Rosamund roared in response. This was it; this was exactly why Sherlock Holmes would never have a child. They made your body seize up with fear over the slightest of events, which in the end, meant nothing to them. Caring for one required that one's mind always be at present, and for Sherlock, the strain was unimaginable. A child must always be worried over, and he simply could not see himself devoting so much time to the cause. Being Rosamund’s godfather was a task in itself, though he cared deeply for her. “The doorknobs can wait - let's get a bath in before you see Dad. All right with you?”“Spish spash.” “No, a bath. Bath, Rosie.” “Spash.” Deciding that it was better to let some battles go surrendered, Sherlock stripped his bullheaded goddaughter of the syrupy jumper and scrubbed her clean as best he could. When it was all said and done, John walked in right as Sherlock was drying her chicken-down hair with a spare towel. With what couldn't be denied as moderate levels of gratefulness, he gave John his daughter back. Nothing was said of the soiled jumper because Sherlock had stuffed it haphazardly in the pantry at John's approach, and the disastrous spill of doorknobs would stay between he and Rosamund always. There had been no harm to her - thus, there was no problem. ‘No harm, no foul’, is that what ordinary people said? Rosamund waved goodbye as John shouldered open the door to the flat they'd once shared, her pudgy hand opening and closing like the wings of a butterfly. “Papa!” she exclaimed as the door shut behind them. “I know,” Sherlock said. Rosamund felt the need to let everyone know what John was to her; perhaps at one time - as a more cold and narrow-minded man - he would have found this dull, but now it could only be endearing. Collapsing in his chair at the sound of John's receding footsteps, Sherlock closed his eyes. Now...back to Molly. The level of dilation could be defined as considerable. A quick search would relay the chemical components on six common anxiety medications and their effects on the body. Anyone with a degree in chemistry could list off the physical reaction to a- Vibrations buzzed in the pocket of his trousers, and Sherlock swiped his mobile out with expert speed. Once it was unlocked, he couldn't help but let the corner of his mouth pull up in a grin. The text simply read: The trifle was an 8. Your disguise, a 6. Thank God she knew he could not stand correspondence that began with hi, hello, or hey. His growing attraction to her character may have suffered a blow otherwise. Clever girl, Miss Hooper. Another text - And the 6 awarded only for the use of an adorable godchild. Otherwise...a 4. Molly was teasing him. Kind Molly, who smiled nervously and averted her eyes as she spoke and never really grew angry about anything except drugs, her goddaughter, and her work, was being coy. Had his actions emboldened her? Either way, courage was a lovely color on her. Last night had not been pleasant for either of them. He could tell that this was Molly's attempt to color over that, to try and act as though the words she had thrown at him in the dim light of her kitchen had never occurred. But no matter how jovial her manner now, Sherlock would never give up the battle of explaining the day at Sherrinford to her. To fix that broken piece of glass that was wedged between the skin of them, causing discomfort under the surface.For now, however, he would play Molly's game.
You offend me.
I thought you admired honesty, she quipped. The rapid-fire conversation that ensued did not necessarily hold much depth, but Sherlock found it enjoyable to toy along with her all the same. Molly was nothing like Irene; one was as sharp as the crack of the whip she liked to wield, and the other, a scalpel, light and precise as could be. They made conversation as he collected the doorknobs from the scattered corners of everywhere, as he struggled to catalog the differences between them (eventually giving up for lack of concentration), as he drank tea cross-legged on the kitchen counter. Molly had managed to capture him, and one line about forensic pathologists even made him snort into his cup. This was unusual...and pleasant. The sun had made its descent by the time Sherlock had reached the ideal conversational opening to propose the idea of another meeting. Seeing as you're more keen to text, Miss Hooper, let me ask you something. Dinner in 30? The cafe on the corner? Alas, radio silence. Had the idea so alarmed her that she’d stopped replying entirely? Pacing the span of his sitting room, Sherlock could feel his skin beginning to itch with restlessness. Four minutes had passed. Seven. Twelve. Molly. Have I frightened you away? No answer. Nothing at all. Jesus, he’d been too forward! Imagine what the papers would say to that. Sherlock Holmes, the lizard, pushing himself on poor Molly Hooper. It wasn’t as if his intentions were lecherous - there was no intention to “get off” with her, as John had once so eloquently phrased it. The fact was that something more than the simple wish for her survival and well-being had grown out of that day in his sister’s prison. To describe it would sound foolish. To deny it would be even more so. The phone vibrated briefly, startling him. Thirty-six minutes had gone by now, and in his prowling, he had passed the door one hundred and seventy-eight times. Something was not right here. Molly, we can’t keep avoiding this conversation forever. Sherlock scanned his phone, impatient for her response - whatever it may be. Not Molly at all - quite the opposite. Lestrade. “What do you want-” he hissed aloud, for once not keen on taking a case on the spot.
Found something you might like to see. She’s half conscious on the corner of Albany. Wouldn’t have texted but she keeps saying your name.
That was the night that Sherlock Holmes flew.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

The heart monitor was beeping steadily somewhere behind her. A curtain was drawn to give privacy in the split-patient room, but it added a darkness that Molly didn't like. Whoever was on the other side must have been sleeping, because all was quiet there. From her seat beside the tidy little hospital bed, things had never seemed so grim."Dad?" she tried softly, her voice dry from not speaking. Mother had told her strictly to keep silent and let him get his rest, but she just couldn't stand it. All he did was sleep. If he was going to die soon, Molly didn't want him to go without saying goodbye. Everyone else seemed so calm about it, but she couldn't. How could anyone accept death?He wasn't answering. Not even the slightest stir. Swallowing the tears that were starting to run in her throat, Molly reached out a hand to touch her father's chest. God, he'd lost so much weight since he'd been sick. None of them would have guessed that his heart would go the way it had. Her dad had always been busy; running, chasing some new project to tackle or something fun for she and her brother and he to do together. The happiness of the family lied with him.It was here on this bed, dying as he did. She could feel it.Molly didn't think he would wake up. Not today, anyway. If a time came when he was so close to the end that he was hanging on by the last threads of his life, then she would climb on the bed, shake him and scream, do anything to see his eyes, hear his voice that final time. For now, she rubbed soothing circles low on his chest and spoke aloud to the sleeping room."Hi, Dad. Just me...again. Mom's at work. Paul's at sports. And I'm here. You'd probably punch me on the arm and tell me to get a life if you were awake, but Dad -" she choked here, unable to act as if things were normal. "Everyone keeps carrying on. Even you told me to do that, when you still could. How? I...can't."Unable to stop it any longer, Molly curled in on herself, tears crumpling her face into a red, wet disaster. Why not? He wasn't awake to hear. No one was. As always, Molly found herself completely alone."Your father wants only your happiness, Molly Hooper."A strange voice spoke from behind, where the space between Molly's chair and the window had been empty only seconds before. Whipping around in a rush of fear, Molly's school books crashed to the floor from her lap. Standing opposite her was a tall man, looming over her tiny stature. He had dark curls, wild, almost as dark as the long coat on his back. He wore gloves, even though it was spring, and had a scarf tied round his neck. But his eyes were the most interesting thing. They seemed to know absolutely everything about her, even though this was the first time Molly had ever seen him."Who are you?" she dared ask in a tiny voice, far too aware that her face was still covered in tears. "How did you get in here?"Instead of answering, the man crossed the distance between them in one great stride, putting his hands on her shoulders. The look on his face had grown intense, and it scared her. If she screamed, would anyone hear her? Would her father even wake up?"What are you doing? Get off of me!" Molly's voice rose with hysteria, trying to wriggle out of his grip, but the man could not be escaped."I know you want more time with him, but you have to wake up now. Wake up, Molly. Molly!" He was shouting at the top of his voice, right at her, almost through her.I AM AWAKE! She wanted to scream, but her mouth had stopped working. The man had been so loud that everything had started to blur and run together. The paintings were dripping off the walls, running into puddles on the ground, and as Molly tried to turn around to catch one more glimpse of her father, the man's voice rang in her ears over and over."Molly. Molly! Jesus, get up. Please."Everything was dark. The ground was hard. Too hard; pavement. Why was she lying on pavement? It hurt - her back hurt, her head rang. Her knees had gotten scraped somewhere along the way. A small click sounded, and the sun exploded into being, making Molly wince and slam her eyes closed."Open your eyes, Molly, there's a good lass," a familiar voice ordered gently. John.With the utmost hesitance to return to the painful light, she did as he had asked."Hm. Pupil size abnormal…" Molly heard him murmur. "Can you sit up, Molly?"Attempting this, Molly found other parts of her body shrieking out in revolution against John's newest idea, but slowly, it was achieved all the same. Someone outside of her range of vision was holding a flashlight slightly above her and John's heads and muttering to someone else. She wondered who could be lurking there, but before she could ask, John was taking her pulse."A little thready. Arm out for blood pressure, please."Outside of the circle of light, someone had sighed impatiently. John cast a dirty look in their general direction, continuing to apply the blood pressure cuff to her bare upper arm."Not bad; just a little low. Okay, Molly. This may be embarrassing, but -" John cleared his throat "- exactly how much have you had to drink tonight?"
