Sherlock 1. Black Coffee & Awkwardness

**Well, I haven't written fanfiction for a while and never Sherlock fanfiction - however, I couldn't resist jumping on the Sherlolly bandwagon. **  
**I already have a few chapters of this written, we'll see how it goes. Comments are greatly appreciated :) **

**This is set in an AU, after the pool-scene at the end of S1 which assumes there is no Irene involvement and that Moriarty escapes. However, what has intrigued me is that no mention is giving to Molly/Moriarty again, so I'm looking at this in a dark way that'll make later chapters M. This may involve references to non-con and strong violence. The main focus of this story however, is the Sherlock/Molly hurt/comfort aspect and emotional!Sherlock. **

**Hope you enjoy!**

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Chapter One

Sherlock had realised something wasn't sitting quite right with him the day he decided to walk by the river and have a coffee. Usually he didn't buy coffee. It was so difficult to rely on people to make it the _right way_. The idiocy of the average person overwhelmed him sometimes, especially when they could mess up something as simple as _black, two sugars._

However, that morning was an exceptional case. He had had a particularly fierce argument with John regarding the bloodied state of the kitchen table, which had resulted in Dr Watson picking up Sherlock's medical microscope and dropping it unceremoniously into the bin. Sherlock's response had been to take the eyes out of the microwave (experiment be damned) and drop them into John's tea on his way out the door. The angry screams of disgust that followed him down the stairs and into the fresh air had been immensely satisfying. Unfortunately, he had the foresight to realise that he could not expect a warm welcome in 221b for some considerable amount of time.

Without a case to solve he found himself wandering alongside the Thames. Holding the styrofoam cup between his gloved hands he stopped for a moment, leaning his weight against the railings and gazing down into the dirty depths of the water. He hoped the turning of the tide would bring a few interesting bodies up to the surface. That would surely stave off the monotony for a short while. Smirking to himself he raised the cup to his lips and took an experimental sip.

The smirk changed instantly into a disgusted grimace.

"For _God's_ sake-" he muttered angrily, hurling the coffee violently into the river and severely startling an American tourist who was snapping a shot of the Houses of Parliament.

Drawing the lapels of his woolen coat about him in what he hoped was a mysterious and menacing attitude, he scowled at the onlookers and prowled away. He was not in the mood for stares. It had been a whole week since his last case, John had kicked him out of the flat before he could finish his morning tea and now he had spent his last coins on a coffee that tasted like it wasn't even worth a penny. Life was not treating Sherlock Holmes in the manner to which he had become accustomed. It seemed nothing would be easy today.

He tread the London streets, bristling with annoyance whenever anyone so much as brushed by him. The proverbial rain cloud grew steadily stormier over his head of dark curls, and he thrust his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders, looking for all the world like a roosting vulture. It wasn't just the bad coffee getting him down, it was the whole criminal underworld. It had been so silent since Moriarty had sunk back beneath the radar, slipping clandestinely from the poolside amid the flurry of flickering red lights. Sherlock wished he _had_ pulled the trigger and blown both himself and the consulting criminal to kingdom come. That at the very least would have been an interesting conclusion. But then John would have gone with them, and in the end that just wasn't on the cards for Sherlock Holmes.

It was very nettling to admit, even to himself, but he cared enough about John Watson not to want him to be blasted to bits by exploding semtex. Friends didn't do that to other friends, at least that was his general understanding if popular culture was anything to go by. This was all still terribly new ground beneath his feet, requiring a great deal more research.

The fact that Jim Moriarty had managed to escape unscathed was a high price to pay for the consulting detective. It was almost like admitting defeat, and Sherlock _never_ gave up.

With this thought in mind he decided to make his way to St Barts, his home away from home. Perhaps there was a mysterious cadaver laid out on the trolley, just waiting to spill the secrets of his arch nemesis. Even if there wasn't, he told himself ruefully, he was sure he could find a quiet nook in the lab in which to hide away and mix chemicals and _curse John_.

He calculated it would take maybe 5 or 6 hours for the doctor to cool down from the incident with the eyes. He was a predictably forgiving soul. However, if Sherlock factored in the severed foot that John would surely find in the freezer that afternoon it might even take as long as 12. He sighed. He would never understand why John continued to be _surprised_ by his experiments, they were obviously never going to stop being a part of 221b, not as long as Sherlock continued to live there. If he got himself killed or kidnapped in the near future then John could go back to an ordinary fridge and an ordinary life, but not before.

* * *

Twenty minutes later he strode into the lab with his usual dramatic, sweeping attitude of certainty, hands in his pockets and chin raised imperiously above the collar of his coat. He expected Molly Hooper (his favourite and most pliable pathologist) to stop what she was doing and pay immediate attention to him. That is what she always did. That is what she had always done.

He did _not_ expect to find Molly Hooper sat very still at one of the lab benches, her hands folded loosely in front of her, her gaze fixed unseeingly upon the opposite wall. She didn't even flinch when the heavy fire door slammed shut behind Sherlock's entrance, acting as though she hadn't even heard the noise at all. There was something off-putting about the way she was holding herself, her back straight and rigid, her ankles precisely crossed beneath the high stool.

Sherlock examined her for a brief moment, his attentive eyes flicking over the details of her person. The same outfit she had been wearing for the past 3 days, a small white stain on the front pocket- _maybe mayonnaise, from the sandwich she ate for lunch yesterday_- high ponytail, the hair pulled uncomfortably tight, dragging at the skin of her forehead and the nape of her neck, a slight greasiness to her T zone- _not showered properly over the course of the last week_- very dark circles beneath her eyes, slightly sunken cheeks, redness about her nostrils- _crying, possibly a cold, little sleep_- and she hadn't noticed him, so, dangerously preoccupied.

"Molly?" he ventured, loudly.

"Oh!"

She snapped out of whatever reverie she'd been caught up in, dragging her large, brown eyes away from the mass of equipment ranged across the shelves in front of her. Her fingers knitted together atop the files she'd obviously forgotten she'd been perusing, and she forced a tight-lipped smile that made Sherlock feel uneasy in the pit of his stomach.

It was the sort of expression he just didn't associate with Molly Hooper.

"Anything the matter?" he enquired in as candid a voice as he could manage. He didn't usually ask things like that. Not with Molly.

She stared at him for a full minute in silence, her lips parted as though she wanted to say something but couldn't quite find the words, then she shook her head and glared at the table top. He could see the gulp as it both rose and was suppressed in her throat. He narrowed his eyes minutely, rocking back a little on his heels as he waited, feeling cripplingly awkward. She didn't speak.

"John kicked me out of the flat again," he offered lightly, trying to distract her from whatever she was so intent upon brooding over. "I was experimenting on toads, trying to ascertain at what voltage their skin would sizzle. A lot of moisture when it comes to amphibians, you see. Great conductivity. I went a bit far and one of them burst."

"Oh."

"He didn't like the mess."

"No, I guess he wouldn't..."

"The toad wasn't alive or anything-"

_"Sherlock."_

Molly's tone brought the detective up short and he stopped talking abruptly, finding that she was staring at him. Her expression was oddly unreadable, a new thing for Sherlock. Usually a woman had to be buck-naked before he lost his powers of observation. He blinked, frowned, and waited.

"What_ is_ it, Molly?" he pressed, becoming impatient. "You're being... _not good_."

"And why is that, Sherlock?" Molly said, throwing up her hands, obviously trying to keep her voice under control but failing. There was a prickly undercurrent of emotion that made Sherlock's eyebrows rise in apprehension. He fully anticipated one of those awkwardly sentimental soul-searching moments that people like Molly liked to have. He couldn't decide whether he found it endearing or annoying.

_Wait. What?_

"You really have no idea?" Molly sighed resignedly.

"No." He drew out the word and canted his head to the side, "Should I?"

There was a very pregnant pause in which Molly just gazed at him, then she shook her head for a second time and snorted bitterly. Sherlock's frown intensified. He moved further into the lab, approaching her bench in a few, quick paces. He hovered across from her, floundering to discover some floating social cue. Molly was watching him, still with that odd look of barely contained disappointment.

"Have you been sleeping properly this week?" he asked flatly.

"No," she replied softly.

He examined her critically from head to toe. There were healing bruise marks around her neck and the barest trace of a cut above her left eyebrow. His chest constricted, but he refused to comment. It wouldn't do to touch on _that_ subject. Over 7 days had passed, certainly, but surely she wouldn't _want_ to talk about it. Must be something else.

"Are you eating?"

"Yes."

"Have you taken any time off since-?"

"_No._"

Sherlock groused at being interrupted, but let it slide for once. This situation was becoming too stifling, he wanted to leave, but he wasn't sure if he should. Molly was being decidedly _un-Mollyish_. Surely, that required some attention. Then again, should he be the one to give it? She seemed angry with him. She probably wouldn't want him to talk to her if she was angry with him.

"Do you mind if I use some of the equipment for a few hours? There's an analysis I'm working on... About the toads, you know..." He mumbled the last part and shuffled his feet in uncharacteristic meekness.

She continued to stare at him fixedly, daringly. Sherlock coughed, uncomfortable under her expectant scrutiny. He drew himself up a little taller, trying to regain control of whatever seemed to be happening between them.

"Your perfume's nice today," he sniffed lightly and appreciatively, his face breaking into a charming smile he hoped would relieve some of the tension. "Flowery. Suits you."

Molly's cheeks pinked, but it wasn't the usual embarrassed, happy-to-be-noticed sort of pink which he was accustomed to. It was flustered, but not pleasantly so. If Sherlock was honest with himself it was a completely unfamiliar flush of colour with a wholly hidden implication. She edged back in her stool, as though trying to scoot out of his range of vision, before slipping off it completely and hurrying towards the door to the corridor.

"I'll make you a coffee," she muttered as she scurried by him. She kept her head bent and her white lab coat pulled closely about her, and with a swish of her pony tail she was gone.

Sherlock was left standing in the deserted lab, filled with a discontentment that made him feel very on edge. He realised that he had misunderstood or misinterpreted something vitally important to Molly, some incredibly simple and obvious fact. He had probably hurt her feelings in some way. But he was always doing that, without even noticing most of the time, and she'd never reacted like that before. She _got_ that he wasn't the sort of person to pick up on civil formalities, that was why he liked her.

This was something that required further study.

Molly didn't come back for a very long time, much longer than it should have taken her to brew a single cup of coffee. When she returned she didn't look him in the eye or speak to him directly, just set the drink down at his elbow and slunk away to her work station to continue sorting through the mountain of paperwork she'd been neglecting before he came in. In her absence Sherlock had taken it upon himself to start analyzing some samples and was completely absorbed. He barely acknowledged her presence until he reached out blindly for the coffee he assumed would be there and raised the mug to his lips.

He sipped, paused, then he glanced over at Molly, suddenly riveted.

"This is good," he said, gesturing to the coffee before taking another, much deeper draft. It warmed him, both bitter and sweet and exactly how he liked it. "This is really good, thank you."

Molly looked up from her work in surprise. He didn't compliment her, not ever. Was he trying to make amends? Had he _realised?_

"That's okay," she shrugged, awkward and blushing in that indefinable way again.

"No really," Sherlock smiled, the corner of his lip turning up in that half-smirk he reserved only for those people that truly impressed him, whom were seldom. "In the whole of London, only you and John know how to make a perfect cup."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth he felt wrong about putting John and Molly together in the same sentence, with that same reverent tone. Molly was eyeing him as though she were thinking the same thing. She opened her mouth to speak, and Sherlock became unsettling fixated on her lips. Her mouth was small, but pert and pretty. Why had he never noticed that until now?

He turned back to the microscope, and flatly ignored her for the rest of the afternoon.

* * *

He was right in thinking John wouldn't be pleased to see him upon his return to 221b Baker Street. Though he had only stayed away for 4 hours, he couldn't stop himself from climbing the stairs to their shared flat and bursting into the living room as if nothing had happened. The morgue had become far too oppressive an atmosphere, what with the way in which Molly had been acting towards him. Gone had been the pleasant buzzing of hard brain work, replaced with the niggling feeling that she expected him to say something. It had been hard to concentrate, and that was the most irritating thing of all for Sherlock Holmes. Distractions were not conducive to good experiments, and as much as he hated to admit it Molly Hooper was one big distraction.

John was sitting in his armchair, paper raised ostentatiously before his face in obvious dismissal. Sherlock hovered in the doorway to the kitchen, having divested himself of scarf and coat. He disliked feeling awkward in his own home, least of all when the remedy was apologising for something he felt had been both a justified and hilarious retaliation. He put his hands in the pockets of his trousers and stared pointedly at the back of John's head. He could tell the doctor wasn't _really_ reading the paper. No one could be that interested in an article about changing bus routes.

"Shall I put the kettle on?" Sherlock offered tentatively.

John turned the page of the newspaper and grunted in the affirmative.

In no time at all, Sherlock returned with a tea tray upon which he had meticulously arranged a steaming tea pot, two cups and saucers, a strainer, a jug of milk, a bowl of sugar and a plate of bourbons (John's favourite). He placed the lot on the coffee table and took his seat across from John, leaning forwards with his elbows resting on his knees, steepling his fingers beneath his chin.

"Well," John said, lowering his paper and taking in the sight before him with raised eyebrows. Sherlock had used the best china, he noted with surprise. "You must be sorry."

"Not sorry exactly," Sherlock muttered, his forehead creased in thought. "Let's call it _repentant_, and leave it at that."

"Right," John sighed, reaching out to pick up the tea pot.

"Let it brew John," Sherlock snapped, gesturing for the man to sit back.

John, sensing something wasn't quite right, did as he was told. Though still bristling from the incident with the eyeballs, he wasn't a heartless bastard. Something was bothering Sherlock, and that in itself was cause for considerable alarm.

The detective continued to glare into the middle distance, hardly seeming to breathe. John waited, rustling his newspaper in anticipation.

"If I were to ask you for advice, would you please try to treat it with as good a grace as possible?" Sherlock said at long last, his words protracted.

John blinked.

"Advice?"

"Yes, John," Sherlock huffed impatiently, trying not to roll his eyes. "That's what I said."

"Advice from me?" John repeated blankly.

"Please don't make me say it again."

"Right. Yeah. Sorry-" John restrained a smirk with difficulty. "What do you need to know?"

Sherlock lowered his hands to his lap and relaxed back into the cushions of the armchair. He picked up his violin from where it was resting by the fireplace and began to run his fingers along the pegs, plucking the strings deftly but quietly. There was a very pale, very light flush rising in his cheeks and John stared, mouth a little agape. It was like walking in on the detective when he was naked, far too vulnerable a sight.

"When I went to St Barts today," Sherlock began in a carefully flat, unfeeling tone. "I got the distinct impression that Molly was upset with me."

"She's always upset with you," John ventured uncertainly, "You act like a total dick."

Sherlock shook his head the merest fraction.

"Not like that," he said. "It wasn't like the times before. When she's upset with me it's because I've said something wrong or inappropriately blunt, but today I most certainly didn't. I hardly spoke and she just stood there, looking at me as if I'd done something terrible. She's never done that before."

"Why do you care what she thinks of you? You never care what people think." John asked curiously, already hazarding a shrewd guess. No matter how brilliant Sherlock was, he was remarkably dim about some of the most basic of things.

"I like her, she's a colleague. I don't think it's practical for her to be mad at me." Sherlock waved the question away as though it wasn't important and John shook his head and suppressed an immature snort.

"What did you say?"

"_Anything the matter?_" Sherlock deadpanned, looking up at John with a bewildered shrug. A very unnatural gesture for him. "Surely, that's a _nice_ thing to say?"

John hummed, but inside he was rolling his eyes. Really, Sherlock?

"Well?" Sherlock prompted, his blue eyes searching John's critically. "What did I do?"

John sunk further down in the chair and fixed Sherlock with a level gaze.

"Tell me," he began. "When was the last time you saw Molly?"

"A little over a week ago," Sherlock replied at once, displaying a reassuringly normal grasp on his own internal calendar.

"And what has happened between then and now which might make Molly act differently?"

John felt like he was guiding a small toddler through its baby steps when Sherlock displayed nothing but a blank expression completely devoid of understanding. His lack of emotional depth was truly maddening sometimes.

"_Our consulting criminal_." John prompted testily, deciding to attack the tea tray in order to avoid punching Sherlock in the face. "Do you want a biscuit?"

Sherlock nodded dumbly and accepted the cup of tea John poured for him, his mind plunged into a sudden flurry of new questions centered around one maddening individual. _Moriarty_, and more importantly, what he had _done_ to Molly.

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**What indeed? Update soon kids.x**


	2. Essential & Brief

**I've had quite a lot of people adding this to their Story Alert list, thanks guys :) **

**I can't decide if I like this chapter, probably moves too fast. But there you go. Enjoy!  
**

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Chapter Two

Sherlock didn't really appreciate the closeness he had developed with Molly Hooper, and she had done her level best to ignore it in the hopes of not messing up a good thing. It was plain to everyone else at St Barts that she was crushing on the detective pretty hard, but no one but John understood the reason. Being the only other person, excepting perhaps DI Lestrade, who had managed to overcome Sherlock's initial brusqueness and brittle exterior and gotten to know the person beneath, John was uniquely qualified to diagnose the situation.

Even though Sherlock appeared to shun the young woman it was painfully obvious to John that he relied on her. It was even more obvious that Molly had fallen in love not with the detective's cool facade, but with the flashes of _himself_ he was allowing her to see on an ever increasing basis.

Sherlock had convinced himself it was because of the unfettered access she gave him to the morgue and the ample supply of body parts she handed over without question. Over the years they had known and worked together he had come to realise that something strange had begun to develop between them. Somewhere in the midst of that teeming brain of his he saw something was wrong. Something indefinable, something essentially alien. Something that _needed_ to be solved.

On John's part he had seen what was developing for a very long time, much longer than Sherlock. And more than that, he understood it.

After the incident at the pool with Jim Moriarty, even before they had made it out into the street filled with police cars and flashing sirens and ambulance crews asking if they were seriously injured, Sherlock had said something that John found remarkably human.

"Do you think he attacked Molly? Ring her will you? He used her to get to me, can you believe that? He used _her_ to get to _me_."

From that moment on all of Sherlock's cutting remarks and luke-warm flirting had made total sense to John. It was like a slap in the face, especially when John realised that he had never seen the detective act in this way with any other woman ever. Not even Irene. All this time he hadn't been using her just for the morgue, he'd been getting to know her as well. Had gotten to like her, even. He'd been slightly, microscopically _genuine_ in his regard.

Now all that remained was for Sherlock to come to terms with that himself.

* * *

One day, perhaps 3 weeks or so following the disastrous Moriarty business, Sherlock found himself sat at his usual work bench in the lab and instead of concentrating on the slides in front of him he was staring perplexedly at Molly. It was nearly 2AM and only the two of them remained in the lab. She was standing with her back against one of the metal trollies, her head lowered over a clipboard, scribbling fiercely.

Sherlock couldn't quite discern the expression she wore because her long brown hair was coming out of its side plait and obscuring her face. From where he was sitting he could study the rest of her profile, however, and suddenly it stuck him that she was terribly thin, even for someone so mousey. She was also paler than he had ever seen her, even accounting for the lateness of the hour. She was also wearing a skirt, not the usual boring pencil skirt she seemed to keep reserved for work, but a light blue, high waisted affair that only served to emphasize the littleness of her waist and the roundness of her knees. Since when had she tried to look fashionable?

"You look different," he remarked in a drawl, trying to keep his eyes from her legs as she crossed her ankles and flexed her calves. She had been stood up for a long time, and it was beginning to tell.

Molly looked up from the clipboard, sweeping her hair back over her shoulder in the process, and smiled tiredly. She was also wearing lipstick, just a light shade, but it was still noticeable because her mouth wasn't quite so small.

"What do you want?" She asked lightly, unexpectedly, tucking the clipboard beneath her arm and inclining her body in his direction.

"I don't want anything," he replied, his brows furrowing in confusion. "I just-"

"Well then," Molly interrupted him swiftly and began to remove her white lab coat, revealing a cream blouse that left her collarbone and forearms bare. Sherlock stilled. "If you're not going to throw any cheap compliments my way, I'm through for the night. You can clear out whenever you like, I'll tell security you're here so they don't lock you in."

"Hey! Wait, _what?_" Sherlock spluttered, pushing back his stool and standing up. For some reason he couldn't quite explain, that comment had stung. "What are you talking about?"

"It's _okay,_ Sherlock." She raised her hands in a quietening gesture that he found instantly and annoyingly soothing. "I know you only tolerate me hanging around because I can get stuff for you, and usually it's fine but I'm just not in the mood tonight. Let me go? I promise I'll moon over you twice as much tomorrow to make up for it."

"You think I tolerate you?" he asked incredulously. "What the hell is that supposed to mean?"

Molly stared at him pityingly for a moment, her big dark eyes looking unbelievably sad. She put her hands on her hips and transferred her gaze to the shiny tiles of the lab floor, as though what she wanted to say would be easier if said only to them. She seemed to be steeling herself to confess something.

"Molly?"

"Since what happened with Jim-" Sherlock tensed at the name but didn't interrupt. "-I've been doing a lot of thinking. I want to be different, more confident, not such a push over. I want to stop being frightened."

"Why are you frightened?" Sherlock murmured, his chest beginning to feel uncomfortably tight. It was as though he wanted to reach out and pat her shoulder in consolation, but he couldn't quite manage it. His fingers itched at his sides. The idea that Molly Hooper was scared of something made him quiver with the desire to protect her. That, was wholly unexpected.

"I'm frightened of how easy it was for Jim to take advantage of me," she explained ruefully, still avoiding his eyes. "And to be honest, Sherlock, I'm a little frightened of you for the exact same reason..."

Sherlock's face hardened a fraction and a muscle in his jaw twitched. He had never had a woman feel afraid of him before, at least, not a woman like Molly. She was sweet, admittedly quite silly, and perfectly and irrevocably innocent. Of course, she could be incredibly irritating, and having her around was sometimes like having a fly buzzing about his head. He had been cruel to her on occasion, quite cuttingly mean, but that didn't mean he didn't like her. In fact, he realised suddenly, in a lot of ways he treated her like he did John. He respected her, even if she was stuttering or stupid or allowed him to manipulate her. But everybody was stupid, weren't they, she was hardly alone in that category. And if she hadn't liked his attentions, however duplicitously motivated they had been on his part, she would have said so long ago that she found them insincere. For all her fluttering, she was a strong woman.

The idea that she could actually _fear_ him, well, it made him feel like a criminal.

Was this the reason she looked at him with such guarded disappointment every time he came into the lab nowadays? Was this why John clucked his tongue in annoyance whenever they were in the middle of a case? How was he supposed to know the meaning of these actions so driven by _feeling?_ It was insulting. He wanted to shake her.

"I'm not like Moriarty," he said, trying to temper the aggressive edge to his tone. "I would never hurt you like he did. It's not-" He raised his itching hands to the back of his neck and clasped them there, trapping the urge to touch her. "Molly, it's not_ in me_ to hurt someone like that. I thought you would know that about me."

"I thought I did," she admitted softly, wrapping her arms about herself and turning her back on him. She didn't want to see how he would react to her next words. "I really, truly, whole-heartedly did... But now I can't sleep, and every shadow is his and every whisper is his voice and every time you come waltzing in her pretending that nothing_ life-changing_ happened to me it makes me wonder whether you understand _anything_ at all."

Sherlock scrutinized her back, liking the way her shoulder blades ran so elegantly down from the curvature of her neck. He tightened the knot of his fingers at the nape of his own neck, and gulped back an angry retort. Of course he had known she would be unsettled by Moriarty! Of course he had realised what had _happened_ to her. He was the only consulting detective in the world, for God's sake, the clues weren't that hard to piece together. Just because he didn't shove it in her face every time he came into the morgue didn't mean he didn't care. Wasn't it the gentlemanly thing to do, to go on as if nothing had changed? Wasn't it kinder?

Then he heard John's voice in his head, intoning dryly, _"Kinder? No, no, Sherlock, **that** wasn't kind."_

"Oh."

The realisation was like being buried beneath a tun of bricks. _No wonder._

He looked at Molly again, this time with an intensity of feeling he was entirely uncomfortable with. He lowered his hands, smoothing them over the lapels of his black suit jacket, not knowing what was appropriate to say. He felt winded. It was times like this that he relied on John to smooth things over, he was so good at that. John understood everything to do with _sentiment_. But was this sentiment? Or was it something different? More complex?

"What do you want me to do?" he said weakly, wishing that she would face him again. It was so much easier to read someone when they looked him in the eyes, especially Molly. Such an open book. But then again, he had been wrong about her before. The current situation spoke volumes concerning that oversight. When he thought back to the day she had made him the perfect coffee and asked him _why_ he didn't understand, he felt unreservedly ashamed.

"Please, Molly, tell me what you want me to do?" he asked again, more forcefully, stepping forwards so that he stood over her. She was such a tiny, little thing.

Sherlock tried to block out the sudden image of Jim Moriarty touching this small, softly-spoken woman.

The consulting criminal _had_ paid her a visit before heading to the pool that night, but Molly refused to tell John about what had happened and she _certainly_ hadn't told Sherlock. But they both guessed and she knew that they had. Upon hearing the news, Sherlock had remained calm and made sure that she was looked after. But he hadn't visited her. He hadn't believed it _suitable_ to visit her. He had tried to delete it from his mind and go on working beside her as if nothing were different. Upon reflection, that too probably wasn't very kind. A bit not good.

"Molly?"

Sherlock reached out at last and tentatively placed his hands atop her shoulders, squeezing them gently. He'd never touched her before, not like this. Their fingers had brushed in the handing over of coffee cups, files and slides for analysis, but those fleeting touches had been essential and brief. Sherlock didn't really enjoy touching people, but now seemed like the sort of time people had to touch one another. It felt like cementing some unspoken bond, holding her between his hands in such a pale shade of intimacy.

Molly flinched but didn't shake him off, she just turned in his careful embrace and stared up at him. Her large eyes were red-rimmed, but she wasn't crying. She was holding herself together, and Sherlock respected that. He wasn't usually impressed with people, but he was continually impressed by her. Would it really hurt to let her know that every once in a while? This girl, who was so trusting and unquestioning and loyal? Sherlock cursed at his own pigheadedness. He finally understood. It wasn't sentiment, it was common sense.

* * *

When Sherlock returned to the flat half an hour later he was incredibly wound up. Divesting himself of coat and jacket, he rolled up both sleeves of his white dress shirt and stuck four patches along the length of his forearm. In an ideal world he would have covered himself with patches, emptied two or three boxes of them, but he didn't think giving himself an overdose would solve this particular problem. Bad news for brain work, indeed.

As the nicotine began to course throughout his body in a dull hum he took up pacing in the living room, clicking his restless fingers in time to some unfathomable song. He thought about picking up his violin but that didn't seem quite substantial enough an item to relieve the aching _need_ in his guts to _do something_. Anything to take his mind off the things Molly had told him and what she had asked him to do.

Locating his gun on the mantlepiece he snatched it up and without a second's hesitation began firing into the opposite wall, aiming wide. He peppered the smiling watchman face with fresh holes before inevitably catching the mirror by the door, shattering it. The palpable energy seemed to well up inside him as he watched the pieces cascade about the room. A small shard caught his cheek and the cut stung beautifully. His ears rang with the gunshots until finally, the bullets were spent.

Then he realised that John was stood in the doorway, half dressed, bleary-eyed, red in the face and shouting himself hoarse.

"What the buggering _hell_ are you _doing?_ And don't you dare say you're bored! It's 5AM! Mrs Hudson is going to kill you! Screw that,_ I'm_ going to kill you!"

"Sorry-" he panted, suddenly so short of breath his knees felt weak. "Sorry, John, I-"

He couldn't explain it, but he knew he needed to fall down. It was like someone had punched him in the liver. The cut bled deeply, and that was what made his legs buckle.

"Sherlock!"

John caught him, just.

Ten minutes later they were sat at the kitchen table, John angling Sherlock's face into the light as he examined the gash. The anger had left him, to be replaced by terrible concern. He'd never seen his friend like this. Sherlock was glaring up at the ceiling, his hands clasped tightly together in his lap. He grimaced as John began to clean up the wound, using a pair of tweezers to pick out the shard of glass before dabbing it with antiseptic and covering it with sticking plaster.

"So," John said at last, sitting back to examine his handiwork. "Want to tell me why you just destroyed the living room and slipped into a dead faint? Very masculine by the way."

Sherlock scowled, but didn't reply. His body was still thrumming with the desire to smash things. John's face was the closest target, but he suspected that wouldn't go down well.

"O-kay..." John drew out the word, trying not to appear frustrated. He decided to venture into more familiar territory. "Tea?"

"Yes," Sherlock said flatly after a protracted pause, sounding resentful. "And a Penguin."

John bustled about, resigning himself to the prospect of a stony silence for the rest of the morning. As it was now nearly 6AM he decided not to go back to bed. After all, he was too riled up to sleep. The thought of an injured, brooding and possibly traumatized Sherlock Holmes taking up residence on the sofa was a powerful deterrent. But Sherlock didn't move from the kitchen table, just sipped his tea and munched his chocolate bar, and stared thoughtfully into space. John pottered about, washing dishes that didn't have a hope of ever being properly clean again, until Sherlock decided to talk things out.

"I had a moment with Molly Hooper," Sherlock said quietly, not meeting John's eyes. He looked down into his tea, as though it was an interesting murder case desperately needing to be solved.

"Oh really?" John feigned nonchalance, but he was incredibly surprised. What in the world could have been said that would produce _that_ reaction from Sherlock? Unless...

"She let slip a few home truths." Sherlock ran the pad of his finger around the rim of his mug, collecting specks of sugar. "She told me that she's afraid of me. Of _me_, John."

He finally looked into John's face and John, flabbergasted, saw a turbulent mixture of confusion, hurt and something like shame. Sherlock's blue eyes almost glistened with it, which John found very unnerving to say the least.

"Afraid in what way?" he asked, gently pushing the subject.

"Afraid that I'll end up treating her in the same way as Moriarty did," Sherlock's voice was venomous on the name of his arch nemesis. John frowned, perplexed. "And then she told me about what he _did_ to her, John. That night, do you remember? Before he came to the pool for our standoff. No wonder he looked so smug..."

"You mean he really-?"

"Yes."

There was a long, aching silence. John glared at the floor, his fists white. Of course he had suspected, but to hear it. On some level he had realised Sherlock had worked it out as soon as it happened, which was why Sherlock's lack of understanding concerning Molly's sudden change of attitude infuriated him so much. And he thought of Molly, how unassuming and kind she always was to everyone. The very idea that anyone could want to hurt her made his stomach churn. Then he realised what Sherlock was getting at, and he understood the fresh bullet holes in the living room wall.

"Aw, mate..." John sighed sympathetically and sat down again opposite Sherlock. He reached out and placed his hand over that of his friend, squeezing it. "I'm sure that's not how she meant it."

"I would never do that, not to anyone." Sherlock's voice was monotonous but sad, "Especially not to her."

John's head inclined sideways at that last statement but he didn't interrupt, just kept a grip on Sherlock's hand, rubbing soothing circles with his thumb. He had slipped into the mode of comforting doctor, feeling thankful for his bedside manner.

"She said she wants me to leave her alone." Sherlock pulled his hand free from John's and ran it through his dark curls, yanking them. John winced. "Just like that, she says she doesn't want me to come to the morgue anymore when she's there. She says it's all about being a more confident, more assertive individual and that I remind her too much of the past. I think that's cowardly, running away-"

"Hey!" John snapped, his blood up.

Sherlock looked taken aback, "What?"

"You can't talk about Molly that way, it's not fair." John stood up and fixed Sherlock with a haughty stare. "I'm not saying she's right about you, I'm not saying that, but you can't call her a coward for trying to move on with her life. It's not like you ever wanted to be a part of it before!"

"Excuse me?" Sherlock stood up as well, flinging his arms above his head in exasperation. "Why do you both think that? I like Molly! I've always liked Molly!"

"You've liked _using_ Molly to get what you want, that's _not_ the same thing!" John barked, jabbing his finger into Sherlock's chest.

Sherlock glowered, his whole demeanor bristling with outrage.

"How dare-"

"You are going to respect Molly's decision. You are going to leave her alone." John interrupted, intoning harshly but firmly, "You're going to do _the decent thing,_ Sherlock Holmes."

The consulting detective quivered with indignation, but did not retort. He stood tall and still, his eyes closed and his lips tightly drawn. He was thinking over every single moment he had ever spent with Molly Hooper, dwelling on her smile, her laugh, her big round eyes, the way she always had something to say even if nothing needed to be said, how she had cried softly into her hands as she's confessed Moriarty's crime, how inexplicably angry and possessive that had made him. He pictured his life without that constant, loyal, beautiful friend and he just couldn't do it. There were few people in his life that counted, and she was one of them whether she wanted to be or not. And he was supposed to just give up and let her go?

"Like hell I will," Sherlock growled, pushing John Watson aside and beating a hasty retreat from the flat, stopping only to grab his coat and scarf.

* * *

**Angry/confused Sherlock is fun to write, as is exasperated John. Next update will probably be at the weekend. It's written but I don't want to run out of pre-written chapters too fast. Thanks for reading, and reviews are always appreciated :) **


	3. A Moment of Clarity

**You know how i said i would wait until the weekend to update? I lied.  
**

**This is the 3rd of the 7 pre-written chapters. Each are about 3,500-4,000 words long, and i'm working on the 8th chapter now. Might as well post as i go...**

**Hope you like this chapter, one of my favourites so far :)  
**

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Chapter Three

Molly hadn't expected to be disturbed again that day, not after crawling home in the early hours physically and emotionally drained. Her conversation with Sherlock resounded in her brain as she pounded the London streets back to her apartment block, repeating itself again and again until she couldn't tell which were her words and which were his. She hadn't even gotten undressed, just sank down beneath the covers and succumbed to unconsciousness, Toby butting his head against her feet. Therefore, when she was pulled back from the rosy mists of sleep barely two hours later, she was not best pleased.

Someone was making a hellish racket outside her front door, banging and ringing the bell simultaneously. She gave herself a few blissful seconds of pretending she didn't know who it was, then she struggled out of the nest of duvets to answer it, her jaw set.

"Sherlock."

The ringing stopped. The banging stopped. There was a short silence.

"How'd you know it was me?" came a familiar yet slightly cowed voice from the hallway.

"Only a jackass like you would do this after our conversation last night, _only you._"

She fumbled with the chain and opened the front door a sliver, peering out. Sherlock peered back, his blue eyes dancing. His usual deathly pallor was replaced by a light flush on his cheeks, red rising up his neck from beneath his white collar. His dark locks were in disarray, and as she examined closer she saw that he'd cut the right side of his face. Typical Sherlock, he made it impossible for her to be wholly annoyed. Her curiosity was successfully piqued.

"Can I come in?" he asked cautiously, scraping his feet in the passage.

"Why?" Her tone was equally as cautious, but he suspected for different reasons. A muscle twitched in his jaw.

"I want to continue our conversation," he replied honestly, moving closer to the door frame and attempting to sneak a look into her flat. She blocked his view with her shoulder and frowned.

"Our conversation is over, I said what I wanted to say."

"But I didn't," Sherlock protested, "Please?"

Molly hesitated, chewing her lower lip.

"Please, Molly?"

It was exactly how Moriarty had sounded that night, pleading outside her door until he finally broke it down. That was when she had still believed him to be Jim from I.T., when she had dumped him over the phone number beneath the specimen dish. Sherlock had of course neglected to tell her the man she'd been dating was a criminal psychopath. He probably hadn't thought it was very important. She hadn't realised it was all a big game until the lock had splintered from the door frame and his shoes had found a home in her gut.

Molly's stomach clenched horribly at the memory of the pain and she inhaled deeply, steadying herself against the door. Sherlock heard her moan softly from outside in the hallway, and he glanced at what he could see of her face behind the security chain. She looked like she felt physically sick.

"Look," he continued in a different vein, sounding uncharacteristically worried. "We don't have to talk about anything. Just let me in so I can check you're alright and then I'll go away. You don't sound...good." He finished lamely.

He was being kind to her. He was never kind, not _really._ To hear such concern in his voice slackened her resolve and she opened the door to him against all her better judgement.

* * *

Sherlock hadn't expected to find himself wandering down the halls of Molly's apartment building. He'd intended to go to St Barts and wait for her to come in for her shift in the afternoon, but as he jumped into a waiting taxi he found her address tumbling from his lips. Perhaps his subconscious realised this was the sort of admission one made in person.

Now he was stood in her living room, feeling out of place. He stuck out like a sore thumb, angular and bat-like in the midst of her soft pinks, blues and creams, her cat-clawed vintage furniture and her distinctly feminine, flowery curtains. It struck him that this was exactly what he'd expected her home to be like, light and warm. Very different from the darkly painted, dramatically cluttered rooms of 221b. She was airy and he was dense. She liked open space, neatness, whereas he liked being cooped up in a flat like a citadel, all his possessions jumbled on every available surface. Only their bookcases seemed arranged on a similar theme, her medical textbooks and academic journals a comfortable stable for him in this female dominated apartment.

He caught a glimpse of a cat sat in the doorway to what he presumed to be Molly's bedroom, its green eyes narrowed at him, its tail flicking menacingly from side to side. It was as though the animal was _daring_ Sherlock to say anything derogatory or analytical concerning its owner's home. Sherlock kept his observations to himself for once, much to Molly's surprise.

She shut the door behind him and turned, leaning back against it with a soft sigh. He watched her closely, not moving to take off his coat or remove his scarf. He was still unsure as to whether she would chuck him back out into the hallway at a moment's notice. He wasn't supposed to be there, and they both knew it.

"What happened to your face?" She ventured into the quiet, peering at the sticking plaster on his high cheekbone but not moving any closer.

Sherlock made an impatient, dismissive motion in the air, not meeting her eyes. He didn't want to tell her what a sickening idiot he'd been, or that he'd smashed Mrs Hudson's art deco mirror. He'd pay for that one later...

Silence settled between them once again, palpably awkward.

"So what did you want to talk to me about, Sherlock?" Molly asked at last in a tired, resigned sort of way.

"Do you feel well enough?" Sherlock probed, studying her wan features.

"You're not going to go away until you say whatever it is you want to say, so it doesn't matter." Molly observed dryly, folding her arms across her chest. "Go on, I'm listening."

Sherlock ignored the barbed comment and rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly wondering whether this had been such a genius notion. Molly didn't push him to speak, just waited patiently. It gave him courage.

"There's something I didn't say earlier," he made a gesture in the air with his hands, not wanting to expand upon the details of their uncomfortable confrontation from hours before. Molly shifted her weight uneasily. "I meant to say it, that is, I _should_ have said it..."

Sherlock Holmes becoming inarticulate wasn't a spectacle Molly was accustomed to. It made her feel as though he was acting a part, putting on one of his many disarming disguises. She listened, but warily.

"I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry," Sherlock admitted truthfully, looking at a point on her shoulder and not at her face. It was very hard to meet her eyes. "I was an unfeeling jerk, for not appreciating how difficult it would be for you to be around me, or anyone for that matter, after what Moriarty did to you. I was ungentlemanly and callus, and I was wrong."

_Wrong._

Sherlock Holmes was telling her that he had been wrong. Something in his tone just didn't really ring true. Or was it that she didn't recognise how he sounded when he was being perfectly honest?

"I shouldn't have acted like nothing had changed." Sherlock continued, and it was clear that he was reciting, that he had run over the words countless times in the taxi ride to her apartment building to make sure that they were right. "And more than that, I know I should have apologised for putting you in harms way. Moriarty used you to get to me, I don't really understand why he felt it necessary to do so, but he did and there's nothing I can do to make up for that. All I can say is that I'm sorry."

That was something Molly had been battling to figure out as well these past weeks. Why had the consulting criminal involved her in his scheme to destroy Sherlock, when it was clear to everyone at St Barts that the detective saw her as nothing more than a useful contact, at a push a helpful colleague. Surely, Sherlock couldn't have so few friends that Moriarty had viewed her as the only avenue of attack? But then again, before John came along Molly had never heard Sherlock talk about anyone else. Maybe he really was as alone as she had always secretly suspected? The thought made her pity him, but it did not make her trust him.

"And finally," Sherlock inhaled deeply through his nose, his eyes traveling from her shoulder to her lips. He focused his attention on them, hoping to discern some twitch that would betray how she really felt. Her mouth remained disappointingly passive. "I have never made it clear to you how highly I regard your skills and your help. Without them I wouldn't have been able to solve many cases, purely due to lack of evidence. You are a vital tool in my thought process. Thank you."

In Sherlock's mind this last confession was probably very high praise, but to Molly it felt stale. Just another empty compliment to get her to open up the contents of the morgue to his boundless curiosity. She didn't stop to think that she had never heard him thank anyone before. It was a rare thing to hear him use _manners_, let alone such plain-spoken encouragement.

She regarded him thoughtfully for a long while, and he canted his head to the side and waited for her to say something, _anything,_ in return. The early morning light spilled in through the curtains and bathed her body, bringing out the golden highlights in her hair. He picked out the lighter strands, saw how they shimmered when she began to shake her head.

"I still stand by what I said before, Sherlock," she murmured. "I don't want to see you anymore. By all means use the lab, continue to beat up bodies in the morgue. I'm not taking those things away from you, so please, if you're saying all this just to get access to equipment then save it. That isn't what this is about."

Sherlock had to fight very, _very_ hard to keep the hurt from showing in his face. It was a close thing, and he thought she might have registered the effect her words had had on him but the look was gone in an instant. He moved closer to her, and she pressed herself minutely into the door. He stopped. He sighed.

"Molly, I know I've treated you badly. I know that in the past I've exploited your feelings in order to I get what I needed at the time, but you have to understand, I'm _not_ doing that now." He held up his hands in front of him, empty but beseeching.

"Then what are you doing?" Molly asked, uncertain now of what they were discussing.

Sherlock had made his decision regarding Molly Hooper, had probably made it from the first moment he met her. All he had to do was reach down inside himself and push back all the pride and reserve that had been a stable, immovable part of his character for almost his entire life. Losing Molly was not an option, would never be, and it seemed the only way to convince her of this fact was to show the symptom of his confusion, plainly and openly.

He advanced towards her for a second time, trying to ignore how she once again shrunk from his proximity. Though he knew he wouldn't hurt her, she was still painfully oblivious.

"May I be brutally honest with you, Molly?" Sherlock asked, putting his hands either side of her head so as to hold his body above hers.

He didn't move to touch her in the slightest, but the mere presence he exuded was enough to make her shudder outwardly. His blue eyes flickered knowingly, noting the involuntary movement. _She felt threatened by him_. She could feel the heat of his woolen, winter coat bathing her on all sides. That smell too, that scent which always seemed to accompany him wherever he went, of aromatic black coffee and violin resin. It was sharp, but made gentle by his warmth.

"When are you ever anything else?" she countered, sounding both respectful and resentful at the same time. Though infuriating to admit, a part of her (the part which was truly Molly Hooper and not a silly, love-struck girl) liked that he spoke his mind no matter what the outcome.

Sherlock studied her expression, a crease appearing between his brows as though he couldn't quite make up his mind about something. He drew his bottom lip slightly between his front teeth, biting down a little in thought. Molly avoided direct eye contact, keeping her gaze fixed on the contours of his throat, watching as his adams apple jutted up and down as he swallowed, hard.

"I want to kiss you."

Molly's head jerked up and her eyes widened in shock and disbelief. There was hurt there too, Sherlock realised in alarm.

This was a new level of cruelty, Molly thought, one she had secretly hoped Sherlock wasn't capable of stooping to.

"I hope you understand how difficult it is for me to say that..." Sherlock entreated softly, inclining his face to hers minutely but not taking the plunge. A loose curl on her forehead tickled the tip of his nose. "It's not really _me_, to say things like that."

Molly nodded. _That_ she could agree with.

She couldn't tell whether the feeling bubbling up inside her was one of anger or jubilation. She didn't trust him anymore, perhaps she had never truly trusted him at all. She had been drawn to the idea of him, the person who swooped in and saved people with cool logic and daring ill-grace. She had admired him, ardently. But in the end, when it mattered the most, he hadn't saved _her_. She had been an afterthought. She had wanted to ask him why, every single day since Moriarty had forced his way into her apartment, but had never done so. Maybe now, with his face so close and willing above hers?

She could have asked anything right then, and he would have answered her truthfully.

Sherlock watched the war raging behind her eyes and compared it to the battle going on inside himself. What was he doing? Why was he doing this to her? Surely, after everything, he owed her more than this? For her patience, her understanding, her loyalty, her _love._ Sherlock was a lot of things, and sentimental was definitely not one of them, but he could admit when he was wrong. He had always advocated a total absence of feeling in everything he did, but had overlooked the fact that being so had made him a walking time-bomb.

He was not above this.

He was not apart from this.

_This,_ he thought, _this is what makes the world move. These little moments of clarity._

"Why are you saying all this to me, Sherlock?" Molly said eventually breaking the heavy silence, her mind full of screaming voices. "When I've begged you to leave me alone?"