Shit.
That had definitely not been the stuff of dreams. It was just - everything had been so overwhelming - last night had been so awful. Then today suddenly she'd run into Sherlock and then he was kissing her and it was everything she'd wanted from a kiss for so long, and until now, no man had gotten it right. And that line he'd whispered to her still caused a shiver upon remembering. There was so much fear of not being...sufficient.So yes, she had enjoyed her trifle, and twirled around her flat like a girl. For perhaps an hour, her thumb had lingered over Sherlock's contact button on her mobile, but no message she could conjure in her mind seemed good enough. What was she supposed to say? Thanks for the kiss, your lips are godsent? Molly had debated over what to say until her stomach was chewing on its own edges.Then she remembered the bottle of bourbon in the pantry.It had been courageous enough of her to go into the pantry at all. The drink tasted disgusting and hot in her chest, but after a while, she felt the fire of bravery spread through her limbs. Soon it was easy to seem likable - it's just Sherlock, she kept telling herself, grinning sloppily as she sent text after text. Gorgeous Sherlock, he kissed me, he likes me…Ending up on the pavement, however, was a mystery to her. "Er, I-I really didn't think it was that much," Molly whispered, properly ashamed. "Really, John. You know me. I don't get...pissed. I don't know what happened." Molly really, really wished that she wasn't sitting in the middle of a spotlight, aching and humiliated, on some street she didn't recognize."Oh, for God's sake," someone huffed, clearly having sat silent for too long. Stepping quickly into the light and frowning heavily at John was Sherlock Holmes, wearing nothing but trousers and a thin shirt. Clearly he'd left somewhere in a hurry."She's not drunk, John. You're a doctor; the signs are right in front of you! Dilated pupils, low blood pressure, weak pulse? Think, man!" It had been a while since Molly had seen him look so annoyed."Okay, Sherlock," John bit back in a voice that spoke of many years of irritation caused by this man. "Tell the medical professional what he's doing wrong.""The dilated pupils, clearly caused by the mydriatic properties in Molly's medication," Sherlock began at once. "Blood pressure is low, hmm, that's abnormal for an otherwise healthy woman, isn't it?"John did not look pleased."Another result of the medication. And lastly, the pulse. Even I know, upon taking her wrist, that it will be light. Upon regaining consciousness, it should have picked up steadiness, but no, it continues on weakly. That would be due to the fact that Molly unknowingly mixed alcohol too soon after taking her emergency medication, a potentially very dangerous situation. For example, dizziness, fainting, loss of coordination?"Of course. She should have known that. She should have remembered not to do that. Why had she not remembered? You're a pathologist, you godforsaken idiot-"Ah," John said softly."'Ah' indeed. Lestrade, the breathalyzer. I see you fidgeting. Go ahead, test her. Prove her innocence." Sherlock turned his eyes to the man behind the light, and the beam shifted."Er, no offense, Molly," Lestrade spoke from behind it, sounding sheepish. "Just want to keep you out of trouble is all."Sitting up as straight as she could with the wretched pain in her spine, Molly braced herself and blew into the odd little machine. It hesitated, as if to keep her in suspense, then let out a harsh beep. "And...well. You're quite below legal limits, then," Lestrade raised his eyebrows when he took it, as if the idea were unbelievable."Yes, the thought of Molly being an honest woman and not a lush is truly hard to swallow," Sherlock commented dryly. "I believe we can all go home now. Lestrade, thank you for notifying me. John, thank you for your input.""I'm sure I was very helpful to you." John's sarcasm was thick enough to taste.Sherlock helped Molly to her feet, and she wobbled up with difficulty, almost stumbling again. Lestrade drove away in the Scotland Yard car, but she, John, and Sherlock started the walk back to Baker Street. With them on either side on her, she felt a little more confident that she wouldn't lose any teeth to the unforgiving pavement. Mary's Baker Street boys."I'm sorry you had to come all this way for me, John," Molly confessed as Baker Street came into view. "Is Rosie-?""Fine, she's fine," John insisted, waving her away. "Popped her off with Mrs. Hudson. She's either fast asleep or spoiled to bits by now. We'll find out in a minute."Indeed, by the time they'd made it back, Rosie was sleeping gently on her second godmother's shoulder, her stuffed chicken from Molly clenched in her hands. "Sweet girl," Molly whispered fondly, stroking the pudge of her soft cheek."Out like a light soon as you left, dear," Mrs. Hudson told John as Rosie was handed over carefully. "I'm telling you, she loves the music." John and Sherlock exchanged a quick look that seemed as though they were both trying hard not to laugh."Everything alright with you, Molly?" Mrs. Hudson turned wide, concerned eyes in her direction, and Molly found herself stuttering. "F-fine, yeah. Good. I'm okay."
Smooth.