"Because-" Sherlock exhaled frustratedly, his fingers flexing on the wood of the door behind her head. It cost him a lot to carry on. "Because the very _idea_ that you could think me capable of-"

"Why do you care what I think?" Molly interrupted, frowning up at him. She twisted her hands in front of her, anxiety flooding her stomach. She felt heady with his closeness, his breath on her cheek.

"Exactly!" Sherlock laughed irrationally, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Why do I care what you think, Molly? I never care what _anyone_ thinks and yet _you-_"

He moistened his lips, inching a fraction closer. He could feel his pulse beating a mantra in his neck. Blood rushed in his ears. Molly's face was a haze of peach and soft pink and dark hair, close to his and very nearly touching. This woman who was afraid of him, looked up with a fearful gaze and the air in his lungs turned to ice.

"-you brought out a side of me last night I didn't know existed. I care so much now. But only about you, your thoughts. It makes me want to _please_ you, don't you see?"

"Don't."

Molly moved her hands to his chest and pushed him away firmly and decidedly. She ignored the warmth radiating against her palms from beneath his thin dress shirt and the deep, resonant beat of his heart against her finger tips. _Maybe he does have one after all._ She believed with all her might that this was all a game, and that at any moment Sherlock would cut her to the quick. Though she was little and he was large, she found it easy to move him backwards and out of her personal space. It was obvious he wasn't exerting his full strength against her, which was a comforting thought. Sherlock retreated a few steps, sensing that he was pushing too far but lingering all the same. His impressive mind was buzzing a million miles a minute, but understood virtually nothing. This was virgin territory.

"Please don't do this to me, Sherlock," she whispered, her chin inclined down so that she was looking at her bare feet against the hardwood floor. Her eyelids felt inexplicably heavy. She just wanted to curl in on herself and sleep the sleep of the truly exhausted. And she wanted above all things for him to leave.

There was a silence. Molly let her eyes drift shut, as though she was alone in her living room and that all this horrible daylight was a dream she would soon awake from. The tall, dark figure would disappear and she would be able to forget he had ever existed, if only he would let her.

She'd crumpled without even realising it, her legs folding up beneath her. Sherlock, mirroring John's quickness of hours ago, swept forwards to catch her without the slightest hesitation. Gripping the lapels of his jacket, her nails scrabbled at his chest as she tried to find purchase for her feet. She was muttering apologies and trying to extricate herself from him even as his hands clasped behind her back, steadying her body against his. His pointed chin rested lightly on the top of her head whilst the rest of him became rigid, and he didn't say anything in reply to her splutters and sighs of exasperation. He was fighting every instinctual desire within him that wanted to drop her to the ground and settle above her, all mouths and nipping teeth. He wanted to make Molly surrender to him utterly. To give up everything and let him indulge in this new, breath-taking rush of unfamiliar impulses.

Maybe he was more like Moriarty than he'd thought?

But that wasn't right.

He didn't want to _hurt_ her, he wanted to _be_ with her.

Touching. Kissing. _Sex?_

Everything that he abhorred as being unnecessary and vain indulgence of a weak mind, and yet he craved to explore these things with her now. Only her.

Still grasping her firmly around the waist he caught her jaw with his free hand, pressing the pad of his thumb against her bottom lip and using his fingers to map the curve of her cheek curiously. Her skin was feverish under his fingertips and her eyes were unfocussed, but he couldn't mistake the sudden panic that flared up inside her. Her eyelashes fluttered, becoming damp with unshed tears. Sherlock wanted to blanch.

"Please_ don't_," Molly's voice sounded pathetic and strangled in her throat. Her body spasmed in Sherlock's loose grip. "I can't do it,_ please_ stop it, stop it, stop it-"

"Molly-"

"_Jim-_"

Sherlock stilled, his breath hitching. He screwed his eyes shut and suppressed a deep groan. A shudder ran up his spine and made the hairs on the back of his neck tingle. There was that feeling again, like someone had reached inside his chest and _squeezed._

"Molly-" he started again, soothing her as best he could. He would have let her go had he thought her capable of standing. "Let's get you to bed. You need to sleep."

Losing her equilibrium entirely, Molly allowed Sherlock to pick her up in a wave of dizziness. With one arm he supported her back and shoulders, tucking the other beneath her bent knees and lifting her up. Her head fell back exposing her swan neck and the curve of her breasts under the strained front of her blouse. At the sight of this Sherlock's hand tightened a fraction on her bare legs, his fingers brushing the skin of her upper thigh beneath the hem of the light blue skirt.

He swallowed down the growing lump in his throat, shook his head to clear it, and carried the prone woman into her bedroom.

* * *

**Don't get too excited, Sherlock Holmes is a gentleman (mostly).x**


	4. Feeling Human

**This is the longest installment i've posted so far, over 4,000 words. Be warned it involves a lot of intense!Sherlock introspection and references to off-screen non-con. Thanks to those who have reviewed and favourite'd so far :)**

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Chapter Four

After tucking Molly into bed, all the while trying to stop Toby from clawing his face off, Sherlock retreated to the kitchen and sat at the table. His body hummed restlessly. He shrugged off his heavy coat and suit jacket, lounging back in the chair. Time to wait. Time to analyze the intense crush of_ feelings_ that had come over him. He tipped his head back and studied the ceiling. It was ugly, covered in yellowing stains. Nicotine stains.

"Oh, _please-_"

He knew that Molly didn't smoke, but her father had lived with her before he had passed away. It wasn't hard to work out. The flat was too big for just one person. Two lonely people who cared about family, they'd find solace in each other. Molly, of course, came from divorced parents. No mother in any of the pictures pinned to the fridge or in the collection ranging the mantlepiece in the living room. Her father had smoked, he had died of lung cancer.

Sherlock didn't care about lung cancer.

Bad news for breathing.

Without stopping to think about how intrusive he was being, Sherlock jumped up from the table and began rooting in all the draws and cabinets he could find. Cutlery. Light bulbs. Corn flakes. Whiskers. Boring. Boring. _Boring._

"Come on-" he murmured through gritted teeth.

Stopping to peel the old patches off his forearms he screwed them into a ball and dropped them into the bin. There had to be a pack of cigarettes somewhere, or at the very least some tobacco and papers stashed away in a corner. This wasn't a time when patches would make it better, this was the sort of brainwork that required the acrid burn of smoke in his lungs, that distinctive sting in his nostrils and the chemicals rushing in his brain jostling his ideas into line.

Finally, _finally,_ he found a half empty packet of Marlboro Reds nestled in a fruit bowl on top of the washing machine. There wasn't a lighter, so he used one of the gas rings on the cooker, bending over it absurdly and beginning to puff until the tip glowed orange. He straightened up, his eyes tightly shut, his shoulders heaving as he inhaled the smoke deep into his lungs.

"Bravo, Molly, bravo..." he muttered thickly, pacing once around the table before sinking down onto a chair to take another long drag.

There were eleven cigarettes left in the packet and over the course of the next couple of hours Sherlock smoked them all, getting up from the table only once to make a cup of tea that he barely touched. He had decided to tackle his feelings for Molly in the same way he would a case. He retreated into himself, taking up residence within his _mind palace_ as he examined his relationship with Molly Hooper from every possible angle imaginable. There had to be something, anything, to explain his sudden desire for her.

Of course, it didn't take him long to figure out the fundamental root of his regard. Out of all the people in his life there were perhaps four which he could safely say he trusted implicitly and who he had never had cause to question or doubt, who believed in him and treated him as a friend. To adopt a popular colloquialism, _they put up with all of his crazy._ For all his outward blustering about friends being a reflection of sentiment and human weakness, he _did_ need them.

There was John, naturally, the top of the list by a mile in practically every respect.

There was Mrs Hudson, not just a landlady but a coddling, insufferable, _motherly_ figure.

There was Lestrade, who despite having no qualms about reaming Sherlock out from time to time was a man who gave him an outlet and a purpose.

And then, clearly visible yet hidden in plain sight, was Molly.

Molly Hooper, the cat-loving, bashful, scalpel-wielding pathologist at St Barts who let him get away with absolute murder.

From the first moment they'd met he had quipped his way into her heart, with all of his showy confidence and keen remarks and snappy suits. It hadn't occurred to him at the time, but it was a rare experience for him to act this way with anybody, let alone a young woman he hardly knew. He had tried very hard with Molly without even noticing he was doing it. Though his words and gestures would seem carefree to anyone else, when he examined them in hindsight he recognised them for what they were. He had been flirting with her openly, wantonly, right from the start. Nothing too obvious (Sherlock Holmes was never obvious), but the simple act of letting her see this side of him was in many ways deliberately provocative.

Sherlock didn't deny that he had used her on many occasions to gain access to the things he'd wanted: a body, a batch of chemicals, a microscope. The list went on. He had shamelessly complimented her with absolutely no intention of following it through. Nothing he had said had been a lie, strictly speaking. They had been observations. Molly_ was_ an attractive woman after all, even a high functioning sociopath who adopted an asexual persona could see that. But he would never have dreamed of acknowledging or acting upon that attraction. That wasn't who he was. He had blithely dismissed her attempts at asking him out, and yet she hadn't run away. Whatever he needed, no matter what, she'd given it to him. Sherlock was both surprised and highly gratified by this.

He had grown very accustomed to Molly. Her presence in the lab, her feet pattering about the cold tiles, her little sighs of frustration when she was working hard on an autopsy report, her brilliant smile when he happened to glance her way. All of these things had slowly become a welcome part of his day. She had turned into one of the few people he could stand to be around. Her conversation wasn't nearly so flustered now that they spent more time working together, until by degrees they had slipped into a groove of understanding. They had become almost friendly. Molly had softened and so, he realised, had _he_.

This transition had made him notice her more. He found himself studying the clothes and perfume she wore, noting when she lost or gained weight, or if she changed her hairstyle or the shade of her lipstick. Rather than being a distraction, Molly took root as his only female companion outside of a cranky yet adorable landlady. He had grown to like this fact without fully appreciating how much he _really_ liked it.

Molly was endearingly sweet in the midst of a dirty world full of criminals and psychopaths.

She grounded him, unobtrusively, to the normal things in life.

And then Jim Moriarty had put his hands on her, used her to infiltrate Sherlock's life in the most intimate of ways. _Burning the heart out of him._ He hadn't meant John or Mrs Hudson or even Lestrade, he had meant the girl hidden in plain sight.

Ever since he had become aware of Moriarty's attack something had gone wrong inside him. It wasn't just that Moriarty had raped Molly. _That word felt filthy even in the privacy of his mind._ It had been the man's ability to recognise Sherlock's true feelings for her, when the detective himself had been shallowly oblivious. That realisation hurt more than anything else. His own willful ignorance had been the cause of all Molly's sufferings these past weeks, and now she wanted rid of him.

She was right of course.

There were certain similarities between himself and Jim Moriarty, he had always known that. They both loved the thrill of the chase too much. They would do anything and use anyone to further the outcome of the game. The difference was that Sherlock would never deliberately or maliciously hurt someone to do it. He would use subtle manipulation, grandiose melodramatics, but never unnecessary violence to achieve his ends. He was only ever cruel during a case when it was essential for him to be so. The rest of the time was just bad manners and a complete lack of self-awareness. Moriarty was quite the opposite in this respect. He craved disruption, longed to cause harm and found great delight in inflicting it in the most intricate and ingenious of ways.

Sherlock wasn't like that, and he was desperately trying to prove this to Molly in the only way that made sense.

Before the ruinous night at the pool, Molly had quite blatantly wanted to be with Sherlock. Now she was unsure of whether she could trust him. This was his fault entirely for holding back when they had struck up their shaky friendship in the lab. The logical solution to this failure was surely to put all of his trust _in her_, to allow her access to the real him without any boundaries or restraints.

No more smoke and mirrors.

He would open up the most vulnerable, most _naked_ part of himself to her and let her see Sherlock Holmes for what he was. Just a man, just as flawed and weak-willed as any other. A washed up graduate with more money than sense, with an addictive personality and a total abhorrence for the things he perceived as being ordinary or dull. Rude, shallow, insensitive and constantly under siege from the outward effects of his own inflated ego. A virgin who had gone through life denying himself physical indulgence, not just because he was 'married to the work' but because he was scared no one would want to deal with the consequences of getting too close to him, or that he in turn would enjoy the feeling of a relationship so much that he would take it for granted or neglect everything else in favor of it. He didn't want to face the inevitable bitterness and tears that love left behind in its wake.

It had never seemed worth his time or his effort.

Until now.

No one had ever expressed anything more than fleeting lust for him in the past, and he wasn't interested in that. Lust was weak, provincial, changeable and _boring._ However, lust was not what Molly felt. He understood that now. She had desired to know him in every possible way, physically _and_ emotionally, and this in itself was both beautifully honest on her part and incredibly arousing to Sherlock.

The idea of letting Molly in where no one had ever gone before, it was a sobering thought. It made him steeple his fingers beneath the curve of his nose and press his lips against them, eyes impossibly wide but seeing nothing at all ahead of him. All he saw was Molly, her face upturned to his, her hands brushing along his chest, her mouth open in earnest fascination. That is how he _hoped_ it would be.

The thought that she could be afraid in this exploration, that she could somehow mistake his passion for _something else..._

* * *

He was startled from his musings by a muffled cry from the bedroom behind him. He tensed, suddenly alert. Barely had the noise ceased and he was striding across the kitchen and over the threshold into Molly's room, poised and ready to combat any sign of danger. He stopped, brows furrowed. He had expected to see one of Moriarty's henchmen baring down upon the bed, knife in hand, not a harmless bungle of bedclothes.

Then the cry came again, followed closely by a choking whimper, and Sherlock realised that somewhere beneath the shifting duvet Molly was in the clutches of a nightmare. Not knowing what to do for the best he overrode his feelings of bumbling awkwardness and approached the bed with careful steps. He sank down upon the edge of the mattress gingerly, his long fingers reaching out to pat the lump that could only be Molly.

Still in the grips of sleep, the small woman pushed the bedclothes away and rolled onto her front, exposing the backs of her bare legs, the creased blouse and rumpled skirt. Her hair had come undone from its loose plait, completely obscuring her face. Though Sherlock refrained from touching her, he could see that her body was quivering with unbridled tension. She was moaning softly into the fabric of the pillow beneath her cheek, her breath coming in short gasps.

"Molly," Sherlock spoke in a low tone, reaching out to nudge the hair away from her face with the backs of his knuckles, the tips of his fingers lingering against the smooth skin of her neck. His stomach twisted in on itself, and he was filled with the loathsome desire to lean his body over hers in order to lick and kiss the tears from the pink curve of her cheek. He restrained himself.

Molly's forehead was creased, as though she was seeing something that greatly perplexed and terrified her. Beneath her closed lids Sherlock could discern the swift darting movements of her eyes as she confronted the images conjured up by the dream. He could guess only too well what or _who_ those images concerned. He bristled inwardly but maintained a facade of control as he leant forwards and ran his hand in soothing circles along the length of her spine, murmuring her name in the hope that he could either stave off the nightmare or else wake her gently by degrees. Molly shifted uneasily beneath him, making a low, keening sound in the back of her throat that brought the colour rising to Sherlock's face. His mouth felt dry as he gave in to his compulsions, pressing his chest to her back as he kissed her hair.

Tenderness was not something Sherlock was particularly familiar or comfortable with. His memory was sketchy regarding its workings, and he found himself casting his mind back to the dimness of childhood when his nanny had wrapped her arms around him whenever he'd cried. Though he had not done so often being quite a cold and stoic child, on the rare occasions he had found himself in tears the old woman's embrace had been incredibly comforting. There was something about the warm, powdery smell of her bosom and the fleshy press of her body enfolded around his smaller frame that had made everything better. Even the sound of her cracked, tuneless humming as she rocked him had been soothing in its way, her withered hand running rhythmically through his dark curls.

As Molly cried out for a third time, Sherlock found himself clambering fully onto the bed. He lay lengthways on the mattress, tucking his front against her left side so that his knees knocked against her upper thigh and her toes rested just above his ankle bone. He propped his head on his elbow, his nose, lips and chin brushing along the length of her forehead. Finally, he wrapped his free arm across her back, his fingers smoothing along her right shoulder in what he hoped was a comforting gesture. She whimpered again, the noise almost a whine.

"It's just a dream, Molly," Sherlock murmured firmly against the shell of her ear. "It's only a dream."

The sudden heat of his body and the deep timbre of his voice were enough to force Molly's eyes open just a crack, allowing her to take in the familiar shapes of her room and the apparent absence of danger. For the briefest of moments it was the most calm she had felt in weeks, but then she felt the fingers running along her arm and the clammy warmth of a man's breath in her hair. The painful roughness of her dream still vividly fresh in her mind's eye she collapsed into real, all consuming fear and before she had fully grasped the situation she was struggling madly against the limbs holding her.

As hands came up to touch her face she was all tooth and nail, rolling over onto her back in an attempt to be free of them. The searching hands followed, as did a large, imposing body that settled above her, crushing the air from her lungs as the figure straddled her legs. Her chest heaved with the first spasms of a panic attack, and she cried as long fingers wrapped around her wrists and pressed them into the pillows either side of her thrashing head. She felt spread open, vulnerable.

"Molly, _stop it-_"

"Don't-" she gasped, "Don't, please-"

"It's _me,_ Molly-"

The voice above her was guttural and frantic, but its cadence was still familiar. That commanding baritone was hardly mistakable, and she unscrewed her eyes and stared up at her attacker only to be greeted by the disheveled vision of one Sherlock Holmes. He was hunched over her, bite marks and scratches on his face and neck and along the lengths of his bare forearms. What she had at first perceived as a strong, iron grip on her wrists she found in reality to be nothing more than a slack, gentle grasp. Instead of crushing her with his body he sat poised above her, his knees planted either side of her hips, carefully suspending his weight by bracing his arms against the pillows where their hands joined. He was breathing heavily, but not with violent lust or pleasure. Rather, he sounded like someone who had just fought off the claws and beating wings of a frightened bird. His blue eyes were searching hers anxiously, and in that moment she felt a modicum of safety trickle through the layers of dread.

"Please don't be frightened," Sherlock said, chafing her small wrists between his fingers like it was a nervous tick. "You were having a nightmare and I-"

"You came to comfort me?"

The words sounded disbelieving on her tongue, but Molly hoped he realised that she hadn't meant it to come out that way. Something flickered behind his eyes and she felt her heart flutter with nervous regret. She thought he almost sighed. It sounded sad, disappointed.

The press of Sherlock's lean, long body didn't feel nearly as intrusive as it should have done as he continued to hold himself above her. She thought that it should have occurred to him to move by now, but he didn't and she didn't ask him to either. His fingers loosened about her wrists, one hand moving to trail along her forearm to subtly check her pulse, while the other pushed the dampened hair away from her brow, his thumb moving in soft circles along the bridge of her nose. She'd seen mothers use this trick on toddlers in order to settle them after a fit of tears. She couldn't deny, there was something about the repetitive gentleness of the movement that brought about an almost unwilling calm within her, as though Sherlock was forcing her into a trance with his wondrous blue stare and the continual, intimate sweep of his thumb.

"Was it him?" he asked in a voice that sounded concerned but wary, as though he suspected Molly wouldn't answer truthfully, if at all.

Molly_ did_ hesitate.

She assessed the weight of his knees on the mattress either side of her legs, the heat of him above and around her, the strong, chemical smell of nicotine clinging to his breath and on his clothes. He seemed dangerously unravelled, not at all his usual guise of poise and precision. That cutting intelligence was by no means diminished in his face, but the aspect had changed. He appeared to be straining with all his might to _work her out_, to _study_, to _know_, to _understand._ She suspected that the cause of her distress, though known to him, was a complete minefield of confounding, unfamiliar emotions he was loathe to traverse.

"Will you tell me?" Sherlock insisted patiently, with the air of a man clearly out of his depth.

That raw edge of ignorance in his voice loosened her tongue for her.

"It was Jim," she conceded. "He was hurting me, in my dream."

She was surprised by how calm she sounded, maybe a little unsettled by the detached tone. Underneath she was screaming.

"How was he hurting you?" Sherlock pressed lightly, keeping his gaze level, unbroken.

Their eyes met and Molly knew her heart was thundering loud enough for him to hear, but for once she didn't care. She fancied she could even hear Sherlock's heart beating roughly along side hers, betraying his own feelings however much his smooth expression tried to hide them.

"He was raping me, and laughing about it."

Molly inhaled with a shudder and suddenly Sherlock's body_ did_ feel wrong, draped across hers. It was as though Moriarty's cruel, jeering face was pasted across that of the consulting detective, even as he stared down at her with pity and ill-concealed hatred. The hands on her arms were the hands which had gripped, twisted and beat her into submission, even if she could clearly see the innocent tentativeness with which they ran across her skin in the morning light.

Sherlock seemed to sense the change in her and he frowned, confused.

"Do you want me to leave?" he asked fiercely, attempting to restrain the harshness that had nothing to do with her and everything to do with the psychopath running riot inside her head.

"No-"

"I can see it, in your face," Sherlock leaned low over her, his chest brushing against hers. He was studying her minutely, barely breathing. "I can see you're scared."

"Of course I'm scared!" Molly protested.

"Of me."

"_No-_"

"Then _what?_" Sherlock sounded more lost than ever, but his voice was quieter, less aggressive. His lips brushed her brow, tempering it. He inhaled deeply, trying to conceal a groan of longing.

Molly was quiet, turning her face away from his and into the pillow beneath her head. His closeness, his total lack of understanding made her want to laugh and cry all at the same time. But she didn't want him to leave, for all that she'd said before. He was cocooned around her, all lean limbs and dark hair, and it felt so safe, so unbelievably_ safe_, that the thought of him moving away felt like the deliberate removal of a shield, opening herself up to immediate harm.

"I couldn't go through it again..." she explained softly, making Sherlock strain to hear her.

He held his breath, surprised. Nodding thoughtfully, he dared to ask the question that had been burning in his brain all day.

"Do you honestly think that I would do that to you, Molly?"

"Every man could do that-"

"But _would_ I, Molly?"

Sherlock tucked his hands below her jaw, his thumbs tickling her earlobes, his fingers clasping the back of her neck so that he could tilt her face up. His gaze was like a full-frontal assault. Molly gulped and Sherlock felt it white hot beneath his fingertips, in the quivering tightness of her skin.

"I'm not going to pretend that I don't want to kiss you and taste you and _feel_ you right now," Sherlock murmured low in his throat, his words like rustling paper, truthful and frank. "It's fascinating, _this_, really. I don't want to stop until I've figured it all out. Ever since you told me to leave you alone, it's all I've been able to think about. But nothing, _nothing_, would make me take it from you. Just look at me now Molly," he pressed himself closer, as though to illustrate their proximity and his evident restraint. She trembled beneath him, willing herself to relax in the face of his apparent sincerity. "I could, right now, but I won't. I never would, do you believe me?"

The high functioning sociopath, she thought, saying the things a normal, earnest man would say to a normal, scared woman in an attempt to comfort her. The fact that he was there at all, that he had stayed and held her after the bad dreams, that he hadn't become bored or distracted or angry when she kept knocking him back, it all pointed to one obvious realisation. She inhaled deeply.

"I believe you," she conceded quietly, bringing her left hand up to wrap around his wrist, stroking it absently. "Don't go."

Sherlock's face broke into a gloriously genuine smile and it was simultaneously the most happy and the most human Molly had ever seen him.

* * *

**I hope you enjoyed, update soon :)**


	5. A Certain Quantity of Tea

Chapter Five

Later that day, after Molly had dragged herself out of bed and gone down to St Barts for her afternoon shift, Sherlock found his way back to 221b. He didn't take a taxi, electing a long, sobering walk. He needed to think.

He had stayed with Molly all morning, just sitting on her bed with his back against the headboard, long legs stretched out in front of him across the flowery duvet. Molly, no longer quite so on edge in his company after their confrontation, had lain with her head resting lightly against his hip. Hardly a single word passed between them, but it was comfortable. It had been a very quiet moment of reflection for both of them, Sherlock's fingers playing idly with her hair while she dozed off and on. Molly had to admit afterwards that it was the most relaxed she'd felt in a very long time, even before the onslaught of nightmares had disrupted her sleep.

Sherlock, usually so restless and insufferable, had been strangely settled in the aftermath of their conversation. With Molly's concession of trust still hanging in the air, Sherlock's brain had begun ticking over slowly and soundly once again. He had regained his equilibrium, like her words were some form of startling catalyst for sanity.

Now, as he entered 221 and ascended the stairs, he couldn't help but notice the difference, the subtle emptiness in his mind where Molly's problem had once been. It was almost the same feeling he got when a case was solved. For hours, sometimes days, the case would take up residence in every spare corner of his brain, an intricate and explosive chain reaction of thoughts and deductions that left room for little else. When it was over, the criminal caught, the mystery put to rest, all he could think about was finding something new to fill the sudden void left in its wake. Then the cycle would begin all over again.

Molly's case wasn't even close to being wrapped up, and Sherlock suspected it never really would be, but the main issues were dealt with at least in part.

He had admitted to himself that he cared deeply for Molly, that he wanted to please her and be with her for as long as she could stand him. He didn't know how she would fit into his fraught existence, and hoped that she would be patient and understanding while he tried to figure it out. The work would always come first, that was something he couldn't compromise on.

It didn't occur to him that Molly might not _want_ to be with him, even if she did trust him as she had done before, and in this way he remained selfish but also painfully naive.

The desire to kiss her was still incredibly strong within him, touching his subconscious intimately so that the notion intruded upon almost every passing thought. He knew it was_ too soon_ to attempt such a thing, but the compulsion continued, flaring up every time he looked at her. As she had slept beside him, her face slightly upturned to him as she rested against his side, it had taken every ounce of self control he possessed to contain the urge, to beat it down. He had had to keep reminding himself that just because he was ready didn't mean that she was.

Still, the necessity of it niggled at him. After a lifetime of telling himself that intimacy was a terrible weakness he had now decided to entertain the possibility that it _was not_. He had accepted that his deductions regarding sentiment were subjective and bias. Sherlock understood that he needed to explore these new feelings growing-a-pace inside of him to fully grasp their true import, but to do that he needed Molly. Positively _needed_ her, in every sense of the term. Mind, body, _everything._ But it would require a delicacy Sherlock just wasn't acquainted with. It aggravated him, knowing that there was something he could only get better at through a total reliance on _someone else_. It was like putting an interesting experiment on hold while he waited for access to essential equipment. He knew that comparing Molly and her fragile emotional state to some scientific abstraction wasn't the most sensitive thing to do, but then that was how his brain worked. Things were so much easier to understand when broken down like that.

As he approached the threshold of 221b his pace slowed considerably, the stairs creaking beneath his hesitant footsteps. A part of him didn't want to go inside and face John and deal with the inevitable, awkward questions that would follow. The same part wanted to run back to the street below, hop in a taxi and be at St Barts in under half an hour. Molly would tell him what was right, how to act and how to _feel_. But asking her to do that probably wasn't very fair. Another part of him even itched to call his brother to ask his advice on the matter. Dangerous territory, probably not very wise. He frowned. _Mummy?_ No. Just, _no._ Maybe he could bypass his flat altogether and go down to 221a. Mrs Hudson, bless her, she might know what to say. He could even get some cake out of it if he played his cards right.

But after a long minute of deliberation, Sherlock knew where he needed to go. There was only one person in the world who could make things clear and simple but also be kind, _his conductor of light_. With a weary sigh, he entered the flat and swept across the living room. He could hear plates and glasses tinkling, the sound of running water. He headed in that direction.

"You're back?" John called out from the kitchen, evidently anxious as he redid the dishes for the third time that afternoon.

Sherlock merely hummed in response, sweeping through the doorway and taking a seat at the kitchen table, for once a little aggravated by his own clutter. He wanted to lean forwards and pillow his head on his arms, but alas the wide variety of specimen samples prevented him from doing so. It wasn't merely a case of pushing them aside either, some of them were even beginning to _smell._ He wrinkled his nose, pressed his hands between his knees and finally let his eyes meet John's.

John raised his eyebrows expectantly, his hands nervously drying the same mug over and over with a towel Sherlock was pretty sure he'd used in an experiment concerning bodily fluids just the other day. He decided not to mention it. He canted his head sideways a fraction, opened his mouth to speak, but shut it again when he found he had nothing to say. How did one go about _articulating_ the situation Sherlock was struggling with? Vexing.

"What did you do?" John asked cautiously, moving a step closer.

"I went to Molly Hooper's flat and I told her how I feel," Sherlock admitted, keeping his expression stoic.

"And how _do_ you feel, Sherlock?" John pressed in a measured tone, finally laying the mug and dishcloth aside in favour of giving his full attention to Sherlock.

The detective paused before speaking his thoughts aloud, his gaze fixed on something that lay beyond the kitchen window. His passive expression had slipped without him seeming to have noticed, becoming replaced by something John would label as confusion - or as close to confusion as Sherlock Holmes was capable of getting.

"Sherlock?" John said, his voice gentle but firm.

"I wish I knew how to describe it," Sherlock murmured, still focusing on the middle distance. His brows were knitted together and he looked as though he were struggling to come to terms with something monumental. "This is something I don't _do_, John. Molly and I, it's new..."

"Do you think you might love her?" John breathed, tentatively reaching out and laying a hand on Sherlock's shoulder. The man was rigid beneath his fingertips, held tightly like a coiled spring.

"I don't know," Sherlock spoke honestly, his face now betraying something akin to bewilderment. "I frankly have absolutely no idea what_ love_ is supposed to feel like, so how can I be sure? I've never been convinced by the notion of love, it just doesn't seem _realistic._"

John couldn't argue with him there, but he tried to reassure him nonetheless. He leant his weight against the edge of the table so that his body was inclined towards his friend, a gesture of openness if nothing else. Removing his hand from Sherlock's shoulder, he knotted his fingers before him and fixed the man with a level, appraising stare.

"Love feels different for everyone," John said matter-of-factly, "There are no real absolutes."

"Difficult things,_ emotions_," Sherlock was saying slowly, clucking his tongue in thought. "I've spent my entire life trying to get away from their influence and I don't know what to do now they've found me."

"The general idea is to listen to them," John offered, a fond smile tugging at the edges of his lips. "It's no bad thing to let your heart dictate your head from time to time."

"That's proverbial nonsense," Sherlock snorted.

"It's _representative_ of what's inside you, Sherlock, and I'm afraid even you have a proverbial heart. Deal with it."

Sherlock's expression shifted into something more familiar, contempt, but it was tempered by the smallest flicker of doubt. John studied his friend's internal conflict and felt a surge of genuine pity, deciding right then and there that he would do anything to help the detective come to terms with this _attachment_, for lack of a better word, that he had developed for Molly Hooper. Unfortunately, that would involve asking some very sensitive questions, the sort flat mates simply didn't ask each other when they were sober and only daringly when they were drunk.

John had his suspicions, but clarification was key.

"Do you want to talk about this?" he offered baldly, trying not to make the question sound too loaded.

Sherlock, catching the tone despite John's best efforts to conceal it, looked up and appraised the doctor with knowing, searching eyes. John was still standing with his back resting against the table edge, but one of his hands had drifted to rest over his bad leg, his fingertips drumming restlessly against his upper thigh. It was what the man always did when he was ill-at-ease or when about to launch into a lecture regarding Sherlock's startling lack of common consideration for others. Sherlock hummed. He knew what was coming, but for once it didn't agitate him. He recognised that he needed data, and right here was a man experienced in the ways of sentiment willing to talk him through its finer, more elusive details. Any detective worth his salt knew not to pass up such a golden opportunity.

"Yes, John," he nodded, guardedly. "Please," he added as an afterthought for civility's sake.

"All right then," John sounded gruff, as he resignedly moved over to the counter and flicked the switch on the kettle. At Sherlock's questioning frown he merely shrugged and said, "This sort of conversation requires a certain quantity of tea."

"_Ah._"

As the kettle boiled, John collected himself and decided that straightforwardness was the best avenue of approach. After all, if Sherlock was anything it was always blunt and to the point, so why should this topic be any different? In fact, he reasoned whilst arranging the tea tray, Sherlock would most likely feel more comfortable if John went about this like it was a difficult case or an abstract problem requiring a solution. Yes, he told himself as he filled the teapot and covered a plate in chocolate digestives (Sherlock's favourite), treat him as a witness in a murder inquiry and the whole thing will go over smoothly.

Returning to the table and balancing the loaded tray atop a stack of books about mummification, John took a seat across from the detective and folded his arms. He adopted what he considered an aloof but interested stance and smiled wanly at Sherlock, who was suddenly regarding him with rapt attention. John was surprised the detective hadn't whipped out his notebook.

"We'll just let that brew, shall we?" he said pleasantly, tilting his chin and returning Sherlock's gaze in kind. "Are you comfortable?"

"Not especially," Sherlock muttered, leaning back in his own chair and resting his hands in his lap. He could already feel a slight flush rising up the back of his neck, but he did his best to ignore it. The body was just transport, after all.

"First off," John continued as though Sherlock had not spoken, for which Sherlock was grateful. "Before I can help you, I need to know something very personal-"

"I know what it is," Sherlock interrupted in dulcet tones, narrowing his eyes at his friend. "Don't be obvious, John."

"Figures," John snorted softly, but went on in a determined fashion. "Sherlock, have you ever been in a relationship before?"

"Well, what do you think?" Sherlock replied cooly, raising his eyebrow with practiced destain.

"Just answer the question."

"No."

A muscle in John's jaw twitched, betraying his desire to appear incredulous. Sherlock merely shrugged in response as though he found the confession tiresome, which he did.

"So you've never-"

"No."

"Not even-"

"_No._"

"So," John took a slow breath, his own cheeks beginning to colour as the words sat heavy on his tongue. "You're a virgin?"

Sherlock paused for the barest fraction of a second before nodding his head curtly in response, his gaze traveling pointedly to the teapot as though he expected some kind of reward.

_Perhaps he does_, John thought to himself as he poured them both a cup, sweetening Sherlock's with two heaped teaspoons of sugar. John added milk and handed the cup and saucer to his friend, who accepted it wordlessly. After taking a sip, Sherlock's hand darted out and grabbed a biscuit. Not looking John in the eye, he began to dunk.

"Have you ever kissed anybody before today?" John probed delicately.

"No, not unless you count on the cheek." Sherlock admitted, nibbling the edge of his digestive. "And just to clarify, I didn't kiss Molly Hooper today. We merely talked."

"Oh," John was taken aback and quite unable to hide it. "I just assumed..."

"I wanted to," Sherlock said in a low voice, staring down into the depths of his cup like the confession made him want to crawl inside it and drown. "I still want to."

"That's natural," John reassured him, nodding his approval.

"Yes John, I'm well aware of that." Sherlock rolled his eyes sarcastically and smirked like a schoolboy at lessons, "I do _know_ about the birds and the bees, even if I've never..." he trailed off, his smirk faltering.

"Laid an egg?" John supplied helpfully, earning himself a very loud and infantile snort as Sherlock inhaled his tea through his nose and spluttered.

Waiting patiently for the detective to recover himself, John hid his triumphant snicker behind the rim of his cup. Embarrassing Sherlock Holmes was a rare victory to be savored.

"You're very irritating-" Sherlock huffed, wiping tea from his chin with the cuff of his sleeve, adding truculently, "-and quite insufferable when you're smug."

"Hey," John held up a placating hand, "I'm your fountain of knowledge here, remember?"

"I'm sure I could have picked up more useful data by watching daytime soap operas," Sherlock quipped, annoyed, "Could you please just get to the ruddy point?"

"Fine," John laid his tea on the table and became instantly serious, much to Sherlock's surprise. "You want me to be honest with you?"

Sherlock nodded.

"I think you're jumping into the deep end and that you have absolutely_ no conception_ of how difficult this is going to be," John held up his hand again as Sherlock opened his mouth defiantly, pressing on, "Molly is in a very confusing place right now. She's bound to have issues being close to you in that way even if she does trust you, so you have to be the bigger man here and learn to be patient. You have to respect her. You can't just rush into a physical relationship, she won't be ready for that."

"I don't understand," Sherlock sighed, looking lost as he slumped down in his seat. His brain was beginning to ache. "Why does everybody turn sex into such a big deal? It's just a naturally occurring chemical impulse between two compatible bodies, a primal, animalistic thing that people have been doing since the world began. How can that be so hard for Molly?"

_How can that be so hard for me?_ he thought to himself, finding the contradiction maddening, against all reason.

While Sherlock had been speaking John's head had lowered and he was now staring down at his knees and pursing his lips tightly. He looked as though he was trying desperately not to say something he might later regret, or else attempting to find a way of phrasing it that would cause the least amount of offense. Sherlock waited, perplexed and growing steadily more impatient.

"Sherlock," John began at long last, his voice very calm and even but with a nettled edge. He raised his head again and to Sherlock's amazement he saw anger dancing behind his friend's eyes. It made him feel chastened, but he wasn't sure for what reason. "If you'd ever had sex with someone you'd realise why this will be hard for Molly to deal with. Since you haven't yet, I'll do my best to make you understand. Just listen and don't interrupt, okay?"

Again, Sherlock nodded but this time he was cautious, unsure whether he really wanted to hear this after all. John was upset with him, but why? He also looked _i__ntensely_ uncomfortable, the tips of his ears turning red beneath his sandy hair. This gave the detective pause for thought and he checked himself. John rubbed the back of his neck, glared passionately at the opposite wall for several seconds, then he began to talk in earnest.

"When you're intimate with someone you allow them access to your body, to areas that only a select few have ever touched. You allow that person to _use_ you in the most base, physical way. It's like laying yourself open. It goes deeper than physical contact, it's raw and emotional and intensely private. Sex isn't just about the transmission of chemical pleasure, Sherlock, it's so much more than that. Nothing really compares to it, it's just so loaded with sensation and feeling. Now, bearing that in mind, how would you react if someone forced themselves into your body without your consent?"

Sherlock, who had been following John's words carefully, gave an involuntary flinch. John noticed and nodded, his eyes widening a fraction as he tried to impress upon Sherlock the full meaning of what he was saying.

"It's not just damaging in a physical way, do you understand? It takes time for someone to rebuild their sense of self after they've been raped. It changes who they are. It changes what they think of other people, do you see?"

"Yes," Sherlock sounded a little hoarser than usual, but he cleared his throat quickly and straightened up in his chair, poised and determined once again. "I understand John, thank you. So you think I should leave Molly alone? I can do that, I've done it for 35 years. I'll just go back to how things were before. I don't need to-"

"Whoa there!" John cut in quickly, sensing that he probably hadn't been as clear as he should have been. He ran a hand through his hair, a tad exasperated. "I just meant that you have to be slow, considerate, let her make all the choices. It's clear that she's in love with you, she always has been, so I don't see why she wouldn't..." he trailed off, noticing that Sherlock was staring at him in an odd way. "What?" he asked, uncertainly.

"You knew she was in love with me?" Sherlock said, the corner of his mouth twitching. "How did you know?"

"Oh come _on_, Sherlock!" John couldn't stop himself from flinging up his arms and shaking his head, crowing, "_Everybody_ knew, it was so obvious!"

"Really?" Sherlock frowned, great displeasure written across his pale face.

So it wasn't just Moriarty who had deduced the Molly situation? Sherlock could just about have handled that. After all, Moriarty's mind was on a parr with his own, brilliant, hot-wired for excellence. His observations were stellar. But to find out that all the _ordinary_ people had figured it out before him as well? Unthinkable.

"Yes, really." John exhaled loudly, guessing what thoughts were running through the detective's mind and feeling distinctly ruffled. "I just thought it would be a good idea for you to figure it out on your own, let you get used to the idea..."

"So everybody knew?" Sherlock repeated dumbly.

"Yes."

"Everyone apart from me?"

"_Yes,_" John rubbed his forehead, sighing. "You really are spectacularly ignorant about some things."

* * *

**Last update for a few days, on holiday until next week :)  
Hope you enjoyed it, especially awkward!John. Nearly finished writing chapter 8** **- as always, reviews and con-crit are greatly appreciated and thanks for all the encouragement so far.x**


	6. Ripped Open

**This is one of the BIG chapters (plot-wise), and it'll become pretty apparent as to why about a third of the way down this page... Hope you enjoy, and as always con-crit and reviews are very welcome :) **

* * *

Chapter Six

Some weeks after the visit, the fight, the nightmare and the lecture, Sherlock had slipped into a painful routine. Whenever he wasn't on a case he was at St Barts morgue, flirting shamelessly with Molly Hooper as she sliced up cadavers and peered into microscopes. It wasn't at all like those forced compliments over trays in the hospital canteen had been months previously, it was much simpler and less showy, but no less honest for all of that. He wasn't holding anything back now, no masks, no pretenses, and _Dear Lord_ did it wear him down.

Sherlock had decided to take John's advice and be patient for the pathologist, to wait until she was ready to acknowledge whatever it was that seemed to have sprung up between them before taking it any further. The problem was he simply couldn't stay away from her and found himself making up excuses to visit the hospital practically every day. The desire to be near her was baffling, a constant reminder that never before in his entire life had he wanted someone's attention so badly.

He wanted to be fresh in her mind, to always be there if she felt the smallest inclination towards a kiss or even a simple touch. Now that the possibility of such things were open to him, Sherlock found himself craving for the moment to come when he would _finally_ experience what all the fuss was about. The added challenge of Molly's insecurities made the anticipation all the sweeter, giving the situation the dimensions of a puzzle he was desperate to solve.

He found himself watching her constantly, studying her obsessively out of the corner of his eye from across the lab, subtly inclining his body towards hers whenever she passed near his workbench, covertly smelling her hair when she walked through the doors he held open for her. On a couple of occasions he had even made her coffee, which Molly had drunk and pretended to like. Hot beverages weren't really his area of expertise, but she chose to find the fault endearing. The idea that Sherlock Holmes could actually be _bad_ at something was immensely satisfying.

Molly herself knew exactly what was going on inside the detective's head, even if she never spoke of it aloud. Since she had woken up next to him that morning in her flat, finding his fingers running gently through her hair to stave away bad dreams, she had accepted that Sherlock was serious about his affection. His continual efforts to please her over the following weeks at any given opportunity only served to strengthen her opinion, that yes, Sherlock Holmes fancied her and wanted to amend his past behavior. It was a strange idea to get used to, but the evidence kept mounting. His attitude towards her had changed, becoming attentive and thoughtful when before it had been mostly distant.

She found herself relaxing in his company, enjoying this new side of Sherlock with each passing day. He was still mysterious and brilliant, but there was more of a personable edge to him now that made talking to him a lot easier. She could laugh with him, smile unselfconsciously at his idle chatter, and sometimes she could even forget what the weight of his body had felt like pressing her down into the mattress, his fingers around her wrists, holding them still and making her breathless. Sometimes the memory of it filled her with fear, while at others it stirred something else inside her stomach, like she was dredging up some long forgotten feeling she hardly recognised.

Observing her habits, Sherlock learned her likes and her dislikes in that unfathomable way he had of absorbing and documenting everything, however seemingly unimportant the information might have seemed to anyone else. He even discovered her favourite foods, turning up unannounced during her nightshifts to bring her chinese takeaways. He'd watch her happily as she ate duck spring rolls over autopsy reports, crumbs scattering over the drying ink, and he would try to guess what her fortune cookie would say. More often than not, he got it right.

From an outsider's perspective they were dating, but not_ really dating_. They didn't do the things normal couples did. They didn't go to the cinema or have dinner in fancy restaurants. They didn't visit each other's flats and fall asleep in front of the television. They didn't take romantic walks and talk about their childhoods. They hardly saw one another outside of the hospital morgue. Either Sherlock would show up to utilize her skills on a case or he would pop by just to be near her, their heads bent closely over files and cadavers alike. In the white cleanliness of the lab they talked about all kinds of things, feeling each other out emotionally. It worked for them, this unconventionality. In both their minds they understood that they had stumbled into the precursor to a relationship, that they were teetering on the edge of something more serious than heated glances and greasy fast food in the dead of night. It was unspoken, but always there waiting to be acknowledged.

Molly wasn't sure how she would respond when it all came out into the open. In a way it already had, but weeks had passed and nothing more had been said on _the subject_. Sherlock was interested, that much was abundantly clear, but he seemed to be waiting for something before making his ultimate move. Did he expect her to tell him when the time was right? Maybe he was content to continue the way they were, just getting to know her better? Maybe he was scared? Though really, _scared_ didn't quite seem the word to describe anything to do with that insufferable man. He was always brave, even when the situation was beyond him. She'd always admired him for that.

And so, Molly decided to go along with whatever game the detective was playing and kept her opinions quiet, completely oblivious to how each passing day of frustrated advances caused Sherlock to act out in 221b. The walls were like Swiss cheese from cathartic shoot-outs and increasingly fouler things were turning up in the fridge for dissection. John liked to think it was Sherlock's own bizarre way of being romantic and lovelorn, rather than a passive aggressive vendetta against his friend's advice on behaving like a gentleman. The long-suffering doctor put up with the inconvenience of finding severed thumbs in the butter dish and decomposing rats in the bread bin, choosing to believe the atrocities were meant for science and not for him.

It would all crinkle itself out eventually, John told himself, as the daily saga continued.