Sherlock filled in the gaps for Mrs. Hudson, Molly shifted awkwardly from foot to foot, and John bounced Rosie gently to soothe her in her sleep. Honestly, it was hard for Molly to listen to any of it - the hour was late, and drowsiness was trying to steal her away though she was standing upright. All she really cared about was getting to bed, then getting up in time for work. What a day off it had been."Coming, Molly?"It was Sherlock again, speaking to her this time. "Sorry, what?" She blinked, and realized that they were the only two standing in the hall of 221. "Where's…?""John left, Mrs. Hudson went out. Just you and I. Did you think I would let you take a cab back to your flat in the state you're in?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows."Oh."A brief silence stretched between them, which he broke by saying "You do know that I intend to sleep on the couch, don't you?" His expression was innocent enough, but there was a light in those eyes that suddenly made Molly want to hop up there in his stratosphere and hit him."Of course I know that!" Molly snapped, shooting him a look. "Do you honestly believe I'd assume that just because we -"Again, Sherlock snapped forward at breakneck pace and put his mouth to hers. This time, there was no Rosie on his hip to come between them, and it showed; one of his hands came up to the small of her back as if to steady her, and the other cradled her cheek. They were alone in this hall, and the press of his lips was a little less gentle. Molly had gasped when he'd come onto her, and a part of her thought that perhaps he'd liked that; the hand on her back pressed her in closer to him.Feeling wide awake at this point and much more bold in his presence than she ever had, Molly began to move with him, letting her own mouth respond. Sherlock's breath was warm and sweet all around her, quickening as Molly let her tongue dance along the seam of his lips. He was sighing into her open mouth now, trailing lazy kisses against her between the licks and nips she gave him."You taste of bourbon," Sherlock told her, pulling away slightly with a smile."Hasn't stopped you up 'til now.""No," he admitted, "but maybe we should head up before Mrs. Hudson returns from her milk run and finds us in the hall."Oh - well - that could be hard to explain. "Up we go, then," Molly agreed. Sherlock gestured that he would follow behind as she lead the way, and they ascended into his dusty old flat at last.Sherlock's home always smelled of intrigue. Molly wasn't even sure what she meant when she made that particular revelation; her head was still spinning from the night. Perhaps it was the slight coppery tang of metal instruments here and there, reminding her of the work she must face in the morning. There was the scent of the wooden floors, very different from her more modern flat, and - was that peppermint? Molly could never be certain."Tea?" Sherlock's voice offered. Somehow he had managed to get around her as she'd stood there in her daze, and he nodded to the spotted kettle on the equally spotted stove-top."Er, yes, please," she accepted, moving to have a seat on his settee. Molly might have, if it had been anyone else, waited until she had been asked to sit. But to hell with it - this was Sherlock, they had just been snogging at the bottom of the stairs, and her eyes were as heavy as rocks. She was going to sit here and drink tea, no matter how bizarre her situation with him had suddenly become."Which would you prefer? I'm out of black, sorry, but I've got lemon, cinnamon, peppermint…"Aha, she thought lazily."Never had them. Whichever you think I'd like best." Knowing him, he probably deduced from the turn of her lips (or something just as bizarre) which one she preferred, how much sugar she liked, the whole bit. The thought amused her groggy brain, and Molly put her face in her hands happily. She was somehow here, in his flat, for no reason other than that he had wanted to look after her. Not because of something Rosie needed, or to investigate something for a case. Just...together.There were a few minutes' silence as the water boiled in the kettle, and the clinking of cups in the other room. Molly tried not to doze off, wishing she had no responsibilities for tomorrow. Would it be so bad to miss two days of work, after so many devoted years of never calling off? No, not really...she could just stay here, where it was comfortable, if a little messy, and perhaps even convince Sherlock to kiss her again. That would be bliss.Abruptly, three steaming teacups were set before here on the coffee table, each containing a differently tinted liquid. Molly blinked up at him, confused."Wh-""Don't be a prat, Molly." He was smiling slightly. "Obviously, you're a two sugar type of woman, but if we're going to get to know each other - well - I don't want to cheat my way there the whole time. See which one suits you."As she was pondering the strange endearment of the little scene he'd placed in front of her, Sherlock took a seat next to Molly with his own cup. The peppermint scent was strong now, and she couldn't help but be pleased to have made one small deduction of her own. Reaching for the first cup, she raised it to her lips cautiously, smelling cinnamon.Out of the corner of her eye, Molly was keenly aware of what Sherlock was doing; observing her. His own cup had stopped halfway to his mouth, the tea unsettled dangerously, but he hadn't seemed to notice. All of his attention was on her - her reaction to this new substance. Trying not to let herself blush at the level of unrequited focus that was being dolloped on her (and all for a sip of tea!), Molly tasted it."Good?""Mm," she sighed into the cup in response. It really was. Molly knew a lot of blokes living as bachelors who made tea that tasted as if a fish had swam and died in the water two weeks ago, but this was actually nice. Almost as if her mum had made it. Well...back when her mum had still cared enough to bring her tea.Seeming to be satisfied with that response, Sherlock took a long gulp of his own, then excitedly watched her try the others. The other two were equally well-made, but the cinnamon really held her fancy, and she told him so."Sherlock, can you...can you cook, as well?" Molly couldn't help but let disbelief creep into her tone. It was all too much, wasn't it, imagining Sherlock Holmes pulling a casserole out of the oven? The struggle to keep a straight face as soon as the question was out nearly ended her. Molly Hooper, whatever you do, don't imagine him in a frilly pink apron-!"Ah, no. I'm afraid that's hopeless." He smirked a little, as if there had been an adventure involved with this statement. Molly had no doubt that there had been.They sipped quietly for a while, and for the first time, Molly wondered what time it was. Between the warmth of the tea in her belly and the surprising comfort of the settee, focus was again getting difficult to maintain. Though she held the cup in both hands, its rim danced blearily in front of her, and Molly eventually put it down for fear of spilling it."I'm afraid the bed isn't made," Sherlock began, breaking the silence, "as I don't believe in it. Fool habit. But it's clean, and about time you slept. And you're welcome to some spare clothes to sleep in." He got to his feet, almost as if he prepared to lead her by the hand to his room.Silly man, I know precisely where your bedchambers are, Molly thought as she wobbled along after him unassisted. How many years have I dreamt about-
Shut your mouth, Molly Hooper!
Blissfully unaware of her internal arguments, Sherlock made sure she was situated. Mostly she nodded through what he had to say, sure the smile on her face was telling more than she cared to say."Thank you," she managed when he was through with it all, meaning to fall into that bed and bury herself in the scent of him as soon as he had gone. "For everything today. I'm...sorry if I caused you any trouble." Molly peered up through her lashes, feeling meek for the first time all night. The drink must have truly left her by now."Trouble?" Sherlock repeated, looking wry. "Miss Hooper, I thought you'd have known by now that I build my life around it. Sleep well." He leaned down to brush a kiss ever so briefly across the top of her head, and was gone - a wisp, a column of smoke.Alone in his darkened bedroom, Molly sighed deeply, allowing the full weight of her exhaustion to hit. This was all too much. Sleeping here, in Sherlock's bed? Fantasy come to life. True, he was usually in the bed with her, but beggars couldn't be choosers. She stripped down and found some more comfortable clothes, and once under the sheets, her mind began to drift.The light was still on in the sitting room, and Sherlock's shadow danced as he paced back and forth. It reminded her very much of a dream she used to have of her father's hospital room; the paintings would melt right off the walls before she awoke in a sweat.That dream was an occurrence of her adolescence, and had sometimes followed her as a young adult. Yet as Molly drifted away, she had the most peculiar feeling that the dream has visited her very recently.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

No woman had ever crawled into Sherlock’s bed for an honest reason. Irene, on the one occasion that she had stayed, had tried to make herself look innocent there. He remembered how she’d nestled deep in the covers, her hair loose from its usual constraints. She’d peered up at him sleepily, with one bright eye, feigning vulnerability but not quite ever being able to manage it. The Woman, at heart, was always too wild for that. Janine had been...difficult. Almost as soon as his experiment with her had begun - using her connection as Magnussen’s personal secretary to enter his penthouse, that was - she was tugging him to bed at every opportunity. Stripping for him, slow, confident, her wavy brown hair thrown over her shoulders as her eyes trailed down him, no doubt expecting him to mirror her. That had not appealed to him, and endlessly frustrated her. (Sherlock was perhaps the world’s furthest thing from a relationship expert, but even he knew enough to recognize that the whole attempt had failed exponentially. Still, he hadn’t perished from the bullet wound, and she had her cottage from the newspaper earnings.)The woman in his bed this morning had no ulterior motives - at least to his knowledge. It was refreshing to know that coy Irene or the flirty Janine would not come bursting out of that room. (The cries of “Sherl!” still haunted him.) Molly slept so soundlessly that it was almost as if she were not there at all; no tossing, turning, or snoring to be heard. An improvement over John, notorious for all three. Sleep had not come to him steadily that night, and if it had managed to visit at any length, it had been only in snatches. There were things to think about, at least fifteen of them. It required a lot of pacing, three more cups of tea, and silence that, thankfully, the sleeping Molly could provide without end. One idea was particularly aggravating to him, dragging itself through the murk of his consciousness over and over the drowsier he became: You should not have kissed her. There; it was out, that thin blade of a word. Free to roam around wherever and slice up any concentration he had left. And why shouldn’t he have done it? She was clearly not in her right state of mind. When he and John had helped her off the pavement, Molly had barely had the strength to keep herself upright. Between the mix of alcohol, incorrect use of her medication, and the exhaustion so clear upon her face, he had no right. When she awoke, Sherlock would apologize. It had been mulled over for hours in the night, and so it would be done. But - on the street - nothing had been wrong then. Molly had taken the simple paper bag of trifle like it was a sack of diamonds, and he was perhaps the Lord of Sweets. Watching the extent of wonder spread across her face at such a small favor made him curious as to how long it had been since someone had given Molly Hooper a gift, or treated her to anything at all. The way Molly’d blinked up at him after he’d kissed her, coupled with the shaky inhale that followed, almost as if the whole time it was happening, she had forgotten to breathe - they were such miniscule details that he couldn’t let go of. There were many mysterious things about Molly, and as of late, Sherlock had no choice but to take it upon himself to try and puzzle them all out. As if hearing his thoughts like spoken words, Molly Hooper peered round the corner of the bedroom door at 10:00 A.M, looking absolutely distraught. “You're not late,” Sherlock began, reading her terrified expression as easily as if she had voiced her fears of being in trouble at Bart’s aloud. “Simply not going.” Apparently, this wasn’t the right thing to say. Stiffening with offense, she closed the door behind her, allowing Sherlock a proper look of the clothes she’d chosen to sleep in. The trouser legs pooled deeply around her ankles, and the shirt was equally too large, but most amusingly was what she’d fashioned to keep the trousers around her waist; one of his ties, a makeshift belt. It was an amusing sight, but the dangerous look she was shooting him suggested that Sherlock not comment on it just now. “Are you my keeper today? Or perhaps my doctor?” Molly’s words were meant as sarcasm, but the tongue that threw them was tired and not well-suited for battle after the night before. “You know perfectly well yourself that if you were in any fit state to be hovering over corpses, then you wouldn’t look like a standing one. Not to mention that you’ve no use for an alarm; the old-fashioned kind or the more modern version our society has adopted via mobile phone, thus you would have naturally risen at 7:20 and prepared for work if you were well enough to go. Clearly, you are not.” And there you go, John snapped. Being an arse. This was far, so far from the first time he’d spoken out of turn to Molly Hooper - a list of incidents scrolled through Sherlock’s mind despite his efforts to expel them. He’d offhandedly insulted her more times than any average mind could count in the morgue, never mind the fact that it was her workplace and she was an accomplished pathologist. He had degraded her here, in this very flat. The years had accumulated many unpleasant pictures to paint of him,and in this moment, Sherlock could see quite clearly why the media played him off as a ruthless man with a cavity where most kept their hearts.Obviously he didn’t give a damn what the public thought of him, but in front of him stood Molly, wearing the oddest arrangement of his pyjamas possible, looking affronted and disappointed--like she had been waiting for this. Again, guilt had found a weak point in him. This, Sherlock reasoned, mattered. She did. To reverse what had already been said, some rephrasing had to be done. “Er--what I meant is--that I don’t think you should be going. It would be in your self-interest to recuperate from last night’s incident. I asked John to contact Bart’s, as a professional who examined you last night and verified you as truly ill, so that would cover you for both days. Stamford sends his well wishes.” Sherlock caught her eye, watching the nuances of emotion shift across her tired face. Surprise; mild. “Still…” she started again, her tone quieter. “I should--I don’t want to i-impose, or--” Molly’s hands had begun to wring themselves in front of her chest, quite unconsciously. Why, in the light of day and the face of sobriety, had such a stark difference come over her? Though her hackles were no longer up against him, anxiety was working its way over Molly in waves.Narrowing his eyes at her subtly, Sherlock perceived a number of signs that should have been clearer upon a glance; fingernails short, much shorter than average (bitten but then filed and smoothed), loose strands of hair clung to her shoulders (sign of excessive hair loss caused by stress), the hand wringing was neurological, that much was noticeable to anyone. The weight loss--couldn’t eat, no appetite. However, as Sherlock peered more deeply into the woman he thought he had known, there was one piece of the puzzle that had not snapped into place until this very moment… At this very moment, Molly feared him. Was fear really the right word for the way she wouldn't quite meet his eye, though? Fear--no. Unease--no. Disquiet--no. Trepidation--no. Intimidation--yes. That definitely explained the alcohol consumption. The Molly Hooper of last night existed only in a bottle, and now he knew why she had taken such a turn. The situation was worse than what he had observed; an oversight on his part. Still, was her behavior the day of his flat visit all the product of worry? Fleetingly, he recalled the thriving rows of gooseflesh that had arisen when he'd touched Molly's arm outside of Bart’s. The physical reaction was...familiar to him. “Do I really intimidate you that much, Molly Hooper?” Sherlock inquired. Her eyes dropped to the carpet, the wringing of her hands finally halted. With her face at this angle, it became harder to read her expression--maddening. The need to know what was on her mind was almost a physical pain, a tingling at Sherlock’s temples that would not cease until a particularly troubling problem in a case had been solved. God, what harm would one hit do? “No,” came Molly’s answer, after stretches and stretches of endless silence. “You annoy me, mostly, frustrate me constantly, but no. You haven't intimidated me in a long time.” She took a deep breath then, and up her face tilted, lifting with a breath of confidence. “And before you open your mouth and tell me what an idiot I was for what happened last night; I know. But it wasn't because I fear you. You kissed me, I lost my head. Women do it every day.” The pang of being incorrect was short-lived as he processed what Molly had said. “I didn't think you a fool.” Her sudden show of stubbornness drew him closer to her as blood draws a shark. “My first instinct was to wonder what had distracted the mind of my pathologist so severely that she chose to endanger herself on the late London streets.”Molly held both her ground and her gaze. “Yours? Who decided that?” He shrugged; distance between them was minimal, the churning of his pulse made him perfectly aware. I could snatch you up in three seconds, perhaps two, and end the standoff here. Your lips are much nicer than Janine’s though not as full, I don't mind because whatyoudidlastnightwithyourtonguewassoclever--Stop it. “That's up to both of us, now. Unless the current state of my flat has forever made me repulsive to you, of course.” Sherlock forced himself out of her space, unable to stand the closeness without the itching thoughts rubbing up against his senses much longer. That wouldn’t do if he were to try and articulate to her the true meaning of what Sherrinford was; what had grown out of it, how things looked to him now. Sense was his one true weapon, and it vanished abruptly in Molly’s presence if he wasn’t careful. “Your flat is always dreadful.” she mumbled. There; the tension broken at last. Sherlock felt himself grinning, and Molly mirrored him as if it were a contagion. It was a welcome sight on the face that had normally been so pale and drawn. “If it’s so dreadful, why don’t we...leave? I had plans with a woman to meet for dinner last night, but she ended up fainting somewhere on Albany and it never happened. I’m ravenous.” “Is that your way of saying that all you’ve got in that fridge is some moldy eyeballs and an old man’s leg?” “No, no, John made me throw the leg out after Rosamund discovered it. Mainly it’s those dreadful healthy microwave meals he forces on me.” She laughed at that, and it was emboldening as anything Sherlock had heard in perhaps a month or more. Things were brighter in the morning light of 221B, and perhaps--just maybe--things between them could be repaired this way. As Sherlock told her of the little place on the corner that owed him a favor--he remembered fondly the woman in pink, he and John’s first case, and the little candle mistakenly placed on their table for “romance”--he began to do something dangerous, something that his mind had strictly forbidden for ages. He began, ever so cautiously, to hope.