* * *

The first time Sherlock kissed Molly, _kissed anyone_, it wasn't at all as either had expected it to be.

"Do you want a coffee?" Molly asked one day, hovering beside a stack of files she was loath to go through whilst on the other side of the lab Sherlock examined some blood cultures.

He looked up, eyes glassy in a way that meant he was still half-buried inside his own head and Molly sighed. Sometimes she wondered why she bothered asking.

"Never mind, I'll make you one anyway."

Leaving the lab without a backwards glance, she made her way to the little kitchenette and clicked on the kettle. Humming quietly to herself she began to rummage for mugs, cursing quietly when she couldn't find the sugar. Molly knew Sherlock wouldn't take a sip if the drink wasn't properly sweetened. In his own undemonstrative way the consulting detective really was a bit of a diva. Molly chuckled softly at the thought.

Preoccupied with her search, she hardly noticed the door opening behind her or the soft tread of someone stepping up to lean with their back against the counter. Indeed, she almost screamed when a hand reached out and touched her lightly on the elbow in a bid to get her attention.

"Sherlock!" she gasped, whirling around to find those blue eyes twinkling down at her from his lofty height, unmistakably amused.

He laughed, but not unkindly, canting his head at her so that his dark curls fell over his forehead. His expression was almost_ fond_.

"Sorry," he apologised, though it sounded less than sincere and was at odds with his cheeky, infuriating smile. "I just came to help you."

"By giving me a heart attack? Well done."

She breathed deeply, trying to steady her fluttering nerves, glaring at him all the while. Sherlock rolled his eyes and brought a hand up to rest lightly against her neck, moving sensitively over her rapid pulse. She tensed, but he hardly seemed to notice. He was counting her heartbeats, frowning in concentration. As he did so it occurred to Molly that this was the first time he had really _touched_ her since that morning in her flat, and the press of his fingertips made her head swim dangerously. His skin was so warm.

"You'll live," he said theatrically, still smiling as he made to remove his hand.

"Don't-" Molly found herself saying in a voice which was low and breathy, barely her own.

Sherlock froze, taken aback by her tone. He seemed momentarily confused, then his gaze found the familiar way his hand rested against the line of her throat and his eyes traveled up to her face and studied her flushed cheeks, her dilated pupils. Comprehension dawned, and all at once there was no air in his lungs with which to breathe and his tongue felt extraordinarily heavy in his mouth, forcing down whatever words he had wanted to say. Becoming speechless, it seemed, would be something he'd have to get used to.

Molly was staring at him, mouth open the tiniest fraction, her eyes dark and wide beneath her lashes. They fluttered closed as he let his fingers travel to run along her collarbone, gently sliding up again to brush below her chin. He caressed the indent beneath her bottom lip with the pad of his thumb, his fingertips resting featherlight along her jaw, stroking it. He waited a heartbeat, expecting Molly to stop him or maybe _slap_ him, but she didn't. She just continued to breathe shakily, eyes closed and face upturned to his, open and waiting.

Sherlock let his free hand slip carefully beneath her white lab coat, sweeping over her small waist, palming experimentally against the swell of her hip. She let out a ragged sigh and he stopped short, his fingers on her face, his hand at her back. He was standing so close that they breathed the same air, his body tucked into hers so that he was attuned to her slightest quiver. He studied her minutely, his eyes raking greedily across her face. She was shaking, but it was a pleasant shake of expectation, not fear. There was no anxiety evident in the crease of her forehead or the set of her mouth. She was just waiting to see what he would do, inhaling and exhaling so deeply that Sherlock could feel the touch of her breasts pressing up against his smooth chest. Was she doing it on purpose, a form of flirtation? It made it increasingly difficult to think clearly, to judge this compromising position from all angles.

The lack of surety was maddening.

He watched her lips avidly. They were moist, pink, and not too small at all. He couldn't believe he had ever thought that they were. He was well aware what holding her like this meant, that backing out would probably hurt her feelings and ruin the progress he'd made to be close to her, but at the same time he couldn't help but wonder if he was reading the situation wrongly. So many things associated with this woman had turned out completely the opposite to how he had expected them to. Where Molly Hooper was concerned, Sherlock could draw no certainties. And yet his insides screamed at him to _do it_, to pull her face closer to his, to brush the pad of his thumb along her cheek and across her mouth, to taste the salt of her skin and feel the heat of her breath. He knew it would be incredible, close, intimate and new. But did she want him?

Molly's hands had come up to clutch his elbows, her belly resting against the protrusion of his belt, pushing. Her pulse was running high in her neck, he could feel it racing beneath his hesitant touch. The smell of her perfume filled Sherlock's nostrils, mixed with something deeper, earthier, more human. Her smell, that natural, feminine aroma of pheromones. He felt drugged by it and by her, and couldn't smother the compulsion any longer, he had to do it. He_ would_ do it.

As he leaned into her he was surprised to find Molly's lips surging up to capture his own. Knocked off guard by this uncharacteristic show of boldness on Molly's part, Sherlock barely registered what was actually happening until he realised that there was no breath left in his body. He gasped against her mouth, which was pert and heavy and_ lithe_. Her fingers were in his curls, tugging and soothing, bringing him in as close as she could. Still startled, he hardly knew what to do but as the seconds passed he found himself sinking into her, allowing her tongue to coax a soft groan from deep in his throat. He had never heard himself make such a noise before and it alarmed him.

He found he wanted to make it again.

Molly was overwrought, consumed by Sherlock's apparent innocence and uncertainty. The way he held her, so careful as though he felt he might break her, was charmingly inept. Though her eyes were closed she could tell that his were wide open, studying the dynamics of the kiss even as he urgently strived to be a part of it. He wasn't assured or graceful as she'd imagined him in her fantasies, but clumsy and scared. It was as though he couldn't switch himself off, that huge intellect refusing to disconnect from the senses bombarding his brain with signals for him to analyze. She wanted to pull him down to her level of thought, to push his buttons until they broke completely. She had waited and worried for so long, it was high time to indulge in the enigma that was Sherlock Holmes.

The kiss was an enormously impressive thing for Sherlock. As well as knocking the wind out of him it revealed to him the sheer complexity of physicality, a rush of sensations he couldn't believe he had tried to deny himself. Molly was a warm, responsive, little body beneath his hands, guiding his mouth and his touch, teaching him how wonderfully compatible two pairs of lips could be. The kitchenette had long since melted away, and the glaring lights, the clinical atmosphere of the work place suddenly meant nothing at all. It was just him and her, and as his mind finally shut down he felt truly and utterly peaceful for the first time in his life.

Unable to think sensibly at all, Sherlock let his fingers move beneath her lab coat, beginning to untuck the blouse from her pencil skirt. He wanted to press his fingertips into the small of her back, feel the ridges of her spine, but all of a sudden Molly was pulling away. Their bodies still pressed infinitely close, she broke the kiss, breathing quickly and shakily. It was no longer a pleasant tremor and Sherlock blinked, trying to rid his mind of the passionate haze that fogged it. Her big, dark eyes were staring up into his, heavily-lidded with desire but definitely wary.

"Sherlock-" she murmured, her words tickling the cleft of his chin. _Warning him?_

His fingers played against the waistline of her skirt, brushing the patch of hot, bare skin he had uncovered, but he took it no further. He watched her reaction intently, his swollen lips still humming with the memory of their broken kiss. He wanted to dive back in, to claim her mouth again and learn more about what it could do. But Molly was trembling and Sherlock couldn't ignore it, even as an ache similar to yearning began to brew in the pit of his stomach. He too was shaking ever so slightly, his muscles tensed, his brain strung out. She was encircled by him in ever sense, his arms wrapped tightly about her person, and he wanted her_ so badly._

He could take her if he wanted to.

Sherlock screwed his eyes shut and took a deep, grounding breath that came out sounding labored, and he let his forehead fall to rest against hers. Reluctantly he dragged his fingers away from her waist and up the plains of her body, wrapping them lightly around the back of her neck, his thumbs brushing her earlobes. His groin was resting hot and heavy against her belly, and he knew she could feel how difficult this was for him to control. Sherlock's face was turning red, unaccountably embarrassed. Their legs were tangled, their torsos lying against one another and they were panting, both trying ineffectually to regain their grasp on the situation.

"I'm sorry," Sherlock muttered quickly, flustered, his voice low and gravelly, "I've never kissed anyone before, that- It was hard to stop myself from-"

He stopped talking abruptly, gulping down the rising panic in his throat, realising that he had told Molly something he hadn't yet meant to reveal. It was a secret he had hoped would slip out at a time when he could justify himself, not when he was in such a bare and unguarded state, his calculated thoughts scattered to the winds. John had been right, he_ did_ feel ripped open. It wasn't that he was ashamed, far from it, but he was aware that this would make him appear different to her, lesser. His blue eyes fought a battle between his heart and his head, as he slowly raised them to examine the expression on Molly's face.

Her mouth was open and her brow was creased with incredulity. Was there pity there, also? Sherlock was too agitated to truly tell. Feeling a distinct loss, Sherlock stumbled out of the embrace and landed with his back against the counter. He wouldn't look at Molly, who hadn't moved except to steady herself. There was a very long pause, so uncomfortable that Sherlock was seriously considering bolting for the door when Molly's hand found his, threading their fingers together with a small, exasperated sigh.

"You silly man," she said, chuckling as she stepped back into his personal space, disregarding his instant recoil. She pressed her palm against his right cheek, forcing his eyes to meet hers. "Why didn't you tell me? If I'd known I wouldn't have-"

"Wouldn't have kissed me at all?" Sherlock demanded, cutting across her. Her words had come like a blow to the gut, confirming his most insecure assumptions. "Can't say I blame you."

"_No_, Sherlock," Molly countered hurriedly, her grip tightening on his hand as he made to shake her off. "That's not what I meant!"

"Don't mess with me, Molly," Sherlock's face was bright red, a very strange and unusual sight. He was glad that they were alone, this was mortifying. "I know virginity isn't a very attractive quality in a man my age-"

"_Sherlock_," Molly interrupted firmly, the hand on his cheek caressing his fevered skin placatingly. "I only meant that if I'd known I wouldn't have gone so fast, wouldn't have overwhelmed you..."

Sherlock didn't say anything, just huffed and stared at the floor. The redness in his cheeks and neck decreasing to an angry pink, he bit down on his bottom lip. At that moment he simultaneously wanted to stay exactly where he was and be anywhere else in the world.

Taking his prolonged silence as a dismissal, Molly gave his cheek a soft pat before exiting the kitchen and heading back to the lab, forgetting all about the coffee in her haste to put distance between the two of them. She had gotten the distinct impression that Sherlock wanted to be alone, possibly to deconstruct the whole encounter in the depths of his 'mind palace', or whatever he liked to call it. If truth be told, so did she.

Walking swiftly down the corridor she couldn't stop herself from sucking on her lower lip, tasting the salt of Sherlock's skin which still lingered heavily there. It was an odd, consuming taste that brought to mind memories she couldn't help but loathe. After all, the last person to kiss her had been Jim Moriarty. This thought in itself was reason enough to spoil everything.

As hard as she tried to prevent it, Molly was catapulted back to that horrifying night months ago. The rough intrusion of the criminal's body, the terrifying pressure of his weight pinning her down on the bed, his hands striking at her face and stomach were all as nothing to the feel of his lips on hers. To Molly Hooper kisses were more intimate than sex, representing a bond of compassion and familiarity only lovers shared. If Moriarty had merely used her body she could perhaps have gotten over it, distanced herself from the primal, dominating act, but all the time his mouth had ravaged her own making it impossible for her to disconnect her brain from what was happening. Perhaps he had realised how violating the act of kissing would be, perhaps he hadn't. Still, she woke up more frequently from nightmares involving his tongue and biting teeth than from anything else.

But then there had been Sherlock, so different in every possible way. The man had been nervous, unsure of himself, totally removed from his usual confidence and bravado. He hadn't been acting. He had shown her his weaker, more delicate side. His mouth had been careful, soft, explorative. He had touched her with gentle, probing fingers, consciously restraining his full strength in an attempt to soothe her. Molly had lost herself in the simple press of his lips, forgetting her fears and overcoming her apprehensions. She had let herself _enjoy_ it, and that was all there was to it.

Returning to her workstation and the waiting files, Molly Hooper sighed. Two pink spots had risen in her cheeks and she felt light. She told herself to stop dwelling on Moriarty, to not let him ruin the fact that she had been Sherlock Holmes's _first kiss_. Hadn't she wanted to be that for as long as she'd known the consulting detective? Wasn't she happy?

"Of course I am," she murmured, nodding to the empty room at large.

Nobody and nothing would take that feeling away from her, she decided as she got on with her work, smiling a self-satisfied smile.

* * *

**Of course she is! Wouldn't you be? ;)  
Just a side note: finished writing CH8 today. Will update in a couple of days.x **


	7. Flustered & Inappropriate

**Sorry I didn't post this earlier, i decided it needed some tweaking :) **  
**Hope you enjoy, it involves flustered!Sherlock and glimpses of things to come.x**

* * *

Chapter Seven

When Sherlock arrived home that evening he bypassed the kitchen entirely, not feeling in the mood to dissect the day's events. John, who was standing by the sink pretending to read a newspaper, watched the detective make a beeline for his bedroom and didn't say a word. Something about the tall, brooding figure with the irritated frown told him that now was a bad time to ask questions. Though it was clear that _something_ had happened, John deduced that a little breathing space was all Sherlock needed.

Meanwhile, Sherlock had taken a seat on the edge of his bed. His fingers were clasped beneath his chin and he was staring unseeingly at the poster of the periodic table hanging opposite to him. All those striking blocks of primary colour blurred together uncontrollably into the image of Molly, her little face upturned and smiling, teasing, _laughing?_ He shuddered, his cheeks flushing with embarrassment and guilty pleasure.

Had it been a mistake?

No.

Not a_ mistake._

Bad timing?

No.

In the moment, she had wanted him.

_He_ had wanted _her_.

So why did it feel so utterly defeating all of a sudden? Why was he sat in his bedroom, brooding with a churning stomach and no explanation? Why wasn't he still in the lab with Molly, acting all coy and gentlemanly or however else a person was supposed to act after a first kiss? She hadn't asked him to leave. In fact, every physical signal she'd given had indicated that she'd wanted him to stay, but instead he'd retreated into himself and let her walk out. So it was all down to him then, not her, _he_ had done something stupid. Again.

He lowered his head and scrubbed his fingers through his dark curls, letting out a harsh, guttural moan of annoyance. Why was this so _hard?_ Everyone in the world knew how to handle these things, so why couldn't he? He was the smartest person he knew, and yet he still managed to blunder about with no sense of direction when it came to - _he grimaced inwardly_ - matters of the heart.

* * *

Sherlock found it difficult to sleep that night. Granted, he hardly slept_ most_ nights what with one consuming case or another, but this particular night stretched out for what felt like days. Tossing and turning beneath the sheets, pummeling his pillow into a more comfortable shape, he found he couldn't settle. Nothing felt right, his body repelling the tiredness that lay heavily in his limbs until all that was left was a surplus of restless energy that made his legs and arms jerk out at odd intervals.

In a lot of ways sleep was Sherlock's most natural enemy. Forget Jim Moriarty and the criminal underworld of London, it was always_ sleep_ that caused him the most trouble. Unlike his other foes, sleep was unbeatable in practically every way. No matter how hard he fought it, unconsciousness always claimed him in the end and it was maddening. By allowing himself to slumber, Sherlock relinquished the most valuable asset he had at his disposal: his powers of observation. Without this, he felt incredibly vulnerable.

Lying there in the darkness of his room, Sherlock considered this aspect of his personality in more depth. He came to the uncomfortable conclusion that his irrational fear of sleep was a lot like his fear of intimacy. Of course, he had always said that the reason he never engaged in relationships was because it interfered in the course of his work. This was true, but more than that it was because being that close with another person meant opening himself up to attack on many fronts. Not only from the person he shared himself with, but from the outside as well. Hadn't he already seen how his unconscious attraction to Molly had almost cost the woman her life?

Admitting the attraction to the world was dangerous.

Was it worth the risk?

What if, even now, Moriarty was planning a new scheme with Molly at its centre?

But then again, he reasoned as he flipped and curled irritably beneath the duvet, surely Molly was just as aware of this fact as he was? And yet, she had still allowed him to kiss her. This had to mean that she was willing to take the risk of encountering the consulting criminal for a second time.

Sherlock winced as he drew forth that deduction, wondering if he could_ stand_ to see the pathologist hurt again.

He was drawn unwillingly back to the night of her attack, when he had watched John talking on the phone outside the blasted swimming pool while he himself berated Lestrade for allowing Moriarty to escape the scene. The doctor had been pacing up and down the tarmac, dodging the police and members of the ambulance crew, and then he had stopped. His usually tanned, healthy countenance had drained of all colour as he slowly turned to Sherlock.

Suddenly, chillingly, the detective _knew._

He probably should have realised his true feelings for the woman right then and there, but he didn't. He just remembered the shiver that had crept up the back of his neck, making him rigid with anger and disgust. Walking away from Lestrade he had torn the phone from John's grasp and pressed it to his ear, taking in the information being relayed to him but processing none of it. His mind, already ringing from the bomb blast, had crowded with white noise. The only thing to clear it was the reassurance from the paramedic on the line who said that Molly was being taken into the hospital and that she would be fine, bruised and shocked - _violated_ - but fine.

Turning onto his back, Sherlock stared up at the ceiling above him and traced the shadows with his eyes. Never had he felt so guilty for not visiting Molly in the hospital when it was clear she had wanted him to. Up until this moment he hadn't paid the failing much thought, but suddenly all the implications of that oversight appeared as clear as day. John had visited her, so had Lestrade, for God's sake, even_ Mrs Hudson_ had dropped in with some grapes and a card. But not him. No wonder Molly had hated him so much in their first meetings after the attack, no wonder it had taken such persuasion to make her trust him again. He had to do better for her, make the risk she was taking worth it.

He _had_ to do _better._

Squeezing his eyes tight and balling his fists against the mattress, Sherlock hurtled a few hours back in time, reliving their tryst in the kitchenette. He had a feeling that the experience would take up permanent residence within his mind palace, for the rest of his life - whether he lived it without her or not. Her mouth had been as close to heaven as Sherlock had ever dreamed of getting, which for an adamant atheist was saying a great deal. Molly had been wonderful, and he had run away rather than revel in her charms.

_Stupid. Stupid. **Stupid.**_

Examining it from all angles, he realised that it was the physical aspect more than the emotional side of the kiss which had scared him off. After all, he had decided to accept the emotional implications of exploring a relationship with Molly the second he had admitted to himself that it was what he desired. Rather, it had been the loss of control, the absence of thought in those brief moments, which had caused him to shrink back so sharply. Manly pride too, he admitted reluctantly, embarrassment brought on by the _obviousness_ of his physical reaction to her proximity. Sherlock wasn't used to feeling embarrassment, it was debilitating, but nevertheless it seemed he would need to get used to it if he planned on continuing his pursuit of Molly any further.

And _boy_ did he want to.

It had occurred to him during the kiss that if the simple press of his mouth to hers could feel so amazing, what about the rest of it? How would the feel of her naked skin on his compare? Or the solid intrusion of his body within Molly's own? To be so utterly surrounded by her, surely the intensity of that would shatter him completely? The idea of it, that he could be _broken_ by her... He wasn't sure whether he liked it, but knew that the only way to find out was to try.

How would she be with him? How would they be _together?_ Sherlock wanted to believe that she would feel comfortable enough to lose herself in him, to forget Moriarty and what he had done to her on that terrible night.

How would she _look?_ Pressed against him as though her life depended on it, sweet but also savage in her adoration and pleasure. Understanding of his lack of knowledge but incredibly willing to teach him the things he needed desperately to know - how to drift his hands across her_ just right,_ how to trail his lips and _delve_ with his tongue, how to _move_ inside her without causing her pain.

He wanted to be so good for her. He wanted to make her feel as though all the risks she'd taken and all the abuse she'd suffered had been worth it. He wanted to show her - without the need for awkward words that always sounded hollow however sincerely he meant them - just what she had come to mean to him. Molly was so constant, so loyal, so honest, so heroically _open_ that sometimes it hurt Sherlock to look at her. Knowing all that he knew of her, seeing everything that she thought and felt so plainly written in her face and body made the detective_ ache_ somewhere indefinable in his chest.

Just to touch her, just to _show her_, would be hardly enough to express the feeling, but it would be a start.

* * *

As the birds began to sing in the grey light of dawn, Sherlock finally drifted into an uneasy doze, his body and mind too tired to fight off the signs of fatigue any longer.

For the next few hours his dreams, usually so barren of explicit detail, were as richly coloured and passionate as they were disturbing. In the midst of this uncomfortable half-sleep he saw many things, curvaceous and vivid shapes that made beautiful sounds. He was there too amongst them, doing and saying things that were unfamiliar but exhilarating. It was at times blurred, at others overwhelmingly clear, but the prevailing feeling he got from the dreams was that they were_ exciting._ He had never experienced an adrenaline rush quite like it, and being pulled away from the sensation was almost painful in its intensity, causing white light to flash behind his closed eyes.

Upon his abrupt return to consciousness he barely registered the sound of John shouting him to breakfast, or the tantalizing smell of frying bacon and fresh coffee coming from the kitchen. His attention was too caught up in the sweat clinging to his skin, the dampness of his hair sticking along the line of his forehead and the shakiness in his legs as he swung them out of bed and attempted to stand. He sat back down again with a heavy thud, unable to support his own weight. He frowned.

Pressing two fingers to the pulse-point below his jaw, he measured the racing of his heart with mounting confusion. He grimaced when he realised his palms were slick with perspiration. His flesh was tingling beneath the fabric of his nightshirt, the skin of his hips and inner thighs raw and flushed. And he felt wet in places he usually_ ignored._

John found him still sitting on the edge of his mattress a full ten minutes later, when he burst in through the door holding a frying pan and a spatula. He had been about to yell - in his experience the only sure way of shifting a comatose Sherlock of a morning - when he came up short. Sherlock was awake and upright, but was paying no attention to his flat mate whatsoever. The detective was wearing an expression of mixed curiosity and distaste, and was looking down at himself with his hands aloft, knees spread and feet flat against the carpet.

"Er-" John paused, doing a double take of the scene and trying to ignore the deep, musky smell that seemed to permeate Sherlock's room. "Alright?"

Sherlock dragged his eyes away from his lap and focused them in the direction of the voice, startled, obviously having been unaware of John's entry.

"Something isn't-" Sherlock said after a short silence, before gesturing widely at himself and the rumpled bed, sniffing at the air and pulling a face. "I feel different. I don't feel very _me._"

"You look a little.._.flustered_," John observed, awkwardly shifting from foot to foot and wishing he hadn't brought the frying pan with him. Then he wrinkled his nose and stepped back sharply, causing Sherlock to frown even harder. "You haven't just-" John muttered, his cheeks growing hot in realisation.

"Just what?" Sherlock asked, narrowing his eyes.

"Well-" John raised his eyebrows suggestively. "_You know._"

Sherlock processed the words, analyzed the obvious innuendo hidden in the tone of John's voice and finally took in his rumpled appearance once again. He wriggled a little against the bed sheets, felt the abrasive texture of the fabric on his overly sensitive skin and drew up a buried memory from adolescence - a hormonal experiment he had _never_ repeated. Then he shuddered, lowered his hands to his knees and asked John very firmly to leave.

John didn't need telling twice.

* * *

The clinic was quite busy that day, leaving John with very little time to worry about Sherlock's bizarre behavior earlier that morning _or_ to keep up-to-date with his patient notes. So, when he had finally found twenty minutes between consultations to take a breather and examine his files, John was irritated to be interrupted by a knock on the door.

Thinking that Mrs Burns was early for her appointment he reluctantly buzzed the visitor in, only to be faced with the imposing figure of one Mycroft Holmes darkening his doorway - definitely not a crotchety old lady wearing a crotchet hat who suffered from crippling arthritis.

"John! How pleasant it is to see you," said Mycroft cheerfully as he strode into the room, umbrella dangling from the crook of his elbow, condescending smile firmly in place. "Hard at it?"

"Remember that conversation we had the first time we met - wait, no - the first time you _abducted me?_" John replied testily, glaring at the suited patriarch from over the huge pile of paperwork he had been hoping to sort through. "People use phones. _I_ have a phone. _Ring me on my phone._"

"I prefer the personal touch, John," Mycroft drawled, sinking down into a chair with a grimace, clearly not enjoying the clinical atmosphere of the doctor's office one iota. "And besides, this won't take long. I merely came to discus-"

"Sherlock." John stated, his eyebrows rising comically on his forehead. Mycroft shot him an inquisitive look and John huffed. "What else do we talk about during these little visits of yours?"

"Astute, Dr Watson. My younger brother is so terribly trying, yet you seem to be the only one who can keep him in line. For some unfathomable reason, he actually listens to you. Thus..." Mycroft nodded between the two of them and sighed dramatically, crossing his legs and playing with the stem of his umbrella. John watched him, rapidly losing patience. "But be rest assured, this is a cursory chat. I have no scheme, I have no malicious intent, I simply wish to _ask after him_."

"A check-up?" John rolled his eyes, "You're here for a check-up on Sherlock? Mycroft, I'm _working-_"

"You could put it that way," Mycroft interrupted, acting as though John had hardly spoken a word. "But a check-up implies generality. There's something specific I wish to pick your brains about..."

John sat back a fraction, frowning uncomfortably. Mycroft tsked.

"Nothing sordid, just..." he trailed off, staring intently at a crease in his tailored trousers, brows knit. "What is Sherlock's current relationship to one Molly Hooper?"

"I don't think that's any of your business Mycroft," John said tersely, staunchly offended on behalf of his friend.

"It's my business to ensure Sherlock's well-being, John." Mycroft continued, a slight defensive edge to his voice now. "And my brother is hardly... experienced, in these matters. I don't wish for him to get hurt."

"If you're so concerned about it then you should be talking to him and not to me," John glowered, shuffling papers on his desk in a clear dismissal but Mycroft didn't move. This caused John a ripple of frustration and he couldn't stop himself from biting out, "He's your _brother_ for God's sake, if you're worried for him then _talk_ to him. This is just petty and down right _sad_, Mycroft. You - no - _Both_ of you are bloody ridiculous-"

"You do know what Moriarty did to Miss Hooper don't you John?" Mycroft said quietly, fixing him with a level, unflinching stare.

This brought the doctor up short. He flushed a slow, angry pink and it was all he could do not to break out into a rage of indignation.

"Again, Mycroft-" John said, forcing himself to remain calm and collected under the cool stare of the older man. "Really, none of your business."

"You do realise, I'm sure, that the potential risk to both Sherlock and the girl will increase ten-fold if they continue this little _experiment_ of theirs?" Mycroft went on, still in that flat, unexcited tone that both concealed and betrayed so much. "James Moriarty targeted Miss Hooper for a reason, because she possesses one of my brother's only weaknesses - she has his heart, John. Moriarty will use that to his advantage, especially now Sherlock's attachment has grown quite..._physical._"

The note of distaste in Mycroft's voice was unmistakable now and John found he had had enough. Rising from his chair he came around the desk and reached for the door, holding it open.

"Get out Mycroft," he said acidly.

* * *

**Ooo... John be _mad._ More soon kids.x**


	8. Bird Bones

**Well, this is the last pre-written chapter i have - from here on in i will be posting when i have had time to write. **

**I'm posting it now because the next week will be very hectic and i probably wont have much time for the internet :) **

**Please read and review if you have the time, it's very much appreciated!**

* * *

Chapter Eight

When Molly Hooper reached St Barts the following morning, she wasn't expecting to see Sherlock Holmes at all. By that point she had given up waiting for him to appear and was trying her best not to let it bring her down. The elation she had felt in the immediate aftermath of the scene in the kitchenette had been swiftly replaced by a nettling anxiety that would not be put to rest. After hours of remaining on tenterhooks, the pathologist had gone to sleep the previous night pondering his lack of communication after their stolen kiss in the afternoon, the weight of his continued silence becoming a tight knot of foreboding in her gut. No texts, no phone calls, not even a late evening visit... _Nothing._

Was she expecting too much too quickly? Or had it all been too good to be true?

It certainly felt that way as she unzipped her third body bag of the day, her eyes straying to the mortuary door every now and again in the hopes of seeing a dark figure sweeping in, coat billowing and lips smirking in that way she had grown to love. No such luck. The door stayed resolutely closed and the room remained deathly quiet, the only sounds coming from the click and tuck of her metal instruments, the wet squeak of rubber gloves over mottled flesh and her own shallow breathing against the inside of her mask.

It wasn't that she was feeling bitter, she reasoned. She was just disappointed. The kiss had been a wonderful, galvanizing thing for her, so untainted by their past indifferent acquaintance or the lingering sting of _Jim Moriarty_. In a lot of ways it had promised a clean break, both for her and for Sherlock. More importantly it hadn't been imaginary; it wasn't some hot-flush fantasy in the dead of night that caused her to splutter and blush the next morning when faced with the cold, pale reality as it wielded a riding crop unthinkingly beneath her nose. Of course, Sherlock was no longer a remote being nowadays. He wasn't some untouchable, unattainable thing that swept in and out of her life at a moment's notice to claim her heart or mess up her head. Everything he had done over the past few weeks had dispelled that notion completely, the kiss last night only serving to cement this new _arrangement_ between them.

Really she'd just expected him to follow through on it sooner, Molly mused sadly as she finished up the old woman's autopsy - _natural causes, heart failure_ - snapping off her bloodied gloves and beginning to fill out the forms on her clipboard.

Unfortunate though it was, Molly realised that she would just have to settle back and wait awhile. Sherlock would get there eventually, after all this was an area he had confessed he wasn't experienced in. It probably hadn't crossed Sherlock's _colossal mind_ to contact her because he simply wasn't queued into the done thing at all, having no conception of the the intricacies of relationship etiquette. Maybe he thought ignoring someone after a kiss was the commonest avenue of approach, like playing hard to get. It would be no small wonder. According to sly texts she'd received from John over the past month, Sherlock was collecting his _data_ by studying awful daytime television and glossy women's magazines.

It always made her chuckle to think of that, and she continued to work with a fond smile on her face. Just imagining his expression of mingled contempt and disbelief as he tried to decipher the articles in _Cosmopolitan_ or _Grazia_ was enough to lighten her heavy, brooding mood.

Even still, as the minutes ticked by and he still failed to appear, Molly couldn't prevent herself from reliving that wonderful experience in the kitchenette over and over again in her mind's eye, like a constantly replenishing film reel. It wasn't just that Sherlock had been a good kisser, it was that Molly had been so uninhibited in the act, able for the first time in a long time to really let herself go. Though the memories had crashed upon her in the aftermath - especially once Sherlock's nimble fingers had grazed the bare skin of her back - the during part had been exquisite. In fact, had the detective not lost control of himself and broken the essential _innocence_ of the kiss, Molly felt as though she could have blundered on senselessly, blind and uncaring of the consequences. She would probably have done anything he asked of her, just to be able to delve more fiercely into that sweet mouth of his, to feel the uncertainty and trust surging to meet her in the form of anxious lips and a caressing, heartened tongue. Sherlock had managed to be the most brilliant he had ever been, without the obligatory need to show off, deduce or observe. He had achieved something which was so much better and more honest than that, simply by allowing himself to be with her. It didn't even matter to Molly that he had confessed himself a virgin - in fact, it had made the whole affair more gratifying, to know that Sherlock had trusted her enough to divulge one of his most intimate of secrets.

Beginning to write out a death certificate, she thought idly of what Sherlock Holmes would be like as a lover. Despite everything she knew first-hand of his outward, showy, _arrogant_ persona, Molly guessed he might be surprisingly tender and attentive when it came to sex. She could see him naked and beautiful above her, mapping her body with probing, child-like curiosity and wide-eyed wonderment. He may touch her like he would a beaker of precious chemicals, but all his attention would be fixed irrevocably_ upon her_, totally and utterly absorbed in learning all she had to give.

In the cold, sterile world of the morgue, Molly Hooper blushed. But then, just as quickly, she chided herself. This was early days and altogether not very promising ones at that. The man in question had just run away in the wake of their first kiss and was now avoiding her completely - not a very conducive atmosphere for burgeoning romance.

This was of course the moment the consulting detective chose to push his way into the morgue and shatter all her carefully constructed theories and daydreams. So very like him to barrel over her expectations like that - just when Molly thought she'd finally figured him out.

"Molly!" Sherlock called as he entered, grinning distractedly as he swept over the tiled floor to stand on the other side of the gruesome gurney she was working at.

Molly blinked, expecting him to disappear in a puff of smoke the second she turned away. He didn't, remaining a tall, imposing figure in the centre of her nice, clean lab. Her heart thudded just that little bit harder in her chest at the sight of him. Her cheeks were still hot from her burning thoughts of a moment ago, and she ducked her head in the hopes that he wouldn't notice.

_Damn him._

Not taking any notice of her dumb-struck expression or panicked fidgeting, Sherlock's eyes flickered down to examine the body of the elderly woman before moving up to skim the paperwork Molly was in the process of filling out. It was upside down and her handwriting was tight, but he still managed to read the top page and give an approving nod, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lip.

"No murder?" she ventured, trying to sound light and airy despite the mounting tension in the room.

"No murder. Your autopsy was sound. Very good." he confirmed crisply, his voice deep and engaged as he stared hard at the face of the corpse between them, hands in his pockets. It was obvious he was avoiding Molly's gaze, occupying himself with the familiar territory of a cadaver.

There was a pause, in which Molly could swear his breathing became shallower. The barest trace of a flush was rising up his neck from beneath the knot of his scarf._ Nervous?_ Molly was surprised. Again, she found it hard to imagine Sherlock Holmes capable of such open vulnerability. It was far too _human_ a trait to be associated with _him_.

Laying his gloved fingers along the edge of the gurney, Sherlock began rubbing away spots of blood from the shining metal, his expression unreadable. Molly tried not to notice, though it made her stomach squirm uncomfortably. She hoped he'd have the prudence to remove those gloves before he sought to touch her again._ If_ he touched her again...

"Don't."

Sherlock had spoken without raising his head, that single word coming out decisive and strong. It echoed loudly in the otherwise silent mortuary, ringing sharply off the tiles. Molly was taken aback and she shook her head in confusion, frowning across the slab at the consulting detective.

"Don't... what?" she asked, perplexed.

"Don't think the thing you're thinking," Sherlock replied deftly, leaning closer to the body and tracing his thumb over a freckle on the woman's elbow. His eyebrows drew together minutely, his lips pursing. "It's a bad thing, stop it..."

"How do you know what I'm thinking?" she breathed, knowing that any other girl would laugh the comment off as a Sherlockian idiosyncrasy, but she knew him better than that. There were always so many layers of meaning behind everything he said. It made her throat feel constricted with want and clawing trepidation as she waited for him to elaborate. She felt slightly faint.

_This is the moment,_ she thought deliriously, _when he takes it all back._

Sherlock raised his pointed chin up at last, fixing the pathologist with an appraising stare from beneath his wild mop of curls. He quirked an elegant brow, a light dimple appearing on his right cheek as he fought to contain a smirk. The implication of the look was unmistakable, and Molly's whole body trembled with it.

"I always _know,_" he murmured softly, keeping his gaze steady and unblinking.

Perhaps it was the brightness of the lab lights reflecting off the cold metal beneath him, or maybe it was the concentrated result of Molly's brain fighting so hard to memorize every second of their meeting, but his eyes appeared incredibly blue just then. Of course, they were always _striking_, but as he continued to speak in a tone that was harsh and low, his attention never wandering or breaking from traversing the contours of her face, Sherlock's eyes positively _shone._

"Come back to my flat with me later on?" he asked in a hoarse rush, "When you've finished your shift, I-"

The clear blue seemed to deepen suddenly, and his pink tongue darted out along his lower lip in a quick, furtive gesture. Molly caught a glimpse of his gloved fingers flexing over the edge of the gurney, like he was trapping the inclination to _grab_, and she fought the irrational urge to take a step away from him.

"-I need to _talk_ with you so badly."

Molly's heart skipped at that, sending a tiny, treacherous tremor fluttering between her ribs. She knew she shouldn't have been afraid to hear those words from him, that he had proven himself trust-worthy a hundred times over since_ that night_, but even so. When he said he wanted to talk, what exactly did that mean? With Sherlock, she knew it could mean absolutely anything. A shiver ran through her when she considered all the possibilities, raising the hairs on the back of her neck and pooling restlessness in her toes. The sensation was unnerving, so similar to how she had felt _before_ when an entirely different voice had described what it could do, how it could hurt her and bend her to its will...

Sherlock was watching her with a careful, guarded expression, but there was nothing he could do to prevent the _want_ emanating from him like waves of rolling heat towards her. He knew he was scaring her, could see it in the abrupt rigidity of her posture, the slow draining of colour from her cheeks, and how she drew her lip between her teeth and bit down hard to contain her fear. She was displaying all the characteristics of an animal trapped by its prey.

It wouldn't do at all.

He sighed, his breathing coming slightly ragged. After all the careful planning of this conversation he had gone through in his head, it was obvious from her reaction that he was going about it all wrong. He hated that he needed to elaborate further, but he didn't want Molly to bridle from him, not after the decision he'd come to that morning. When he'd awoken to find himself in such an unsettling state he'd resolved to fix the situation, to make his intentions and his _mind_ completely clear.

"I need to talk to you about what happened yesterday," Sherlock continued in a more placid tone, easing himself out of his hunched position over the gurney, releasing his death grip on the metal. He straightened himself up, smoothed his shaking hands over his rumpled attire, and sniffed in a self-deprecatingly fashion. Just because he was completely out of his depth didn't mean he had to _look_ like it. "And not just that... There are other things we have to discus, Molly."

"What sort of things?" Molly asked, and Sherlock was gratified to see her cheeks flame pink anew - a sure sign that she was becoming herself again.

Distracted, his eyes strayed to settle on her worried lips and he flinched with disapproval. The delicate, pink skin of her lower lip had become broken by the abrasive scrape of her teeth, and was bleeding just barely down the centre. Sherlock lost his train of thought, all his attention honing in on that tiny, offensive wound. As he continued to survey it quietly Molly licked the blood away and peered at the floor from beneath the spread of her lashes, his intense scrutiny making her feel uncomfortable.

"_Things_," he said darkly after a protracted silence, refusing to embellish when she shot him a questioning look.

Re-buttoning the front of his winter coat and removing his gloves meaningfully, he maneuvered round the end of the gurney and stepped into her personal space. Molly didn't move away, standing her ground as he placed a tentative hand on her forearm and leaned into her, brushing his lips along the outside shell of her ear. For the briefest of moments Sherlock allowed himself to revel in her feminine warmth as it sprung up and enveloped him, taking a small, selfish comfort in it before saying what needed to be said.

"It might be difficult for you," he murmured warningly, and Molly tensed against him immediately.

Cursing himself for his habitual bluntness, Sherlock nuzzled her cheek in what he ardently hoped was a soothing, placating manner. It still felt so peculiar to express himself this way, to _demonstrate_ his affection physically rather than in words. A part of him was afraid he was coming on too strong, but Molly gave no signal to indicate that she wanted him to back away, so he continued in earnest.

"I have so many questions, questions I need to know the answers to before I can - before _we_ can..."

Sherlock closed his eyes in frustration, knowing that he couldn't say it. He let his fingers fall to encircle Molly's wrist, checking the rapid beat of her pulse beneath the delicate, bird-bones. She was so unbelievably _breakable_.

_She knows_, he thought, _she must know what I want to say to her. Don't make me ask out loud, Molly, please don't._

Her skin was warm and smooth beneath his rougher, calloused flesh and he liked it. Standing this close, he could tell that the woman beneath him was hardly breathing at all. He grimaced, the desire to kiss her again almost painful as it swelled up afresh, like blood filling a paper cut. It wasn't just the need for contact any longer, Sherlock wanted to _reassure her_, make her feel safe and closeted. There was a strange, senseless urge churning within him that wanted to protect Molly from everything and everyone that might seek to harm her - including the very real danger posed by himself. It was illogical to try to deny or fight against it, but at the same time he knew that before they could go on they had to stop and reassess what they were doing.

Their first kiss had been an astonishing thing for Sherlock, had made sparks fly up and crackle inside him until he had burned red-hot in a wholly unfamiliar way, but it had been far too soon. They hadn't been ready for it. Horrible though it was to contemplate, Sherlock couldn't ignore the heap of repressed, unevaluated data dwelling unchecked in the recesses of Molly's head. The longer he left it untouched the more truly it threatened to spoil everything. It was this data which surfaced to throttle Molly's confidence whenever he came too close, whenever his hands drifted just that bit too far across her waist or his lips lingered just that fraction of a second too long against her skin. He was sure this data was the reason for her skittishness and his intractability, it had to be, and he _loathed it_. He needed to gain access to it, record and catalogue its significance so that he could finally come to terms with it, understand it and help them get past it. Sherlock was resolved to the task set out ahead of him, even as he recognised the possibility of his own failure in the pursuit of it.

The real obstacle for Sherlock to overcome was understanding that this wasn't something which could be easily solved by utilizing the scientific, methodical side of his brain. Actually _doing_ it would be so much harder, and would test his capabilities as a human being, a friend and a partner.

_Partner_ - the word felt trivial and entirely insufficient to describe whatever he was to Molly and she to him, but it would have to do.

All this pondering had come to a head that morning. As he'd sat alone in his bedroom after John's departure to the clinic, Sherlock had had an epiphany. His dreams were certainly evidence to the fact that he _wanted_ Molly and _soon_, but despite their erotic, pleasurable excesses there had been a darker, illicit undercurrent to them which had disturbed him. _That man_ had tainted them, made Sherlock feel dirty and ashamed of his own imaginings. He'd never felt that way before, and he hadn't liked it one bit.

He needed Molly to tell him everything, to relay all the things she had felt and feared at the hands of the consulting criminal. Maybe if she did then Sherlock would be able to touch her without thinking of_ him_, to kiss her and be with her without wondering if he was causing her more ill than good. Perhaps in turn Molly wouldn't cringe from him when the memories took hold of her, choosing to take solace in his embrace instead of shying away from it.

Sherlock didn't pretend to know much about the conflicting spectrum of emotion Molly was struggling with, but this seemed just as much to do with logic as it did with anything else and logic was definitely _his area_.

"Why would you want to know about that night...?" Molly asked in a quivering, strangled voice, the penny finally dropping. She tried to pull away from him then but he gripped at her tightly, murmuring quiet platitudes until she stilled.

Sherlock let out a breath he hadn't known he'd been holding. With her cheek pressed flush against the juncture of his neck and his hand still clasping at her wrist, Sherlock slipped his free arm beneath her lab coat and about her waist. He squeezed Molly as gently and reassuringly as he could, not wanting her to cry. He wasn't sure what the procedures were for handling a sobbing woman and wished he had asked John...

"Because I don't want to hurt you," he replied in truth, the words tasting strange, his lips brushing along her brow in a way that was both restrained yet clearly passionate. "And because I think you need to tell me just as much as I need to hear it."

* * *

**Hope you liked this direction... I know i'm moving them along quite slowly, but i don't think they should be rushed. Let me know what you think, and i'll update as soon as i can kids.x**


	9. Wolfish Tenderness

**Sorry for the delay, i hope it was worth the wait and thanks for all the kind reviews, especially titebarnacle for promoting this on her tumblr :)  
**

* * *

Chapter Nine

Later that evening, the detective and the pathologist found themselves sat side by side in the back of a London cab, both knowing that the following journey to 221b Baker Street would be a long and tense affair.

After clocking out for the day, Molly had allowed Sherlock to usher her into the waiting taxi, his hand at the small of her back coaxing her from running in the opposite direction on the packed, busy street. Now, sat as far away from him as was physically possible in the cramped backseat, she was determined neither to meet his gaze nor admit how disastrous she considered his plan to be. She didn't really see how Sherlock knowing all the grizzly details regarding her attack would _help_ them. If anything, she felt convinced it would _ruin_ them. Already her palms were sweating with her suppressed panic, her stomach lurching with prickly heat every time she allowed herself to contemplate what the following agonizing hours might bring.

Sherlock, who had waited all day in the staff canteen for the pathologist to finish her shift, had expected no less of a reaction from Molly. Taking his queue from her, he huddled into the opposite corner of the cab, long legs and arms crossed defensively, his Belstaff collar turned up to his cheekbones, eyes fixed on the rain-spattered window as the meter ticked and the windscreen wipers squeaked and flapped in the stuffy silence. Of course, his outward aloofness to the situation was all bluff - though pretending to be watching the rush hour evening traffic, Sherlock was studying Molly's hazy reflection in the pebbled glass. He noted that though she was consciously turning her body away from him - _neck twisted and facial expression obscured in the dimness, a classic pose of unease or pointed aversion_ - she had allowed her right hand to rest lightly on the seat between them, fingers splayed across the faded leather.

He allowed himself to smile softly, just a little.