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

“Candle, please, Angelo,” Sherlock added to the end of their order, much to her embarrassment. “Sherlock--”“Hmm?”“It’s only breakfast--”“Yes?”“And I’m dressed like someone’s frumpy great-aunt.” Molly picked at the jumper that Sherlock had dug up for her to wear on their trudge out for proper food. He claimed that a client had left it behind at Baker Street (“A female client,” he’d clarified after she had cast him a doubting look), and of course he’d washed it, (“I’m not a caveman, Molly.”). It was rather shapeless, and worn with her skirt from yesterday, it made her feel like a member of the homeless network Sherlock discreetly worked with to get information for some of his cases. “Too young for a great aunt. Perhaps a frumpy estranged cousin that people don't mention.” Sherlock’s mouth barely twitched, but something in his eyes was dancing at her. Jokes, since when does he make jokes? The past few days might as well have taken place at the bottom of the rabbit hole, as different as they were from Molly's ordinary life. Sherlock Holmes could do that to you, she supposed. He could just take your life in his hands and make it both terribly bizarre and worth all the trouble of living. Maybe that was why he was so endearing and infuriating all at once, and why the time without him seemed so very dreary. Their coffee arrived, and with it the candle and a brisk wink from the sturdy bearded man who had greeted Sherlock so heartily. Angelo had been his name, Molly thought, and he had beamed so widely at her that she’d ducked a little in her seat. He definitely had the wrong implications of their outing--she only hoped that he didn’t have a fondness for contacting the media. Molly could see the headline now; Sherlock Holmes Courts Homeless Cretin. “Angelo keeps a very tight lip, I can assure you,” Sherlock tipped a sugar packet into the black depths of his coffee, and she was reminded of the exasperating aspects of his personality. More than once she’d wondered if he was, more than anything, a mind-reader. Was it even possible to see the world as he did, or was there something supernatural to the way he could guess at you? If Sherlock Holmes could read her mind, then she was in far more trouble than could be afforded in his presence. Molly shrugged and gave him an I hope so sort of expression, and for a moment, only the sounds of the cafe surrounded them. Here in the bright, unfiltered morning, she felt almost painfully exposed. 221B had held its usual mystery--there in the quiet, dusty darkness had been a sort of refuge. Waking up in the bed of Sherlock Holmes had been a surprise, surely, a shock, but in the solitude of the flat, eventually she had been able to relax. Here, Molly could feel herself stiffening more and more by the second as the silence stretched on. She had tried to maintain her voice on the walk down, but it was a struggle; all the while her mind was churning with questions and insecurities. Mainly, though, what reverberated in her miserable mind had to be: What the hell am I doing here? Sherlock didn’t fancy her, and everyone knew it. Far from stinging--well, okay, it still stung a little--it had long been known to the world, a fact, a statement. Then the cruelty a month ago, and his apology...and worst of all, her believing every word of it. But if she believed it, then of course that had to mean--The air was so tightly packed with tension that one wrong breath, one move made incorrectly would be enough to shatter her to pieces. Sherlock was on the other line and he wasn’t well, not at all; drugs or fear or probably both but in her mind’s eye she could see him now, unshaven and small with malnourishment, sweat dripping off of him as the coke raced through his body faster than any organ system could hope to keep up. Anger, sadness, and panic were competing inside of her, and as he said it, actually phrased the words that a younger version of herself would have died to hear, Molly felt her face crumple as the answering words tore themselves from her lips in response. It was almost, she thought, a reflex. She had hung up and bawled with her face in her hands, heart torn open raw, in that very spot for a length of time that could not be determined. --and that portion simply couldn’t hold truth. Molly could see now that Sherlock cared enough to not want to see her killed (a charming way to put it), and counted her among his friends, but anything more was a fantasy. A charming act. Sherlock Holmes was known for those. The question stood; what was all of this for? The snatched kisses, the month of texts, and here now--him sitting across from her. Sherlock Holmes, scrolling on his mobile phone in a blitz of concentration and looking completely put together. That against... well, her. It was a lot of competition, the most beautiful man in the world. Molly could only sip her coffee and observe him discreetly, hoping somehow that all of this wouldn't end in disaster.“Molly.” Across the small expanse of the tabletop that separated them, Sherlock’s deep voice startled her out of dazedness. “O-oh, sorry, what?” God above. Now was she not only stiff with how uncomfortable this situation was, now the stammering had begun. And did he honestly need to look at her? That made it all about three times as awful. “This carotid artery,” He had an image pulled up on his phone, one not exactly suited for public dining. “What do you make of it?” “Trauma with some sort of sharp weapon,” Molly started in immediately, almost despite herself. Sherlock offered her the phone for a better view, and at once, she was zooming in on the picture, her mind hungry for some work after a few days of starvation. “Not a clean cut--nasty, really. My guess is that the murder weapon was some sort of shiv. Because this is a murder victim you’re showing me, if I’m correct?” Sherlock had opened his mouth to reply, but his backlit eyes were looking over her head, behind her. A woman cleared her throat, and Molly realized with a swoop in her stomach that their breakfast must have arrived. In her haste to place the mobile phone screen side down, Molly almost upended her water glass, and definitely kicked Sherlock under the table--hell--“Rashers and eggs?” the waitress asked weakly, not looking either of them in the eye. “Mine,” Sherlock said eagerly, not looking the least bit bothered by the poor woman’s queasy expression. He took the plate and stabbed a rasher without hesitation. “Ravenous.” Molly took her plate and thanked the woman, trying to apologize for what had been seen and explain that they worked together as a consulting team for Scotland Yard and were not, in fact, psychopaths, but she was already gone. “That was a disaster.” Molly stared down at her breakfast, feeling a lapse in appetite. Apparently, Sherlock felt no such moral obligation, because already his plate was halfway cleared. “If she’s not seen death up until now, then she’s lived an overly privileged life, Molly. Besides, she turned a very fascinating shade of green.” Well, that was one way of putting it. And there was no use letting her breakfast get cold feeling sorry for a stranger, anyway. She began to eat, realizing abruptly as she chewed just how long it had been since she’d had anything real to put in her stomach. Was it Molly’s imagination, or was Sherlock grinning at her? “Back to the victim, if you don’t mind,” Sherlock prodded gently once she’d paused for breath. “Okay…” Flipping the phone right side up again, Molly saw not the image of the poor chap lying nearly headless, but a portion of a text from Sherlock’s older brother Mycroft. You know I don’t approve of-- Was all she could read before it was cut off by the privacy lock. “Er, text from your brother,” she told him, trying to hand it over. Sherlock only shook his head, taking the phone briefly to swipe the text away and bring the image up again. “Not important. Continue.” Trying to regain the same focus she had once had before the food and the fiasco with the waitress and now this vague and somewhat ominous text (What didn’t he approve of? Mycroft doesn’t approve of most of Sherlock’s life, but could he be watching...us? Right now?), Molly told him what she could about the corpse. Still, it wasn’t quite the same as before--at least, not in her opinion. Yet Sherlock sat there, drinking in her halting observations, as if every word that poured from her was precious and vital. Occasionally, he would jut in with something like, “And the bruising under the left eye? Just as I thought?” and she would nod, because it was most likely the result of a physical fight from the way the bruise was angled, as he’d suggested. His almost unrestrained look of glee was somewhere between amusing and heart-melting, when their opinions on this particular cadaver were the same. When she’d exhausted everything there was to say about the corpse, Molly raised a question. “Sherlock, who is this man? I’ve never seen him in person.” Which was a quiet way of saying please tell me you don’t have this body holed away somewhere for your own private deductions, because it’d be hard to get to know you better if you were in prison. “You haven’t seen him,” Sherlock began, suddenly keen on fidgeting with a spare bit of egg still clinging to the edge of his plate, “because