However, after nearly 15 minutes of deadly, uncomfortable silence, Sherlock decided he had had enough. He wanted to experiment. Without removing his gaze from the misty windowpane, he unfolded his arms and stretched his fingers tentatively across the middle seat, brushing Molly's hand furtively with his own. She jumped, startled out of whatever fearful reverie had been running through her head, and looked down at the wandering fingers trespassing over the skin of her wrist. Then she looked at Sherlock, her brows knitting, a slow flush painting her cheeks.

"What-" she began uncertainly, wanting to pull away but finding herself incapable. Her limbs seemed unwilling to detach from that hesitant yet very _deliberate_ touch.

"We're not far now," Sherlock said, his voice resonating with that deep, irresistibly reassuring cadence that rarely failed to soothe Molly's nerves. He started to idly lace and unlace their fingers, rolling her slim knuckles and skimming the indent of her palm with the pad of a broad thumb. He seemed totally engrossed as he mapped the webbed skin, skimming the edge of his nail along her life-line. "But there's still time to go to your place instead, if you'd prefer?" he added thoughtfully, as though it had only just occurred to him to offer her a choice in the matter.

He had turned in his seat now, eyes searching her out, careful and inquisitive through the shadows, the multicoloured flashes from passing police cars and traffic lights flying across his stern face; red, blue, yellow and green all jostling to illuminate those pale cheeks and that earnest, questioning mouth. Molly found herself mesmerized by him, just for the briefest of seconds, before she dragged her eyes away and settled them on her knees. She realised dimly that he was studying her reaction to his touch, trying to read her thoughts and feelings in the tremor of her flesh, attempting rather ineptly to utilize his near-perfect catalogue of human physiology.

Her heart swelled.

"Your place is fine..." she murmured, voice thick. With her left hand she gripped the sill of the window until her knuckles whitened, whilst her right remained in Sherlock's keenly explorative grasp.

"It will be alright, Molly," Sherlock said after a few strained moments, the words rumbling low and measured from his throat.

His grip on her was more generous now, his long, violinist fingers covering her whole hand, squeezing the barest fraction in reassurance. He was still staring at her intently beneath a furrowed brow, and Molly fancied she could feel the quickening of his pulse beating against her wrist. She let her eyes drift shut and she gulped at the stale air in the cab like it was manna, not wanting Sherlock to know how confusing she found the idle contact. She didn't want him to relinquish his hold, knowing that after tonight, he may never _want_ to touch her again, not after everything she would be forced to reveal. That single thought frightened her more than anything else in the whole world right then, that the pulse hammering alongside her own could disappear from her life forever. She felt ashamed to even entertain the possibility that Sherlock might desert her, but still, once he _knew_...

Sherlock squeezed her hand again, gently but firmly.

"Nothing you're going to tell me tonight will make the slightest bit of difference to how I... _feel_ about you," he said resolutely, his face betraying only a modicum of distaste at admitting he was capable of sentiment. "You have my word on that."

"And this isn't- You're not-" Molly didn't know whether to continue this brutal line of thought, but Sherlock's expectant silence pushed her to carry on. She was glad that she didn't have the strength to look at him anymore. "You're not making me do this because you want to gather evidence for a case... are you? Because if that's it then I gave my statements to the police already, I went through everything with them, I-"

"Molly."

"I'm just saying, if that's why you want to know then okay, that's fine, but please just _tell me-_"

"_Molly._"

The pathologist stuttered to a reluctant halt, her breathing shallow. Sweat was forming on her upper lip and along her hairline and she felt silly and sick and dizzy all at once. She found that the intimate space of the cab had begun to spin, her body suddenly feeling sharply off-kilter on the slick, leather seat. Sherlock's grip on her hand had become even tighter during her speech, the only thing in the vehicle that wasn't whirling. It grounded her. _He_ grounded her. She began to berate herself fiercely, eyes squeezed shut against the rising nausea that made her want to gag.

What was she doing, trying to push him away like this?

Why was she asking such stupid questions?

Didn't she trust him?

The cab driver - trying not to listen-in to the conversation yet finding the sight of the swooning woman in his backseat the final clincher - swiveled around at the next set of traffic lights, peering at the young couple with a mixture of concern and suspicion. The tall, dark haired man in particular looked less than composed, his eyes wild beneath unkempt curls, yet he seemed too well dressed to be a junkie or a pusher. The cabbie narrowed his eyes at their joined hands, examining the whitened knuckles, then he searched Molly's pained expression with trepidation.

"Are you alright love?" he asked gruffly, continuing to give Molly an appraising stare.

"She's fine," Sherlock replied crisply, not sparing the cabbie the slightest glance.

"Look, I wasn't asking _you_, mate-"

"And _she_ didn't ask _you_, either," Sherlock retorted hotly, ripping his head around and glaring daggers at the stunned driver. "So just do what I'm paying you to do and _drive-the-cab_. Just because you've got an estrange son, a wife who is sleeping with her ti-chi instructor and a strange lusting after your brother-in-law does not mean you can poke your fat, _ugly_ nose into _our_ private business."

* * *

It was probably inevitable that Molly and Sherlock should be forced to walk the rest of the way to 221b Baker Street, after being ousted from the taxi by the enraged cabbie - though it was uncharacteristic for them to do so in _silence_. Sherlock was still fuming regarding his loss of control, trying and failing to understand this explosive matter of _temper_ that was so unlike him; whilst Molly, though feeling a lot better after her brief spell in the backseat, was struggling to find the words to apologise to the detective for everything she'd said.

They barely touched as they trudged along, each lost in their own worlds.

Sherlock walked a couple of paces behind Molly, his hand hovering at the small of her back but refusing to press there. It was as though he wanted to be there in the event of a sudden collapse, his fingers itching in readiness for the fall. In all truth he had found her outburst in the taxi quite as confusing as he had his own, and didn't know whether it was over. Was it something only _women_ did? He had never seen a man do something so simultaneously debilitating yet frighteningly brazen, but then again his few male acquaintances offered little by way of comparative data. _A doctor, an inspector, a government official and a criminal mastermind_ - not much scope for emotional breakdowns there, at least, not publicly. They struck Sherlock as the sorts of people who would suffer such episodes privately as opposed to in the back of a London cab. As for the women in his life, the only other females he knew of besides Molly were the redoubtable Mrs Hudson, a woman so confusingly riddled with emotional outbursts it was difficult to _categorize_ any_ single type_ - and then there was Mummy, more a _figure_ than a woman, someone who was cold and confined, never betraying her true feelings except in times of uncontrollable rage. He frowned deeply as they walked, his eyebrows forming a fierce line. What Molly had done baffled him, maddeningly, but he sensed talking about it would be considered bad form, so kept quiet and distant until she offered him the inclination to do otherwise.

As for Molly, she found Sherlock's silence to be incredibly ominous. She guessed that he was angry with her for her barbed comments and couldn't blame him. She felt utterly miserable, keeping her hands in her coat pockets and her head lowered in shame. She daren't turn to look over her shoulder at the detective, fearing a sharp word or a reproachful glare, but the space between them troubled her as they continued along the pavement to 221b. She wanted to reach back to him and take his arm, walk with her head resting on his shoulder in order to feel the warm, comforting wool of his coat rub against her cheek. It was exactly the thing to calm her, knowing that it would alleviate the clenching dread settled in her stomach, as weighty and real as a stone. Had she realised the careful attention he was paying to her every faltering step, Molly might have smiled in relief.

When they arrived at the steps leading up to the door of the flat, Molly stopped abruptly on the third. Sherlock, not anticipating this, didn't pull back quickly enough and that hovering hand landed at the base of her spine, molding there briefly before he could snatch it away. Her body was warm beneath the layers of fabric beneath his palm, and the detective bit down on his lower lip before letting his eyes flicker up to meet hers. Molly had turned at the touch, her face expectant - _a little scared too, he realised_ - and Sherlock stared back at her unblinkingly, waiting for her to speak - _or maybe shout._ But she didn't, she just watched him avidly in return. Her mouth was very slightly agape, a thin strip of black between the inviting pink, and Sherlock canted his head to the side, studying it.

He had delved into that blackness, once, tasted it and memorized its flavour. He found himself wondering whether the taste would be the same the second time, pondering what situational variances would do to it. Would he, for instance, be able to gage her present emotion by running his tongue along the roof of her mouth, across her teeth? He had heard of people being able to _taste fear_, was this the same? As he watched, Molly swallowed and Sherlock tracked the gulp as it travelled down the elegant line of her throat. How had he never appreciated the beauty of that simple, feminine contour? How could he have missed something so _obvious?_

The harsh night breeze stung Molly's skin, making her tremble. She wanted to draw her coat closer about her but found herself pinned to the spot by Sherlock's unwavering attention. It was like being caught in the eye of a storm, knowing that putting one toe out of line would result in her being swept away and dashed to pieces. Still, when Sherlock moved to join her on the third step, when the hand at her back guided her body flush against his own, she was helpless.

He maneuvered them until they were leaning against the railings, the hard metal digging into Molly's shoulders until she winced, and yet he didn't say a word in explanation. His movements were all unspoken purpose. He was watching her, still observing her every breath and shiver, as he curled his fist loosely in the end of her ponytail and tugged softly until she raised her forehead. There was nothing cruel in his look, just a strange, wolfish tenderness. It was at once possessive and fierce, but also kind. Molly couldn't blink, not even when he pressed his face close to hers. Sherlock's lips, cracked from the cold but plush and hot, settled on the tip of her nose, beneath her eyes, her chin, then cheeks, then lingered along her brow.

"W-What are you doing?" she stammered, closing her fingers over the knot in his scarf. She felt as though if she didn't find purchase on something she'd slide down the railings in a dead faint.

"Partly showing you that I'm sorry - though I'm not sure for _what_ -" Sherlock drawled, "Partly exercising the desire to catalogue every line on your face. Given your current expression of bewilderment, the latter may take some time."

Molly nodded dumbly, her hands still resting against the front of his coat in an attempt to steady herself. The gloved fingers which had been pulling at her hair now settled on the back of her neck, cupping beneath her hairline but above the collar of her jacket. The worn leather was heated by the detective's skin, which was an odd comfort for Molly. Knowing the conversation they were about to have in the confines of 221b, the pathologist wondered if she should mention the gloves Moriarty had worn as he'd handled her.

Unable to control it, Molly gave a tiny, startled choke.

Sherlock's lips stilled on her forehead, suddenly wary. Had he read the situation wrongly? Wouldn't be the first time - _blasted sentiment._ Had his data been inaccurate, misinformed? He had been under the impression that holding your lover, showing them _physical affection_ and _openness_, was the thing to do in moments such as this. He had thought it would be comforting, gentlemanly. But wait, judging by Molly's continued proximity, the fact that her fingers were still clinging to his clothes, meant that _he_ wasn't the cause of that little, frightened sound.

Sherlock moved to press Molly's face into the hollow of his throat, enjoying the feel of her eyelashes fluttering along the underside of his jaw. She didn't seem to be about to cry or fit, she was merely breathing heavily, puffs of hot, fevered air blowing against his Adam's apple. He stroked her, held her, until the beat of her heart against his became less erratic, then he pulled back a fraction and stared down at her small, upturned face. Her cheeks were flushed pink and ripe, her large eyes no longer widened with fear but shining with attentiveness. She seemed calm, her hands resting on his chest instead of clutching at it. Whatever had scared her, it was blatantly clear to Sherlock that _he_ wasn't it.

"Shall we?" he asked, inclining his head to the closed front door of 221b.

He flinched imperceptibly when Molly's nails dug into his chest, little half-moons of startled pain. She had lowered her gaze again, fixing it on the tiny triangle of skin visible between the collar of his shirt and the knot of his scarf. She glared at it. Sherlock, sensing her resolve slipping, removed his glove and deftly caught her chin between fore-finger and thumb, forcing her face up. He saw the trepidation swimming in her eyes, the tremulous set of her lips, and shook his head, at a loss for how else to convince her that this was _right._ He grasped blindly, his fingertips edging across her cheek.

"It will be alright, Molly," he said again, reiterating his words of earlier only deeper, softer.

There was a loaded pause in which all the sounds of London seemed to well up around them, the traffic, the shouts, the laughter, the pouring rain. Molly ignored it all, focusing all her attention upon the detective's drawn, patient face. There was a yearning behind it, she could sense that, and it was maybe the curiosity of this realisation that made her give a brief, determined nod.

"Okay."

Sherlock grinned at that one simple word, so brimming with value. Molly shook him off and took to climbing the steps again, and he watched her in admiration as she reached for the door, enjoying the new rigour of purpose in her stride.

His strong, resourceful, _brave_ Molly Hooper, the woman he had been searching for, who had almost succeeded in completely passing him by.

* * *

**A bit shorter than usual, but i think it leads on into the next part better if i leave it here. Comments greatly appreciated as always.x **


	10. Waiting

**Well here is Chapter 10 - after much deliberation I decided to split the update otherwise it would be HUGE. Thanks titebarnacle and rory'sfan04 for helping me make up my mind :)**

**Also, if i leave it here there's a bit of cliffhangerness - and we love that right? :P  
**

* * *

Chapter Ten

Sherlock had expected to be greeted by John waiting in the flat, but instead found the rooms cold and empty, the lights out and air stale, all uncharacteristically quiet. He judged the doctor had been out all day - _breakfast dishes left unwashed in the sink, laptop untouched from the previous night_ - which meant he was either working late at the clinic or else had somehow deduced what Sherlock had planned for the evening and chosen to stay away. Deciding that John was quite incapable of the latter, the detective turned to Molly and said briskly as he removed his coat and scarf, "I think we should retire to my room. John will be home soon and I'd rather we weren't interrupted."

He had said it with no questionable inflection of tone, no hidden agenda, but the pathologist remained standing in the doorway, stricken, her wet coat dripping dully down onto the carpet. The surge of confidence she had experienced on the street mere moments ago seemed to have fizzled out, and the mouse in her had returned stronger than ever.

Trying to concealed a wave of exasperation, Sherlock wondered briefly as he advanced towards her whether she likened him to a savage tomcat, avidly stalking its prey. She certainly seemed to as she shrank back a fraction when he reached for her hand, causing him to still mid-step. He knew implicitly that there was nothing present within him that would harm her - _toy with her like a ball of string batted from paw to paw_ - but still, reassurance was key, clearly. All the frustration he may feel, all the impatience and dread, had to be pushed aside in favor of her.

It was all about _her_.

Make her safe. Make her feel wanted. Make her feel as though nothing bad will ever come of her confiding this secret in him. It didn't matter if the prospect of hearing the details of _that night_ made his blood boil, his heart stutter and his stomach clench in horrible unfamiliarity, nothing - _absolutely nothing_ - compared to the thoughts and feelings that must be running riot inside Molly's innocent, little head.

How could she stand it? Sherlock couldn't decipher half of the things jumbled up, screaming, within his brain at that moment. It made him want to sit still in the darkness for hours and crouch, rocking, to shoot madly at target after target, to go to the kitchen table and send his experiments crashing to the floor, to do _anything_ to reorder the cluttered ruin of his mind palace - yet there _she_ was, standing there so sweet and simple, containing it all like some monstrous pressure cooker. Was that what they all did? Could it really be that all the ordinary people he looked down upon had this amazing capacity to store and assimilate such strong complexities of emotion - all the time, every day, every single passing second? It seemed impossible.

"You don't have to do that, you know," Molly said, advancing with sudden fearlessness over the threshold of the flat and looking up at him with a keen yet surprisingly soft expression. There was something else there too, lingering behind her eyes - _determination?_

"Do what?" Sherlock asked haltingly, not liking that she seemed to know something he didn't.

Was it obvious? How had he missed it this time?

"All day, you..." she trailed off, sighing. Molly bit her lower lip and looked quickly away and then back again, stealing herself as she reached up, laying her palm against the flat of his cheek, her fingers tickling the shell of his ear. He blinked, astonished, but didn't pull back - her skin was chill, strangely and deliciously soothing, and the fact that she had initiated the contact made it all the more wonderful for its rarity. She shook her head slightly, as though disappointed in him, as she said, "You're clearly struggling with this, but you're trying to act brave. For me. I have... _no idea_ what you're thinking."

"Isn't that the normal thing to do when you care about someone's feelings?" Sherlock replied uncertainly, confusion creasing his brow.

"Do you pretend you're not frightened around John, to spare him from it?" Molly prompted frankly, "Do you hide how happy you are from him? How sad?"

"No," Sherlock said blankly, still unclear what point she was clawing for.

"Then why do it with me?" Molly asked, fingers moving slowly down his neck to rest lightly on his shoulder, rubbing it consolingly.

"John is my best friend," Sherlock said slowly, loathe to elaborate on the topic but knowing that he must. "He _makes_ me want to tell him, sometimes, but not always. It's different with you."

"How so?" Molly probed gently.

Sherlock considered this in silence. His recent foray into_ feeling_ had given him a lot of mixed messages, making it hard for him to know which impulses to listen to, which to entertain or down-right ignore. He had thought that being the stead-fast, more emotionally passive out of the two of them would make it easier for Molly, but it seemed not. How then did she want him to behave? He didn't know if he _could_ tell her how this situation was affecting him, for he hardly knew himself. How could he unburden something which he did not properly understand? How could he tell her what he was thinking - when all he could salvage from the scattered mess were brutal images of pain, destruction and aggression?

_Her pain. That man's destructive aggression_.

Yes, he recognised that he felt angry, hurt, even passionate, but there were a thousand and one other sparks of something dancing between these rigidly defined emotional avenues that he simply could not label. It was like he was constantly floundering in open water, not quite drowning but not able to float, treading the fine line between suffocating darkness and bright, dazzling sun.

"I'm not sure what to do..." he said at last, truthfully. "You're _new_ to me, Molly. This whole thing is entirely new."

Molly watched as the detective's face clouded over, becoming introspective and brooding in the dim light of the living room. The expression was akin to the glower he adopted when examining a fresh corpse - it was at once compelling, yet unnerving. It was clear to her that Sherlock would probably _never_ know what it was she wanted from him, but instead of making her sad the realisation flooded her with a strong, nurturing warmth. She wanted to make him understand so many things, and hoped with all of her _might_ that she would be allowed the time and the fortitude with which to teach him.

All along she had sensed Sherlock had been holding back from her - not maliciously, Molly didn't think him capable of that - but still, if this was going to work he would need to be as honest with her as he expected her to be with him. That halting confession of uncertainty was a step in the right direction, be it a rather small one, but it was at least a start. It showed that he was willing to _try_. She smiled up at him, slightly overwhelmed by the prospect of the task ahead of her, but the smile soon wavered.

Sherlock's hand slid up to grasp hers atop his shoulder, but rather than grip it he gave it a brief squeeze before returning it gently to her side, his fingers cool about her slim wrist. Molly made to ask what was wrong, struggling to conceal a stab of hurt from crossing her face - but the detective shook his head wordlessly and took a step away from her, out of the personal space he had so recently seemed to revel in.

"Sherlock?"

"John is coming," Sherlock said again, though his voice seemed suddenly quite queer and distant, giving Molly pause. "Go to my room and wait for me there? I won't be long."

"Why-"

"I need to think," Sherlock interrupted, not unkind but still firm, his tone deep and roughened in its insistence.

His eyes were downcast and sullen and he refused to answer her questioning stare, but when his hand settled upon her back to guide her from the room there was nothing in the touch to suggest that he felt angry or put-upon - it was still tender, though somehow detached. He directed her through the kitchen to an adjoining corridor, ushering her through the first door on the right. Closing it behind her with a decisive little nod, he returned to the living room and left her alone, in an awkward, baffled silence she felt she could hardly bear.

Not knowing what exactly she had said to produce such a peculiar reaction, Molly shrugged to herself sadly and began to remove her bedraggled coat, shuddering as the wet material fell from her shoulders. She told herself it was the effect of the rain that made her tremble, but the cold came from within, cutting like a sheet of ice through her belly. It was Sherlock's abrupt curtness that had chilled her, the raw, bitter feel of his retraction from her side.

She should have felt giddy, to at long last be privy to the consulting detective's flat, his bedroom, his _things_ - those secret trappings of his personality that were so rarely seen by the outside world; the neatly made bed with its robust mahogany frame, the plush armchair by the curtained window, the shelves upon shelves of books and journals covering a bafflingly wide diversity of topics, the scientific equipment and case notes haphazardly littering the hardwood floor. She should have grinned to see the same periodic table on his wall that hung above her desk at work - not knowing the many times he had stared into it at night and seen only her face staring back at him amidst the blocks of colour. She should have felt honored to stand there, in the midst of pure, uninhibited _Sherlock_, happy that he felt easy enough with her to allow her access to 221b, but in his absence the privilege felt vaguely cheapened. He had thrust her away, unceremoniously closed the door, and now she waited for him to return like some cowed, silly little girl.

Molly Hooper was always _waiting_ for Sherlock Holmes.

Hadn't she _waited_ long enough?

Hadn't she _waited_ and _waited_ that terrible night whilst being tortured by Moriarty?

Hadn't she _waited_ for him to save her - hadn't she prayed - for him to be brilliant, for him to be brave.

The chill in her had grown acute. As the minutes stretched and she heard the distant sounds of John returning, she listened patiently to the ensuing rumble of masculine voices - they went on for so long she became convinced that Sherlock had forgotten her, _again_. Her body and heart had become overwhelmingly heavy with the waiting, and she sank down into the armchair and put her head in her hands, collapsing into a sour volley of thought in which she harangued herself for ever stepping over the threshold of this _blasted_ flat.

Then she leant back against the cushions and Sherlock's smell enveloped her entirely, and she imagined him sitting where she sat during the nights he couldn't - _or when he refused_ - to sleep, just reading, maybe drinking tea and gazing into the street, maybe lost in the pathways and avenues of his mind palace...

Thinking of that, it was hard not to feel just a little bit safer, just a little bit trusted. She just wished he would come back and chase away the cold he had left slowly growing apace inside her.

* * *

Sherlock had not meant to be unfeeling, but selfishness was a hard habit to break - almost as hard as the habit that brought him rushing to the fireplace, grabbing desperately for a lone persian slipper. Snatching it up from its home by the andirons, he tipped it over and shook vigorously until a pack of cigarettes fell from the toe into his outstretched palm. Unbeknownst to John, he had replenished his emergency supply since beginning this _tryst_ with Molly. As he had already learned on that first, fateful day in her pokey little kitchen, she was a problem patches simply wouldn't cure. The conversation they had just had, the things brought to light by her reproachful words, required some solitary study before he could bring himself to discus anything else.

Mindful that his brusque treatment of Molly probably wouldn't bode well for long, Sherlock tore the pack open and placed a cigarette between his lips, lighting it using a box of matches he had hidden discreetly beneath his skull some weeks earlier. In his experiences of battling John over this, Sherlock had discovered that the safest hiding places were usually the most obvious, given John's weakness for believing Sherlock original and brilliant in every aspect - no matter how trivial or mundane the object. John would expect smoking to be treated with the same ingenuity and perseverance of mind he applied to everything else, and Sherlock let him think that not only because it stroked his vanity but because it proved useful at times such as this.

Unfortunately, this particular time was very short-lived.

"Sherlock?"

Turning from the fireplace, the detective exhaled a cloud of smoke pointedly towards the unwelcome voice, determined to be insolent rather than penitent. John Watson spluttered in the doorway, scowling at Sherlock who merely grinned thinly in return, giving a daring, boyish shrug - _Still wearing his ghastly clinic garb, possible delay on the tube which would explain deep-seated expression of exasperation, carrying both rucksack and plastic bag so has been to the corner shop, length and obvious weight of item would suggest alcohol as the most likely purchase, probably whiskey._ Ammunition acquired, Sherlock smirked to himself as he waited for John to erupt. At that moment, goading his flat mate was a much more appealing prospect than the one waiting for him in his bedroom. Instantly the smirk morphed into a frown as he took a hard drag on his cigarette, trying vainly to remove the swell of guilt which that thought had provoked.

"I thought we agreed?" the doctor said, raising an eyebrow in weary accusation. "You could at least use an ashtray, Mrs Hudson will kill you when she sees the state of the floor."

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock paced to the window and flung it wide before leaning heavily on the sill. Conceding to John this small victory, he gazed passively out into the London streets as he continued to smoke with brazen disregard. He heard the doctor sigh behind him and his lip quirked.

"So, are you going to tell me?" John asked dutifully, coming further into the room and collapsing onto the sofa with an exhausted groan. It had been an atrociously long day, and thanks to Mycroft's visit he had needed to stay later than usual in order to finish up his paperwork and now, to top it all off nicely, he had come home to find Sherlock brooding, snide and _smoking_ - a true harbinger of woe.

"Tell you what?" Sherlock mumbled petulantly, flinging the end of his cigarette into the night before immediately lighting another.

"Well if you're _chaining it_ there has to be something wrong with you," John explained wryly, shirking off his rucksack and depositing the plastic bag on the coffee table with a tell-tale clink.

Sherlock snorted.

"And if you've bought whiskey there must be something wrong with_ you_, John," Sherlock replied briskly, extending a long arm and snatching the bottle from the bag, holding it up to his eyes and examining the label with contempt. "Holidays Only, I seem to remember you saying last New Years Day. _You know_, when you woke up on the stoop covered in-"

"Yes, well," John cut him off with a cough and a glare, holding his hand out for the bottle. "I asked you first."

Letting the newly-lit cigarette dangle from his lower lip, Sherlock ignored John's outstretched hand and unscrewed the cap of the bottle with a satisfying crack of freshly-broken seal. Before the doctor could protest, the detective had taken a deep slug, only balking slightly at the bitter taste.

"If you're going to break your penance you could at least do it with a decent brand, John," Sherlock grimaced, tossing the whiskey to his flat mate who barely caught it due to his utter astonishment.

"You're _drinking_ too?" John asked in disbelief, uneasy now as well as annoyed.

"I _drink_," Sherlock drawled, turning back to the window and the cool, calming breeze, trying to prevent a rising sense of panic from mingling with the hot curl of liquor now squirming in his gut. Molly had been waiting in his bedroom for quite some time now. He grimaced. He was making a mess of it. He was doing this so very, very badly, and they'd barely even begun the evening. There had to be something which would right him, which would set him back on track. _Perhaps if he...  
_

"In our entire friendship I have never seen you take more than a single glass of wine at Christmas-"

"Call it Dutch courage then," Sherlock said, his tone turning softly conciliatory. When John didn't reply, Sherlock rolled his eyes for a second time and scrubbed his free hand viciously through his curls. "If I were to tell you that _Molly Hooper_ is in my bedroom right now, waiting for me to come to my _senses_ would you leave off your pithy remarks about ash on the carpet and _help me?_"

"Jesus, Sherlock, _what_-"

"You have to fix me John, fix _this_," Sherlock blundered away from the window and began to do rounds of the coffee table, his long legs loosing their steadiness with each new pass of the sofa and the stunned doctor sitting upon it. "I thought I was doing everything perfectly, giving her what she wants, acting _how_ she wants, but apparently not! I'm doing it wrong, John, and it's _all your fault!_"

"_My_ fault? How is it my fault?" John's eyebrows rose to new heights on his forehead as he watched Sherlock careen by him for the eighth time in as many seconds, then he narrowed his eyes suspiciously, "What did you do?"

"I only did what you told me to do!" Sherlock snarled, "You told me to be understanding, to be patient, to respect her feelings and her choices and I did it all - even though it's _killed me_ to do it. I've wanted to sweep her up a thousand times and _show_ her so much, to- to-"

John was gazing at Sherlock with wide eyes, watching helplessly as the most composed and collected man he knew dissolved into a stuttering, inarticulate mess. He had lit a third cigarette by now and was heaving on it, the air about him a dense, acrid blue, whipped up into a smog by his constant pacing. His tailored suit, usually so crisp and clean, was creased and dotted with smudges of ash, his crumpled collar open and exposing his slowly reddening throat. John had only ever seen him like this a handful of times, when a case was proving near-impossible to solve or that one time, when he had shot a multitude of holes in the living room wall and slipped - not bored, not acting, not _Sherlock_ - into a dead faint.

"I don't know what she wants me to do, John," Sherlock continued hoarsely, finally coming to a halt by the fireplace and turning a pleading stare the doctor's way. "She said that she doesn't want me to act brave for her, that hiding my feelings about that _bastard_ Moriarty-"

"Sherlock, stop."

John put up a hand and caught Sherlock off-guard, causing him to halt his increasingly frantic diatribe.

"What Molly is asking is very simple," John said carefully, leaning forwards and resting his elbows on his knees. Sherlock's frenzied stare had become fixed and attentive, and he trod the end of his cigarette into the carpet in order to give John his full focus. John winced, mentally apologizing to Mrs Hudson. He clasped his hands behind his neck and looked up at Sherlock, saying meekly, "She is merely asking you to be yourself. You're the master of disguise, could it be that you've been wearing a mask for her?"

"I thought she wanted me to be-"

"She just wants _you_, you preposterous idiot." John interrupted again, trying not to crow in frustration. He ignored how Sherlock huffed in annoyance - it was a reassuring sign of the detective's old self and made the doctor chuckle. "How can you expect her to share everything she has with you, if you're not willing to do the same?"

"I _am_ willing," Sherlock said resolutely, sinking down on his haunches by the grate, arms crossed. "I just thought, to show her how much I- To _tell_ her even, would frighten her."

"It might," John conceded seriously, nodding.

"I don't know how I feel about it all, John," Sherlock admitted quietly, averting his eyes awkwardly to the side. "How do I tell her something I don't even know?"

"You'll have to figure that out, mate," John shrugged, leaning back into the sofa and sighing, his head beginning to pound from all this deep conversation. Much to his chagrin, John had to admit that playing the detective's relationship guru was beginning to wear thin. "She'll help you."

"I'm the one who's supposed to be helping_ her_," Sherlock countered hotly, "I can't just unload all this on her, she'll-"

"You're doing it with me," John reasoned, "Why is it so different with her?"

Sherlock stilled, his body stiffly crouched in sudden thought.

That's exactly what Molly had been trying to say - wasn't it? If he could confide in John like this, why not with her? At first the answer had seemed simple. John - _honest, resourceful, reliable John_ - was his best friend. He had felt an affinity with him from the moment they'd met, he had been able to open up to him in a way he had to no one else before, not even his own brother. The connection had been so immediate, so natural, Sherlock had never questioned it. Molly, on the other hand - _sweet, open, trusting Molly_ - had not been so easy. Their relationship had been full of false starts and obstacles, right from the beginning, before the Moriarty business had even started. Being so naturally candid with her had never felt quite right, not in the way it had with John, but over time he had begun to _want_ to tell her things, to describe his emotions - but by that point it had seemed too late. He had trapped himself in a role, and he hadn't been able to free himself from it. He had slipped into the pitfall of convincing himself that Molly preferred him this way - _the protector_ - when really it was quite the opposite. It was _he_ who had preferred it. He had liked playing the part of the strong one, he had enjoyed the surety of it - but that wasn't enough anymore.

As John had said, it wasn't _him_.

Also, it made a mockery of all the promises he'd made to himself that first day in Molly's apartment, when he had sat in her smokey kitchen and swore to be open, swore to be vulnerable. All lies now, it seemed, all deception. It wasn't good enough - and if Sherlock Holmes was anything at all, he was most definitely a perfectionist at heart. He could do better. He _would_ do better.

"Thank you, John," he muttered, standing and straightening his suit. "You've given me a lot to think about."

Before the doctor could reply Sherlock had exited the living room, his stride unmistakably purposeful. John watched him leave, noting the rigidity of his back and shoulders, the high angle of his chin and confident set of his jaw. He smiled approvingly, recognising the significance of his friend's deliberate posture. The detective was sure of something, had come to a decision and would follow through on it no matter what - like a theory that required investigating or a message that needed delivering personally to Scotland Yard, Sherlock was on a mission and nothing would get in his way.

The thought made John reevaluate his decision to tell Sherlock of Mycroft's inappropriate visit and dire warnings - the whole reason for the whiskey on the table, a detail John was amazed the detective had managed to forget in the face of his own problems. That in itself decided John; now was not the time, it would keep for another day. If Mycroft was right and Moriarty really _was_ planning to harm Molly again, he was convinced Sherlock would already know about it.

It would take far more than a woman's charms to cloud his friend's deductive prowess - wouldn't it?

* * *

**So, CH11... Will Molly's waiting finally be over? What will transpire regarding the infamous CONVERSATION? Will John keep his sanity as relationship guru to Sherlock Holmes? Stay tuned ;) **


	11. Denatured in the Dark

**WARNING: This chapter contains explicit recollections of non-con. If you think this will upset or offend you, please do not read. This chapter is why the story is rated M. **

**It took a while to write this, it's quite dark towards the end, but be rest assured happier times are ahead :)**

* * *

Chapter Eleven

After exiting the living room, Sherlock stood outside his closed bedroom door for a long moment contemplating with trepidation what he might find on the other side of it. He didn't expect Molly to be angry, though affronted and hurt were definite possibilities given his atrocious behavior. He knew it had been bad form the second he'd shut the door on her questioning, but then he would never have spoken to John and that - _it seemed_ - had been quite essential. His formerly scattered and confused thoughts were now composed and he felt ready to face the grueling task ahead of him, namely - _he shuddered_ - the bearing of his soul.

Taking a deep, sobering breath, he turned the handle and opened the door.

The room was much as he'd left it, dimly lit by his bedside lamp and slightly chill from his prolonged absence. In all honesty he didn't often spend time there, finding the four walls oppressive and _intensely_ dull. Save for perusing the bookshelves and tossing beneath the sheets of his bed in uneasy slumber, he seldom used this room - preferring the open space of the living room, the dramatic allure of sprawling on the couch or the welcome concentration of tinkering with his miniature lab in the kitchen. Though of course, there were exceptions to this rule. Some nights, when he was feeling too tired or introverted to roam the flat or communicate civilly with John, he would take refuge in his armchair by the window and switch himself off completely. It was a high-backed, soft leather affair with a deep seat and long arms, the perfect spot in which to brood in comfort, mostly undisturbed. However, the sight which greeted Sherlock as he stepped across the threshold gave that simple, ordinary retreat a wholly new dimension.

Molly was sleeping soundly in his armchair, looking for all the world like she _belonged_ there. She lay half-curled, her legs together and knees turned inward, her drooping head cushioned against the worn material of the arm, hands folded loosely in her lap. Her face appeared honeyed in the lamplight, shadows dipping beneath the hollows of her ears and chin, her eyelashes fanning out darkly across her cheeks, her plush mouth open just the barest fraction. For once her forehead was smoothly tempered, like she didn't have a care in the world to trouble her.

In that moment Sherlock felt something he could hardly describe. He wasn't sure whether it was an urge or a longing which presented itself, but looking at her, surrounded by his possessions and seeming to take refuge in them - she was beautiful. Molly was not a conventionally attractive person, he had always known that, but it was this very thing which had drawn him to her in the first place. She was unordinary in an otherwise vacuous world of colourless people, something which rang especially true here. Her simple _presence_ had transformed the banality of his bedroom into something else entirely, something which was much brighter and easier to live with. Watching her made him feel tranquil, dispelling the churning nervousness that had settled within him throughout the evening's disturbing events. She was remarkably peaceful, and for once so was he.

Without stopping to think, Sherlock strode to the armchair and knelt down before it, pressing his face against Molly's knees. His hands grasped at the backs of her legs, his broad fingers cupping her calves and stroking them, thumbs brushing along the hemline of her skirt. He inhaled the scent of her skin through the thin denier of her beige tights and gave a soft, barely audible murmur of appreciation. It was a womanly smell, but rather than embarrass him it made him want to drink it in, to _drown_ in it.

So engrossed was he in cataloguing her scent he didn't notice as Molly began to stir, hardly registering her sharp intake of breath at finding him curled so close at her feet. He only came to himself when a hand tangled itself in his curls, petting and tugging at his scalp until he gave a wondering groan. He huddled further against her, his fingers flexing behind her knees and he murmured again, turning his face to pillow his cheek in her lap.

"You smell of smoke," Molly said softly, her voice thick with sleep, the hand not combing through his hair moving to trace along the promontory of his jaw.

"And you smell _wonderful_," Sherlock said, words muffled against the fabric of her skirt. "You smell _heavenly_."

Molly's mind was beginning to wake up, learning to appreciate the situation slowly. It had been a long time since someone had shown her such an obvious form of affection - of course, Sherlock had been _attentive_ to her for some while, but this was quite different. In all of their previous touches he had seemed restrained, as though he were trying to rein himself in, whereas now he seemed completely uninhibited. His long limbs reached out toward her, wanting to wrap close and nestle into her warmth, like a baby searching blindly for the welcome press of a mother's kiss.

As she remembered his abrupt desertion of her she wanted to feel cross with him, but it was impossible. He felt so vulnerable beneath her caress, so very _un-Sherlock_, that all she could muster was a begrudging fondness edged with irritation.

"Did you find the answer to your problem?" she asked quietly, looking down at the top of his head resting on her thigh. He had his eyes closed as though sleeping but he nodded in response, butting his head against her palm in a silent request to keep stroking. "And what was it?"

"That I'm a fool," Sherlock mumbled after a long, ponderous moment, his face contorting in a self-deprecating grimace. He opened his eyes, glancing up at her through his lashes. He smiled ruefully. "You've made me into a fool, Molly Hooper. I hope you're satisfied."

Molly's hand stilled and Sherlock winced - perhaps lacing the impending awkwardness with light humor wasn't the best way to go after all. Still gripping the backs of her legs, he straightened up and leant forwards so that their faces were almost level, his midriff pressing against her knees. His brows were furrowed, worried, and he gnawed absently on his lower lip as he waited for her to speak. He couldn't just _say it_, he needed a prompt from her or the words would never come.

"You're not a fool," Molly said placatingly, chuckling uneasily under his steady, expectant gaze.

"I am about these things," Sherlock replied, determined not to back down from the decision he'd just come to in the living room.

_She has to know._

John was right, perhaps the only way to fully understand what he felt was to voice it to the source of his confusion. Molly was a sensitive, emotionally-driven human being who had more experience with love and loss than he would ever have throughout his entire existence. She would know what to say, she would help him. She _had_ to know, she _had_ to help - or else all this would be for nothing.

His eyes lowered and he stared fixedly at one of the buttons on her blouse. _Mother of pearl, a favoured purchase from a vintage shop in Soho - she wears the item often because she thinks it makes her look older than she really is, especially at work._ He wondered how best to proceed, sensing that Molly was beginning to fret due to the slight quiver exhibited beneath his touch. _Or maybe that's me trembling?_ He couldn't tell anymore. He'd become bound up with her so completely, he found it a wonder she didn't already know what he wanted to say.

"I'm sorry I haven't told you this yet," Sherlock went on, still avoiding meeting her eyes. "But I thought it would frighten you."

Molly watched the struggle passing over his features in silence, not knowing what to say to alleviate it. He looked so_ lost_, it unnerved her.

"When I think about what happened between you and Moriarty I feel the urge to _destroy_ things utterly, to go out into the streets and _break_ someone, to find him and _tear_ him to pieces." Sherlock said through suddenly gritted teeth, the emotion he was attempting to describe welling up unbidden to throttle his throat like a choking fist. The pressure of his grip on her legs became more severe and Molly tried to hide a wince from crossing her face but she couldn't help it, she found herself tensing. "Just thinking about it makes my insides _churn_ with _rage_."

"Then why did you ask me here tonight?" Molly frowned, perplexed and even a little scared as she observed the suppressed fury animating Sherlock's countenance. "Why do you want to know what happened?"

"Because there's something else there too," Sherlock said, his grip loosening marginally as he relaxed once again. As he'd spoken of the consulting criminal his posture had seemed strong and unyielding, but now his shoulders slumped and he tipped his head back to finally look at her. His eyes swam dark and urgent, full of a shocking passion. "Underneath the anger I feel... so many things, Molly, I can't..."

"What things?" Molly prompted, letting her hand fall against his forearm in a gentle, encouraging squeeze. "Why can't you tell me?"

"Because I don't know how to make sense of it, this _feeling_ I have for you," Sherlock said despairingly, knowing on some intuitive level that what he was about to say would sound incredibly selfish - but he was through with lying about this. These were things she positively _needed_ to hear. He gulped at the air, feeling the burning in his lungs from the hastily smoked cigarettes. "It's like I want to cover you with myself, to keep you safe and sheltered and completely untouched by everyone and everything. I want to make it so you never feel the way you did when he hurt you. I want to make it so you forget it all, so that when we- when I- So that when we're _together_ you'll only think of me." He found himself gasping over those last words, as they tumbled out of his mouth desperate to be said. "I want you to only think of me, Molly, and to let me show you how I feel... I want to touch you, I want to _worship_ you, I want to explore every single inch of you like he never did-"

"Sherlock-"

"When I kissed you it was all I could do not to go further. I wanted to kiss the _life_ out of you." Sherlock went on, stumbling over himself and over Molly in his haste to elaborate. "It frightens me, because what if what you said about me was right all along? What if I _am_ like Moriarty and _he_ is like me? He attacked you because he wanted to take the most vulnerable, most breakable part of you and shatter it. He wanted to ruin your trust in me and take pleasure in it - the most literal, carnal pleasure. He wanted to reduce you to something _base_ and _low_ and _tainted_, so that I would look at you and yearn for how you were before, when I hardly knew I needed you. And I- I _need_ you, Molly- I- I ruined everything, and I want to fix it so you won't be scared of me anymore, please-"

"Sherlock, it wasn't your fault..." Molly shook her head in wonder, amazed to see the detective so fraught.

What he said smarted and stung, like he had slapped her hard across the cheek, but at the same time it was only what she had been trying not to think since this whole mess began. It pained her to admit that she blamed him, stinging almost as much as the pain of not being able to give him what he so ardently desired. Maybe he thought she didn't _want_ to give it, which was a hundred times worse.

"I should have seen," Sherlock said forcefully, holding his chin high and glaring into her startled - _beautiful_ -face. "I was an arrogant, petulant fool for not seeing you for what you are. I was too proud to admit that I wanted you before it happened, and then afterwards all I could do was imagine how things could have been had I only _realised_ sooner..."

"Sherlock..." Molly breathed, pressing her hand harder against his arm, trying to stem the flow of words, to quieten him, but it wasn't over.

"Does it make me like him, wanting you the way I do?" Sherlock said, perhaps more to himself than to her, but the question hung heavy in the air like a darting barb. "He did what he did in order to hurt you, but also to _possess_ a piece of you... I never thought of it like that. He owns a piece of your soul, Molly, a bit of your heart, because of what he did. If I _show you_ how I feel, then I'm no better than him."

He lapsed into silence, this realisation seeming to have struck him temporarily dumb with self-loathing. His hands still molded to her calves, but it was an absent touch, as though he'd forgotten he was doing it. Molly took this opportunity to reach forward and brush her fingertips below his chin, coaxing his face up from where it had dropped in shame and agitation.

"Don't ever say that again," Molly said firmly, the reproving brunt of her penetrating stare shocking him out of voicing a retort. "It's not the same."

"Why isn't it?" Sherlock asked, genuinely intrigued and for once in his life anxious to learn that he might be wrong. "Why is it different?"

Molly's firm expression softened and she moved to cup his jaw, kneading his skin beneath her fingertips in an attempt to calm him, to make it so he would listen. It was strange, this peculiar role reversal. Since they had struck up this relationship - _how else could she label it, really_ - he had been the one to ground her, submitting to be her rock in so many respects. Seeing him laid bare, knelt before her like a kicked animal waiting to be forgiven, made her pity him in a way she never had before. She had always known him as a stoic, hardened individual, showing his emotions rarely - if at all. Over the course of the past few weeks he had drawn back this persona, inch by inch, but tonight it was as though he had torn the flesh from his bones and uncovered someone new, someone different. This person was childish, unsure and tenderly insecure - but it was still him, still _hers_.

"Jim forced himself on me," Molly said evenly, though the words felt like the scrape of a knife against her tongue. "You would never do that."

"You never used to be so sure..." Sherlock murmured, reveling in the feel of her warm, slim hands caressing his face and neck, drawing the stress clean out of him even as he remembered the holes he had shot in the living room wall on that day - when he had feared they would never become this, when life had started to depend entirely upon proving to Molly that he was better than Moriarty, that he was incapable of harming her in the same _deplorable_ way.

"I was afraid of you only because he _made_ me so," Molly elaborated kindly. "I don't think I ever truly believed you would harm me like that."

"Then why is it still so difficult for you..." Sherlock trailed off, his cheeks colouring in disgust for even daring to ask.

"I'm not sure," Molly replied honestly, "I just feel like we need to take it slow, to be careful not to rush. I don't want to ruin it or disappoint you. I'd hate it if the first time you ever-"

"This isn't about me," Sherlock interrupted, frowning at her in disbelief and uncontrollable bitterness. "How on earth could _you_ ruin it? For goodness sake, I'm perfectly capable of doing that myself."

In an instant Molly's whole outlook on the evening changed, and she almost sat back from him in astonishment as the reality crashed down upon her. For the first time since their conversation in the morgue that afternoon, Molly truly understood why Sherlock wanted to know the details of her attack. It had seemed an unfeeling, lurid request, but now it made perfect sense. He didn't want to make a mistake which would remind her -_ in any way, shape or form_ - of what Moriarty had done. He didn't trust himself to proceed beyond the kiss in the kitchenette because he didn't know what he would do, how she would react, what memories it would conjure. To put it in the bluntest, most _Sherlockian_ way possible - he was collecting data.