he’s been dead for some twenty years.” “Oh.” The silence had entreated upon them once more, though this time not through any fault of Molly’s. A pang went through her chest as she chanced a look across the table; he must be truly bored out of his mind to be riffling through cases two decades old. He wouldn’t meet her eyes, not exactly, as he added “Incredibly fascinating man, Mr. Donati. Authorities believed him to have been behind the theft of over five hundred million U.S dollars’ worth of art a year before his death--but look at the state of his fingernails. Never would’ve been up to it.” Sherlock grimaced, almost as if he was disappointed. “Is that why we're here?” Molly dared ask, courage sticking like a clump in the back of her throat. “For the murder victim, I mean.” Glancing up at her finally, Sherlock looked properly startled by what had come out of her mouth. “Of course not, Molly. I thought he would merely provide some interesting conversation. Why would you--?” Several more hard beats of silence followed, after which he reached out for his phone once more. Fingers flying across the screen in a frenzy that Molly could barely follow, the end of Sherlock’s search was punctuated by an angry sigh. “Is something...is something wrong?” Molly tried to ask, growing alarmed at the expression on Sherlock’s face. “Completely backwards,” he was muttering, running one hand through his already wild curls. “Going about it entirely wrong, wasn’t even aware--” “Sherlock, what are you talking about?” Worry was uncoiling from somewhere high in Molly’s chest; what was all of this? He was positively distraught in mere moments. One second they had been discussing the level of decomposition of poor Mr. Donati, and now, he was beside himself for reasons unknown. For a fleeting second, it occurred to Molly to wonder if this flightiness could be a result of him using again. But no--she had seen that wickedness, and the man in front of her, while not exactly composed, was nothing like what he had once been. In truth, Sherlock would probably always be like this, to some extent, as a result of his drug use. “Definitely not supposed to turn out like this--”“Sherlock, would you just--”“And here I am, moaning on about a man rotting somewhere in an American graveyard--”“Sherlock--” “Is this a good time for the bill, Mr. Sherlock? Your waitress, er, she said she was taken ill earlier.” Molly and Sherlock both paused mid-sentence, caught off-guard by the waiter and his slip of white paper. They must think us lovely, Molly thought. First the dead man and now this. “As good a time as ever,” Sherlock answered somewhat stiffly. The waiter, clearly knowing a dismissal when he saw one, gave a brisk nod and left them. Once they were alone again, the atmosphere had calmed slightly. “Would you tell me what’s the matter with you?” Molly said quietly as she began to reach down for her purse--and abruptly realized that it was probably sitting at home, in her bedroom. She sat back up again, but it was too late; of course Sherlock had noticed. “I’ve got it.” Effectively dodging her question, Sherlock pulled some notes from his wallet, despite her nervous protests, and got to his feet. Molly followed, still keen to get out of him what his earlier episode had been about. Who knows why Sherlock does anything? Was a joke often made in their circle of friends, and yes, he had ways that could drive anyone mad trying to solve them for too long. But just now, that had been different…Sherlock held the door for her, and as Molly looked over her shoulder into the small cafe one last time, she saw the candle on their table still burning, sitting cozily in a puddle of its own wax. The sun was far higher than it had been when they had gotten here, and she squinted a little in the unexpected light. A damp heat was coming up from the sidewalks, in waves of near-choking humidity. Still, it was better than a few minutes more in that cafe. As her anxiety got worse, the walls got tighter, and the place wasn’t exactly a palace to start with. It took her a few seconds to realize that Sherlock had set off down the street--in the opposite direction from which they’d come. In the heat of noon, the man striding away from her wavered slightly, almost as if he were a mirage. Frustration reached its peak in Molly. Sherlock Holmes had taken her on roller coaster rides for the last time--all she had wanted was to know what was wrong, to be a comfort, even! God, the same story rewriting itself all over! Silly little Molly bowing to the whims of Sherlock once again. Standing on the sidewalk, sweating in the frayed jumper, Molly’s jaw clenched as she jogged after him. It didn’t take long to catch up. Powered by rage, Molly’s short legs quickly overcame their usual boundaries. “Usually,” She started in, her voice trembling, “when you abandon someone without explanation, it's polite to at least say goodbye.” He turned slowly, looking almost as if she'd hit him. Even though Molly was the one who had to look up at him and not vice versa, he seemed small and sorry-looking. “I thought staying would make it worse,” He peered at her in an acquiescent sort of way. “Not that I didn't ensure that it was disastrous to start with.” “You wouldn't even tell me what was bothering you! And now you're just stomping off and expecting me to be okay with it?” Two women passed them, glancing over and giggling quietly, but Molly was a little too far gone to care. “Perhaps I left because I’d ruined things for you and made a fool of myself, did that ever occur to you?” Sherlock snapped, glaring at another passerby who was ogling. “What exactly did you ruin for me? Because you didn’t even tell me why you wanted to take me out in the first place! I tried to ask and you just shut down! Isn’t that your forte? Oh, I’m Sherlock Holmes, I solve mysteries, but I have to be the most mysterious man in the world!”Sherlock’s nostrils flared and his eyes were full of an emotion (fury?) that had never before been turned on her, but Molly didn’t care. “You--are the most--”“What am I, Sherlock? Say it.” “The most unequivocally, irrevocably bull-headed woman I have ever met. And,” he added, as Molly’s mouth opened angrily, “I brought you here for that reason. You are endlessly attractive to me, Molly Hooper. No matter how you deny it in your head, you must know that.” Well...there was no smart remark she had for that particular confession. He brought her closer, until they were a close-knit huddle, a moment of privacy in the middle of everything once more. “No matter how I...mistreated you over the years, you never once let me control you. All that time I was off being a git... You are the strongest women I know. And despite me being--well, like that--you’ve stayed. Many wouldn't.” “Being handsome helps,” Molly whispered, despite herself. The corners of his eyes crinkled into a smile, something they never would have done on the day they'd met; Molly's breath left her all the same. “I am so sorry for what you had to endure because of me. There may be things you have to endure in the future, as well. I won't lie.” He was so close. Definitely close enough to kiss, if the impulse struck, but Molly wanted to hear the rest of what he had to say. “I lost patience because I wanted our outing to be perfect, and...I ruined its chances of being so. If it had gone more smoothly, it would've been an opportunity to ask if you would like to--”“To what?” He'd been rambling, talking too fast, and Molly didn't want to miss him saying the words. “To date. Me. Exclusively. Monogamously.” One of his thumbs was stroking Molly’s cheek, in a way that was so casual that she could have cried at how easy and good it felt. “Instead we're standing on the pavement in the middle of everything, having a row.” “Forget the row.” Molly let herself be pulled closer to his chest, aware of what a mess she looked like, and that people had to be staring--to hell with it, they had been staring for ages anyway. “Do you really mean that? This isn't just for some…” She couldn't bring herself to say the word. “Molly. Not everything I do is for a case. Not this--” The thumb that had nestled on her cheek now moved down to brush across her lip-- “nor this--” The digit moved down, down the curve of her face to the side of her throat, resting in the exposed nook of her collarbone. “And not even this.”
Finally, Molly’s weak brain managed as he broke the tiny amount of space left between them. The delicate press of his lips was as sweet and unsure as her first kiss, but with none of the awkward feelings that had followed afterward. It was so much softer than anything life had given her for a long, long time. Someone was shouting, Oi! Get a room! And it only made her want to kiss him harder.

“You’re crying,” Sherlock pulled away, eyes gone wide. “What’s the matter? What part of it was wrong?”

“None of it,” She assured him, impatiently wiping her eyes with the floppy jumper sleeve. “I’m just...happy. And excited. And...ready.”

Relieved, Sherlock reached down and twisted up one of Molly’s hands with his own. His large hand engulfed her dainty one, but Molly loved the feeling of their threaded fingers too much to care. “So am I.”

“Now can we please get off this bloody street? I’m dying in this parka you put on me.”

“It was that or the pyjamas.”