Molly's hands slipped from his face and fell back into her lap, and she looked down at him in a stunned, pondering silence that seemed to stretch on for hours - making the detective's insides bristle with nervousness. She wasn't angry with him, just in total _awe_ of the way his mind worked, how it had dealt with the issue brewing between them. It was almost clinical in its logic. For awhile she thought only of how horrible it would be to talk about what had happened, but then also of how seemingly necessary it all was now.

_"I think you need to tell me just as much as I need to hear it."_

Mere hours ago those words had baffled her, but now they made a clawing, jarring sort of sense. He had to understand that the attraction he felt for her wasn't wrong, that there was nothing for him to be sorry for or ashamed of, that the emotions he was battling with were normal, natural inclinations in the wake of something so damaging. He needed to know that there was absolutely nothing akin between the sort of _savagery_ wheedled by Moriarty and the type of _ardency_ which Sherlock wanted to show her.

"Molly?" Sherlock asked tentatively through the loaded quiet, the cadence of his voice oddly shallow as he mourned the loss of her touch and attention. Her name on his lips sounded so unsure and full of pleading that it caused Molly to lean into him, wrap her arms about his neck and rest her forehead to his, making a low, soothing murmur against the crease of his anxious brow.

"I'll only tell you this once," she whispered, feeling the detective's muscles tauten apprehensively within her embrace. "I'll tell you what happened, if you promise never to make me say it again."

"I promise," Sherlock agreed after a pregnant pause, the words coming deep and frank against the delicate curve of her neck.

* * *

Listening to Molly describe what had been done to her at the hands of the consulting criminal was possibly one of the most difficult things Sherlock had ever had to do.

They had moved from the armchair to the bed, with Molly lying in the centre of it, her hair spread out across the pillows, her hands folded neatly over her middle, her eyes fixed on the ceiling above. Sherlock perched himself at her feet, his fingers idly massaging her foot in silent encouragement, his face determinedly pointed to the opposite wall whilst she talked in a steady, soft voice that threatened to break at any moment.

At first it had been nearly impossible for Molly to loosen her tongue, but as she began to describe the events of the hours preceding the attack it had gotten easier. She found herself falling into an abstract rhythm of speech, until it was like listening to someone else, her mind becoming devoid of embarrassment, shame or fear. In a way she found it quite cathartic - just like Sherlock had tried to persuade her it would be - but still, under the surface of this _forced calm_ there was a prickle of continuous unease that refused to abate. Despite the warm, safe quiet of the setting, the presence of a guiding, compassionate hand and the sure knowledge that nothing would harm her, the fact remained that the truth was being drawn out of her kicking and screaming. All she could do was talk - _talk and talk and talk_ - until it was over, and pray that the man at her feet wouldn't turn the other way in disgust, ashamed to have ever known her.

Sitting close beside the pathologist, Sherlock kept his eyes focused blindly on the bookshelf in front of him, flicking over spine after spine, studying the colours, the titles, the fonts, but not really seeing them at all. The room around him and everything in it no longer seemed to exist - just her voice, the tremulous lilt of her words echoing in an empty, gaping void of nothingness. Instead of the reality, his mind had conjured up a gruesome film-reel of the past, in which he was subjected to an all-too-real depiction of _the act._

Though he termed himself a high-functioning sociopath, he wasn't completely devoid of social queues and mindsets. He had always been aware that rape was categorized as a disgusting, dominating crime only practiced by the most sick of individuals. He had always appreciated the _wrongness_ of it, how it demonstrated a loathsome struggle of carnal power over terrified weakness. It was an evil thing, the epitome of humanity's engrained animalistic nature. However, he had never felt as though it was something for him to be concerned about, not in any real way - even with Molly, before tonight, there had been a sense of detachment from it. He had thought of it as something which had been _done_ to her, something that was _past_, that was _over_ - but listening to it all, hearing it come from the mouth which had been ravaged, which had screamed and pleaded and bled - it chilled him right down to the bone, spreading a wild, hateful shudder throughout his limbs until he felt he could hardly breathe, let alone speak. All he could do was continue to imagine it, let it appear before him like a lucid dream from which he couldn't wake.

He saw Molly as she had been months ago - _that night_ - stumbling back from the doorway to her flat as the lock splintered from the frame, as Moriarty - _still Jim from I.T in her eyes_ - forced his way inside, grabbed her by the shoulders and struck her head hard against the wall until she crumpled in his arms, a tiny, little thing who clung to her attacker even as she tried to run from him. He saw the crazed amusement in Moriarty's face, the barely contained excitement and triumph and it made him feel ill in the pit of his stomach - and then there was Molly's face, her frightened, darting eyes, her dark lashes spiked with blood, her cheeks flushed with the energy of the fight. His bowls clenched in bitter sympathy for her, but he wouldn't let the image go.

Sherlock had known it would be appalling, that to endure it would test him beyond his measure, but he had to keep it together. This had been his idea, after all. They had to get this over with.

It went on and _on_, getting worse and _worse_, until he felt the walls of his mind palace shake in protest as they fought to keep the film-reel alive, as Molly bit and scratched and thrashed, as she was dragged towards her bedroom by a strong, determined arm slung about her waist. Her shoes were knocked off as she kicked and dug her heels into the carpet. The panting, hysterical laughter rung clear and dreadful, mixed in with her shouts, her out-cry muffled by a gloved hand pressed firmly to her lips. The slam of the bedroom door and the heavy, smack of her body against the mattress, the sharp, shattering slaps and punches echoing throughout the deserted kitchen, the empty living room - _no one there to help her, no one believing she was in any danger, no one thinking her important enough to be included in Moriarty's games._

Sherlock could almost smell the sweat, the coppery tang of Molly's blood hanging thickly in the air as the consulting criminal ripped at her blouse, climbed over her back and covered her completely with his body. Removing his gloves, he had played with her, broken her skin with his nails, smacked her thighs with a bare, stinging palm. Her cries had become shallow, soft hiccups of pain - _pathetic_ - and the bedding was soaked in tears. She looked utterly defeated, an expression Sherlock had seldom seen on anyone, especially not on _her_. Not his Molly. _His Molly_ - he thought it deliriously even as Moriarty hiked her skirt up, pushed his knee between her legs and murmured low, dirty things in her ear, his chest smothering the breath right out of her.

It was over quickly, but watching it play out seemed to take an eternity. The detective listened to Molly's voice talking him through every harsh thrust, every numbing jerk and twist of the hips, every ragged, broken sob. He heard the consulting criminal groan and chuckle, heard Molly whisper nonsense into the duvet - _his name_ - her fingers scrabbling at the fabric for purchase until they were grabbed and crushed. He saw the farcical, ludicrous kisses forced against her mouth, cheeks and neck, saw the teeth marks embedded on her shoulders and along the line of her jaw like the man was trying to bite clean through the marred flesh to the bruised muscle beneath. He saw her pale, beautiful skin become flushed red and aching under a siege of gropes and slaps, saw the sheen of perspiration running along her curves, witnessed the unwilling sparks inside her that made her keen with shame, to the point where she wanted to die, when nothing mattered but the coming end.

Done at last, Moriarty lay draped across her for a long time, kissing and fondling her absently until he found the wherewithal to move. Sherlock had expected him to exit on some cutting, comical barb, but he didn't say anything, just tidied his hair and straightened his clothes and left her a sobbing, battered shell, bruised and denatured in the dark. His footsteps retreated softly across the living room, the front door clicked shut and Molly was finally alone - she could pretend he'd never been there at all.

Meanwhile, Sherlock could actually believe he was crouching on the floor by Molly's bed, in her room that reeked of sex and blood, looking at this devastated _thing_ that wasn't really her. Clothes in tatters, completely naked from the waist down, hair all tangled and matted. The detective stared helplessly into her face, and her expression was one of blank shock, eyes heavily lidded and swollen, mouth agape, breathing laboured. Unable to move to cover herself she had lain there for hours, body broken and mind retreated to some distant, comforting place...

"I thought of you, then," Molly said tiredly, glancing at him for the first time since beginning her tale.

Sherlock's back was to her and he was holding himself very straight, the hand that had been massaging her foot having stilled some time ago. He was lost.

* * *

**Sorry again for the explicitness of this chapter - I hope it hasn't put you off. Don't worry, the plot won't be going there again. Please read/review kids, it's always much appreciated.x**


	12. Assurance

**At long last, chapter 12! Sorry for the delay, but I've moved house so everything is up in the air. I hope the length of this update makes up for it and thanks to everyone for the encouraging reviews :)**

* * *

Chapter Twelve

It took a very long time for Molly to relax in the wake of Sherlock's intractable silence.

At first she was mortified, believing for one terrible instant that he had become disgusted by her and the things she had said. It took everything she had not to drag herself away from him, the dim bedroom, the suffocating flat, and run as far from Baker Street as she could. She would have done - _truly_ - had she not known him better. Controlling the irrational impulse to flee, she studied Sherlock closer and began to recognise that expression of introverted calm that always consumed him in moments of deduction. His eyes were downcast, brows slightly pinched above the bridge of his nose, and his lips were pursed into a hard, ponderous line. If she peered carefully enough she could see a slow, steady pulse beating along the length of his neck. Seeing all this, Molly knew that he would be virtually unreachable for quite some time. He was not _trying_ to ignore her or make her feel uncomfortable, he was merely being himself, just like she'd asked. She took a tiny sliver of comfort from this, and settled back against the pillows of his bed, letting his smell envelop her as she lay waiting for the detective to speak.

If she was honest with herself, she also wanted some time to think; not about _that night_, not about _that man_, but what talking about _it_ had meant to her. She had firmly believed that discussing it would make the pain of it much worse, that it would bring the barely healed bruises up to the surface to redden and smart anew, as fresh as the day they were dealt her, but it hadn't. Unburdening the nightmare had taken away a significant portion of the fear she had been carrying around with her since it had happened, making it distant, remote. Sherlock had been right in thinking that the consulting criminal had stolen a piece of her. For a long while_ the act_ had become a real live part of her - touching her soul, her heart, her memories, staining everything in the same manner her blood had stained the sheets - until it was _all_ she was. Molly Hooper had died a little death beneath the hands of Jim Moriarty. She had felt irrevocably changed by him, no longer the woman she knew herself to be, but now it seemed that a modicum of the weight had been lifted at last. By confessing everything it was as though a new, stronger piece had grown to fill the emptiness torn into her by the consulting criminal.

Most of all though - the thing that made the heaviness so much easier to bear - was the knowledge that Sherlock was _there_. Sherlock was _with_ her. Sherlock would_ stay._

How amazingly light the world now seemed in the wake of such assurance.

* * *

More than an hour passed before Sherlock could bring himself to move again. Though completely wordless, he began to unwind from his stiff sitting position, his limbs cracking in the quiet, and turned to face the woman laid out on the bed beside him. She had lapsed into a shallow doze during the interim, looking unbelievably calm and composed in the aftermath of - _what had been for him_ - a truly traumatic experience. He was still in the process of reeling from it, wanting nothing more than to retreat into the depths of his brain and eradicate every last trace of it from his memory - but such a thing, he knew, would prove the exercise null and void, _pointless_. However much he wanted to delete it all, to make the images and sounds and _screams_ disappear, he wouldn't - he _never_ would. He had wanted this. He had needed it, to hear it once and never again, just to know, just to understand. And he felt he did, finally. He had expected to experience a wave of euphoria once the initial shock had subsided, the same way he felt when a break-through was made in the midst of a maddening case, but there was only flatness, sorrow, shame and regret. Knowing all the things Molly had suffered, to have seen it played out so vividly on the stage of his mind and being unable to do anything to stop it, had made him feel completely powerless. That was it, in the main - no joy, no fantastic clarity - just a roaring, gnawing, parasitic _helplessness_.

Then again - and it shamed him deeply to admit this - hearing Molly's tale had also awakened a side to his personality which he had never entertained before, and this was a gratifying, dizzying rush for Sherlock. For the first time in his life he had experienced the sensation of fear. Not for himself, but for somebody else, someone he _cared_ about. It was sobering, this vicarious terror, as thrilling as it was confusing, shocking in how it made him want to reach out and grip Molly close in a protective fervor, never letting her go. It was as though her confession had tied them together with an invisible rope, knotting them in an intimate _oneness_ born of a shared pain. Never - not even with John - had he known such kinship.

Then there was the question of Molly herself. Far from becoming a figure of repulsion, his image of her as a person had been entirely changed. As she had talked of the attack, a wealth of gentlemanly respect had swelled up inside him, filling his whole being with an odd, possessive craving. He was humbled by her bravery in the face of such distress; he had wanted to keep it for himself, to make it somehow tangible so he could treasure and cradle it between his fingertips like some precious metal. Never had he wanted to acquire something so badly. The peculiar notion appealed to the scientist in him, that liked to quantify the world into digestible, relatable packages of solid fact. He knew this was different - this emotion - and it made him sad.

Her words had stirred something else too, something he had felt building steadily over the course of their shaky relationship. Listening to her torments, Sherlock had felt impossibly masculine, almost _classically_ so. He had been overwrought with stupid, ill-feeling jealously, as well as a passionate desire to prove he was capable of defending her, of keeping her safe. He had been angry, almost to the point of selfishness. He had been offended by the _wrongness_ of her tale, wanting to put it right by any means open to him. He would cause harm for her now, he would _kill_, he would remove the thorn from her side through sheer force of will if he had to. Was it chivalry? The Medieval doctrine had seemed senseless to him before, but now that he knew - really, _knew_ - how could he fail to avenge her? But then, would she even want him to? During his silent contemplation the thought had occurred to him, at first dismissed but then violently entertained - surely, thinking that he even had the _right_ to enact revenge on her behalf made her own strength and composure seem less, cheapened? In the end he had decided, point blank, it would be an insult to her.

Then lastly, once all the conflict within him had boiled down to a controlled simmer, he had allowed himself to think of the taboo, the one thing that she had _not_ touched upon in her story. What did this now mean for _them_? Speaking for himself, it meant nothing. He still desired her, he still wanted her - in fact, now that he understood the difference between his own passion and that of Moriarty, he wanted her _more_. Now that he had heard and seen the monstrous carnality of _that night_ he knew that the two of them together would be so very, very different. He would be tender, he would be true, he would be honest and scared to all hell, but _he-would-be-different_. Surely she would know that too? Surely she would let him? Wasn't that what it had all been for?

Molly had shared something monument with him, had found the will to uncover the scar that now ran through the centre of her soul for his own heartless scrutiny. He wanted to do the same. He wanted to rip himself open for her. He wanted to be stripped to the _core_ for her. Wasn't it only fair?

Shimmying lower down the bed he lay curled into Molly's side, tucking himself as close as he dared. Draping an arm across her waist, Sherlock buried his face against the curve of her hip and began to breathe deeply, like a man fighting back a rising tide of nausea. He couldn't believe he was worthy even to _touch_ her, not after the way he had behaved, not after all the years of neglecting what was right beneath his nose until it had brought them both to ruin. How could he have let it all happen? Molly Hooper was so much more than he had ever imagined, ever guessed, and she loved him. For some unfathomable, ridiculous, illusive reason _this woman_ loved him. This woman who had stood in the shadows and watched him shine, who had hidden herself on the sideline after too many times of being pushed aside by his arrogance and thoughtless scorn, who had been drawn into his world by sickening force, and lived to tell the tale. How she could still love him, after standing it all, was beyond even Sherlock's deductive reasoning. He wanted to sink into her skin, to settle down within her very bones, because she was everything - _everything_ - now.

Sherlock had never believed in_ love_, not in the way most people chose to describe it. He believed in its power as a destructive motivator, and that was all. Used as a dull excuse, it made people do horrible things, made people hurt, maim, even kill, all under the guise of _love_. It was a vicious emotion, and completely illogical, and it had no place whatever in his life.

Perhaps this all came down to the Family, who had shown him little to no sign of_ love_ throughout his entire childhood or even during his drug-addled, feckless adolescence. There was affection - of course, there had been _affection_ - but not from his parents, not from his brother. Ever since he had been able to put one foot in front of the other they had left him alone to wander through an empty mansion, where he was never allowed to touch anything or run or shout. It wasn't thought proper for him to express himself, because he was loud, troublesome, rash and curious about all the wrong things. Father, always away on some terribly important business was then too tired to even look at Sherlock when he was home. Mother, far from being a coddling, sympathetic friend, was a shadow moving beyond the threshold of a locked door, only appearing in the flesh to scold, berate or strike him. Even Mycroft, the older brother who was so very clever, gave up on the younger sibling when it came time to disappear to Cambridge. The closest Sherlock had ever come to feeling love's more familial tendencies was from the nanny, Mrs Bird, the old woman in the nursery who had stroked his curls and kissed his cheek, holding him when he was scared, petting him when he was crying. From her he had managed to learn the very basic rudiments of comfort and tenderness, though he had never had any use for them until finding Molly. He remembered the day his mother had told him he was getting too old for the nursery, and how he had cried and stormed himself into a fit in Mrs Bird's motherly embrace. She had given him a little toy to placate him as she'd slipped out the door, never to be seen in the mansion again. But this wasn't love - was it? Surely that was nothing more than paid drudgery. Maybe he had become too jaded in his youth to ever tell the difference, _and now..._

John was the exception, of course. John was _always_ the exception to the rigidity of Sherlock's rules. Since the doctor had come limping into his life, the detective had been quite unable to shut_ love_ out entirely. At the very least he had had to admit to himself the possibility of its potential goodness, to see it in terms of what it did right as opposed to what it made wrong. Friendship was a form of love, he had supposed begrudgingly, and his friendship with Watson was the best he had ever had. John made him better. John pushed him. John was challenging. But it wasn't just these trivial things that proved the doctor's importance. Whenever Sherlock pictured that scene by the pool, the gentle lapping of the chlorinated water, the dots of blood red light from a dozen sniper rifles, the jacket of explosives strapped to the doctor's chest... _'I can stop John Watson too. Stop his heart.'_ He knew then it wasn't just simple_ appreciation_ that he felt for John.

Sherlock had always considered his heart impenetrable. _He'd been reliably informed he didn't have one._ He had always thought of it as an organ for the pumping of blood, a mode of vital transportation, but nothing else. _But they both knew that wasn't quite true_. However, these days it had grown into something more and he both hated it and longed for it to be so in equal measure. He didn't want to be weak, he didn't want to put himself or anyone else in danger._ If he didn't stop prying..._ Love made people blind to the simple things, the _obvious_ things, and he couldn't afford for that to happen when there was so much at stake. _If he didn't leave him alone..._ But then he imagined life without John, without Molly, hell, even without Mrs Hudson - and he just couldn't.

_'I will burn you.'_

Molly stirred against him, moaning softly. Sherlock tensed at once, ready to spring from the bed and across the room. Though every single inch of him wanted to cleave to her for all he was worth, the last thing he wanted to do was scare her. She had been through enough on his account already, he knew. But when she opened her eyes and saw him clinging to her thigh like a small child, she only smiled sleepily and wound her fingers through his hair, tugging it gently until he could relax again. He turned his face into the warm softness of her lower belly and inhaled deeply, enjoying the cloying sensation provoked by her careful, stroking touches and womanly scent. He was still getting used to the feeling - the immediate, uncontrollable physical reaction to her attentions. Though he craved it, the person he was _before_ Molly wanted to balk from it in indignation. He wanted to say that he didn't need it. He wanted to say that it was _unnecessary_. Then she would say or do something that was so _Molly_ that an overwhelming fondness for her made all that petty, prideful nonsense disappear.

It was clear to him that after tonight be could no longer continue as the man he was before. Yes, he was still Sherlock Holmes. He was still the world's only consulting detective. He would go on fighting the criminal underworld of London day in, day out, and he would win. But in the light of recent events it had become obvious to him that there had to be more to him than this. Over the years, as his fame had risen and his skills had been honed, Sherlock had trimmed and cut away at himself until no one could read him, no one could _get_ to him. He had donned the disguise so well that it took the most perceptive of his acquaintances to see through it. Everyone who was dear to him knew that he wasn't _just_ a man who solved mysteries. They had learned to recognise the aspects of his personality that even _he_, so used to hiding behind the mask, had forgotten - it was high time he remembered.

"What time is it?" Molly murmured, still drifting in and out of slumber as she played absently with his curls.

It was not the first thing Sherlock had expected her to say - far from it - but his response was immediate enough, sounding almost natural.

"Late-" Then, after a lingering pause, "-Will you stay?"

This seemed to jolt Molly out of her peaceful haze, the hand she had been combing through his hair coming to an abrupt halt. Sherlock cursed under his breath. Realising he had been too forward yet again, he screwed his eyes shut and huffed in exasperation, before sitting up straight to peer at her expression through the dim lamp light. He saw at once that her face had lost its dream-like quality, becoming alert and riveted in the space of a moment - but it wasn't fear he saw there, not _quite_. There was something different dancing across her features, something almost new.

"You can have the bed," Sherlock continued hastily, trying to inject his voice with as much confidence as he could muster. He didn't want to sound as frantic as he felt. "I can sit up in the armchair, or go work in the kitchen or the living room, or-"

"You don't have to," Molly said gently, interrupting his rambling train of thought.

Sherlock came up short, shooting her a calculating, piercing look. His hands were raised before him in a grasping attitude, the pose he always adopted when about to stand and pace, but she had surprised him into stillness. She had left the comfort of the pillows and was kneeling on the mattress, her legs tucked beneath her and her forearm crossed about her stomach, the other bracing her against the duvet. It was a stance of self-preservation, he could have recognised that on anyone anywhere, but the look on her face was at odds with the coiled, ready bearing of her body. Her cheeks were flushed from the warmth of the bedding, her plush lips turned up at the edges in an easy, passive smile, her eyes heavily-lidded but full of a churning anticipation. Her hair, usually scraped back into a high ponytail, was loose about her shoulders, softening the slight angular quality of her nose and jaw, the lamp light shining through the strands making them into tendrils of gold. Sherlock had never seen her looking so thoroughly relaxed, and it warmed him in a wholly unexpected way. All he wanted to do was _hold_ her, slip his arms about her waist and feel the slim, littleness of her against him - but he held back. The gentleman in him had to refrain.

"I think I should," he murmured, his voice coming out lower, graver than he had anticipated. He coughed lightly, tearing his eyes away from her and fixing them on the carpet.

"I don't _want_ you to," Molly replied, not desperately or harshly, just softly. "But I can go home if you like? I don't want to be a bother..."

Sherlock's mind was suddenly full of images of Molly in her flat, alone. Molly, going into her bedroom and climbing into the bed where Moriarty had-

"Don't." Sherlock said it forcefully, his head coming round fast to hit her with a hard stare. "Stay, don't go home. I want you to stay here." Then he ducked his chin and said the word he hardly ever said to anyone, but which he had come to use increasingly with _her._ "Please?"

Molly didn't speak for a moment, just watched him carefully and quietly. When she did speak again she sounded so sure and full of uncharacteristic authority that Sherlock felt he could hardly say no.

"I will stay, but only if you do too. I don't want to be in a strange bed on my own."

"It's not a strange bed," Sherlock argued, though with little conviction. "It's mine."

"It's strange if you're not in it."

* * *

Molly hadn't expected Sherlock to relent to her request, though she was glad when he eventually did. She liked that he was trying to be restrained, finding it gallant in a silly, stubborn sort of way, but it didn't change the fact that she really, truly didn't want to be alone. She knew that she was being ridiculous, but more than anything she feared that sleeping by herself after telling _the tale_ would bring up a whole store of half-forgotten nightmares she couldn't bear to face on her own.

With fondness she remembered that morning in her flat, weeks ago, when Sherlock had tried to embrace her in the midst of a bad dream and she had flipped, scratching and clawing at him until he was forced to subdue her with his body. She remembered the careful heaviness of him, the soft grip of his fingers about her wrists, the way he had looked down on her with such concern and confusion - an expression so seldom seen on that assured, smirking face. She remembered the _calm_ that had come over her in his presence, how he had made her vulnerability melt away along with the memories of her pain. She remembered how he had held her so tenderly all through the morning and into the afternoon, and how she hadn't stirred once. It was as though he had found a way to switch her off, to make the world stop turning so that she could rest unplagued. Trust him, the great Sherlock Holmes, to know how to keep even the most fiercest of nightmares at bay.

At first he had tried to tell her that even if he _did_ get into the bed beside her, he wouldn't sleep. He saw no point in it when he wasn't tired. He would just lay there, feeling pointless and driven half mad by the desire to do something. She knew all this already, but still she asked. He had suggested that he could set up camp in the kitchen and play with his microscope, that he would keep an ear out for any noise, any hint of distress, but she refused. He had told her that he would read in a chair beside the bed, that he would be near her but not _with_ her. She had shook her head. She wanted him next to her, close enough to hear him breathe, close enough to feel his warmth on her skin, close enough for him to touch her if he liked. The prospect wasn't frightening, not how it used to be. It didn't scare her to think of how open sleeping beside him would make her, of all the things he would be able to deduce from her expression, the way she held herself, how she sometimes moaned or talked when she dreamed. She _wanted_ him to see. She felt she was ready, if not to go _further_ then at the very least to let herself be near him, maybe held by him if he cared to.

Sherlock gave her privacy when she changed, lending her an old cotton shirt to wear and raising an alarmed eyebrow when she refused to take a pair of pajama bottoms. He knocked before reentering the bedroom, and the expression that crossed his face when he saw her curled beneath the sheets made Molly's cheeks pink. He stood awkwardly on the threshold, hands in his pockets and heels rocking but he didn't look away from her. If anything he looked hungrily, wetting his lips nervously and holding his jaw tight and back straight - a fasting man worried he would break.

"Coming?" Molly asked, trying to sound reassuring.

She knew that as this was her idea she should be the one exercising the control. When it came down to it, she knew Sherlock wouldn't do anything with the intention of harming her, and that anything he did do would be mere accident. As long as she didn't push him too far, it would be alright. It was a baby step, an experiment, which they had to take at some point - so why not now?

Sherlock approached the bed with no small degree of caution, until he was standing above her, looking down with that same expression of barely contained longing, though it was tempered by something else entirely. It now seemed that their roles had been reversed yet again, now _he_ was the one that was scared of _he_r, or more specifically of what he might do.

"Molly," he began, clearly unsure of what was expected of him.

"All I want is for you to be here, with me." Molly said soothingly, reaching out a hand from beneath the pillow to touch lightly along the back of his palm. "Nothing else, not yet..." she clarified in a smaller, sadder tone Sherlock couldn't fail to miss.

"I wouldn't expect-" he started, but she smiled.

"I know," she said.

Sherlock nodded, looking a fraction easier. He slipped onto the edge of the bed beside her and began to remove his shoes and socks with renewed confidence, but when he went to take off his jacket he faltered, shooting the pathologist a questioning frown. She shrugged, even as her insides turned over.

"It would be a shame to crease it," she conceded slowly. "The cleaning bill would probably cost more than a month's salary..."

"Yes, well," Sherlock muttered self-consciously as he began to pull off the tailored suit, piece by piece. "It _is_ Armani."

Standing again, Sherlock moved to hang his jacket up in the wardrobe, pausing only slightly before shaking his head and beginning to unbutton his dress shirt. He knew he was blushing but he strove to ignore it. He knew she was watching but he fought to _ignore it_. He found the situation rather jarring, especially when he realised that the last time he had stripped in front of anyone had been in the changing rooms at college and then it had been quick and furtive, in a corner or behind a locker door. Even during his regular trips to A&E -_ occupational hazard_ - he made sure to reveal as little bare skin as possible. Was it a trait of his long-held virginity? Had it something to do with his aversion to being touched? All he knew was that it made him uncomfortable. Then again, he thought as he untucked the shirt from his trousers and freed his cuffs, there was something boyishly satisfying in the knowledge that _Molly_ was the only one there to see, that she actually _wanted_ to see. His cheeks grew hotter and he cleared his throat as he peeled the shirt from his shoulders and hung it beside the jacket.

Again, when he came to the catch on his trousers he stopped, thinking. Would she consider it presumptuous? Would she be alarmed and ask him to leave? Was he being an idiot? _Yes_. He made an irritated noise in the back of his throat, stepping out of his trousers quickly and folding them over the arm of the chair by the window. _Stupid_.

Refusing to speak, knowing that his voice would not sound at all the way it should, he returned to the bed in his boxer shorts and pulled back the duvet. Molly had rolled over to face the door, meaning that as he lifted the cover he caught a glimpse of her round, pert backside and her bare legs peaking out from the hem of his shirt. Her underwear was pink, edged with lace. _New_. He gulped. He climbed onto the mattress and stretched out on his back, staring up at the ceiling with his arms folded behind his head. He kept a determined, respectful distance between their bodies, but he could feel her. Her heat was like a siren call dragging him to the rocks, and it took several long, intense seconds of introspection to stop himself from being dashed upon them.

Then she spoke, and it all went to the gutter.

"Will you..." she faltered, and Sherlock glanced down to stare at her back, studying the sliver of her face that was visible over the swell of her shoulder. Like him he found her cheeks were flushed, and she was biting her lower lip making it ruddy. He waited tensely for her to continue without moving any closer. He didn't trust himself.

"What would you like, Molly?" Sherlock asked when she failed to finish her remark.

"I just wondered," she started again, her voice a little stronger though she refused to turn to him. "I just wanted to know if, after everything I said, you still find me... Well..."

Sherlock didn't need her to say anymore - he couldn't stand it. He took no notice whatsoever of the part of him that shouted obscenities, that sighed in frustration, that told him he was making a mistake - he rolled over, placed a hand on her shoulder and pushed her onto her back until she was under him. He didn't crush her, though the masculine, primal side of him _desperately_ wanted to, but he did settle above her, arms bracing either side of her head, their breath mingling in the forced closeness. They were both panting, though from which emotion neither were entirely sure.

They had been here before, but it was different now. Last time he hadn't been near naked and wound up, last time she had been barely conscious and full of resentment and fear. This time, almost all semblance of control was lost right from the start. Somehow, he couldn't figure out when, his legs had nudged hers apart and he found himself between her thighs, her knees and calves wonderfully warm either side of his hips. He almost couldn't _think_ for the sweetness of it, the sensation too much for him to master. Only her hands gripping hard at the base of his spine grounded him to the fact that Molly was flat out beneath him, looking up at him with eyes that flashed full of conflict.

"I won't-" he stammered, though still he didn't move. Her fingertips were digging into his skin, holding him in place. He closed his eyes tight in confusion. "I wasn't going to, I only-"

She wriggled beneath him, just a fraction, but it was enough to make him groan low and bury his face in the crook of her neck. Why was she making it so difficult? Her scent was so strong, in that hollow juncture where the line of her shoulder met the base of her throat. It was a glorious smell, unlike anything else. It was a smell he could almost taste. He wanted to put out his tongue and _lick_ her there.

His face contorted in a pained grimace of rapidly disintegrating restraint. One hand trailed from the pillow and found her waist, slipping beneath the hem of the cotton shirt and across the hot, bare skin of her hip and belly. Gulping against a dry mouth, he skimmed the tips of his fingers over the silken, pink lace of her underwear, where her skin burned the hottest - then he removed his hand to her lower back, pressing it palm flat to the contours of her spine and pushing her against him until they both gave a surprised, strangled gasp. He couldn't help it, he just _couldn't_. He knew he shouldn't, it was too soon, the wound too fresh, but everything about the moment felt unbelievably right.

"Molly, Molly, _Molly..._" he breathed her name along the curve of her jaw, encouraged when she turned her neck to allow him access to her throat.

He gave into the earlier, repressed impulse and ran the flat of his tongue over her pulse point, following it with a light, wet graze of his lips. She tasted of salt, exertion, but also like a woman. He didn't know why and right then he didn't care to ask, but something intuitive told him that the sexes _all_ tasted different and that it was natural for him to know without being told. So feminine, so warm was she that he had to kiss her there again, dragging his teeth just barely over her collarbone until she arched her hips into him. He almost choked, blinking back his surprise and pleasure.

"Sherlock-"

Molly said his name in such a queer, breathy voice that it made the detective shiver from head to toe. He wanted to make her sound that way again, positively _needed_ to, but he knew what was coming so with great difficulty he tore himself away from her until they were once more staring into each other's faces, his arms keeping him braced above her. Her nails had ceased cutting into his back, but she was breathing heavily, her pupils blown wide. Physically, he knew, she didn't want him to stop but that was a contrary, unreliable sign. Without needing to ask, Sherlock understood and made at once to roll away from her but she tightened her legs about his waist and he stilled.

"Molly," he said warningly.

"Why did you do that?" she asked him, disregarding his tone completely. She moved her hands up the smooth, slightly muscular plane of his back until she could grasp the nape of his neck. She stared at him imploringly, and he frowned, perplexed by the question.

"I wanted to," he replied uncertainly, bowing his head until his forehead touched hers. In the aftermath of his transgression he felt ashamed, but this time it wasn't because he thought his actions to be that of a criminal, but because he had disregarded her trust, however briefly. "I'm sorry."

"Why did you want to?" she murmured, her words tickling his lips.

"Because for a moment I thought you didn't know..." he said gently, his brow creasing. "I hated the idea that you thought I wouldn't want you, even for a second."

"You still want me?" Molly's mouth had tugged into a smile, the fingers at his neck pressing until his nose brushed hers, their lips touching in a chaste, honest kiss.

"Of course I do."

* * *

**Oh, I am a soppy soul. Hope you enjoyed, and reviews are always very appreciated :)**


	13. The Risk

**Thanks so much to everyone who posted reviews for chapter 12, they were really heartening to read :)  
This is more of a filler chapter than the previous one, which is how i've managed to post it so quickly - hope it suits :)**

* * *

Chapter Thirteen

Molly attempted to leave the flat early the next morning, telling herself she needed to get changed for her shift, that Toby hadn't been fed the night before, that the traffic would be terrible and that it would take an age to cross London. However, despite her best efforts she still didn't manage to avoid John Watson's inquisitive stare from greeting her over the top of the Guardian. There was an amused, though slightly wary, twinkle in his eyes as he watched her searching round for her bag, her cheeks pinked and her hair in disarray. The doctor didn't make any assumptions, feeling it wasn't his place, but he was nevertheless intrigued by the development.

"You can text me later if you like," he told her retreating back, causing her to start guiltily and turn to face the kitchen table at last. They smiled awkwardly at one another. "I mean," John continued placidly, turning a page of the newspaper he was pretending to read. "If you want to talk about anything, I'm just a phone call away."

"Thank you, John, that's-"

Molly's words were cut short by a loud shout from the direction of Sherlock's bedroom and within minutes the detective had strode into their midst, looking distinctly harassed. John took in his bare chest, his boxers, his billowing silk dressing gown that he had somehow managed to put on inside-out and struggled to hide a smirk. Sherlock rubbed at his eyes, balling his fists like a child, before glaring at Molly and then secondly at John, adding a warning snarl for the latter.

"You let me _sleep_ all morning?" he asked Molly bitingly, who merely shrugged in reply. Sherlock scowled still further as John suppressed a chuckle.

"It's barely 8am, Sherlock, that's hardly _all morning_." John reminded him, tapping his teaspoon against the side of his mug pointedly. "Put the kettle on will you? See you later Molly, you don't want to be late..."

Shooting the doctor a grateful grimace, Molly pulled on her coat and straightened her rumpled blouse, paying Sherlock's indignant spluttering no mind. Instead she simply crossed the kitchen, reaching out and touching his shoulder gently until he inclined his head to meet her lips against his cheek.

John observed the fleeting touch, the detective's almost instinctual reaction, and grinned unseeingly down at the paunchy face of George Osborne blustering about the Budget on page 5. He didn't say another word until the pathologist had swept from the flat. The silence left in her wake seemed to speak volumes concerning Sherlock's state of mind - and of course, about what _might_ or _might not_ have happened. Indeed, Sherlock didn't even move from his place by the door, his eyes still fixed on the spot where Molly had been. He seemed in a sort of limbo.

After some considerable time John realised that if anyone was going to point out the pink elephant in the room, it was going to have to be him.

"So she stayed the night," he said delicately, tapping his spoon against his mug again. It was clearly not intended as a question.

"Yes," Sherlock replied absently, his blue stare boring holes into the tiled floor. He wasn't sure if his determination not to meet John's gaze was due to embarrassment, dignity or confusion. Probably a mixture of the three. It didn't really matter.

"In your room," John went on slowly, his voice becoming less certain. They had reached the crux of it. "In your bed... _with you_?"

"We lay side by side, if that's what you're inferring? She slept and - _apparently_ - so did I. " Sherlock elaborated aloofly, shaking his head in irritation and pacing to the kettle. He took no notice whatsoever of John's eye roll of annoyance. He flipped the switch and settled his weight against the sink, brooding as he waited for the boil. He was trying quite desperately to ignore the small, damp patch on his skin where Molly's mouth had been. It made him feel strangely proud. "I put my arm around her and we-" he furrowed his brow as though trying to force out an ill-tasting phrase. "I believe the term is _spooning_?"

"Ah," John huffed and rustled his paper, the tips of his ears turning a shade redder. "Read that in Cosmopolitan did we?"

"Amongst other things." Sherlock conceded, "I didn't like to delete it just in case it came in useful-" He wrinkled his nose and sighed, crossing his arms. "Though to be honest I am finding a vast majority of the data I collected very unhelpful."

"That doesn't surprise me in the least."

Silence settled between them again, broken only by John turning the pages of his paper and the clinking of crockery as Sherlock made up a tea tray. Once it was assembled and Sherlock had carried it over to the table with uncharacteristic meekness, John spoke in resignation.

"We're doing this again, really?"

"Please, John?" Sherlock intoned seriously as he sat down, folding one leg over the other and knitting his fingers on the tabletop. "Is it so much to ask?"

"Increasingly," John replied dryly.

"I would have thought you'd find it flattering," Sherlock went on in a wheedling tone, turning his nose up a fraction. "You know things that _I don't_."

It was true, John thought, he couldn't deny that aiding Sherlock in this escapade was rather satisfying for his battered ego. _So much for a superior mind._ But then he also couldn't deny that it was becoming very wearing. He hated to admit it, especially after the vow he had made to help Sherlock with his _feelings_ wherever possible - but the great John Watson was fast running out of answers as well as patience.

"John, I don't have anyone else to talk to." Sherlock said in a small voice, his hands preoccupied with the teapot and his teeth gnawing at his lower lip. If John didn't know any better he would have said that the detective was nervous. "Who else can I go to but you?"

"Alright," John sighed, giving in to the inevitable. "Don't lay it on too thick."

Sherlock's mouth curled up at the edges but apart from that he paid the comment no mind, happy in his little victory. Handing John a fresh cup and saucer - the well-bred snob in him detested that the doctor chose to drink tea from a _mug_ - he motioned for John to relax.

"You'll listen?" he asked, raising his eyebrows skeptically.

"Go on," John nodded, sipping his drink and readying himself for more information than any normal friend would find comfortable to hear. But then again, Holmes and Watson were a special case.

"Molly and I did _not_ have sex last night," Sherlock admitted baldly, keeping his gaze determinedly steady. "But there was a moment when I thought that maybe we would, and I said no."

"You said-"

"_No_, correct." Sherlock nodded, stirring two sugars into his tea. "She was under me, I had my arms around her, we were kissing, my hand was _this close_ to-"

"_Sherlock_..." John murmured sufferingly, but the detective yet again paid no mind, merely cleared his throat and continued past the interruption - though his eyes danced with mischief.

"It was all very good, you know, very natural. She was making all the right sounds, giving me all the right squeezes, caresses and gasps - or so those videos I found would have me believe - but I told her no."

"Why are you telling me this?" John asked despairingly, his cup suspended half-way to his lips but cooling rapidly.

"I wanted your opinion. I was wondering if this means..." Sherlock paused, perhaps searching for the right words or maybe trying for dramatic effect. "Does this mean that I'm _growing_?"

John set his cup down in its saucer with a clatter and got up from the table, shooting Sherlock an exasperated look as he moved into the living room for some peace and quiet - leaving the detective nursing a self-satisfied grin he felt had been well earned.

* * *

Sherlock's good mood carried on undeterred throughout the morning. He got a lot done, finding time to wrap up several outstanding experiments which had gone neglected during his avid pursuit of Molly - in a way it was a little apology to John, making the kitchen and its bastardized appliances half-way useable. Almost the entire top shelf of the fridge was now free to store food, which in Sherlock's opinion was a needless indulgence, though he bore it well.

He checked the website at lunch - which he didn't partake of - and talked to John about a potentially interesting case, which in the old days may have been deemed a 3 but in the new light of his sunny world was grandly classed as a 6.

John listened to the man prattle as he ate, noting the detective's strange good humour with mounting unease. He wondered whether he had the heart to bring up Mycroft's visit to the clinic, sensing that any mention of Sherlock's elder brother would bring him plummeting out of the clouds and back to Earth. It wouldn't matter how delicately he put it either, John knew it would cause trouble however he phrased it. But then, surely, it did _need saying_. John would be a fool to let a dire warning like that - even coming from the forked tongue of Mycroft Holmes - be allowed to fall by the wayside.

"You're awfully quiet, John," Sherlock commented suddenly, "Don't you agree with my theory?"

"What theory?" John asked, realising that he must have zoned out and beginning to beam a beet-root red. Sherlock shot him a frown, clearly irked that he needed to repeat himself.

"That the politician's wife - this Lady Hilda - made a duplicate of her husband's key to the despatch box in order to steal the missing document. Under duress I should imagine, some threat of scandal made by a third party. She'd conceal her own guilt to save the marriage from ruin - such a woman of an older generation would, outmoded sentiment - without considering the potential damage to her husband's career. You know how ridiculously over-dramatic the aristocracy can be..." Sherlock trailed off, his frown deepening. "John, you're not listening to a word I'm saying. Don't make me fetch the skull off the mantlepiece."

"I was just thinking," John began slowly.

"Dangerous," Sherlock muttered.

"I was just _thinking_," John continued, annoyed. "About something your brother told me yesterday."

"Oh for goodness sake..." Sherlock moaned, sitting back in his chair and scrubbing a hand through his curls. "He kidnapped you again?"

"What? _No._" John sighed, sensing already that this would be difficult territory. "He came to the clinic."

"Good God, it must have been important for him to go to_ that_ place."

"Will you just listen?" John scolded, to which the detective gave a weary, petulant shrug. "He wanted to warn me about something; something you might not like. I thought about keeping it from you-"

"John, you know who I am. Don't try to hide things from me, it doesn't _work._" Sherlock interrupted testily. "And besides, I'm perfectly aware of what you're going to say, so you needn't bother."

"How could you possibly know?" John asked, bewildered. He wished he'd kept his mouth shut.

"The whiskey, John." Sherlock arched a brow in amusement. "You thought I hadn't noticed? You only drink whiskey in dire straits, and as you haven't been plunging head first into the arms of any women with the desire of having your heart broken lately, I naturally assumed something had scared you. You needed something to steady your nerves. Now you - a military man - not so easily scared. When was the last time? Moriarty, the bomb - you drank yourself under the table that night. If it had been an encounter with him you would have told me within seconds, but no. So, what else or _who_ else could have you reaching for the bottle? My brother - also known as the British Government - can have that effect on the most steadfast of people. As he is the only one who connects us both and whom you would find it difficult to bring up in my presence I find it almost _insulting_ that you would think I hadn't figured it out."

"Right..." John squeezed his eyes shut and lowered his head, resisting the urge to bang it against the kitchen table. "And the subject of our conversation?"

"Molly, of course. She is the only thing to change in my life recently and my brother only deigns to interfere when something has. Just look at when we first met, John. Barely a day had gone by before he'd whisked you off to a warehouse to ascertain your credibility and worthiness to be my friend and flat mate." Sherlock smirked as John made an incredulous noise, "Not that his opinion of you would have mattered to me."

"So you know why he's worried?" John ventured, though he could already guess the answer.

"Child's play, John." Sherlock laughed, though the mirth didn't quite reach his eyes. A shadow had passed across his face. "He believes that I am in danger, now that I've attached myself to Molly Hooper. He believes that we both are, and not without good reason. Moriarty knows my feelings for Molly, and if he does then it's quite logical to assume that the rest of the London underworld does too. She is an easy route to me. She is my weakness. There is a very real possibility that she will be harmed, maybe killed, in their pursuit of me."

There was a short, uncomfortable pause before John spoke again in a quieter tone, "What are you going to do about that?"

"What can I do?" Sherlock answered, his expression growing sad. There was a restrained note of desperation in his voice now. "I can no more detach myself from her than I can from you."

The two friends regarded one another thoughtfully. Though John's face had grown warm with a mixture of embarrassment and pleasure, Sherlock's remained strained, his happiness of the morning dampened. He watched John with a fondness he had never openly displayed, trying not to imagine what could happen in the weeks ahead - to John, to _Molly..._

"All I can do is try and protect her the best I can," he continued eventually, now sounding crisp and business-like. "After everything she has already suffered and is _willing_ to suffer again, what more can I do? She's chosen to stay with me. I want to stay with her. It's a risk, John, one I don't need my_ dear_ brother to remind me of."

John nodded, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. Hearing Sherlock talk like that brought up a memory that still, sometimes, woke him at night in a cold sweat. Being snatched from the pavement on his way to Sarah's, grabbed and bundled into the back of a van, strapped into a vest riddled with explosives. He had thought then of how none of it would have happened had he never met Sherlock Holmes. In the blackness of the van, under threat of violence if he spoke, he had prayed to live through it - but _never_ that his life had been different. Being best friends with the world's only consulting detective had landed him in yet another near-death experience, true, but he didn't regret their friendship for a second. Even when the lights of a dozen or so snipper rifles had littered his chest he had thought, _'At least I'm not alone'._

If Molly was willing to risk being used as a pawn in Moriarty's game, if she felt she could weather it for the man she loved, John wasn't going to argue. Caring for Sherlock Holmes was a constant minefield, there were no certainties and there was _always_ danger, but Molly could do it. John was completely sure of this for one reason - because if she couldn't, Sherlock would never have involved her in the first place.

* * *

Mycroft Holmes was sat in his office, right in the middle of a conference call that would either make or break the futures of two of the Western world's leading countries - when his mobile rang. This was unexpected because he had switched it off, but then, when he saw the name on the screen his confusion cleared. There was only one man foolish yet clever enough to interfere with the mobile of Mycroft Holmes and get away with it. Putting the diplomats on hold, he answered the call briskly and with little grace.

"Sherlock, you really need to stop doing this. I'm averting World War Three."

"Averting?" Sherlock's voice chuckled darkly through the speaker, "I thought your job was to stir things up."

"Please, I've told you before. I hold a minor position-"

"Save it, Mycroft," Sherlock interrupted impatiently. "What I have to say will only take a moment."

"Go on," Mycroft sighed, leaning back in his plush leather chair and splitting his attentions between the flickering faces muted on his computer screen and the testy voice of his younger brother echoing in his ear.

"Firstly, I would be much obliged if you would stop interfering with John Watson. He is a very busy man and besides, anything you wish to know about me or my life is _none_ of his concern. He is loyal to me, you will not break him - so _stop it._"

"Noted," Mycroft grunted, gripping the mobile harder than necessary through sheer irritation.

"Secondly," Sherlock continued doggedly, his voice calm but for a slight edge of aggravation which was growing steadily more noticeable by the second. Mycroft's brow creased. "Molly Hooper is off limits. Do not ask about her. Do not have her watched or followed. Pay her _no attention_ whatsoever. You will do her more harm than good by drawing all the eyes of London upon her - she is in enough danger without you and the entire secret service tracking her every move. She is my concern and I will deal with the outcome - so _stop it_."

"Anything else?" Mycroft asked with that oily pleasantness so irksome to the consulting detective.

"Merely a _favor,_" Sherlock said acidly, the word coming out queerly harsh. Mycroft's eyebrows nearly disappeared into his rapidly decreasing hairline.

"Yes?"

Sherlock noted the enjoyment, the satisfaction in his brother's tone and grimaced inwardly.

"James Moriarty wants to kill me. I don't know when and I don't know how, but he will move soon, of that I'm sure. He failed to finish me that night at the pool, and he as good as promised me a final showdown. Anything you hear, any _whiff_ of his whereabouts that come to your attention - let me know."

"Of course," Mycroft replied, all trace of enjoyment gone in the awkward pause that followed. He was all seriousness when he spoke again. "You do know it won't only be you he will target."

Sherlock didn't respond, but the older Holmes sensed the sudden tension through the silence.

"John Watson... Miss Hooper..." Mycroft intoned quietly. "You know I can offer them protection."

"As I said," Sherlock responded at last, clearing his throat crisply. "If you hear anything, let me know."

The call ended abruptly, and Mycroft sighed. He didn't reopen the line to the diplomats at once, needing a moment to consider his younger brother's requests. He struggled pensively for a long while - even pouring himself a glass of brandy to nurse - before shaking his head curtly. _No, it simply wouldn't do_. Wiping a troubled hand across his brow, he buzzed his secretary.

"Sir?"

"Upgrade security on Hooper and Holmes - Level 4: Red, active and under threat."

* * *

**Oh Mycroft.x**


	14. A Natural Progression

**Hello, hello, hello :)  
Sorry I haven't been updating for the past month, I've been having trouble with the internet. **

**I hope the long chapter ahead will make up for the long delay - also, it's a bit of a happier, more fun sort of chapter in comparison to the tone of the last few**.

**Also, this update is for celeryy, to apologise for the delay in replying to her awesomely supportive PMs :) **

* * *

Chapter Fourteen

It was a peculiar situation Sherlock found himself in that afternoon, made more peculiar still considering he had voluntarily entered into it.

Strictly speaking he had never been on a _date_ with Molly before - or with _anyone_ if truth be told. He had spent many evenings huddled close to Molly in the morgue or laboratory, sharing food in the sterile light and murmuring platitudes over chemicals and blood cultures - it suited them well. However, after some serious thought Sherlock had come to the conclusion that this state of affairs couldn't continue. Maybe he was more conventional than he liked to believe, maybe he was just interested in the outcome of such an experiment - but he wanted to show her off a little, and test his capabilities as an ordinary man as well. It wasn't in his nature to leave calm waters undisturbed and something about the commonality of courtship intrigued him. There had to be something about dating that captured the human imagination, or else it wouldn't be considered the norm by so many, or treated with such spectacular emphasis in popular culture.

So he was doing it, he was going on a date.

On a date with Molly Hooper.

This was something which he_ could_ do, he told himself.

After thinking it over and discussing the considerable variables with an exasperated John, Sherlock had decided on something simple to begin with. He had chosen his stage quite deliberately - a neutral ground, encompassing a common interest with the added bonus of available refreshments. From his extensive research Sherlock had surmised that most people found dinner a daunting prospect for a first date, and often demoted down to either drinks in a bar or coffee in a café. Since he didn't like to drink often, always fearing it would cloud his deductive faculties, he had opted to propose the latter.

That morning he had sent Molly a carefully worded text - _several drafts written out in his notebook before he had even touched his phone_ - and at Sherlock's insistence they had arranged to meet for coffee in a bookshop that he knew they both frequented often. Though a date in a bookshop may seem strange at first glance, Sherlock speculated that many topics for conversation would arise from recent purchases they had each made there, the subjects of which opening up many disparate avenues of conversation. For instance, they might discus the medical journals they had bought there, which may in turn lead onto the merits of recent articles they'd read elsewhere, finally broaching the topic of Molly's own papers on pathology. The logic seemed fool-proof.

* * *

The first thing to strike him when he walked over the threshold of the bookshop and saw Molly lingering by Political History, was that she had made a concerted effort with her appearance - light makeup and very pleasing attire. He had anticipated this choice on her part and had also tried a little harder than usual where his own suit was concerned. He'd chosen his aubergine dress shirt - _her pupils dilated more often when she saw him in this shirt than in any of his others_ - and his black jacket and slacks. He had even pulled a comb through his unruly curls, though it did little to tame them. He had decided against cologne, sensing that Molly would prefer his natural scent. He also suspected that if she took to this tidier, better put together version of himself it would require far too much upkeep on his part in the future.

Molly's outfit surprised him, though he didn't like to admit it. For one thing, she was wearing a _dress_. So used to seeing her in that uniformly colourless clinical garb, he had almost forgotten that she could pull-off feminine when she really tried. It was a knee-length pink affair, and when coupled with her white cardigan and shoes, Sherlock couldn't help but think:_ She looks like a dolly mixture._ It was not a cruel assessment - as he happened to quite like dolly mixtures - but he wasn't sure how he felt about it. She was very pretty like this, to be sure, the soft colours making her look younger than he knew her to be, less careworn than she'd appeared of late. Surely this was an improvement?

"You look very nice," he said by way of a greeting, moving close beside her in the aisle of books and touching his hand to the small of her back.

She had been engrossed in a text on Stalinism and jumped in surprise to find him there, almost as though she'd forgotten their appointment. Then she blushed, and again Sherlock felt a ridiculous urge to pacify her embarrassment. He simply _had_ to bend and kiss each of her flaming cheeks in turn, though if anything this intensified her flush still further until it spread to her neck and the tips of her ears. It was quite gratifying - accepting and exploiting the effect he knew his proximity could have on her. It was different to before, when he had used his wiles to get from her the things he'd needed. Now, he did such things because he wanted to take pleasure in seeing her reaction.

Since their talk - _since they had almost_ - he'd found their touches had become much more candid, freer, easier. It was strange, but not unsettling. Perhaps it could be characterized as a natural progression? Having no reliable data to draw upon, he honestly couldn't say.

Before exiting the flat John had given the detective tips on how to treat a lady on a first date, though in Sherlock's opinion most of these sounded positively archaic - including describing Molly as _a lady_. Guide her, pull out her chair, order for her at the counter, don't quibble about money, be _attentive_, keep touching to a minimum but don't be aloof, be _complementary._ A lot of it seemed only good manners to Sherlock, though in this context they appeared to carry different connotations entirely. In a way it was interesting to see how social norms of behavior were flipped on their heads whilst on a date, though in yet another way it was simply annoying. Such carefulness made him unsure of himself, which he certainly didn't like at all. He wondered whether this was as stressful for Molly as it was proving to be for him, but tried not to show it as they moved to the back of the shop into the little café, smiling awkwardly at one another. Finding a table, Molly raised her eyebrows in pleasant surprise when the detective pulled out her chair and waited for her to sit before taking his own. Then, _silence_.

To the casual observer they must have appeared like chalk and cheese, sitting across from one another in an intimate corner of the room - Sherlock with his dark, smartly tailored suit, long limbed and poised with dark curls and brooding, uncertain scowl, Molly, a welcome splash of girlish colour about her with her dirty blonde hair and pretty pink dress, small and slight with an air of quiet calmness to contrast against Sherlock's nerves. People watching them must have thought how odd of a combination they were, yet also how their stark differences held with them a natural sort of sense. Complete opposites -_ however over sentimentalized the notion_ - did have a tendency to attract.

"So what's this about?" Molly asked at last, laughing uncertainly and glancing about them. "Why the sudden urge to meet?"

For a moment Sherlock was tongue tied - _yet another new experience to add to the growing list -_ and just stared at her blankly like a deer caught in headlights. He had thought he'd made his intentions perfectly clear that morning, but apparently not. He fixed his eyes determinedly on the small vase of plastic flowers on the table between them and tried to guess their point of origin, their chemical make-up and why anyone would consider them appealing decor - and haltingly began to explain, albeit rather badly.

"Well, Molly, it is my understanding that when two people like one another they tend to spend time getting to know each other better over a course of casual meetings, often in public places, where they can talk and not get distracted by... other things..." he trailed off, biting his lower lip. That had sounded a bit contrived, textbook even, and not at all how someone should come across on a date. He rolled his eyes to the ceiling and huffed. This was harder than he had expected, and he cursed himself for thinking John's advise trivial as he struggled to remember it. It got worse when Molly failed to reply and he floundered, his words coming out queer and malformed. "What I mean is, Molly, we haven't really connected much outside of work. I know you as you are in the morgue - which I like, you _know_ that - and you know me as what I am - a detective and little else. Not that that's bad, or anything, but I was just curious to find out if-"

"Oh, I see." Molly interrupted him hurriedly, sensing his mounting frustration with this lack of surety, his grasp on the situation clearly falling to pieces. She smiled, her eyes dancing across his perturbed face. "So this is a..." She didn't dare say the actual _word_, fearful of jolting him like a skittish horse. So instead she said, "We're getting to know one another, properly. That's nice."

Molly reached for his hand in comprehension, and he let her take it, clutching her fingers gratefully like a drowning man grabbing onto a life raft.

* * *

The rest of the afternoon was a clumsy affair on Sherlock's part. The carefully composed topics for conversation, the practiced sighs and laughter, the little compliments he had been going to pay her - all of it went completely to seed. He was forced to rely entirely on his wits, gauging Molly like he would a suspect in a case, trying to guess her intention when she pressed her knee or foot against his under the table so making him lose his train of thought, or how she tilted her face into the light to catch the sparkle in her eyes, or how she smiled attentively even if what he said was as dull as paint, fluttering her lashes and blushing when he asked her to talk about herself. It was quite obvious that_ this_ was what flirting looked and felt like, Sherlock was sure of it - he had been on the receiving end of such feminine wiles more than enough over the course of his career - but the way it presented itself now seemed more like an elaborate game, and one which Molly seemed more than capable of winning.

It should have bothered him. Sherlock Holmes prided himself on mastering anything put to him, branding it with his own special mark until _his way_ became the _only way_, until all others strove to emulate him and cursed themselves when they failed. But this, no, it wasn't something he could control, learn or _assimilate_. He could tell that it wasn't like adopting a disguise, morphing from one persona to another. It wasn't some task he could set himself and be done with by lunchtime - like so many of his experiments that lay festering on the kitchen table at the flat. This was something that relied very much upon his own sense of self, his own inner confidence, _in a way_ upon the intricate skills of his soul. This particular spin on things made him shudder with unease. There wasn't much room for immediate improvement or for the honing of technique, and to have ever thought of it in such terms seemed ludicrous to him now that he had placed himself in context - illogical. This wasn't going to be quick and simple, and he chided himself for ever believing it could be.

If he had to compare the journey he could see stretching out before him to anything else he had hitherto experienced he could only come up with one example from his vast catalogue of memories: Picking up the violin at the age of six and working tirelessly until the instrument had become a part of him, acting as a wordless extension for all the churning, burning, bitterly silent things he could never bring himself to _say_ but which could _always_ be expressed through the arcing of a bow or the plucking of a string. Over time, he knew, that his physical reaction to Molly would become just as seamless, just as lucid and without restraint until whatever he felt for her in a particular moment would be understood by her instantly just through a shared glance. Over time, he _knew_, that his fingers tracing her wrist across a coffee table would mean a thousand beautiful things _unsaid_ but _felt_ by both of them. It would be easy and flow from him as naturally as breathing, but until then he had to contend with his absolute and utter_ idiocy._

Even so, as he talked with Molly in that tiny café he found himself describing events from his past which had seldom ever passed his lips before. He told her things even Watson didn't and would_ never_ know. The rational part of him stood tapping his foot impatiently in the back of his mind, erring on the side of caution and restraint, reminding him over and over that this was far too public a place to speak so openly, that anyone could be listening. A darker, snider part of him even warned against Molly herself, painting her as a spy not to be trusted with such delicate details. However, the overwhelming majority of him unbent to her questions freely and gladly, though it was difficult for him to speak of it all without a tremor in his hand or an inflection in his tone, still omitting some of the grizzlier facts that he felt were too tender to divulge.

She wanted to know about his childhood, his family. In as calm and collected a fashion as he could he spoke of the solitary, closeted world of that distant country mansion from 20-odd years ago, alluding to his gentry roots, the great size of that aristocratic estate and the wealth that came with it. He told her about his parents and how they didn't much speak - not much then and now not at all - though carefully left out the parts that saw them ignoring him or striking him, locking him in his bedroom or sometimes in the cellar, alone in the dark for hours. Perhaps it was the poker-straight rigidity of that traditional school of discipline which made him hold his tongue about such things, maybe he just didn't want to think about it, maybe he was too proud to let Molly know what a lonely, sad boy he had once been. When she asked about his older brother Sherlock pointedly avoided all comment until she took the hint and backed away, lowering her eyes meekly to his hands which she saw were gripping his coffee cup rather hard, fingertips whitening with the pressure.

"Did you not enjoy growing up there?" She ventured at last, sensing from his increasingly tight-lipped answers that he heartily disliked discussing the topic.

At this Sherlock flared his nostrils slightly and again averted his gaze to the plastic tulips in the vase between them, studying them intently for a moment before darting his attention back to her boldly, as though resolved to divulge a secret. He leant forwards in a conspiratorial manner, hunching a little in his seat. Molly ducked her head closer in eager curiosity.

"I can't even begin to tell you how much I _loathed_ it." Sherlock muttered contemptuously, "It was more like an institution than a home. My parents put such stock in the custodial role of their type of people, caring for the house and the grounds whilst neglecting everyone within it. They cared more for _things_ than for anyone else."

"Even you?" Molly asked gently, and Sherlock snorted and looked away, pulling back from her, gnawing at his lower lip and refusing to elaborate further even when she pressed him.

"Not here," he conceded eventually, the edges of his mouth twitching into a weary, reassuring smile which was as good as a firm full stop. "Not now."

When the conversation steered towards his adolescence the narrative became even more patchy, though he concertedly didn't lie to her. He admitted that at the age of sixteen he had run away from boarding school, though was hazy regarding the precise reason. Molly guessed bullying was a key factor, though found it hard to imagine Sherlock being cowed by anyone, even as a child. It was difficult to associate the man sitting across from her - _tall, handsome, strikingly clever -_ with an awkward teenager, possibly shy, quiet, though more likely so out-spoken and rude that he earned a reputation and schoolyard-enemies to boot. She pictured him obstinately correcting his teachers mid-lecture and being hauled out of class or given the cane, probably still arrogantly defiant even in punishment. It was very easy to see his fellow classmates rubbing his face in the mud and kicking him in the gut - whether deservedly or not. A child prodigy maybe, an intimidating youth to be around. Perhaps he had found the standards of education boring, beneath him, and had left to seek out better challenges?

If the latter was true then in Molly's opinion he certainly hadn't found them. The only challenges he'd encountered whilst roughing it had been where and when he would find his next fix, how he would pay for it or better yet, how he could trick or steal it out of the dealer. As he described this particularly nasty episode from his teenage years, Molly found herself wondering why she didn't care more that the man she adored was a former addict. It should have bothered her, she knew it should, but somehow the image of a young Sherlock, deathly thin and desperate, hungry and alone in the city scrabbling about to feed his habit only caused her a swell of regret and pity, but never a shred of revulsion.

"I didn't remain on the streets very long," he told her in clipped tones, sounding dull and resentful. "Mycroft found me and took me back. He took me back 5 times in all until I eventually gave in and cleaned up my act..."

"Sounds like he really cares about you," Molly offered, though the optimistic, hopeful edge to her words made Sherlock snort again and shrug, adopting an almost cavalier grin.

"You always see the bright side of everything," he observed, the smile finally reaching his eyes and his fingers relaxing their grip on the cup and saucer. "And you're right, my brother certainly does care about me - in his way. Though I feel his regard may have more to do with averting national emergencies of my making than it does with fraternity."

"I don't have any brothers or sisters," Molly said, feeling it was time to steer the conversation back to more neutral waters, for which Sherlock was grateful. "My parents divorced not long after they had me..."

Sherlock listened to her talk with his head cocked, hardly blinking, even though everything Molly told him about her family life he had deduced long ago.

An only child, brought up by her father in a small town in the Midlands. Her mother had had an affair with one of her work colleagues and even though they hadn't run off together, the affair had broken the marriage of the young, foolish couple. Mr and Mrs Hooper had wed because Molly was an unplanned pregnancy and it was _expected,_ though Molly glossed over this fact herself in the retelling - Sherlock was quick to guess. Mrs Hooper hadn't wanted the burden of a daughter and had given full custody to Mr Hooper, a man who was very loving and very sentimental, and who thought the world of his child. Though Molly knew the whereabouts of her estranged mother, she didn't want to see or speak to her ever again - a fact which surprised Sherlock, given his knowledge of Molly's soft heart and seemingly unending capacity to forgive.

Growing up she had been very well looked after in a single-parent household, her struggling father aided and abetted by concerned relatives and a vanguard of friendly neighbors. Sherlock got the impression that Molly's childhood had been a happy one, though confusing for her given all the different people scuttling to and fro about her house. She had been a bright and academically minded child, though hadn't made many friends throughout primary or secondary school, only coming to social fruition in college. At university she'd found her calling in medicine, developing an aptitude for pathology. Always a student of the first-class, she'd been snapped up by St Barts barely a day or so after her graduation. Sherlock smirked approvingly when she confessed the reason for her career choice had been her fascination with joining the dots that explained a death, reading the clues left on the body like a ghoulish map. Sherlock could relate to that.

Mr Hooper had been very proud and supportive of his daughter's career, pouring away all his savings and working as many hours as possible in order to fund her studies. He had never remarried so in every familial sense Molly was all he had, and he was determined that her life should be better and much richer than his own. A civil servant, quite a plain man with predictable habits and a traditional mindset - perhaps a bit boring, but all together a brilliant father. When he'd developed lung cancer he'd shielded it from Molly for as long as he could, not wanting her to worry, but eventually it all came out. She had taken care of him in her London flat for several months during the last stages of his illness, but even so his death had come as a sudden, shattering blow for her.

Thinking back on it, Sherlock vaguely remembered the day Molly had returned to the morgue after her leave of absence and how he had thought then, _so pale, so tired, so very depressed._ It had been one of the few occasions prior to the Moriarty business in which he had shown a glimmer of compassion for her, making her coffee and creeping about the lab, carefully trying not to annoy her or get in her way. She had worked fiercely that day, throwing herself into stacks of paperwork which the interns had ruined during her time away from the office. Sherlock remembered having watched her covertly over the top of his microscope, ignoring whatever fantastical reaction he was getting from the mixing chemicals and thinking only of how Molly needed to slow down, needed a break. He'd been quite relieved really when Mike Stamford had quietly taken her aside and let her cry noisily against the lapel of his lab coat - even if it had given the detective's stomach a queer, confusing jolt. In hindsight, Sherlock still wasn't entirely sure if the feeling had been one of sympathy, remorse or jealousy.

He'd noticed her from then on, he couldn't deny it. Prior to the death of her father she had been bright, chirpy, sweet but quite ordinary. As horrible as it was to admit to himself, Sherlock had seen her loss as a point of interest forever fixed upon his radar. Like a case study keep on file in his brain, he had perceived the subtle change it had wrought within her. He had noted the downturn in her appetite, her slow withdrawal from the rest of the hospital staff into the quiet confines of the morgue and how she had become so very silent. The smiles she wore were forced in those early days, then slowly they had slipped back into the genuine expressions which he recognised as truly_ Molly_. He even took notice of her clothes, something which usually passed him by completely. He had long been aware of a theory regarding mourning, in which the donning of black for a restricted period of time was more a kindness than a hindrance to the wearer. People only began to crave colour again once they'd gotten over that initial shock. When they looked into their wardrobes and pulled out a red dress and sighed in longing - that was the moment when they ceased to care so much for the passing of a loved one. They could think beyond it, they could bring themselves to care for their own appearance once again and not spend every single moment in the pursuit of grief.

"Do you still think about him?" Sherlock asked, intrigued despite himself.

"Of course," Molly replied at once, her brows coming together in confusion. "All the time."

Sherlock nodded as if he understood, though Molly knew deep down that he didn't. She doubted the man sitting across from her had ever felt the way about anyone the way she had about her father. Hadn't he just told her as much in the recounting of his childhood? His parents, his brother - they seemed such remote figures in Sherlock's life, a sour reminder to him of a time he had been truly unhappy. If they were no longer there the detective would hardly notice, he would simply move on faster than blinking. But maybe she was being too harsh? After all, what could she really tell of this man's fickle, changeable heart? Every time she thought she had finally gotten to know him - the illusive but undoubtedly _real_ Sherlock Holmes - a different mask would fall to the floor, revealing yet another bewildering facade. Perhaps if Moriarty's bomb had claimed the life of John Watson, perhaps_ then_ Sherlock would have known the true extent of her pain in loosing her father. Molly made a shrewd guess that the doctor was the only person in the world Sherlock would ever feel the need to mourn, seeing as John was the only person whom the detective would _profoundly_ miss.

Leaving this sombre topic behind them with an awkward cough and a shrug - and along with a fresh pot of coffee ordered at the counter by a penitent Sherlock- they turned onto brighter things.

"So when did you realise that you - what's the phrase? - _fancied_ me?" Sherlock prompted, tongue firmly in cheek as Molly flushed a handsome red, spluttering on her drink.

"I'm not telling you that!" She exclaimed, stirring sugar fitfully into her cup and trying hard to ignore the fluttering of her heart. She knew _exactly_ which moment he was referring to, and had a sneaking suspicion that if she voiced it aloud he'd never let her live it down.

"Do you honestly think I don't already know? Of course I do." Sherlock pressed, arching his eyebrows in self-importance as he scoffed and folded his arms. "Come along Molly, you _know_ me. I just want to hear you say it."

"I can't!" Molly protested, putting up her hands. "It's too embarrassing."

"Tosh," Sherlock grinned wolfishly, putting a hand up to cradle his chin, those blue eyes watching her with fierce amusement as she dithered. "Need I remind you who you're talking to? Embarrassment? Honestly. Can't say as I care for things like that."

Molly knew that this was a downright lie. The only reason Sherlock was pushing for an answer was because he wanted to see the cringe pass across her face, coupled always with that inevitable flush painting her cheeks ruddy. She had become very aware lately of Sherlock's teasing nature, something which she had seen him inflict upon John hundreds of times in the morgue or lab but never really towards _her_. He had always been so rigidly serious before. Was it a sign of his increasing looseness towards her that he could be so candid, that he could play jokes and make jibes and chuckle in that slightly mischievous way when he succeeded in making her blush? It was so _boyish_ of him, Molly thought fondly, like when a besotted kid pushes over a girl in the playground. Though she was quite aware of what she was letting herself in for, Molly decided in the end it was easier -_ and probably more fun in the long run_ - to give him what he wanted.

"Do you remember the first time you let me watch you work?" Molly began sheepishly, collecting sugar off the table with her fingertip and biting her lower lip to contain a reluctant smirk.

"The experiment with the riding crop?" Sherlock replied without hesitation, though he too bore a satisfied quirk at the corner of his lip. He was obviously very pleased with this particular deduction. "What about it?" he continued, innocently sipping at his coffee.

Molly thought back, trying to think of how to _phrase_ exactly what had attracted her interest without coming across as a gushing, fawning fool of a girl. She had found him attractive the few times they had interacted before the experiment - but it had been very much on a professional basis, Sherlock being someone she glanced at every now and again with appreciation, but never longing. They had not been so close, not until then, not until he had allowed her into the secret workings of his craft. Somehow, he had decided to trust her and she had liked that. But of course, it was mostly due to the physical aspect of the experiment as well - she was a woman, after all, and the detective's display had been _quite_ provocative. Watching him exert such obvious strength was definitely a factor - the fine line of his back curving beneath his straining suit jacket, the firm grip of his fingers around the polished handle of the riding crop, the way his tall, thin body became so purposeful and lithe, his face showing a brilliant mixture of determination and restrained aggression. The violence hadn't bothered her particularly, because she'd known why it was being done. It was all a part of his intricate, probing mind that always needed so desperately to know things. It had felt like a privilege for her to witness such an open, unguarded scene. It was the closest to purely, honestly _passionate_ she had ever seen him, and had set him apart in her mind as a point of fascination forever after.

"Just," Molly began uncertainly then sighed, rolling her eyes to the ceiling with a nervous laugh, "You already know!"

"But I want to _hear_ it," Sherlock repeated, conceding the barest trace of wink. "I'd really like to hear you say it."

"Well, I don't know..." Molly shrugged self-consciously then raised the fingertip she'd been using to blot the sugar from the table, popping it into her mouth and giving it a soft, thoughtful suck.

Sherlock watched her avidly, his smile faltering for a fraction of a second and then returning with full force, if perhaps a little more _curious_ than it had been before. He had heard of women doing this but had never experienced it first hand - it seemed Molly was trying to be _coy_. With a rush of unsure pleasure, he decided to play along.

"Go on," he said encouragingly, his voice dropping to a deep, almost husky tone.

"I liked the way you looked," Molly murmured, resting her cheek on her hand and canting her head to the side. The line of her neck caught the light wonderfully, the hollow of her throat becoming instantly alluring. Sherlock wetted his lips, a tiny flicker of something dark and tempting darting through his gut as he observed this intriguing show of coquettishness. That girlish pink dress was all a front for a woman who knew exactly what she was about, Sherlock thought keenly. The idea delighted him.

"What did you like?" he asked, though in an attempt to cover his eagerness he tried to sound aloof, looking down through his lashes and not meeting her suddenly warm, attentive gaze. He hadn't expected his teasing questions to provoke such a heated response. The ferocity of it was making him slightly dizzy with _hope_ as well as the ever-present desire he had grown accustomed to dealing with in her company. First dates shouldn't progress like this, should they? Or perhaps, if they had gone really, _really_ well...

"Your body was so-" Molly shook her head, searching for the appropriate word with an air of delicacy, "-taut."

"Taut?" Sherlock's brows came together in confusion, surprised.

He hadn't expected that to be the reason, not at all. He had assumed it was something to do with power, precision, or most likely the appreciation of seeing his genius at work. Why did being _tight_ make somebody physically attractive? And then he thought about it for a moment longer, and suddenly _he_ was the one blushing a brilliant shade of red.

He had been quite right in thinking Molly capable of winning this game.

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**So, Molly is getting a bit braver? And Sherlock is discovering he doesn't know everything, which is always fun - What next? **

**Hope you enjoyed and that you'll come back again :)**


	15. Acceptable?

**This isn't a very long update, but i think it'll lead better into the next part of the story if I leave it hanging here, so apologies in advance :)  
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**Thanks so much to everyone who has read/reviewed/followed/favourited so far, hope you enjoy!  
**

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Chapter Fifteen

After being asked rather firmly to leave the bookshop - _they had stayed long after closing time, chairs stacked on tables all around them, employees sending them death stares over the cappuccino maker -_ Molly had suggested they take a walk down the Strand, maybe stopping for a quick drink or two in a pub along the way. Sherlock, galvanized by his success, agreed enthusiastically, offering his arm to escort her - always remembering John's invaluable advise on the topic of being a _gentleman_. It seemed at long last the doctor's prowess with the ladies was paying off, a shame really, considering _he_ wasn't the one reaping the benefits. Sherlock couldn't help his lip from curling in amusement when he thought of it in these terms. Poor John, after all his brilliant words of wisdom it was _he_ who sat alone in 221b as the erstwhile _asexual_ consulting detective strode out across the moonlit city streets - a beautiful woman at his side.

Beautiful, _yes_, she really was that. The night air bit her cheeks and made them rosy, and the happiness - _God_ - it simply _rolled_ off her every step, every laugh and each scorching, lingering look she sent his way. Never had Sherlock thought of her in such a purely aesthetic manner. Perhaps it was the social context of the situation he was in that made his eyes track the curve of her jaw, the womanly jut of her hips as she walked, the glint of something so sensual and inviting in her full, waiting lips when she smiled. It was what was expected of a man on a first date, wasn't it? To be just as - or even more so - passionately interested in physical appreciation as he was with mental stimulus. He had already come to terms with the fact that the way Molly thought and behaved attracted him, now he had entered into a wholly new sphere. Molly's _body_ - though always a source of fleeting intrigue in the past - was suddenly consuming his imagination utterly. His face felt hot over the collar of his coat when she pressed against his side, fingers rubbing circles into the crook of his elbow, even though the evening was quite cold. Molly seemed to be easing herself into a continuous, suggestive form of contact and Sherlock simply couldn't stop his mind from careening into wild, _pleasurable_ territory the longer it went on. He had ceased reminding himself that she wanted to take things slowly, because if he was reading her body language and overall demeanor correctly she was coming around to the idea that this - _this thing between them_ - was coming to a head.

They were, well, they were_ together._

The idea didn't frighten him at all. It would have done, once, but now he glorified in the fact that Molly Hooper was his _other person_. He wouldn't go so far as to call her his _other half_ - he loathed the expression - and he certainly didn't enjoy the sickeningly sentimental prospect of _soul mates_, but he recognised nevertheless that this woman was his _other_. She was the missing link between what had once been dormant and cold within him and the wider, outside world. It was a heady sensation, this form of _normality_ that she offered, this avenue of commonness and conventionality. To have someone to talk to, always, to hold and fondle, always, to listen to and share things with that he had never shared before, ever. She was, quite ridiculously in his opinion, remarkable. To think that not even a year ago he had sneered in derision at the starry-eyed couples he passed by in the street, glaring at joined hands and shrinking from the sight of a heated embrace. And now he, Sherlock Holmes, was one of them.

Molly didn't know what had come over her. She was being a flirt, quite unrestrainedly, and with the world's only consulting detective. She could just imagine John's blank, incredulous expression as he said: _You** flirted** with Sherlock Holmes?_ The thought made the pathologist chuckle to herself. Mousey, tiny, smothered, little Molly Hooper was _flirting_ with Sherlock Holmes - and if she wasn't much mistaken, he was flirting back. Well, as much as a man of his experience could. For the most part he responded to her attentions with blushes, blustering and sly glances, as though he was afraid to believe what was happening could possibly be true. If she was frank, she didn't believe it was happening either. Was it the girlish thrill of being on a date, with a man she adored, and that it was going so well? Was it the swooping sensation in her gut when she realised that everything she had ever wanted from him _before_ was now becoming a reality? Was it being safe in the knowledge that he accepted what had been done to her, and had stayed? Whatever it was, it made her feel much bolder than she had done in months. She found she wanted to test boundaries, to explore.

As they continued off the Strand and toward Fleet Street, Molly slipped the hand that had been tucked into Sherlock's elbow down the length of his forearm, skimming the flesh of his wrist before linking their fingers, her thumb fluttering over the back of his palm. Sherlock, surprised, stopped short, bringing them to an abrupt halt in the middle of the crowded pavement. People brushed past them, annoyed and muttering as they swerved into the road and stepped into the gutter, but Sherlock paid them no mind. Instead he had raised their joined hands and was studying them intently, with Molly hovering close beside him, suddenly unsure. She had thought the action rather innocent, but Sherlock clearly had other ideas. His brows came together in an analytical frown as he perused their interlocking fingers, the masculine bulge of his knuckles alongside the slim, smoothness of Molly's, how they were so different and yet so alike. The skin of his hand was quite rough from handling all manner of chemicals over the years, the nails torn from fist fighting and biting brought about by nervous tension, a scar running across the centre of his palm from the time he had grabbed a blade to prevent it slicing open his throat. Whereas Molly's hand was small, the fingers slight and feminine, with no marks of violence or mistreatment, the downy, near-invisible hair on the back of her palm standing up at his touch. Her hand was almost dwarfed by his. He could take it and crush it until the bones snapped. Such an amazingly fragile thing, really.

"Your hand is cold," he commented distantly, not knowing whether it was an adequate explanation for his strange behavior or not. He couldn't quite explain the sudden compulsion to study, not even to himself. "I can feel it. Chilly on the surface but, _hot_ within."

"Sorry-"

Molly made to pull her hand away but Sherlock's grip tightened a fraction, making her quiet.

"Don't-" Sherlock breathed, not looking into her face but down at her cuticles, examining the layers of skin about the base of each nail with minute curiosity. "I like it. Stay still."

Molly didn't respond. She too was gazing at the way their fingers slid and played together in the air between them, Sherlock's so large yet so incredibly delicate all the same. She knew that he could make amazing music with them, running them across the neck of his violin to produce wonderful, heavenly sounds. She gulped against a dry mouth, a shiver running all the way down from the top of her head to the tips of her toes. Her mind swam with possibilities, ideas that made her feel flushed but also cold with a nettling unease. But the latter was less so than it had ever been. She found that the fear of what those hands could do was overshadowed almost completely by a welcome surge of warm anticipation.

Sherlock dragged her a step or two closer, slipping an arm deftly beneath her coat and about her waist - as though to shield her from the stares of the passing commuters, most of whom were walking by the pair with eyebrows raised. Neither of them noticed particularly, far too concerned with the movements of the other. Sherlock was being very careful, touching Molly's hip beneath the fabric of her pink dress with obvious restraint - even so, Molly couldn't ignore the intensity with which he was staring down at her. It was as though he was wound-up with waiting for the moment she would push him back and away from her, but it simply didn't come. Their joined hands lifted as the distance between them was shortened, until her fingertips were against the interested curl of his mouth, the length of her forearm pressed into the warm, woolen front of his Belstaff jacket and blue scarf. He loosened his grip on her fingers then, untangling them, and moved his hand lower until he was grasping purposefully at her wrist. He brought it slowly up to his face, running the tip of his nose just barely over the racing pulse point, tasting her scent.

"That's you," Sherlock murmured admiringly, his words damp on her skin. Molly gulped, straining to hear him over the roaring street noise. The low, rich quality of his voice was quite startling in its reverence, and made her thankful for the strong arm wrapping her close. She didn't have a clear hold upon her equilibrium, and was convinced she might fall if he wasn't supporting her. Sherlock's lips fluttered jut barely where his nose had just been, and she nearly whimpered as he said humbly, "That smell - it's you. Just you. No perfume, no nothing - only you. You're just so..."

Sherlock struggled with himself for several seconds, the sentence hanging unfinished and heavy on his tongue. He was distracted by the press of Molly's body against his own, how it touched _everywhere_ both within him and without. What a wonder she was. He felt that he had to tell Molly how_ desperately_ he wanted to catalogue and analyze and _appreciate_ every single tiny, little detail of her person - to _savour_ her in every possible way. How, if given half the chance, he would store it all away in that marvelous new room inside his mind palace which had been devoted only to her - but he couldn't, could he? Would Molly even understand how important such a declaration would be? Would she realise without_ needing_ to be told that no one, ever, had warranted their own special corner in his brain before? Well, perhaps John, but then that was entirely different. John's room was full of trivial things, such as how many times Sherlock could get away with leaving body parts in the fridge before the doctor would flip out and break the detective's microscope out of spite. Molly's room was devoid of such mediocre nonsense. Her room was full of her sighs, her smiles, the spectrum of colours that existed in her eyes, the tangled strands of her hair, the blush of her lips. Her room was a place of giddy_ newness,_ of things Sherlock shouldn't notice but _did,_ of the things he had sworn were unimportant but _weren't_. It was a room he had spent an increasing amount of time in lately, a room which he was always loathe to leave.

Molly waited for him to speak again, to continue on with that broken thought, but he didn't elaborate. His arm had loosened from about her middle, but he still held her wrist suspended. He was almost cradling it, brushing across the pale tracery of veins with unnerving softness, as though trying to feel the blood pumping through them beneath the pad of his thumb. Beneath his fringe of wild curls, his blue eyes looked sharp and attentive as they roved, so_ interested,_ so_ intent._ Molly felt like a helpless moth pinned down beneath the microscope of an entomologist - her body spread wide for dissection, her form appreciated in a truly humbling, yet truly terrifying way. The shudder that passed over her at the thought was not _entirely_ unpleasant.

"Sherlock, what are you-"

"I'm trying to decide whether a kiss on the mouth would be too forward for a first date," Sherlock explained quietly, not missing the minute widening of her eyes or the slight tremor of her lower lip at his confession. "My research indicates that holding hands is quite acceptable, even expected. Perhaps a kiss on the cheek-"

Bending low suddenly, he brushed his mouth softly across the blushing curve of her cheek, lingering just barely before pulling back to inspect her reaction. The pulse in her wrist was hammering hard beneath his fingertips, and her breath on his neck had quickened considerably - though nothing in her expression suggested displeasure. If anything she was displaying exactly the opposite - the unconscious parting of her lips, the quick dash of her tongue across them making them shine, the blown pupils and the hand clutching hard at his shirt front. Sherlock studied all of these signs with mounting interest. He canted his head to the side a little, a slow smile spreading across his features. The gesture was almost triumphant, Molly thought dizzily, as he leaned into her again and captured her cheek in the palm of his hand, fingers tickling below her ear and at the nape of her neck.

"Acceptable?" he asked, though he seemed to already know the answer as he stared down at her with an edge of amusement and rare fondness.

"Yes," Molly murmured thickly, letting their noses touch for a moment. "I like it."

"Good," Sherlock smirked happily, moving away sharply to leave her cold and confused on the packed pavement. "Still want that drink? I know a lovely little place around the corner that stays open 'til 3, though I have my suspicions about the landlord. Several of the regulars have disappeared of late and his wife seems overly downhearted. Crimes of passion, serial adulterer? Maybe you can help me shed some light on it?"

He'd begun to walk away even before he'd finished speaking, his hand flying back to catch hers, lacing their fingers as he tugged her along. Molly shook her head as she followed him, trying to clear it, but she couldn't help but laugh as she realised: _He's learning._

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**I know. I'm such a tease. More soon kids.x**_  
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	16. Would she? Could he?

**Sorry it's taken so long to post this, it's been a very busy few weeks. Also, i apologise in advance for the cliff hanger... If it helps the next chapter is almost finished! I had originally planned on posting this as one HUGE update, but it was getting ridiculously long so i decided to break it up into two separate chapters to make it easier to read. Hope you enjoy! **

**Also, this chapter is for broomclosetkink! Thanks for the lovely review :)  
**

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Chapter Sixteen

"What the hell are you doing here?"

That's not what John had been expecting to hear upon entering the flat that evening, but then again he had tried to teach himself not to expect anything at all when living with Sherlock Holmes. From long suffering experience, he'd found it much easier to just accept the surprises that happened about the house on a near daily basis. _Grin and bear it_, that's the way. Nevertheless, he couldn't think of anything he could've done that would produce such a rude greeting from the consulting detective - it had been at least a good week or so since their last tussle over the toxic state of the fridge or John's unwitting destruction of a madcap experiment left festering in the bathtub. Then there was Sherlock's appearance to consider, which if John had to describe in a word, was simply _harassed._

The detective was standing by the fireplace, all flailing long limbs and ridiculous hair, his face pinked from exertion and an expression of frustration creasing his brow. The sleeves of his purple dress shirt were rolled up to the elbows and he was in the process of crumpling together huge sheets of newspaper, dropping them into ready balls at his feet. The stacks of books and magazines, the persian slipper, the harpoon, even that preposterous skull, had been cleared away and in the grate a pitiful little flame was trying to burn. The room, John realised distractedly, was rather close and smoky and he suddenly felt altogether too warm in his winter layers. Sherlock, whose attention was utterly consumed with whatever he was trying to do to the Guardian, seemed not to notice the heat even as the sweat formed along his brow, upper-lip and beneath the cut of his collar. It would have been almost comical, had John not been under the impression that his flat mate had finally lost his mind.

"Are you alright?" John ventured tentatively, still lingering on the threshold to the flat as though afraid the living room floor might be booby-trapped - which incidentally, was _entirely_ plausible.

"You haven't answered my question, Watson-" Sherlock hissed through gritted teeth, without meeting the doctor's bemused gaze. Tearing a photo of David Cameron and Nick Clegg down its middle he screwed it up and flung it unceremoniously to join the growing pile. "Tonight is a Friday, the day you traditionally stay late at the clinic to finish paperwork so that you can have a quiet weekend. Then, because you harbor an odd lust for that ginger nurse who works the prescription counter, you try to get a date with her because you know it's her night off. She shoots you down, as she _always_ does. Then - crushed, demoralized - you ring up Lestrade and ask him to meet you at the Pig & Whistle to drown your sorrows over a pint - or six - and he tells you about how he and his wife are reconciling - or divorcing, depending on which week we're in. Then, because neither of you can be bothered to cook, you opt to eat out together and then go on for more booze at the Yard local. Hours later you stagger home, fat with food and off your head on cheap lager, and you fall asleep drooling over the arm of the sofa until I wake you unceremoniously with my violin. This is what you do, this is what you have_ always_ done. So, why is it John that the one time I actually need you to be _dull_ is the one time you finally decide to be_ interesting_?"

Utterly stunned, John just stood there blinking. At a complete loss for how to respond to this onslaught, he merely opened and shut his mouth like a fish flung out of water. Sherlock's quickened breathing and the scrunching of newsprint were the only sounds to be heard for several seconds until, finally, John spluttered back to life.

"Okay, what the _hell_ was _that_?!"

"I'm being mean, John." Sherlock snapped, "I am trying, in the only way I know how, to make you go away." Sherlock huffed in exasperation, straightening himself and putting both hands on his hips, surveying the mountain of paper tumbling messily across the carpet. "Do you think this will be enough?" he asked, the tempestuous façade slipping momentarily to be replaced by an inquisitive canting of the head and the slow sucking of his lower lip. "I must confess I don't have much practice in building fires."

"Or in acting like a normal human being, it seems." John sighed, feeling world-weary as he advanced into the room and surveyed the dwindling fire in the grate with disdain. "Should I ask what you're doing or is better not to know?"

Sherlock seemed to give the question some serious deliberation. Descending into a broody silence, he knit his brows in earnest and adopted that guarded, closed off expression he only reserved for the most perplexing of corpses. John snorted, rolling his eyes as he shrugged off his coat and made his way into the kitchen to put the kettle on. Just a few steps and he was stopping short again, frowning as he took in the cluttered mess covering the work surfaces and the steaming pots jumbled haphazardly on top of the stove. The first thought to strike him was that he hadn't been aware Sherlock was even _capable_ of cooking, let alone turning on the hob for something other than an experiment - perhaps the last minute replacement for a broken bunsen? Secondly, and even more baffling, was that this was the first time he had encountered a mess of Sherlock's making that was purely and unabashedly _domestic_.