----- CHAPTER BREAK -----

Mycroft was getting old. The mere fact that he had chosen to meet in a park and not some abandoned factory or one of the posh businesses he frequented hinted at it strongly. Sherlock had suggested that he add gingko biloba to his morning regimen of vitamins, to perhaps boost his ailing memory, but that only earned him a cutting glare. “You heard what I said, little brother. Insults don’t distract me. Sleeves. Up.” The tone, why did Mycroft always have to take the tone of an angry grandmother who was scolding a child for cleaning out the cookie jar? Their own mother was never this sharp with them. Well--there were a few exceptions. That didn’t matter. With a hissing sigh, Sherlock forced the sleeves of his shirt up past his elbows, exposing his forearms. This was ridiculous. Not to mention humiliating. Was that why Mycroft had demanded they meet here? For the sake of embarrassment? Sherlock Holmes Reveals Addiction Scars in Park. Continue Reading on Page 9A. “Fine,” Mycroft determined after a moment’s silence, and Sherlock pushed his sleeves down again sullenly. All this time of being clean, no sign of wanting to be anywhere near a needle (as far as they need know), everyone else allowing themselves to give him their trust again, and Mycroft still considered him a child. All because he was older, eight years the senior. And oh, how he loved to lord it over him every chance he could. “Okay. Yes, all the marks are old. Wonderful. Is that all?” Sherlock couldn’t help tapping his fingers to Carmen-Fantasie Op.25, Moderato as he waited for whatever Mycroft’s answer might be. “Well, no. You seem to be keen on ignoring every call, text, and prod from John I send you.” Mycroft rested a hand under his chin and narrowed his eyes. “Is there something distracting you?” “No, you just bore me.” Sherlock was quick to reply, not giving his older brother the satisfaction of meeting his eyes. Mycroft may have been older, but his sense of entitlement was too high.“Have you forgotten that the cases I give you account for most of your income, ever since you, ah--how should I put this--went after a man with a scalpel in an episode of cocaine-fueled rage?” The eldest Holmes brother smiled pleasantly, as if they were discussing the War of the Roses. Complete fucking prat. “I still get clients.” “Not enough to get by. There is fear in the air for Sherlock Holmes now. Mistrust.” I can think of at least eight ways to break your arm and make it look like an accident. “What dreadful project is so important that you’ve dragged me out in public for it, Mycroft? Hm? Has it ever occurred to you that I might have been in the middle of something?”“Or someone.” The pleasant smile curled up at the edges in a wicked manner, reminding Sherlock very much of when Mycroft got away with blaming things on him when they were children. Sherlock had had enough; it was a struggle to keep his breathing even, his temper smooth, playing his brother’s favorite game. The restlessness was itching up under his skin so badly that the urge to get up and move was all-consuming. He wondered, briefly, if Mycroft knew that one of the few things that made him want a hit as badly as he did now was having an infuriating conversation like this. “Kindly shut up about that. I’m here. I’m listening. Give me a bloody case if that’s what you’re here for, or I’m leaving.” How did Mozart’s fifth violin concerto go again? Thinking through the notes always helped--“I just wanted you to be aware that you cannot afford these distractions, Sherlock. So spend your time wisely.” Reaching for his umbrella, Mycroft got to his feet. Sherlock noticed, with petty satisfaction, that he was slower about it than usual. “And give these to Rosamund, when you see her,” he added, digging in the pocket of his coat and coming up with some wrapped sweets that had definitely been there for some time. “I don't eat them, of course.” “Of course not.” Sherlock gladly parted ways with his brother, popping one of the sweets into his mouth as he went. Coffee-flavored, old, and most certainly capable of lodging in poor Rosamund’s windpipe if they ever came in contact with her. He walked several blocks before the feeling of Mycroft Holmes’ leering eyes fell away. It was only an illusion, as Mycroft had eyes all over the vast expanse of London, but the distance put between them gave him some small comfort. Once the last of the questionable candy had dissolved in his mouth, he tossed the rest and called Molly Hooper. There were a number of factors that could prove the positive turn their relationship had taken, all within seconds of the call’s beginning:1. She picked up on the second ring. 2. Their conversation was not a matter of life and death. 3. He could hear her smiling (though this was completely irrational, it was the only phrase his brain would provide). 4. What they spoke about was not work-related. “If you're Mycroft,” Sherlock began, turning a street corner, “how do you murder an infant?” (Perhaps mentions of murder were ways of cheating on item number four, but it couldn't be helped. They both jolly well enjoyed the topic.) “Gosh. Hypothetically speaking, I hope?”“We can only hope. He is going off his rocker. Anyway, guess.”There was hesitation on the other line, her pathologist’s mind flicking through possibilities. Though any average mind would consider the topic morbid, for them it was everyday. It brought to mind memories of countless moments in the lab together--moments that had started out with her tense and captivated and he endlessly annoyed with the obvious infatuation. As time wore on and they became used to each other, it grew easier. Molly Hooper the timid pathologist revealed her true nature, her actual potential--something no amount of stammering or blushing could keep covered for long. There was no disguising her scalpel work, nor the flippant and nearly thoughtless way she could name off muscles of the body, intricate functionings of the organ systems, every bone in the skeletal system. She was damn clever, but he had to actively try and catch her at it, in the beginning. He made her nervous. Well...he had made her nervous. Now, it had all been turned on its head. Somewhat. It was all inexplicably bizarre. The physical reaction that accompanied attraction to another individual via hormones had always made him scoff, yet he was experiencing it...gladly. John would never let him hear the end. And how Mary would have ribbed him (”Iceman is melted, at last! And there was a warm heart underneath there, after all.”). The breakfast at the cafe that had gone all wrong, and its bewildering resolve on the pavement, had been twenty-three days ago. In that span, Sherlock had managed a few cases that were, frankly, soul-draining. Not even worth mentioning on the website. One of them, he was loathe to admit, was one that Mycroft had commissioned. Several times had his brother extended the olive branch, even suggesting that he work in the same field that Mycroft himself did. The thought made Sherlock shudder. It was low enough to be taking these cases, but to work under his brother’s thumb exclusively would be the end of all free will. A case meant isolation, no time for pleasantries or self-interest. Only one thing mattered, and that was picking the problem apart. Dissect it, over and over, until it finally cracks. Nothing could come before. Sherlock’s laser-hot focus, his devotion to the work, was often seen as his only saving grace. It was unfortunate, then, that the world’s greatest detective could find nothing to love in the cases that paid the bills. He often found himself wondering if this was how the mundane slogged through their day-to-day lives, and the thought sullied his mood. One reprieve from the mind-dulling business his work had recently become had a name, a face, a scent, a body, all gloriously tied together in something his mind had immediately begun to associate (stupidly labeled) simply as warmth. As he had hammered on at the dull work, Sherlock couldn’t resist a text or two shot her way, though isolation was usually his style until all had been solved. She was still on the other line as his thoughts churned away, sounding as daring as she ever had and exciting him as a nerve impulse does the synapses. Never had Sherlock imagined that the words “estimated prognosis of infant choking on sweets in a sour man’s pocket” could make him chuckle the way he was now. Molly Hooper was far more than she appeared.