"Don't be alarmed, it's nothing toxic."

John jumped in alarm, turning to find Sherlock hovering behind him with his shoulder resting against the doorjamb and his hands dug deep in the pockets of his tailored trousers. There was something almost plaintive in the round, blue eyes he raised to fix on John. In fact, his whole attitude had changed dramatically in the space of a few short seconds. There was a great deal lacking in the usually confident jut of his jaw and the straightness of his back. He seemed slumped and disheveled, almost _defeated_, but then again the doctor had to remind himself firmly that nothing was ever _truly_ the way it seemed when it came to this impossible man.

"What exactly are you planning?" John asked warily, "Why do you want me out of the flat and why are you doing _the face_?"

"What face?" Sherlock raised his eyebrows and curled his lip into a perfect smile of bewildered innocence. John however, was having none of it.

"_That_ face, right there," John groused, deciding to maneuver past Sherlock's culinary clutter to make himself a brew after all. Something told him he was going to need it.

"I never do _a face_, John. My skills of misdirection and disguise are too highly trained-"

"Spill it Sherlock, before I set up camp in the living room with a long novel and an entire box of biscuits," John interrupted testily, before adopting his most wheedling tone. "I have a feeling that might upset your plans somewhat, whatever they may be...?"

"Do you really think I can be made to fold so easily?" Sherlock snorted.

John raised an eyebrow and Sherlock's boisterous front melted clean away under the doctor's stern gaze. The detective gnawed his lower lip, his fingers twitching in his pockets.

"If you were me," he began slowly, ignoring John's immediate snort of disbelief at the direction the conversation was taking. "If you were _me_, John, and you were entertaining a lady in the flat and you wanted to make it, well,_ special_, how exactly would you go about it?"

"Really?" John protested somewhat weakly, stirring sugar into his tea.

"Yes."

"_Really_, though?" John said again, slumping against the fridge and sipping his brew. "Again?"

"For goodness sake John, you did _ask_." Sherlock muttered belligerently, moving into the kitchen proper and approaching the stove, looking down at the array of pots and pans with a look verging on barely contained panic. "From all the research I've done on the matter a romantic meal, a roaring fire, an atmosphere of general_ smoothness_ seems to be the best course of action when attempting to woo a woman-"

"_Woo_?" John choked, laughing.

"Well I don't know!" Sherlock spat, lifting the lid off a large pan and sticking his finger into the sauce. He licked his finger experimentally and grimaced. "How does one go about a Bolognese? I followed the recipe to the letter, but this is foul!"

"How on earth can you ruin Bolognese? It's the simplest thing." John exclaimed, feeling rarely superior. "Also, why_ Bolognese_?"

"Italian food is generally considered the go-to for anything romantic," Sherlock shrugged and sniffed, folding his arms and glaring at the mess on the stove. "Or so _Woman's Own_ would have me believe."

"Where did you get the idea to consult _Woman's Own_?" John asked, shouldering the detective aside and tasting the sauce himself. Shaking his head he went to the spice rack and selected a few herbs. "Also, you didn't use any garlic. Idiot."

"Mrs Hudson didn't have any garlic, _John_," Sherlock replied tersely, pulling a face. "I can't be expected to do everything."

"You asked Mrs Hudson to help you plan a romantic meal?" John could hardly believe his ears as he set about trying to repair Sherlock's disaster.

"She's a woman. Molly's a woman. It seemed only logical that they'd like the same things."

"Yes, I can certainly see why _you'd_ think that."

As John chopped and stirred - still feeling as though he were locked in some kind of horrible dream he might soon wake up from - Sherlock went back to the living room and poked the charged paper still burning feebly in the grate, trying to get it to flicker in an aesthetically pleasing way. He didn't know why John was making such a fuss, it wasn't as if _he_ was about to attempt something completely out of his comfort zone. Cooking, cleaning the flat, allowing his raging testosterone to sweep aside his loathing for all things sentimental...

Molly had sounded so happy earlier that afternoon, when he had rung her up and asked whether she would like to spend the night. After the fiasco at the bookshop he had decided not to text -_ though it went against his natural preference_ - choosing to speak the words loud and clear, so that there would be no misunderstanding of his intentions for the evening. Surely, she would know what his invitation would signify?

"Would you like to have dinner with me at the flat?" he'd said, gripping the phone too tightly, an uncomfortable sweat on his brow. "I'll cook for you."

"I didn't know you could cook?" she'd said, sounding amused but pleased at the same time.

"For you, I'll make an exception."

He had been flattering, had inflected his tone with a certain _allure_ she wouldn't mistake. Would she?

"I thought you might like to stay over after?" he'd continued, lowering his voice, deepening its cadence. "We can make a night of it?"

A pause.

"That sounds nice," she'd replied eventually, and he couldn't have misheard her excitement. Could he? "I'd like that."

And now here he was, on his knees by the fire, arranging cushions for them to sit on - he'd read somewhere that a carpet picnic was considered quirky but _cute_ - setting out candles and wine glasses and examining the label of a bottle of red. Was this really him? He knew that he wanted to do whatever he could to make her feel comfortable and sufficiently _wooed_ -why had John laughed at that, was it wrong? - before making his move. He knew that he couldn't just swing her up in his arms the second she arrived and sweep them off to the bedroom - _though he'd dearly like to_ - that, he thought, would not be gentlemanly. Would the meal, the fire, the candlelight and the wine be good enough to convince her of his sincerity? Would he be able to act naturally when everything about the situation was so alien to him, so unclear?

And what about later? How would it be, between them? When the meal was done, the wine drunk, the fire dying down, how would he go about saying what he _needed_ so desperately to say? No one could accuse him of rushing her, or could they? He wanted to be with her so much. He couldn't wait any longer. All the signals she'd given him over the past few weeks all seemed to point to _this_ being the right time for him to act. They had grown so close, had come into each other's confidences, had developed a real sense of intimacy and fondness. He couldn't have imagined it all.

_Could he?_

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**We'll see in CH17, T/S.x **_  
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	17. Really, don't

**I really do fail at updating quickly don't I? Sorry again, also sorry but I've cliff-hanged you guys for a second time... do try not to throw things, the NEXT chapter will hopefully be everything you've waited for ^.^**

**Thanks very much to _Three Faint Calls_ for the lovely review of CH16, muchly appreciated x**

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Chapter Seventeen

John thought he deserved a medal for all the work he'd put into that evening. Not only did he save Sherlock and Molly from food poisoning, he also helped the detective clean the flat from top to bottom, put together a roaring fire that trumped Sherlock's previous poor effort, and went to the added trouble of inviting Mrs Hudson out for a drink so that the landlady wouldn't walk in on anything _untoward._

Then there was all the placid reassurance, insistence and ego-stroking he had to dole out to keep the consulting detective from cracking-up. Honestly, he had never seen the man so ill-composed and jumpy, all wound up nerves and bashful worry. They'd spent nearly an hour alone picking out what Sherlock was going to wear, something which John tried fervently to erase from his memory. He had thought only fluttering girls in pre-teen dramas went to so much effort on their looks. He had never expected to watch a full grown man of Sherlock's caliber preen and fuss, casting aside suits and shirts that cost more than everything John owned put together. It had been more tiresome than he liked to admit, but he'd stuck it out as patiently as he could. Sherlock definitely owed him for this, that was for sure.

At nearly 8, he came out of his room all ready to vacate the flat and let the night unfold. Stepping over the piles of artfully placed cushions, candles and wine glasses, he checked himself over in the mirror above the fire place. Just because he was going on a 'date' with a woman old enough to be his maiden aunt, didn't mean he shouldn't put on a show. After all, if Doctor Watson was famed for anything it was for being a lady's man. No one could deny that.

Straightening his jacket and neatening his hair, he felt he looked nearly dapper. His eyes were weary and his face carried a distinctly careworn expression, and if he was honest he'd much rather curl up on the sofa and watch crap telly than venture out on a wild friday night - but he was a good friend, no, better than good. He was a _phenomenal_ friend.

"Why are you still here?" Sherlock remarked shortly, entering the living room and stopping dead at the sight of the doctor. "You should be gone by now! I don't want Molly thinking you had any part to play in this!"

"I don't mean to be rude," said John testily, _though he did_. "But I have a feeling Molly will figure out you didn't put all this together by yourself."

"Ridiculous." Sherlock muttered, then, quieter, almost suspicious. "Why?"

"Because you're _you_, Sherlock." John smirked, glancing over his shoulder and raising an eyebrow at the other man. "And I mean that with all the affection I can muster."

Sherlock snorted, his expression a mixture of sourness and self-conscious flattery at the comment. Choosing not to reply, he turned into the kitchen to check on the food. John sighed, realising as he did so that since the detective and the pathologist had begun this _thing_ -whatever it was, he still wasn't entirely sure - that Sherlock had shown more open emotion and divergence of expression than John had ever witnessed in their entire friendship. He couldn't decide whether this was a good or a bad thing, just that it was different. _Sherlock_ was different. Whenever he spoke about Molly he held himself strangely, less assuredly. His face would betray whatever he felt, the coolness slipping away all too readily to reveal what lay beneath. It was what John would describe as acting vulnerable, if he were talking about anyone else, but the word just didn't suit Sherlock Holmes. He was brave, cunning, clever, witty and dark, but never _vulnerable_. The notion of it was jarring. John frowned to himself, shaking his head to try and rid himself of the thought. It was as though he had discovered a chink in the man's armor, and if he could see it then so could _everybody_ else.

"Oh for God's sake!" Sherlock's exclamation knocked John out of his reverie. "Just _go_!"

* * *

Standing outside 221b, Molly Hooper hesitated, her hand raised to knock upon the posh front door. She couldn't decide whether she had dressed appropriately for the evening. She had wanted to make a special effort, as it was the first time Sherlock had ever _invited her over_, for a meal, for - well - she wasn't quite sure. What if the detective hadn't meant what she'd thought he'd _meant_? It would be terribly embarrassing for him to open the door dressed in his tartan robe and striped pajamas, a pair of goggles resting on the bridge of his nose, whilst she dithered on the step in her cocktail dress and high heels, positively mortified. But then, she thought back to their conversation earlier, the tone of his voice, the implication in it, and she bit her lower lip hopefully. It may have been awhile since a man had spoken to her in that way, but surely she wouldn't have mistaken the signs?

She'd dug deep into her wardrobe that afternoon, ferreting through clothes she hadn't worn in nearly a year, and found only one thing that still seemed to fit. You couldn't go wrong with a little black dress, could you? It was the classic, wasn't it? She had only worn it once or twice before, perhaps because she had never felt truly comfortable in it. She was mousey and quiet, whilst this was bold and brash and sexy. But, did wearing it make her sexy too? Or would Sherlock look at her and see a small girl trying on one of her mother's dresses, wanting to look much older and braver than she really was? She was certainly no Audrey Hepburn, but would he mind? Would he even notice? And what about the stockings hugging at her thighs beneath the fall of the pleated skirt, had they been too presumptuous? It had seemed alright at the time, just a part of the outfit, a tiny gesture of coquettishness to boost her confidence, but-

"Not that watching you battle with your self-esteem isn't_ fascinating_, Molly, but would you mind coming up stairs now? My sauce is separating."

Molly gave a start, looking up at the sound of that crisp, amused voice overhead. Sherlock had opened the living room window and was leaning out of it, his neck bent ridiculously as he strained to take in every detail of her appearance from that lofty height. Even from this distance Molly could discern an approving quirk at the edge of his lip, the peek of a boyish smile, before he retreated back into the warmth of the flat with a fleeting, "The door's already open!"

Molly tried to contain her blush as she pushed open the street door and headed up the flight of steps to 221b. She hated that he had caught her out, not least that he had commented on it, but at the same time she liked the idea that he had cooked for her. It made her smile, to imagine the detective preparing a meal over a hot bunsen burner, _experimenting_ upon garlic bread or creating a flow chart to determine the perfect wine selection...

"What's funny?"

Sherlock had left the door to the flat ajar, and Molly had walked in to timidly watch him flit about the kitchen with shirt sleeves rolled up, hair wild and cheeks red with a combination of steam and sweat. He looked positively adorable in her opinion, though she'd never say so to his face. Even now, as he licked the end of a wooden spoon, his wide blue eyes fixed on her as she sauntered through the living room to lean against the kitchen door, he was childishly anxious in his demeanor.

"Nothing," Molly replied faintly, pushing down the smirk that had threatened to play across her lips. "You've been busy."

"Quite. Here, try-"

Sherlock's face lit up at the remark, and still holding the spoon aloft he approached her, coxing her to take a lick. He held the back of her neck as he did this, resting the spoon lightly on her lower lip as his thumb brushed along her jaw and beneath the lobe of her right ear. It was rather ticklish, but nice, and Molly laughed. Sherlock grinned as he gazed down at her, containing what felt like a kick to the gut that came from the sight of her tongue flicking out to taste the sauce. Too early for all of that, he told himself, _rein it back._

"That's lovely," Molly smiled, stepping away to divest herself of coat and bag. "When do we eat?"

"Soon."

Sherlock's fingertips immediately tingled with the loss of her touch, already missing the hollow of her throat - but he masked it well. He rubbed the back of his own neck, coughed a little, and made a grab for the bottle of wine on the table. He was determined _not_ to be nervous, yet his hands still shook a fraction as he worked the corkscrew. He simply_ had_ to master it. He didn't want to make a fool out of himself in front the first woman he would ever- the first woman he might - the only woman he found that he l-

_Dammit!_

Molly tried not to be too obvious in her gaze, but she couldn't stop herself from gawping at the sight of Sherlock Holmes attempting to be nonchalant. Usually - _always_ - the man radiated a calm, collected confidence, yet watching him move about the kitchen in search of glasses (even though they both knew they were by the fire), huffing and tripping over chair legs, knocking an elbow into a work top, all the while pretending not to be looking at her from beneath his lashes - it was _priceless_ for its rarity. The sight of him like this made Molly step back into the kitchen, made her hands reach out and catch his hips, pulling him until they were stood back pressed to front. She wrapped her arms around his middle and rubbed her cheek against the fabric of his shirt, imaging the naked curve of his spine and the set of his shoulder blades beneath it. She could feel the steadily increasing beat of his nervous heart, hammering under the span of her hands, thrumming throughout his entire body - his body that she held, his body that she wanted to carry on holding, touching, for as long as she possibly could.

Sherlock wasn't used to being hugged. He made exceptions, of course, one had to. Mrs Hudson for example, or John if he had done something particularly clever - but the gesture was always on his terms, he would always be the one to consent to or offer it. So, to be spontaneously seized like this was very surprising indeed. For a brief moment it felt as it did when a criminal caught him unawares in a dark alley grabbing him with the intention of bashing his brains outs. Then he looked down and saw the womanly arms and hands molding tight over his stomach and chest, and felt the surging heat of Molly pressed up against his back, and the sensation of the hug had clicked sharply into place. Molly had initiated an embrace. Molly was stood behind him and for some reason had decided to grab him and squeeze him, burying her little face in the planes of his back. He could feel her smiling as she nuzzled there, and after the initial shock had subsided he found himself smiling too. He even allowed himself to relax back against her, covering her hands with his own and laughing gently. It should have felt silly, but it didn't. Not much.

"Sorry," Molly said sheepishly, her voice muffled by his purple dress shirt. Sherlock hummed, enjoying the recklessness of the moment. "You just looked so endearingly clueless... It was sweet."

Sherlock's lip curled in spite of himself. _Sweet?_ So, he had become _sweet_ had he? He had never had such a flowery word connected to him before. Or was it something he had always been yet never noticed? She had done this thing to him, hadn't she? She had brought out this oafish man in him, the sort of man that any compassionate woman would want to pity and indulge. The sort of man that didn't really know how to treat a lover but would strive to_ try_ and please them, no matter the cost to their dignity or pride. Was he truly this? Perhaps, not always, just for her - just for the woman that acting upon a _whim_, had just wanted to hold him.

"I thought we could eat on the carpet, in the living room," Sherlock said softly, not wanting to jolt them out of this rather pleasant situation. "I hear that can be nice sometimes."

"Did John tell you that?" Molly asked, only half-teasing.

"No," Sherlock said, with not a little bit of wounded pride in his tone, holding his chin up higher. "Legitimate _research_ told me that."

"Ah," Molly hid her amused grin, "Of course. I hear you've been doing a roaring trade with the magazine stand down the street, though you tell the seller everything you buy is for your girlfriend."

"It _is_," Sherlock insisted, blushing slightly and flushing beneath his collar. "In a manner of speaking, anyway. It helps me understand what you might want."

"You've never needed a trashy magazine to understand me, Sherlock," Molly sighed fondly, rolling her eyes to the ceiling. "You can just look at me and_ read_ what you need."

"Mostly, Molly, mostly..."

They both neatly and conveniently sidestepped the fact that Sherlock had just referred to Molly as his girlfriend, something which until now had never been voiced. Perhaps it was too early in the evening? Perhaps not enough of the wine had been poured for such confessions to be made? Perhaps they wordlessly acknowledged the fact that to all intensive purposes this was truly the case, had accepted it, and moved on? Whatever the reason, Sherlock didn't elaborate and Molly didn't ask, only gave his middle an extra squeeze before releasing him, to which Sherlock responded by grasping her wrist briefly and laying a swift kiss to the back of her hand.

* * *

Once dinner was finally served - _Sherlock had an altercation with a colander that almost ruined the whole confection_ - they sat together by the hearth, plates balanced on their knees, edging closer and closer with each heady sip from their glasses. Molly wasn't the sort of woman that could be bought with a drink, and Sherlock certainly had no intention of getting her drunk, but the wine warmed them pleasantly and helped to draw away any lingering tension hanging in the air.

"I've never seen this place so _clean_," Molly remarked and Sherlock gave a rolling shrug, as though to suggest it was nothing, but Molly narrowed her eyes. "Who helped you?"

"No one," Sherlock lied quickly, but he couldn't hide a small smirk and Molly laughed triumphantly.

"It was John wasn't it?" she asked, "Honestly, Sherlock..."

"What?" Sherlock said defensively, widening his eyes until they were bluer than blue. "He offered."

"And why did he offer I wonder," Molly went on, giddy but not unkind. "Did you compliment his hair, his choice of jumper?"

"Well, _actually-_" Sherlock began, joining in the game. "I rather offended him I think... I can never tell with John."

"What did you do?"

"Oh, you know," Sherlock slid his empty plate to the floor before running a careless hand through his curls, as though thinking hard on a problem. Molly watched him, forgetting her own plate as she studied the shadows made by the flickering firelight across his face. How he had never had anyone before was beyond her. "I implied he was a lonely, hopeless drunk."

"_Sherlock!_"

"It was only in fun," Sherlock replied, leaning back on his elbows and sliding her a heavy look from beneath his lashes.

"I'm sure."

Molly had the distinct impression that the detective was attempting to play _coy_ with her - and for a man who seldom flirted, he was doing it rather well. She knew that she was flushing, and it wasn't only from the heat of the fire or the rush of the alcohol or the good food inside her. It was from the way he lounged so easily beside her, spread out almost lazily upon the cushions, that purple dress shirt rumpled, his forearms and neck exposed as though by accident, and yet how his entire attitude spoke of _purpose_. He seemed to know exactly what he was doing, and for whom he was doing it. _For her, all for her._

"Are you finished?"

Molly started, not realising that her gaze had turned into a stare. How long had she been looking at him like that? She couldn't tell. Her stomach clenched, partly from embarrassment but from something _else_ too, something she couldn't quite put a name to.

She allowed him to take her plate and refill her glass from the bottle by the armchair, but she couldn't think of a single thing to say as he rose and went silently into the kitchen. She heard him pottering about the sink, fiddling with taps, clinking cutlery. They were odd, nervous sounds, sounds that didn't seem at all easy. It made Molly wonder how Sherlock felt, right then, about what they were doing. As so often happened in their relationship, she had thought mostly of what tonight would mean for her - not for him. Did he even know that answer for himself? She thought about all the trouble he had gone to in creating this wonderful evening for them, about all of his good intentions, and she suddenly felt guilty.

"Don't think the thing you're thinking..."

She started yet again as two hands found her shoulders, gripping them gently from behind and pulling until she came to rest against a pair of long legs. She tipped her head back curiously to find Sherlock crouched over her, a soft smile on his lips that belayed a deeper seriousness.

"Really," he said, his voice low. "Don't."

And then he kissed her.

* * *

**CH18 is almost finished - I had thought to post CH17 and CH18 together but the word count was getting ridiculous so I've split it up, so, very long chapter next time I promise! Hope you enjoyed and as always comments and reviews are greatly appreciated. **

**Also, if you fancy checking out my art on tumblr, that would be fabulous too, link is on my profile page x **


	18. A Stimulating Hurt

**What's this? Two updates in the same week? Madness.  
**

**Well, i did have most of this chapter written for awhile... **

**Not written a scene like this for AGES, so i hope it lives up to the 17 chapters worth of expectation - ENJOY! ;)**

* * *

Chapter Eighteen

Molly didn't know quite how they had come to this juncture, it was all such a haze she still felt slightly delirious. How had that soft, chaste kiss of affection led to something else so much more heated, and so quickly? Her mind reeled, made light headed by the ardency of Sherlock's kiss.

Having set his lips to hers, Sherlock had become almost insatiable, had pulled her clumsily to her feet, gathered her close with an arm snaked about her waist, loving the littleness of her, pushing down the desire in him to just _break her_ there and then. He had tried very, very hard not to seem needy or desperate over the course of the evening - his wishes simmering beneath a cool facade - but the moment he'd begun kissing her the urge had become too difficult to contain. He could not bring himself to understand it, he just knew that stopping would feel like _hell_. He kept telling himself not to, even as he bent her back to kiss her deeper, touching the roof of her mouth with his tongue and groaning. He knew he had to slow down, or he would lose this, lose _her_, but the effort was proving almost impossible. He needed a steady hand to calm him, to smother this inclination out of him.

"Sherlock, what-" Molly gasped into his mouth, her chest heaving as she struggled to breathe. It wasn't panic, but it was worryingly close. "_Sherlock._"

The tone did it, finally - that not quite afraid, not quite happy, very questioning tone in Molly's voice. Sherlock found that he couldn't _not_ listen to that. With his body still fast to hers, hands gripping, mouth panting, he gulped and trembled. Molly felt it, running through his limbs beneath the smart cut of his suit. Then it was gone, as Sherlock took a reluctant step away, one hand remaining at her waist, stroking with a single thumb along the bone of her hip through the fabric of her dress. That little touch, so constant and unchanging, had a startlingly grounding effect upon Molly's scattered nerves. She felt able to look up into his face again, to read what was there without fear clouding her judgement of him. She found that his sudden roughness was all desire, nothing dark, nothing possessive. _Not Jim._ There was only lustful admiration staring back at her from those clear, blue eyes.

Sherlock's features were set now, controlled, and without saying a word he asked her with a simple look, and she nodded in response hardly knowing what she was agreeing to.

"Turn around," he murmured, and he sounded hoarse. His gaze had grown intense, decided, but he seemed secretly pleased Molly thought. It was as though she had been remarkably clever, and he approved.

His hand guided her in her slow spin, and it dragged her back when she stilled, facing away from him. She heard his step on the carpet, felt his chest touch lightly against her and then the words in her ear, sounding so loud, "I like your dress.".

"Thank you," she said, though it was a whisper she hardly made sense of herself.

The room seemed so stifling suddenly, with the dimming fire and the cloying red wine in her belly and the smell of him, strong in her senses. All her attention focused upon the trace of his fingers over the swell of her hip, spreading out to clutch at her tensely.

"Molly."

Sherlock paused the movement of his fingertips at her waist, tickling the nape of her neck with his breath, close and irregular against her skin. The manner in which he said her name was quite startling, and for a second she felt as though he had pierced her with a dart at the base of her spine, paralyzing her. There was such an aggressive edge of _want_ in that tone, that single, thoughtful, savage utterance of her name.

With him at her back like this she couldn't read his expression, only feel his intention in the heat of his body hovering behind her own, all solid, lithe lines of muscle, shivering with barely contained need. He had been so remarkably _patient_ with her, she knew that. He had waited so much longer than she had any right to expect him to and she was grateful. It had surprised her though. In all honesty, she had wondered whether the great Sherlock Holmes would grow bored and drop her like a specimen for which his curiosity had waned. But yet, _yet_, he remained - like a bruise fading from vivid colour to a dull, ponderous ache that lingers beneath the flesh, persistently a part of her.

"_Molly._"

This time there really was a touch of something desperate in that shaking, carnal voice, asking her without words to simply, just, surrender. Surrender. She had wanted to for a very long, long time now, she couldn't deny it. Sherlock knew it as well as she did, probably _better._ She could trace this knowledge to its root in the way his hands flew from her waist fluidly, one grasping at her shoulder as the other fell to touch the skin of the back of her thigh, just below the hemline of her dress. There was hardly a moment of hesitation in the daring movement, and it seemed as though Sherlock had made up his mind to just continue. He would go on traversing her body until she asked him to stop, though Molly wasn't sure right then if she would be capable of doing so even if she wanted him to.

His fingers played only a few seconds at her thigh, dipping beneath the fabric of her skirt just long enough to run curiously over the top of her stocking - _surprising_ - fluttering across the pretty, lace detailing before pulling away abruptly. The touch was jarring in its swiftness, furtive and brief, and Molly almost asked him to continue, only opening her mouth felt far too difficult a task. It was as though something was pushing down hard on her tongue, like a bit between a horse's lips, smothering her need to speak. Sherlock too was very quiet, letting his actions do the talking for him, though he knew that Molly must be feeling the effects his wandering attentions were having on him: increased body temperature, quickened heartbeat, moistened skin, shallower breathing, hardness. Had he a mirror to look into he'd be able to see the exact dilation of his pupils, though he supposed they must be blown almost completely black by now. That first cautious, exploratory delve beneath her dress to touch the silk of her leg would have seen to that. And then, also, there was the promise of so much more to come hammering in his veins, like a bold, unsure sort of rage that try as he might, he couldn't satisfy.

Molly was on the verge of turning in the embrace when Sherlock's hands both came to rest firmly either side of her throat, his thumbs joining to press at the base of her skull. She stilled immediately, her person feeling oddly suspended beneath this careful hold. Sherlock made a low, approving sound like he was pleased with her and Molly nearly smiled. He began kneading at her collar and the sloping curves of her shoulders, as though testing her calm, wondering maybe if it would break. Staring straight ahead, Molly could barely breathe let along voice aversion or assent, and so it was that she let him thread his fingers through the straps of her dress, pushing them down over her upper arms to expose the points of her shoulder blades, her sternum and the tops of her breasts. Next was the zip, drawn down quickly but with unmistakable reverence.

The two halves of the garment fell apart, showing Sherlock the line of her bare back, the girlish waist, the mounds of her hipbones peeping over the lace edging of her underwear. He gulped audibly, his lips and the inside of his mouth suddenly overwhelmingly dry, a passionate quiver running riot all throughout his limbs like some electrical charge.

Now, if ever, was the time to stop. Now, if ever, was when he should back away and leave her be, untouched, unspoiled and untainted by him and his world. It would be the honorable thing to do. Going further meant so much uncertainty for both of them, so much needless danger, but then to see the smooth, honeyed expanse of her back peering out from between the parted garment and to _not_...

Sherlock shook his head, trying to clear the mist that had settled over him, but it was no easy feat. Molly's hands had reached back, pressing palm flat over his haunches in what he could only interpret as encouragement, his midriff baring the full brunt of the womanly contact. Heat curled instantly in his belly and he closed his eyes, breathing deep and evenly to regain his poise. Surely, had she been afraid or unwilling she would have torn away from him by now, not drawn him closer? Of that he was sure. Her backside was flush against his thighs, round and inviting, and it made him want to grip her hips hard and rut against her - all uncharacteristic animal brutality - made him want to bend her and make her sweet and pliable to his every conceivable whim, make beautiful sounds _pour_ out of her.

It was quite instinctual, this compulsion, though it still gave him pause, made him falter. He needed to collect himself. He could not lose his bearings. He could not be harsh or fast, could not demand anything from her, it would be wrong. How close had he _already_ come to ruining this? He would need to tame that indefinable part of himself that longed to dominate and to_ take_, that sought only the purest, most immediate forms of gratification. He was habitually wary of the urge in the same way he had been of his drug addiction, the two sensations were so alike. He would strive to savour her in this, to draw her out of herself like the letting of blood from a stone. Nothing was more important than her satisfaction and delight, nothing, not even his own wantonness in the expectation of what they were finally about to do. It wasn't the coming _act_ that frightened him now - he had ceased feeling virginal, had perhaps never truly felt so in his life - but the prospect of disappointing her tore at him like a constant, nagging itch. To Sherlock failure in itself was unacceptable, but failure in _this_...

Leaning into Molly, he tucked the tip of his nose behind her ear, scenting her, and when she shivered in a wholly pleasurable way he felt assured again. With renewed confidence he allowed his touch to travel back beneath the black velvet of her dress, ghosting at her sides before boldly reaching round to cup her breasts, stroking and squeezing them. He cleaved to her back as he did this, wanting to feel the entire length of her body warm and wriggling against the front of his shirt and the strain of his trousers and he groaned, a dark, unfamiliar groan that seemed to rise up from somewhere buried down in his gut. Perhaps it was the masculine, purely sexual noise he had made or maybe it was the sensation of his fingers teasing at her, but Molly tipped her head back against his shoulder and gave a soft, throaty whimper. Her hand flew back without warning, tangling in his curls and tugging, forcing him down to lay hot, breathy kisses along her neck.

Molly allowed herself to be handled by Sherlock Holmes. Sinking against his supportive, solid frame, reveling in the musky smell of him that was always so sharp yet so subtle, she made herself forget everything. She told herself that she could have this, that after everything that had transpired that year, she deserved it. She had dreamed of it in the past, more often than she liked to admit, and now it was really happening. The world's only consulting detective was touching her, _truly_ touching her. He was subjecting _her_ to his most full and undivided attention. He was not pondering on the intricacies of a case as he dragged his tongue over the underside of her jaw, nor was he trying to decipher the motivations of some far away criminal as he pushed his knee between her legs from behind and _pressed_. There were no thoughts present in that marvelous head of his, aside from those concerned with Molly's comfort, Molly's pleasure. Those eager, slim fingers that splayed out across her abdomen and stroked just barely over the soft trail of hair leading down into her underwear were not even remotely interested in preparing a slide or adjusting a microscope. All they wanted to do was feel her out in every possible way, learn and digest all they could from the smooth contours of her person - how squeezing _just so_ made her gasp, how it caused her to squirm and keen against him in anticipation. That was all he wanted to investigate, that was all he was interested in knowing. Nothing else mattered, but her.

Neither was he plagued by what _had been_. This exploration of Molly's body was entirely removed from the taint of Moriarty. That man's face, what he had done and how it had made them both feel in the aftermath - none of it was important to Sherlock just then. To him Molly was a startlingly blank canvas, free from any form of blemish or imperfection. In his eyes, the only thing that could possibly spoil her was the taint of association with himself, and even in this he was past caring. If he ruined her then by extension he would ruin himself, because as far as he was concerned he was tied to her now with no intention of ever letting go. To deny himself the joy of this was futile and cruel. To fight the inclination to simply _be_ with this woman made no logical sense whatever. No matter what she had suffered, he knew that Molly had to feel the same. Hadn't she? If she didn't, if she was truly afraid then she had to say so because without her word he wouldn't stop, _couldn't_ stop.

Perhaps a little rougher than he had intended, Sherlock spun Molly in his grasp until she was staring up into his face, the black dress all in disarray about her frame, her hair coming loose from its plait through sheer exertion, her mouth and eyes both open wide in question and repressed longing. Looking down at her, his hands clasped at her lower back to steady them, Sherlock was amazed by how completely he had come to almost undoing her already. He wondered, vaguely, whether he too was as rumpled and unkempt - what had she done to _him_? There was no certainty in this, he understood that even if he didn't enjoy the notion. There was only a clawing, demanding, irrational need. There was only her breath on his cheek and chin, her fingertips digging hard into his chest, her skin a haze of peach and pink drawing closer. There was only her mouth, a sweet cave of darkness, surging up to capture his own and then the _kiss_ that broke him.

It still surprised him when she felt comfortable in initiating such contact. It still _worried_ him that the simple meeting of lips could ignite such a fire in his insides, could wrought such an uncontrollable wave of hot, searing lust crashing in his stomach. She was so brave, overcoming violent inhibition and deep-seated terror in order to be with him, to slip her tongue across his teeth and dig her nails into his skin and give, of all things, that tiny, happy, excited whimper. Sherlock felt privileged to be witness to such a private, secret, little sound. He felt honored that it was all for him, every sigh, every hum, every labored, feminine chuckle of passion. This kiss was his, this woman belonged to him.

He stole himself to break the contact, clutching the flesh at the small of her back to make her still her assault. Molly dipped her chin, slightly breathless, and began to suck at her lower lip which had become rosy and plush. She didn't ask what was wrong, just looked down through her lashes and waited until his palm cupped her cheek, his thumb stroking at the slow blush of heat rising in her face. It was a fond, consoling gesture, and more than anything it reassured her. For a brief, horrible second she had thought Sherlock's retreat had been one of disgust, a shard of ice sliding between her ribs and _twisting_, but when she met his intent, blue stare she found nothing but a question. His brow was raised a little, and the hand not cupping her face had risen to trace along the loose pucker of material still clinging to her chest. He was asking something absurdly simple, she realised, and it was kind and gentlemanly all at once, and it warmed her. She gave the briefest, shyest of nods before taking hold of the end of her plait and undoing it, letting her hair fall free over her shoulder. There couldn't have been a better invitation.

Without consciously meaning to, Sherlock held his breath as he took the open dress by its straps and slid it down over Molly's arms, letting it bunch at her hips for the moment. He leant close, one hand resting flat over the ridges of her spine, fingers spread wide, and he kissed the space between her breasts and felt the thunder of her heart against his lips. He turned his face into her sternum, his curls tickling, and pressed his ear to the sound. She was such a lively, human thing. She was not an illusion or fantasy ready to disappear. Molly Hooper was standing half naked in his living room, the glow of the fire painting her skin a ruddy, glorious hue, and though she was warm he felt goosebumps rising irresistibly beneath his touch, making the near-invisible hair along her arms and across her naval stand to attention, _for him._ All these tiny details fascinated him. She was a true,_ true_ wonder. Her physical reaction to his proximity was astounding, not to mention intensely gratifying to his confidence and pride.

He knelt at her feet before the fireplace, hooking his fingers into the black velvet and tugging it down her hips, her thighs, her calves, until she stepped out of it and he tossed it aside. Sherlock gazed up at her then. He was greeted with the black sheer fabric of her stockings, the lace detailing at their tops, the small slice of those creamy thighs that went up to her hips, her simple, pretty black underwear, the curve of her belly and the swell of her bare breasts, the peeks of her small, pink nipples, and then her face, her smile and her twinkling eyes surveying him with amusement, the soft, light brown of her hair forming a tousled, ravaged frame. He was physically unable to hide his excitement any longer, and his reverent expression slipped into a wolfish, hopeless grin. It only intensified when Molly threaded her fingers through his curls, petting him like he had done something marvelous that deserved a reward.

"There is nothing I wouldn't do for you right now," Sherlock murmured in all honesty, widening his blue eyes meaningfully.

His voice was a lot lower and a great deal huskier than he had thought it would be, but he liked the sound of it. It was so new to him, and he glorified in _the new_. It was as though the _want_ he felt was crawling out of his throat to throttle his words. Usually any threat at all to his coherency troubled him deeply, but not this. He adored this.

"Undress for me?" Molly asked softly, her fingertips probing at his sensitive scalp in a form of massage.

She didn't say so, but standing practically naked before a man again was proving rather jarring and strange, no matter how readily she wanted the attention. To have Sherlock strip down too would even up the stakes and settle her careening nerves. Also, it would make the situation more real, because in all truth it still felt peculiarly like a dream to her. All the sensory information teaming throughout her brain, the heat of the room, the feel of his hands wrapped tightly around the backs of her legs, his keen, attentive expression - none of it had quite sunk in yet. Not _quite._

Sherlock remembered the sharp spike of embarrassment he had endured the last time he had stripped for her. The two of them alone in his bedroom, he had taken off his garments piece by piece, had folded them prissily to avoid her stares, had blushed like a school boy in a locker room. The memory of climbing into bed beside her and of what had then ensued surged up to cloud his brain and his reason. They had come so close to _the act_, their limbs fitting together, the barest trace of a barrier between their most intimate parts. It had been entirely within his power to take her then. In retrospect he was glad he hadn't. When he compared the two scenarios - the one of weeks ago and that of the present - he recognised this as the better choice. This would be no accidental fit of passion in the half-light of his room, perhaps later on dismissed or regretted as a hasty mistake. When he removed his clothes and clasped her now, it would be a meditated, well-reasoned, well-_felt_ course of action. It would be very, very right. Understanding this, appreciating it, Sherlock gulped as he began to unbutton his dress shirt.

Molly hadn't been prepared for how she would feel upon watching this display, this slow and timid removal of his clothes one stitch at a time, the purple dress shirt falling away to reveal the smooth, athletic torso, and how Sherlock's face and neck reddened when he caught her riveted stare. She hadn't properly appreciated the fact that _she_ might not be the only one with issues to put aside here, and that Sherlock - usually so confident and so full of bravado in everything he did - was painfully body conscious. She probably should have been more aware of it before, after everything he had said of his past, of how few people he had ever let near him, and now all she could do was try and soothe him.

Still kneeling, shirtless and blushing despite his best efforts to hide it, Sherlock allowed Molly to take a step toward him. Sighing very softly, she placed her hands on his shoulders. Her palms were slim and dainty, the skin dry. He liked the way she squeezed gently, feeling his tenseness and apprehension built-up beneath the layers of muscle, but saying nothing of it.

Without knowing if it was acceptable, he leant the weight of his front against her stockinged legs, wrapping his arms around her thighs, his fingers clutching at her round backside and lower back, and he buried his face against her stomach and inhaled long and deep. His nose and lips brushed the edge of her underwear, and he smiled. The close intimacy of that tiny space smelt so wonderful, filled him with such instantaneous vigor, that he had to stick out his tongue and lick her there, right below her belly button. Nothing could compare to the satisfaction he gleaned from hearing her suppress a breathy moan in response.

Encouraged beyond measure, Sherlock slowly rose up off the floor, planting kiss after kiss from the curve of her stomach, to her sternum, her breasts, the hollow of her throat, the cleft of her chin, her _mouth_. He caught her face in his hands, cradling her head and plundering her mouth with his tongue. The way she wriggled and gasped against him was electrifying. The touch of her bare chest meeting flush against his own made almost every coherent thought disappear. In all the sweet, suffocating excitement of the kiss and the suddenly frantic press of their bodies, he hardly registered the path of his hand across her midriff, the parting of fabric from warm skin, until something unbelievably hot and wet met his fingertips, and he realised where his hand had travelled. His knees almost buckled, and he broke their lips apart in surprise. Molly was staring at him, equally as jolted but not protesting. Not yet. After the smallest of pauses, he went on. It took all the resolve he had to keep his head, wrap a strong, comforting arm about Molly's waist and continue as though he had planned it from the start, that he hadn't allowed sheer animalistic _lust_ to guide him.

Molly nearly swooned at that first intimate touch, not only from the utter _sweetness_ of it, but from the rushing _hurt_ of it too. The traces of tears were forming in the corners of her eyes and her throat felt constricted at the intrusion, but she ignored it. She ignored it because she had to, because she _wanted_ to. She was clutching Sherlock quite impossibly close, almost to the point of losing her balance and bringing them both crashing to the carpet, but the detective grasped her tight and safe, allowing her to bury her face in the crook of his neck and muffle a cry of unintelligible origins into his skin. Was it fear in her voice? Perhaps a little. Was it a form of frustration? Quite possibly. Was it passion? Most definitely. There was more than enough of the latter in her tone to reassure Sherlock, to make him keep going.

The angle of his hand had nudged her legs wide apart, the fabric of her underwear bunching at his wrist, until he was almost holding her up entirely for lack of footing, and his fingers twisted in such a way that each movement caused her to jump and keen into his chest, nails cutting him. There was something so incredibly _raw_ about it, Sherlock thought as he delved deeper inside her, stroking her hard and slow, the heel of his palm pressing up against something that made her give the most beautiful gasps. This woman he was pleasuring, it almost didn't seem like Molly at all in that moment. She was wearing an expression he had never seen on anyone in his entire life - some perplexing mixture of pain, desire, aggression and surrender. To see it made him _ache_ for her completely, every single cell in his body wanting to reach out and touch her, to make her always look that way.

"Sherlock," Molly whimpered, her voice catching. "_Sherlock._"

He stopped instantly, his fingers stilling inside her. Had he gone too far too soon? His heart hammered against his ribs, his arm ready to slip away from about her waist, his mind already busy on trying to remember where he'd thrown his shirt so he could redress. But then Molly made a tiny, shaking breath, labored and harsh on his exposed neck. He let his eyelashes stutter closed, forgetting every concern, shutting out the living room bathed in firelight, the peachy skin of Molly's cheeks, her brown cascade of hair, his own near-nakedness. He could only see the dark pink behind his lids, and _feel_ Molly's body. He felt her every tremor minutely, right down to the shuddering of her knees and the flutter of her sex.

"Lay down with me?" Molly whispered, sounding calmer and more assured and Sherlock nodded his assent.

They disentangled from one another briefly, both clambering onto the piles of cushions in front of the fire. Sherlock hovered uncertainly on his haunches, watching her sit back on her elbows, shaking the hair off her shoulders, knees drawn up slightly. She was not reclining fully, not yet, but something told him that if he were to settle over her she would not object. A look of longing mixed with trepidation clouded her eyes, at odds with her full wanting lips and that deeply erotic, womanly scent that he could now smell on him as well as her. He felt as though she had _marked_ him, and he wondered if tomorrow people would be able to know just be looking at them what they had done and what they had become - just as he could tell the identity of a murderer from the way they stood, spoke,_ smelt_. It would be a challenge to conceal it from the world, he knew that, but it didn't blunt his desire to continue - not after that first, fleeting, _wonderful_ taste. How could he possibly bring himself back from the brink, after that?

He started by unbuckling her shoes, casting them aside before clutching both her feet in turn, smoothing the soreness from her instep with the flat of his thumb. She had very small, very feminine feet, he noted. Barely larger than the length of his hand. In fact, as he caressed her foot his eyes traveled upwards and he realised how incredibly small Molly was all over. He could cover her entirely, wrap himself around her and crush her down into the carpet until she couldn't breathe or speak or cry. This thought made his mind jar, and for the first time that evening - unbidden - he found himself thinking about _it._ He hadn't meant to and he chided himself fiercely, but once it was there he couldn't pull himself away from the vision of it. He knew that he wasn't like Moriarty._ But still..._

Molly felt Sherlock's fingers falter and she looked down at him, steadying herself against the cushions at her back. His face had become momentarily drawn, shadowed. She thought, fleetingly and _lovingly_, that with his mop of rumpled curls, his pinked cheeks and his bare chest, that he looked so much younger, and so very lost. His hands fluttered against her ankles and the backs of her legs, toying with the lace edging at the tops of her stockings, but he wouldn't meet her eye. His expression was at once hot and cold, as though he were trying to fix his attention on a single point but failing.

It was perhaps inevitable that she did what she did next, moving into a sitting position and wrapping her arms about his neck, moving his head to rest in the juncture of her neck and shoulder. She sighed and soothed him, running her hand palm-flat along the ridges of his spine, the points of his shoulders, the other tangling in the hair at the nape of his neck and tugging softly until he moaned. Her thighs had come up around his hips, until she was practically squirming in his lap, and Sherlock pulled her closer, burying his face against her skin and inhaling her scent deeply, trying to gain some reassurance, some comfort. He curled an arm about the littleness of her waist and began to rock them, back and forth, pressing this small, sweet woman against the broadness of her chest, crushing her to him to dampen down the fear growing apace in his heart.

He didn't like being afraid of such a seemingly simple thing. Every man, every woman, every _creature_ on the planet had the ability to do what they were doing, and yet here he was clinging to Molly like a child waking from a nightmare - a half-strangled cry in his throat that wouldn't let itself go, choking him until he was almost breathless with this strange battle of desire and panic raging amuck inside him. The flush on his skin, the tightness in his stomach, the drag of his fingertips along her body told him what he wanted to do to her, but the taunting voice in the back of his mind hissed _burn, **burn, burn.**_

"Sherlock-"

Molly's half gasp broke his resolve to be calm, to be slow. He found himself tipping her backwards onto the floor, his body between her legs, one hand fisting in her long hair, the other hiking her knee up to settle at his hip. He was clutching at her instinctually, wanting as much of her skin touching his as possible, a mounting ache in his belly and groin. He lay poised above her, their lips barely touching, eyes fixed and searching, both panting for breath.