For example, when they had made the short walk together back to Baker Street hand in hand, the first thing Molly had done upon arrival was ask him whether or not he owned a mop. Of all the possible scenarios he had deduced--five--that had definitely not been one.Molly Hooper could insist that this had been lovely and she was feeling flattered and overwhelmed, but perhaps it was best if she went back to her flat.She could have realized the time and tried, still so stubbornly, to retreat back to work.Upon the escort to his flat (not as likely) Molly Hooper could have questioned his motives and left him there on the pavement, thinking him a lecherous man. The hand-holding, already as close as Sherlock had allowed himself to physically be connected to another person for such a length of time, could have turned to a subtle caress, invoking heat in his blood and allowing no one they encountered on the street to question whether he was man or mortar. But she would laugh nervously and tell him to contain himself until they were in private.And fifth...that was not something that could be mentioned politely. Something that lingered on the edge of every frustrated dream, indescribable until Sherlock had tasted Molly’s tongue in his own mouth. Then there was no stopping his mind’s unconscious demands; easy to ignore in waking hours, impossible to escape in sleep. Being so intimately attached to anyone, even in Sherlock’s own thoughts, felt like a betrayal of his own long-standing emotional code. Keep your enemies close and your acquaintances...elsewhere. That had been key, in a previous life. In present day, Sherlock Holmes had a best mate, grieved his best mate’s dead wife, regularly looked after their child on John’s most hectic afternoons, and felt the attraction to Molly was something he could no longer shove in a drawer and ignore. Against the odds, Sherlock had become what his previous self might sneer at; a mere man. No one could deny that he possessed astonishing gifts of intellect and powers of deduction, yet he knew how to feed an infant and comfort a friend. As of late, and most pressingly, he knew how to yearn. “There has to be a mop in this flat, Sherlock.” Molly was still wearing the jumper, and it dwarfed her. She had been right, in the cafe--the garment was not flattering, but somehow, it did not take away from her own attractiveness. Loose hairs clung to the shape of her face with sweat, and her perceptive eyes were teasing him. “What interest would you have with a mop in my flat?” The edges of her mouth folded, as if she were holding in a scolding frown. Your flat is always horrible, she had said earlier. That didn’t make the mouth any less enticing. Surely with just a small peck, Molly could be persuaded into unfurling the frown, smashing her lips to his own, and--Once, Sherlock thought tersely, John thought no one was home and you saw him wandering around the flat in no knickers. Remember? Though she was frowning, the light in her eyes--peeking up at him shyly--hadn’t given way. Drawing from his own admittedly limited knowledge of female charm, this could be seen as an example of being coy. Unusual, from his own Molly Hooper, but still completely possible. Her hands were clasping one another; not quite wringing, but one thumb grasped the other as if in a fight to the death. That look--the very same one--had been turned on him before, Sherlock realized. In the morgue, on nights when a case ran long, Molly would peer up her dark-flecked eyes at him and asked if he needed a hand with anything or even just someone to fetch crisps. On afternoons with Rosie, before the Sherrinford disaster, there were days when little Rosamund went straight from one godparent’s arms to another’s. Molly would linger there, as well, fussing over her and asking Sherlock if he had everything in his arsenal to keep an eye on a child who, in his opinion, was a perfectly tolerable infant most days. It was not until this instance of the expression on Molly Hooper’s now-thin face did it finally click. The message she was conveying meant this: she was trying to stay longer without phrasing the exact words. Sherlock almost felt proud to have deduced this, before realizing how long it had taken him to reach this particular conclusion. Good God. And they called him a detective. If John were here, there would be two possible reactions. Either he would call him a blind prat, or he would howl with laughter at the undoubtedly idiotic look that Sherlock himself had on his face in this moment of obtusity. Neither reaction was desirable. During the eleven seconds it had taken him to finally crack Molly Hooper’s code (one of several thousand, he would later learn), she had said, “Well, your linoleum doesn’t even resemble linoleum. It looks rather like a shag carpet. It’s not really safe for Rosie and I’d feel a bit better if we got it scrubbed. There’s an easy way, I can show you--”“Of course,” Sherlock cut in. “Mop, when have I seen it last--2012? Only joking, Molly.” After a brief search, they did find the mop, and put it to its exact use. She made up a solution of water and soap and showed him how to clean in even the tightest of corners. Changing out of the ridiculous jumper and back into one of his shirts, she perched on the edge of his kitchen counter. Cleaning the small, square area of tile that made up the floor of 221B’s kitchen took a bit longer than was within the realm of even a bachelor’s dignity, but Molly didn’t seem to mind. They didn’t always talk, but the silence was thankfully comfortable, something that had grown out of working in close quarters over many years. Sherlock was aware that this was not what normally occurred when two people romantically involved were left alone together (and newly coupled, at that), but they were in each other’s company, and he enjoyed that. Her small, hidden way of wanting to be near him had sparked a happiness that Sherlock found hard to explain to himself. It was...young, giddy, on the brink of foolishness to feel such delight just because someone wanted to be near him, his voice of reason kept chastising. Yet the emotion could not be fought. When all was done, the mop squeezed dry and squared away and the bucket of water emptied down the sink, the kitchen floor was sparkling. “Mrs. Hudson will cry,” Molly said with a laugh, wiping her hands on the nearest towel. “You’re not wrong.” She really would get teary on the occasions she had witnessed a proper wiping down of the flat. An utterly ridiculous creature, and secretly, Sherlock was glad that Molly (and dear Mary) was far more level-headed than his landlady. Molly smiled sweetly over her shoulder, knowing the woman’s antics almost as well as he did. The task was clearly finished in front of them, and he knew that Molly had no more excuses in mind to stay any longer. Not that he particularly needed her to give one--she could have said “Can I stare at your wallpaper for the evening?” and Sherlock wouldn’t have minded. But from the way that her left hand was rubbing at her forearm, he could assume that she longed for a shower and her own space. “I should probably get going,” Molly said, on cue. “I really need--”“A shower,” he finished automatically, then felt the tips of his ears burning. “Er--sorry--not that, it was just clear to me from the pattern in which you were systemically rubbing your right forearm meant that you felt dirty. That was not my opinion.” Stupid. This over-deduction was not a slap in the face to her, as it had been so many times. Molly Hooper did not shirk from his words, nor did she smile at him as she had only moments earlier. Instead her hand--the one that had been rubbing circles--reached out slowly, waveringly, until it rested on his own arm. The material of his shirt was thin, due to the London heat, and Sherlock felt her skin’s warmth acutely. It was, his intuition informed him quickly, a touch meant to comfort. “I know, Sherlock. It’s okay.” Molly Hooper. Instinct could curb to reason no longer and Sherlock started to pull her in, but this time Molly beat him to it; on tiptoes she brought them together. Her lips were as soft and as tantalizing as the first time he had dared to touch them. Had it really only been days? Sleepless nights had stretched that time, warped it, leaving a distortion that Sherlock normally associated with rough cases or the narcotics that Mycroft searched for still. Deliciously, Molly began to force open his mouth in much the same way she had in the stairwell last evening, and Sherlock couldn’t help the shudder that ran through him. His hands came up to grip her waist--perhaps a bit too hard, a bit too low, but her tongue was inside his mouth now and the taste of Molly was absolutely everywhere, unstoppable, overpowering. If given a chance to check her pupils for dilation, there would be no denying the cause of it. It was Sherlock himself. To be desired, too, sent that same sort of thrill through him. It had been Molly’s decision to begin the kiss, but Sherlock was determined to continue it. Now that the words had actually come out of him, Molly Hooper, would you perhaps like to court me exclusively instead of snogging at random? I can’t be like Tom, but you might still enjoy me--it made every reuniting of their lips an act of claim. He had her small, small body pushed against the kitchen island, hands still at her waist, when both of Molly's arms looped around him and forced his form to press into hers, from chest to groin.The sound that Sherlock made was far too loud for the hush that had befallen 221B, but nothing in him at that point, logic or reason or any of the damn cold virtue he had once valued above all else, could block it. The sensation of Molly was all-encompassing, and it was easily tossing all of his willpower away, eroding it from his mind as the sea laps at its own shoreline. Amazingly, she’d giggled then. “What is it?” Sherlock tried, but it all really came out as a blurred mumble against her hair. Irritation nipped at him briefly; was there something funny about this?“I just…” Molly Hooper pulled away to look at him, making proper eye contact. “We’re in your flat. Snogging.”An urge to sigh had to be fought. All of this was obvious. “And?” “You’re snogging me even though I’m a mess, I dunno, Sherlock. You’re kissing me like you think I’m incredibly hot when we’ve been mopping your floor. You just moaned in my ear. It’s exciting.” Her skin was flushed as she spoke of this, eye contact became sporadic, and no mention need be made of the pupil dilation. “I’ve seen far worse messes than you.” A part of Sherlock’s brain was churning out remarks on autopilot, while the rest of him was focusing on calming down from the incident Molly had just described. What was it she had sparked in him? He felt like a schoolboy again, half thrill and half shame and all of him already secretly hoping for the next chance encounter. Best that Molly knew none of this--her, nor anyone else. “Weren’t you--er, weren’t you headed somewhere?” He prodded, hoping to get her in the proper direction again. “Right,” Molly agreed, her voice hovering at a slightly higher pitch than it usually would if his erection did not still linger with embarrassing force between them. “Shower, tidying, back to work tomorrow, of course.”Sherlock led her to the door, ensured that she had gotten a cab home, and promptly collapsed in his chair. “Difficult,” he said aloud to the now-empty flat. This was going to be so difficult. But when had Sherlock Holmes ever turned down a challenge? Now he opened the door on her, becoming less and less hesitant to smile in greeting. Her flat was warm and inviting--his senses deduced that Molly was starting to tidy and make the place a bit more open, even if her instincts shouted to keep everything enclosed. “I’m here,” he murmured into the phone, looking at her holding her own mobile as he spoke. “I see you.” Sherlock shut the door behind him.