There was a raw but tender _abruptness_ to his actions, Molly thought, but it didn't trouble her in the way she thought it should. His long, lean body stretched out on top of her, covering her nakedness from head to toe, but he was ratchet-tight with tension, the muscles in his arms and legs quivering with restraint. She could feel the hardness pressing into her through the front of his trousers, begging to be noticed, and she knew that her own sex wanted to feel it, to hold it - that it already missed the teasing, twisting touch of his fingers. She found that she_ couldn't_ physically deny the thing she wanted anymore, that to push him away because of what had been done to her in the past would be folly. This was so different. This was new and amazing, and real. She wanted the man above her to take her heart and soul, to indulge himself in her, to feel satisfied, and in return she wanted to be made whole by him, to be taken care of, to be lavished with his attention in the form of words, kisses, burning looks and that harsh, painful, wonderful intrusion.

Her hands moved to unfasten the front of his trousers, quick and decisive. Sherlock stuttered out a warning, tried to catch at her wrists but she ignored him, wriggling under him until he groaned himself into a heavy, heated silence. Molly wasn't going to stop, not now she had made her choice, not for anything, because she couldn't bear it any longer. She was finally with the person she had longed to be with since the first day he'd strode into her life, all swirling black coat and haughty, languid stare. She had hoped for this for too long. It didn't matter that her insides were crawling over one another with hateful recollection, or that the memory of _that night_ was washing through her limbs, because it _wasn't_ that night. This was him and this was her, this was _Sherlock_ and this was _Molly_, and for goodness sake, she told herself, _it doesn't matter anymore._ This thought took control over her hands, made her body do things she hadn't realised she _could_ do again, and before she knew it she had pushed Sherlock's trousers down over his backside, bunching them at the knees. She took hold of him firmly, enjoying the look of wonder on the detective's face as she reached between them, moving aside the silk between her thighs. She had a few seconds to appreciate the heavy, solid heat of him between her fingers, the way the blunt nudge of him felt at her entrance, and then she tipped her hips up, pressed her hand to guide him forwards, and took him.

Sherlock felt as though he'd been hit in the guts with the butt of a riffle, the breath knocked clean out of him by Molly's haste. His brain had stopped - _blissfully_ - and nothing at all registered, nothing but the tight grip of Molly's body around him, the catch of her breath against his cheek and the shudder that ran through her. Then, slowly, other feelings filtered through the haze, sparking off all sorts of wishes and fears - things that he simply couldn't comprehend, not with Molly clinging to him so insistently. Her hands were holding him to her at the small of his back, her heels digging into his buttocks, the length of her legs hugging close at his sides, the swell of her breasts pressed flat to his chest. He hadn't realised it, but he had gathered her close to him, gripping at her like she was the only real thing in the whole world.

He didn't want to contemplate what would happen to him if he dared let her go.

"_Molly-_"

His voice didn't sound like his own. The sound of her name on his lips was different to how it had ever been before. It was ragged and painful, but it was a good hurt, a stimulating hurt. Saying her name like this, hearing it torn from his own throat, made him want to moan, made him want to thrust and keen. He had not expected it to be this way, had not expected _her_ to take _him_.

Molly hadn't expected this either, and for a moment she was bowled over by her own brazenness, and the weight of Sherlock above her. She lay prone beneath him, letting the _feel_ of him rush throughout her body, pound in her blood. The sensation was _acute_, to the point of terrifying. Her limbs locked about his in a sort of paralysis of fear and she couldn't move or speak, only dig her nails into the flesh of his back and shut her eyes tight. She_ willed_ herself not to think of _him_, not to tumble down again after all these months, nearly a year. Surely, it didn't matter anymore. Only Sherlock mattered - Sherlock, who was calling to her, touching her face with his lips and struggling to restrain himself. She could feel him inside her, wanting to move, wanting to be with her, and she wanted to be with him so much, _so much_-

"Please..."

She had said it, she realised, not only thought it. Opening her eyes again, she found his pressed close, his face almost a blur but for those shards of blue. They were worried, tense, questioning. She caught his lower lip between her teeth and bit it gently, bringing her arms up about his neck, enjoying the fevered heat of his skin as she kissed him in reassurance.

"Are you alright?" Sherlock asked, brushing her wet cheek with his nose. He did not ask why she was crying, there was no need.

"Yes," Molly replied, half choking on the word. "Please, don't- Please, just-"

"Should it feel this way?" Sherlock shuddered, uncertain in a way he never was. "Should it feel so-"

"Yes, _yes..._"

She grabbed at his hair, made him kiss and bite at her neck, her shoulders, guided his hands to fondle her breasts, told him to pinch them, and she pushed against him, wanting him. Everything she had felt was now replaced with everything she needed, and she didn't care if it hurt, or if it was fast or tender, only that it would happen. In the part of her mind that wasn't occupied with the moment, she found herself wondering if this was how it should always have been between them. She didn't want him to be careful or slow, to treat her as though she might break. For this, this first time, it had to be raw and unapologetic - a _giving in_ at last. She wanted to feel sore, bone-weary, and his.

Sherlock found himself unable to deny her this. Her responses to his attentions had set something off inside him, and without conscious fight it took over his brain completely. It was something he had never listened to, something long repressed. It was vividly sexual and primal, and it wanted Molly in every single way. It wanted to please her, yes, but it wanted to _have_ her too. It appreciated the curves of her, how she dipped and rose for him as he thrust into her in a consuming, wild abandon. It loved the black stockings clinging to her thighs, the rub and stick of the lace on his skin. It made his hands grab and clutch at her knees, bringing her legs up higher, and when that wasn't enough it sent him careening forwards to take her mouth, their tongues sliding, hips grinding, voices rough and wanton. It made him catch her wrists and cradle them above her head, it made him want to go harder and further and _longer_. It made him want to love her, made him want to say it even as he moved inside her fast and blunt.

He didn't say it. Instead he only kissed her, held her, took her until the knot in his stomach loosened and a wash of heat mixed with relief and panic surged over him, making him cry out. He cried out for her, for the way she had made him feel, and for all the emotions he didn't know or understand. His orgasm rippled through him, making him rigid and senseless, wiping his mind clean.

Molly let him collapse shakily into her embrace, holding him against her breast and pressing her lips to his forehead in a soft, tired smile. She couldn't guess what he thought or felt right then - _perhaps nothing_ - but she could certainly speak for herself. She felt totally at peace.

* * *

**I hope you liked the direction I took this in - It didn't feel right for them to have a soppy, soft sort of a time. Still romantic I think, just in a very immediate way... ANY WAY. Reviews always appreciated, I hope you enjoyed it and see you in CH19.x**


	19. A Little Thank You

**I return! Sorry for the delay, but exams are always inspiration killers. **

**Thanks for the big follower/review response for CH18, i'm glad so many of you enjoyed it! This chapter is along the same lines, because, you know... I can? You're welcome. But, PLOT THINGS HAPPEN. So, enjoy.**

**Thanks to the following, just for sticking with this story. I love your faces, and that you find the time to comment. **

**Big love to: Mrs Dizzy, MorbidbyDefault, lililoop, Adi Who Is Also Mou, magicstrikes, varjaks, AdaYuki and KrisAnthemum221. **

**There are others but these are just a few I wanted to thank :)  
**

**Also, thanks to Zora Arian for following me on tumblr, and for being lovely :)**

* * *

Chapter Nineteen

Sherlock couldn't pretend not to be disturbed by what had just happened to him. Never in his entire life had he experienced such a contradictory clash of thoughts and sensations, and even half an hour later as he lay draped over Molly, still trying to recover himself, they felt just as fresh as when they'd been dealt. The aftershock hummed just beneath the skin, prickling, stabbing him, but in a way that wasn't entirely unpleasant. It was as though he had been gutted, emptied out, and left to piece himself back together again. Gone suddenly was the notion of _transport_. He realised bitterly that such an idea was rot, had always been rot, and that he had been a fool ever to believe in it. His brain had fallen quiet, almost numb, and though this in itself was troubling - nothing else was. He had never before been privy to what some had described as _contentment_, and found himself wondering whether this was it? How could such a wild, carnal act produce such a _calm_ in him? And had he changed, really, because of what they had done? He didn't _feel_ different, just, lighter somehow. It was as though the loss of his virginity had removed a weight from somewhere buried deep, a place he hadn't known or cared existed until he'd met _her_.

Molly's peace of mind had lingered in the silence that had ensued between them, in which no sound was heard but for the crackling of the fire and the heavy beat of Sherlock's heart in her ears. She focused all her attentions upon that comfortingly human sound, counting the beats as they pounded against her breast, relishing the touch of his breath on her neck as it settled and he became placid. He had moved just enough so that he was no longer inside her, but he remained pressed between her legs, nestling against her with his eyes closed and his hair matted with sweat, mouth slightly open in a sort of amazement. She knew that he wasn't asleep, and that he had probably retreated to think over what had just happened. She didn't mind it. She only held onto him loosely, her limbs aching with the weight of him, a dull soreness spreading through her.

She liked that they were not talking. Right then, the last thing she wanted to do was talk. Her thoughts, understandably, were decidedly elsewhere. Though she clung to Sherlock, though she loved him dearly for what they had just done, there was a sadness in her that she couldn't quite suppress. It was the way her body now felt which did it. She had heard of triggering, but somehow hadn't prepared herself for the possibility of it. The sweat on her, the tears dried on her cheeks, her kiss-swollen lips, the places on her skin where Sherlock had caught at her, his teeth marks and scratches, the hurt in the small of her back, her breasts, the stiffness of her hips and lastly the wetness between her legs - what memories they brought back to her, sharp and unsettling. Though she didn't regret anything, somewhere in the back of her mind she heard herself screaming. She remembered how she had sobbed _afterwards_, curled in on herself in the ruined sheets, hating everything she was, everything _he_ had made her. It seemed ridiculous that a man,_ just a man_, had broken her like that, by doing something so common place, so anatomically simple. And now another man had taken her, and she had let him do it, had enjoyed it even. Rationally, she knew that the two instances were entirely separate, that what _Jim_ had done had been the terrible thing, that what _Sherlock_ had done had been beautiful, honest, _consensual_. She hated that the two had become blurred in her head, even for just a moment. She hoped, prayed, that such thoughts could be kept at bay, that what she now had would only get better and not worse for what had been done to her by the consulting criminal. _It had to get better..._ Didn't it?

"Are you very deep in thought?"

Sherlock had finally disentangled himself from her front, shifting to lay at her side, head on his hand, staring at her intently. She wasn't sure how long this had been going on for, so lost had she been in her own head. She frowned a little, chiding herself, then returned his gaze and smiled. His lip quirked at the corner. His trousers, which until then had been bunched around his thighs, he had kicked off, leaving him looking very bare and disheveled all over. His face, for all its seriousness, looked incredibly relaxed and fresh, though just as inquisitive as it had always been. Molly wondered how she looked to him, with her soiled stockings and ruddy skin, and in a fit of self consciousness covered her breasts with an arm and put a hand across her groin, her cheeks turning red. Suddenly, Sherlock's expression changed into a mix of surprise and hurt.

"You don't wish for me to look at you anymore?" he asked, his voice determinedly quiet.

"It seems silly, doesn't it? I just..." Molly said lamely, trying to laugh, but the awareness of her nakedness had come upon her so swiftly, she couldn't help it.

Sherlock looked at her levelly for a moment, as though trying to work something out, then he slowly got to his feet and padded about the living room in search of something, not trying to hide his naked body at all. There was a confidence in his step that Molly envied more than she could say, and she felt even worse as he turned to face her and she was forced to look away. She couldn't explain why she was embarrassed, only that seeing Sherlock's body made her feel all over shy and exposed. She sat straight, putting her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them, shivering in spite of the flames flickering in the grate.

Sherlock had found what he was looking for, and returned with it in hand. It was his navy blue dressing gown, and as he crouched down in front of Molly he draped it over her shoulders, putting a hand beneath the collar to sweep her hair free. Then, when she still wouldn't look at him, he sat down cross-legged before her, putting a cushion in his lap in an attempt at modesty.

"You're not alright are you?" he asked eventually, attempting not to sound disappointed. "You're upset?"

"No," Molly said quickly, and she seemed to notice the dressing gown for the first time. She adjusted it, slipping her arms through and tying it tightly at the waist. The silk felt fine against her skin, and it smelt faintly of tobacco and coffee, with just a hint of formaldehyde. "Thank you," she said, gratefully, and she straightened her legs out. The pose was more encouraging, Sherlock thought.

"I don't know what to say to make you feel better," Sherlock admitted honestly, beginning to flounder. The problem was she looked so _appealing_ still. She was flushed with the afterglow of sex, and her smell was rich in the air, calling him, asking him to hold her, but he sensed that Molly didn't want him to. Not just yet. Was it always this awkward afterwards? Probably not. After all, only minutes before they had been so comfortable. Something must be troubling her, and it didn't take him long to figure out _what._ "Are you thinking of him?" he ventured cautiously, not wanting to speak _the name_, bracing himself mentally for her reply.

"Yes," Molly admitted, and she ducked her chin. "I'm sorry, I can't seem to help it."

She began to plait her hair over her shoulder, as though she needed something to do with her hands. Sherlock watched her in silence, a bitterness on his tongue, but he wouldn't be angry with her for that. Perhaps John's influence was rubbing off on him at last, because suddenly Molly's feelings were apparent to him without him needing to be told. If only he knew what to do about them, to make it better.

"You will stay won't you?" he asked plaintively - a tone of voice he certainly was not accustomed to using.

Molly raised her head again and the smile she gave him reassured him at once. Whatever dark place she had gone to, she had returned from it. It was a faltering step, that was all. _He would have to consult John on that tomorrow._

"Of course I will," she said, and she touched his bare knee with her foot and blushed.

Sherlock grinned, the uneasiness between them having somewhat lessened. He peered at her from beneath his lashes, at the curves of her body beneath the blue silk and he bit gently on his lower lip. It wasn't only the colour that went well against her fair skin and hair, or even the way the fabric hugged her in all the best of places - it simply _suited_ her. He liked that. A man's dressing gown wrapped about a woman, oversized and plainly not her own but just, _right._ She looked comfortable and sleepy, and though he felt entirely the opposite, he felt he should steer them away from the fire before she drifted away from him in the dozy, pleasant heat. That insatiable part of him that never liked it when an exciting thing was over, just wanted the evening to continue.

"We can go to my room if you like?" he prompted, "John will be home soon."

"Alright," Molly murmured, suppressing a yawn with the back of her hand and trying not to care that shortly they would no longer be alone.

* * *

"How do you think they're getting on, John?" Mrs Hudson chuckled into her third glass of port, a twinkle in her eye.

"I dread to think," John replied, scowling a little into his pint of ale. "Really," he insisted, shooting her a meaningful look across the bar. "I don't want to imagine it."

They had come to their local, a nice old fashioned pub just off Baker St. The doctor had been trying - with little success - to steer his landlady away from the topic of Sherlock's love life for the last hour and a half. Not only did it make him feel vastly uncomfortable, he was also aware that _anyone_ could be listening. There were very few people in the pub to be sure, but even walls have ears. He wouldn't put anything past the criminal underworld of London when it came to digging up dirt on the consulting detective.

Mrs Hudson, noting his chagrin, reached over the bowl of bar nuts between them and patted his wrist consolingly, hiccuping as she said, "Just because he finally has a woman in his life doesn't mean he'll forget about you, dear."

"I know," John nodded, thinking sourly to himself that _No_, Sherlock probably _wouldn't_ forget about him at all. He would notice him more than anything, John was certain of that. Their conversations regarding Molly would take on a rather different tone from now on, he just knew it. First thing tomorrow morning John would be ambushed in the kitchen with questions, confessions, maybe even _diagrams._ He shuddered at the prospect, already anticipating Molly's mortification and Sherlock's triumphant grin. No, Sherlock would definitely _not_ forget about John Watson - his ready encyclopedia on relationship knowledge.

"She's a very nice looking young woman," Mrs Hudson remarked, "He's done well there."

"Yeah," John agreed in spite of himself, smiling. "She is."

"They'll make a handsome couple," Mrs Hudson went on, warming to her theme. "He's such a charismatic fellow - a little awkward sometimes, but he usually _means_ well. Molly might be the making of him, you know, _iron out the creases_ as it were..."

Before John could think of a reply, his phone rang. Apologizing, and hoping against hope it wasn't Sherlock ringing to ask for some _on the spot_ advice, he dug into his pocket and answered the call.

"Hello?"

"Dr Watson, a pleasure as always."

"Mycroft? What-?" John spluttered, not quite believing his ears.

Was this the elder Holmes ringing his _mobile_ - no elaborate scheme involving telephone boxes, no hijacking the city CCTV network, no black cars, goons, or crashing of John's clinic? The doctor was immediately suspicious of the whole affair.

"What do you want?" he asked, cautiously edging his chair away from Mrs Hudson in an attempt to keep the conversation private. The landlady narrowed her eyes.

"It is my understanding that Sherlock may be putting himself in great danger," Mycroft replied seriously.

"What? How?" John half-rose from his seat, ready to grab his coat.

"I have heard from a reliable source that Molly Hooper is spending the night."

John sank back into his chair, immensely irritated. He could feel a growl growing in his throat.

"Mycroft, we've discussed this already..."

"Hold on a moment John," Mycroft interrupted him, testily. "Don't you wish to know the identity of my source?"

"Frankly, _no_. I've told you, it's _none_ of your business what-"

"I believe it was Moriarty."

John was brought up short, a chill crawling over the back of his neck at the sound of that unwelcome name. His jaw tightened and he closed his eyes and said only, "What?" in a hard, cold voice.

"I assure you," Mycroft continued, seemingly relieved that he had caught John's attention. "I am telling you the truth. Contrary to what you might think, Dr Watson, I only have my brother's best interests at heart. Sherlock _himself_ asked me to communicate any movements regarding Moriarty directly, this I am doing."

"But," John could hardly form a coherent thought, let alone a sentence, but he struggled valiantly against the rising sense of panic. "How..."

* * *

Molly lay down on Sherlock's bed, still wrapped closely in his dressing gown. He had left her there before shutting himself up in the bathroom, washing himself and brushing his teeth. She only thought for a second of how queer it was to be in such a common place situation with the great consulting detective, the man who had been a mystery, _an enigma_ to her just a few short months ago. It struck her as strange, but in a rather nice, comfortable way. She liked that they were about to curl up together and go to sleep, just like normal couples did. They might even engage in pillow talk, or kiss each other fondly - she hadn't realised just how much she'd _missed_ that kind of intimacy in the past year. She smiled to herself, running her hand over the duvet beneath her, liking that it was _his_ and that they would share it.

As for the _other thing_, she had reconciled herself not to think on it if she could help it. There was no point in dwelling over something that could not be erased, that could not be _fixed._ She wasn't like Sherlock, who could delete things from his hard drive and pretend as if they had never happened. She did envy him that, even if she knew such an attitude wasn't healthy.

Sherlock returned presently, dressed in a loose pair of pajama pants and a baggy blue shirt. His feet were bare and his long toes curled in the carpet, while he rubbed a hand over the back of his neck and looked anywhere but at the woman lying on the bed, suddenly unbearably self-conscious. His hair and lashes were damp, and his high cheeks were pink from the shower. Perhaps it was the soft light or the homely warmth of the room, but he looked very different somehow, virginal in a way he _certainly_ no longer was. There was less of a sharp edge about him. There was something so unguarded about his appearance and the way he held himself, that it made Molly sit up against the pillows and smile at him and eventually he smiled back, embarrassed by his inability to speak.

As she moved the blue silk of the robe fell away to uncover her upper thigh, the long line of her calf ending in the small foot, the dainty anklebone. It seemed Molly had dispensed with the hightop stockings. Sherlock stilled, his gaze running over this unexpected flash of bare skin. It struck him suddenly that beneath the robe Molly was still completely naked, that his smell would still be on her, that her skin would still be marked from his clutches. He cleared his throat, colouring sharply in a bout of self-awareness. His tongue darted out to wet his lower lip, his hand stopped rubbing his neck and he just stayed there, watching her. His immediate inclination was to be polite and look away, change the subject, suggest they go to sleep, but in the end he just couldn't let himself. He didn't want to stop looking at that subtle curve at the back of her knee, that shadowed hollow of skin that just _begged_ to be kissed. The dark blue silk looked luxurious against the pale peach of her skin, so aesthetically pleasing that it stirred something in his stomach, something by now which was pleasantly familiar. His face grew hot, but he refused to get flustered. Instead he decided to do exactly what he felt he _shouldn't_, because he knew that it would feel so _good._

"Molly," he began timidly, catching her questioning gaze and holding it, letting her see the desire rearing up in him. She didn't look away, only sat a little straighter, her eyebrow raised. His lip twitched as he tried to suppress a wanton grin. "Will you let me do something daring?"

"Do what?" she asked, but there wasn't much caution in her voice now, only a slight reserve - the rest was all quiet excitement, hovering beneath the surface of her calm, willing expression.

"Just lay back," Sherlock replied, approaching the bed to stand over her, taking her chin in his fingers and tilting her face up, cradling her head. He brushed his thumb across her lower lip slowly, bending to press his forehead against hers. Her eyelashes fluttered closed, tickling the skin of his cheek as she moved away obediently, settling herself against the pillows and waiting. Though she feigned patience, Sherlock could see the tension in her, the wondering, and he _liked_ it.

He clambered onto the bed beside her, tucking his legs beneath him and bracing his weight on his arm. With his free hand he reached for the tie of the robe, and catching her eye fleetingly he began to undo it. The belt came away, but he didn't tug at the silk yet. He waited, holding his breath and wishing with all his might that he wouldn't lose his nerve. He liked this moment, he _liked_ the exploration of it, the _not knowing_. When Molly didn't say anything to stop him, Sherlock's nerves became more settled and he slipped his long fingers beneath the robe and over the warm skin of her belly and hip, the heel of his palm rubbing experimentally across her sex. Her breath caught and he looked up, his hand stilling, but Molly only watched him, her lower lip held between her teeth and a flush blooming across her nose and cheeks. Her eyes were strangely bright, the pupils dark and dilated.

"I can stop?" Sherlock prompted, and again he wondered why his voice was so low, so unusually sensual. What power did she hold over him, and could he release himself from it? Would he even want to?

"No," Molly murmured, her tone just as soft, just as loaded. "Go on. I want you to..."

Their time by the fire had been fast, rough, full of a raw _need_ that had demanded immediate satisfaction. There had been little time for discovery, and they both felt a distinct loss because of it. Sherlock wanted to see Molly, to touch her and appreciate her in a way he hadn't been able to before, and Molly_ wanted_ to be appreciated. She wanted to be brought to the brink by him, to be held there gasping and sore, full in a way that was poignantly physical. She wanted to feel him both inside her body and inside her mind, and she wanted it to be as intimate as could be. She wanted to_ share_ herself with him, in a way that wasn't rushed or animalistic - just slowly, slowly and sweetly.

Sherlock moved to sit on his haunches, the mattress creaking with the shift of his weight. He took hold of her ankles and drew her legs apart, pushing them up gently until her feet were flat on the bed either side of him, her knees crooked. Licking his lips, feeling his heartbeat pound in the recess of his throat, he bent his head and began to kiss lightly along her inner thighs. His fingers traced over the backs of her calves, feather light and delicate. He was right, she still tasted of sweat.

Immediately Molly began to squirm, pushing up into the teasing press of his mouth, wanting more contact. Her arms went limply about her head, her fingers clutching at the pillows and tugging at her own hair. She hadn't expected to feel such a strong, reflexive reaction, and in a way the intensity of the sensation frightened her but she couldn't find the words to say so. The lose robe pooled around her hips as Sherlock moved up her body, dragging his lips and fingertips over her hipbones, her belly, kissing each rib in turn until he found her breasts. He fondled them carefully, liking the weight of them in his hands, the pebbling of the nipple against the flat of his tongue. He couldn't believe he had _ever_ called them small.

"Alright?" he asked, his nose scenting the hollow of her neck.

"Yes," Molly gulped, her knees hugging his sides, the silk of the robe slippery beneath her as she wriggled and gasped. "Yes, _yes..._"

Giving a satisfied smirk, he reached beneath her, lifting her upper body off the bed and holding her firmly in a sort of swoon, his fingers digging between her shoulder blades. Her head fell back, the silk robe slipping down her arms and becoming caught at the elbows. Sherlock's mouth moved clumsily up the line of her throat, nipping, licking, and laying open mouthed kisses over her pulse point. In comparison to what had occurred in the living room, these actions were all very controlled on his part, though no less passionate for that. Rather than taking her abruptly, the new-found lover inside him wanted to drink her in, devour her. He wasn't thinking of his own pleasure just then, even as it curled insistently within him asking to be noticed, making him hard and short of breath. He wanted to do what he should have done before, and_ worship her._ It was difficult to restrain himself, what with her sweet, naked flesh so openly displayed beneath him, all her curves and dips fitting so well against the firm lines of his front, but he resolved to be calm, to be contained. There would be plenty of opportunities ahead - _he just knew it_ - whereas this moment was all for her. A little thank you.

Molly's mind was completely adrift, unable to fix upon any single point. This was all so suddenly delicious, not what she had expected at all, and such a startling contrast to the way Sherlock had handled her earlier. It was almost like he was conducting a slow, in depth study of her limbs and their reactions to stimuli and she loved it - _loved him._ She liked that Sherlock was still fully clothed as he pressed himself close to her, the rub of the cotton shirt on her bare skin making her blush all over, her body flooding with anticipation and an ache in her stomach of not-quite-satisfaction. She liked the careful yet insistent way he held her to him, how her back felt as she arched off the bed with every bite and lingering kiss, how she longed for his mouth never to stop its path across her skin.

Sherlock knew exactly what he wanted to do to her. He had thought of it sometimes, alone during the nights when sleep never came, back in the days when he had wondered what would best please her, how she would sound, how she would _feel._ Now that he finally had the chance to explore her, he didn't want to waste any more time second guessing himself. He decided to be bold, to test the waters a bit.

He loosened his grip on her enough that she rested back against the pillows with a soft sigh, but his hands remained beneath her, moving lower over the small of her back, squeezing her bottom, her thighs. His kisses trailed lower too, and once at her stomach he paused. He didn't know if _asking_ was appropriate. The restless whimper that escaped her when he nuzzled softly at her hipbone was all the encouragement he needed to continue, a wolfish grin taking over his face as he hooked her legs over his shoulders and brushed his lips hesitantly against her sex.

"_Sherlock._"

Molly panted his name over and over in a sort of litany, her fingers grasping at the pillows, the sheets, herself. Sherlock decided to take this as a good thing, pushing her through it with a long, firm lick at her entrance and a comforting hand on her side. The smell of her was everywhere, on his cheeks, beneath his nose, inside his mouth. He could taste the ardency of her, sweet and feminine all around him, mixed in with the bitter taste of himself. It made him groan hard with pride and pleasure, to know that _he_ was doing this for her, that she trusted him enough. And the _sounds_ she made as he worked on her, his lips, tongue and fingers coaxing forth moans that grew louder and harsher. It was almost as satisfying as when he tuned his violin, only when Molly played for _him_ it was the greatest music of all.

Molly came with her thighs pressed close around Sherlock's head, one hand gripping the duvet as the other tugged fretfully at his curls. Sherlock watched her with difficulty, peering at her face over the swell of her stomach and breasts, analyzing her reaction anxiously. She grew impossibly tight around his stroking fingers and probing tongue, wet and delightful in her rapture. The contours of her body grew momentarily rigid, shook violently, then relaxed, though her expression never altered._ Interesting._ For a second he was worried he'd hurt her, because her eyes were shut hard and the noise that escaped her gaping mouth was like a cry of pain. He kissed her still, his breath tickling the overly sensitive skin until she had to push him away, trembling.

"_Don't-_" she whispered, holding him by the shoulder when he tried to press a curious hand to her. "It's too much, just-"

Sherlock sat up obediently, removing her legs gently from around his neck and pulling them straight again. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, concealing a smirk of self-satisfaction even as he tried to ignore all the blood rushing south at the glorious sight of her, wrung out and flushed pink in the afterglow of her orgasm. She really was quite an amazing, responsive little creature. He lay down beside her, his scalp tingling from the way she'd _pulled_ at him, and waited for her to regain coherency. She didn't say anything for a long time.

"May I kiss you?" he asked at last, an edge of worry in his tone. Had he not done it right? His surety faltered in the face of his lack of experience.

A heartbeat passed until she nodded, turning over and curling into his chest, letting his mouth cover hers. He tasted of sex, _her_ sex, and of all the things that she loved about him. He tasted of warmth and brilliance and humour, of longing and desperation and regret, of affection. He made her feel wonderful again, like she counted, and she couldn't quite explain to herself why that made her want to cry. It was an irrational heat behind her eyes, and the longer they kissed the harder it was to hide, especially when Sherlock cupped her face in his hands and stroked her cheeks with his thumbs and hummed in appreciation for her. Appreciation,_ for her_. She felt utterly overwhelmed.

Since _that night_ her life had been different. She had changed, and not for the better. Even at her highest, most joyous moments, it hadn't taken much to pull her back down again to the level of the dirt. Then _this_ had happened, this unbelievable man. Sherlock. Until tonight she hadn't felt wholly alive, not really. Being with Sherlock outside these walls had felt like walking in a dream, a state without certainty or substance, a thing that might evaporate at any moment. She didn't understand why, but somehow the sex had made it more real, validating some lost, broken part of her. It hadn't made the horrors of the past disappear, hadn't lessened the brutal pain of it, but it had given her something else to think of, something just so, _just so very..._

"Molly?" Sherlock was staring down at her, concerned. He tried to blot the tears but they kept coming, and God, it just wasn't in him to see her cry. It made his chest grow horribly tight. "I'm sorry Molly, I didn't mean to- I thought-"

"No," Molly protested, trying very hard to smile a reassuring smile that would soften him. He looked about ready to bolt, his blue eyes darting over her in an attempt to figure out what to say, what to do. "It wasn't that. I just- You're just so - You've made me feel so-"

Sherlock's expression suddenly cleared, the obvious revelation hitting him, and he stopped trying to fix whatever he had broken. He didn't need John or a pot of tea or a lecture on the intricacies of emotion to understand what she was trying to say. He carded his fingers through her hair, reaching down with his other hand to pull the blue robe up over her shoulders, re-covering her. Then he kissed her again, and she tasted of tears and confusion, of happiness, exhaustion, and something else, maybe love.

"I know," he said, speaking against her lips, and somehow it was the most intimate they had been all evening. "You too."

* * *

**New thing this chapter: RECOMMENDED MUSIC! You may be interested to know that the three songs that were on constant repeat during the writing of this: 'Cocoon' by Bjork, 'Hyperballad' by Bjork, and 'Never Let Me Go' by Florence + The Machine. **

**I thought I might start putting together a little chapter by chapter playlist from now on, so you have a soundtrack to go with the feels? Let me know if you like this idea...  
**

**Thanks for reading and reviewing, see you soon for the inevitable drama. Damn foreshadowing.x **


	20. Real Life

**I'm afraid this chapter isn't as long as I had originally intended it to be, however, I liked writing this scene between Sherlock and John so much I felt it needed to be its own part - before the shit storm starts in CH21 (Spoilers!). **

**For those of you who have shown interest in the PLAYLIST for this story, PM me for the list so far and I'll hook you up. I'm trying to find time to set up a youtube playlist, a bit of a long-ass mission (as those of you who have already had the list will know its 50+ songs so far...) so that might have to wait for awhile. **

**So, for those of you who are following the playlist (or who are just interested), the songs for this chapter are:**

**'Stares' by Death Masks** - _This is a local band so they're pretty under the radar. If you would like to listen to them visit their website rather than youtube to hear/download the EP version of this track at deathmasks . bandcamp . com  
_

**also: 'Smokers Outside the Hospital Doors' by Editors  
**

**So, read/review/love yo faces: ENJOY!**

* * *

Chapter Twenty

When John arrived home that night he didn't go to bed. He sat on the sofa in the living room, trying not to look at Molly's clothes strewn across the floor or Sherlock's trousers balled up beneath the coffee table. He ignored the spent wine glasses and the candles burned down to the nub. He tried not to see the strip of light showing beneath Sherlock's bedroom door, that asked him quietly to just go in and _tell them_, so that they would _know._ He tried to ignore the phantom ache in his leg, the stress pooling behind his temples and the acute sensation of dread.

After much deliberation he closed his eyes to it all and leaned forward with his head in his hands, trying to empty his mind of the evening's events and of what he _knew_ would happen in the morning. Mycroft's visit, the words that would have to be said. And what until then? He couldn't possibly go to sleep now that the world he knew had become so unsafe, not only for him but for everyone he loved. He tried to breathe calmly, to keep in control. He tried not to think about traveling at top speed inside a dank and dirty van, or of being strapped into a vest of explosives as men laughed and his blood ran cold and hot by turns.

_"He's in danger John," Mycroft's voice low and concerned at the end of a phone. "They both are. Probably even you. If Moriarty's playing the game I think he is, then God help you."_

In the end he did go to his room, but only briefly. Treading softly so as not to alert Sherlock to any danger, John fetched his handgun from the draw in his writing desk and headed back to the living room. Shrugging off his jacket, running a hand through his hair and pursing his lips, Dr Watson sank into his armchair and settled the gun on his thigh, waiting. The fear brewing in his stomach clawed at him, telling him to just go and warn Sherlock and Molly, but he couldn't. Not yet. Who was he to ruin what had barely started? For all he knew he could be robbing them of the few precious hours they had left together. He wasn't that man. No. _That man_ was out _there_, lurking somewhere in the dark night with a maniacal grin on his twisted, criminal face. John would do everything within his power to protect his friends, even if it meant sitting up well past dawn, hand itching on his revolver, ready for the slightest provocation; even if it meant taking the first bullet of the battle that was sure to come. John suppressed a tremble, gripped the handle of the gun tighter.

How had Sherlock not seen this coming? How had the world's only consulting detective, the cleverest man John had ever known, failed to anticipate it? But then again, was that really fair to say? Hadn't Sherlock sat with John in this very flat and voiced his fears that Molly would be hurt again? Hadn't he deemed the situation out of his power? Hadn't Sherlock even said that Molly already knew, understood, and accepted the possibility of danger? Who was John to be angry now? Maybe it was because he was disappointed in himself, because he hadn't believed anyone_ - even Moriarty_ - capable of striking the same way twice.

_"What will he do?" John, throat dry and pulse racing. "Mycroft, tell me."_

_"Not now. Tomorrow, John."_

_"Mycroft-!"_

As he recalled the hollow noise of the phone going dead, that empty tone ringing out devoid of answers, John's fear mingled hopelessly with anger. _Damn it Mycroft!_ For the first time in a long time John was happy he wasn't with anyone. If Moriarty picked him off no one would care, no one would hurt for him, whereas if Sherlock lost Molly...

"John?"

It took a great deal of effort not to jump, but somehow John managed it. He already knew who it would be, had known from the second he entered the flat that it was ridiculous trying to hide it. With his heart in his mouth he turned in the direction of the voice, slipping the gun covertly into the cushions of the chair. Sherlock gazed back at him through the half darkness, eyebrows raised and arms folded._ Predictable._ Somehow the detective had made it into the living room without John even noticing - _so much for his constant vigil_ - and had settled with his weight against the kitchen door, ankles crossed and head cocked. He was wearing his pajamas and second best dressing gown, and his hair was sticking up at odd angles. John blinked - had the man actually _slept_? Then he shook his head to clear it. _Unimportant._

"Where's Molly?" John found himself asking stupidly, his eyes darting about in the shadows behind his friend, a possessive panic crawling up his spine.

"She's asleep," Sherlock replied, watching the doctor carefully. "Why aren't you?"

"You left her alone?" John half-rose from his armchair before checking himself, swallowing hard, and sinking back down. He felt the gun press against the side of his leg and his breath hitched. Why couldn't he regain the upper-hand on his terror, why was even the simple _suggestion_ of a threat from the consulting criminal like thrusting a knife through his gut?

Sherlock's eyes narrowed. Pushing away from the doorjamb, he entered the room proper and rounded the armchair to face John. Towering over him, Sherlock put both hands on his hips and fixed John with his most penetrating stare. _Oh dear..._

"What's wrong?" he asked firmly. "You're acting odd."

"More so than usual, you mean?" John laughed feebly but the detective barely smiled. Instead he took a step back and examined John from head to toe, his gaze darting over one interesting detail after another. He was silent for all of a minute, considering, before launching his attack.

"You haven't had a good evening judging from the port stains on the front of your shirt - _can't say the same for Mrs Hudson, bless her_ - or your rigid posture. You've hardly drunk or eaten a thing and your eyes are remarkably focused considered you were at the pub for the better part of an evening. The slope of your shoulders and the inclination of your left leg means your limp is gathering force again, yet your face is set with determination, traces of adrenaline, the sorts of things which usually send you whistling. _So,_ something dangerous, but not the right_ kind_ of danger to stave off your PTSD, rather the sort of danger most likely to aggravate it. A threat? Yes. But what kind of threat? I can tell by the uncertain angle of your jaw and the fluttering of the pulse in your neck that you don't know, but you_ feel_ it, don't you? There's something very important you wish to discuss with me but you feel it would place you outside of your comfort zone, and push me _wildly_ out of mine. However, the gun lodged between yesterday's Guardian and the chair cushion indicates that _immediacy_ must take precedence over _sentiment,_ John." Sherlock broke eye contact only for a second to sweep a look about the flat, as though to check they were alone, then his gaze returned fiercer than ever. "John, I can't protect you if you don't tell me what's wrong."

"How did you even know I was out here?" John croaked defeatedly, avoiding Sherlock's glare.

"You were thinking_ loudly._"

"How can you _even_-" John stopped himself. He put his head in his hands again and breathed heavily.

There was a long moment in which neither of them spoke. The sound of a rubbish truck trundling down Baker Street, the hiss and rush from the crushing of garbage and the footfalls and shouts of early morning stop-outs returning home from the pub; the clinking of bottles rolling and smashing against tarmac; a pair of cats fighting tooth and claw behind Speedy's. There was the rustle of Sherlock's dressing gown as he crouched down on the carpet in front of John's chair, the whisper of silk as he reached out a hand and touched John conspiratorially on the knee.

"John?" His tone had changed to something calmer, less aggressive. It was the sort of tone that eased the ache, _somehow_, in John's leg.

"Moriarty," John said at last, giving up the ghost and sitting back in the armchair. He took the gun from where it had been hidden and turned it over between his hands. "Mycroft rang me at the pub, told me to expect trouble. Big trouble, sounds like. He'll be over in the morning to tell you himself."

"That's not everything," Sherlock responded, and though his crouch had become rather frozen his expression gave nothing away. He was unnervingly stoic as he took the gun from John and examined it. He held it up so that the light from the streetlamp outside caught on the metal, making it shine. "Mycroft wouldn't have rung you if you weren't a part of it. You wouldn't be in such a state if the threat didn't also extend to you. You wouldn't be carrying _this_."

"It's not important."

"_You're_ important," Sherlock insisted, and a little bewilderment edged into his voice. "Christ, _John._"

John just sighed and closed his eyes. Sherlock just made a disbelieving sound and stood up, beginning to pace.

"Sherlock," John groaned, hearing the floorboards creaking beneath the detective's anxious tread. "Don't do this."

"No, John," Sherlock muttered, and the doctor opened his tired eyes a crack and watched as his best friend wandered about the living room, lost. "I knew this was going to happen. From the moment I got involved with Molly, _I knew..._"

"Mate-"

"You know," Sherlock gave a soft, hopeless laugh as he lifted the gun he still held and scratched the side of his head with it. John winced, thinking that a talk on gun safety was definitely on the cards for tomorrow. "The first time we met, you told me that people didn't have archenemies in real life. Do you remember?"

"Yes," John replied. "You said that was dull."

"Because I didn't have a _real_ life to compare it with, not really." Sherlock's mutterings had become fast and furtive, and when he fumbled in the bookcase and produced a packet of cigarettes John didn't say a word. He couldn't even roll his eyes. He couldn't be annoyed, not now. The detective lit up distractedly, not seeming to notice the smoke as it billowed from his lips as he talked. "Chasing down criminals, solving mysteries, having conversations with _skulls._ Oh, it was interesting. It was_ fun._ I loved doing it and I wouldn't change it, but now I have this woman, and I have _you_ and I have friends and people who can stand to be around me and I find I've never been better." He stopped in his pacing, fag in one hand and revolver in the other and he looked wildly ridiculous as he set his gaze on John. The expression was fond, but conflicted. It was as though he couldn't bring himself to_ enjoy_ the fondness he felt, because he was afraid of it. "You people, you have made me better than I ever could've been alone. I have a real life now, and suddenly an archenemy is the dullest, most preposterous thing I can think of."

John smiled, but he too felt uncomfortable in the action. The two friends regarded one another from opposite ends of the room with equal love, with equal respect, but suddenly those things were dangerous.

Sherlock felt as though he was painting a bullseye on John's forehead just by looking at him, let alone openly admitting that he cared. Just the notion of it made him move away from the doctor and toward the window, opening it clumsily and letting the night air in and the smoke out. He flicked the butt of the cigarette away into the darkened street before immediately striking up another. And then there was Molly, always there somehow in the back of his mind like a splinter moving remorselessly beneath the skin. So beautiful and so _his._ The way he had touched her, kissed her, licked and devoured her, what sort of marks would that leave? What sort of glaring targets? Lowering his head he took a deep drag of the cigarette and an image of Molly asleep in the bedroom floated across his vision, of her kicking off the duvet, unwittingly revealing her naked skin that suddenly swam with tiny, shuddering dots of red light. Dozens of snipers all readying to take their shots, waiting for someone to give the order, a silence, then blood, blood everywhere, blood Sherlock would never be able to wash away, that he would_ drown_ in. Sherlock flinched, then tried to pass it off as a shudder from the cold and drew his dressing gown closer about himself. No good telling John all this, it would only worry him.

But John hadn't noticed. He had remained still and brooding in his armchair, looking off placidly into the middle distance. He was remembering what DI Lestrade had told him on the night of their first case, when Sherlock had been a virtual stranger to him: _Sherlock Holmes is a great man, and I think one day - if we're very, very lucky - he might even be a good one._ Had it really been the intervention of John and the others which had made Sherlock into _this_? John didn't think so, not really. He had always been good. He had always cared. He had only hidden it, keeping it a secret from the rest of the world - for protection? Such an idea didn't seem so silly to John now. It was true that people needed people, depended on them to make them into the best they could be, but was it always worth it when monsters like Jim Moriarty existed, to spoil it? Maybe caring really wasn't an advantage after all? Then he looked at Sherlock again, chain smoking by the window with a gun sticking out of the waistband of his pajama pants and hair just a shade away from crazy, and he grinned to himself despite the worry because it _was_ worth it, at least for him.

"Go to bed John," Sherlock said at last, glancing over his shoulder and giving the doctor a wan smile. "He won't come tonight."

"How do you know?" John asked, disbelievingly. He felt the sudden loss of the gun and clenched his fist on his bad leg, hating the emptiness between his fingers, the vulnerability of it. "How can you be sure?"

"Somehow he has gotten to Mycroft," Sherlock explained blandly returning his gaze to the quiet street, trying to conceal the implication of such a statement from his frightened colleague. _No one_ had _ever_ gotten to Mycroft before. "Jim moves slowly, from what I can tell. Just look at the race he ran us on with the Greenwich pips. For maximum effect, he'll draw this out. He _wants_ Mycroft to visit tomorrow and unfurl the latest twist in the plan - Mycroft can't do that if we're dead." He gave a mock sigh, exhaling a huge cloud of cigarette smoke that made John bite his tongue in earnest. "Remember what I said, John? The frailty of genius?"

"It needs an audience..." John muttered, unhappily.

"Precisely."

* * *

**I promise the next chapter will have some actual drama in it, as opposed to this constant lead-up... Hope you enjoyed, and see you next chapter kids.x**


	21. Damn, Selfish Fool

**My goodness, this update was a long time in the making. **

**I had an accident with my old laptop (glass of red wine + keyboard = _disaster_). I lost the update for awhile, and by the time I got a new laptop and retrieved my files off the old one i was head deep in an essay deadline so, meh. Life. _Don't talk to me about life. _**

**On a similar note, this fic is going to have to take a back seat over the next month or so. DISSERTATION deadline is looming, and i'm stressing out in a big way. I'll probably write this when i need to chill out, but apart from that i have to ignore it. So, if you don't see an update for awhile just know it's not dead (i know exactly where this is going), it's just on a little hiatus while I deal with reality. **

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Chapter Twenty-One

Molly awoke to an unsettling smell, acrid and sharp - _cigarette smoke._ She sat up immediately, blinking against the white morning light and clutching Sherlock's bedsheet to her naked body. Pushing her hair out of her face she looked around for him in a daze, for the sight of him smoking - _brooding, regretting_ - but found herself alone. Sherlock's bedroom was completely empty, and it made her frown. Why had he left? And what-?

There was a soft rattling of china in the corridor outside, a muttered curse, then the door handle turned. Molly drew the sheet more tightly around herself as the door opened slowly, but she relaxed as the gap was filled by a shock of red silk and wild, dark hair. Sherlock was backing into the room, balancing a breakfast tray one-handed and obviously doing his upmost to be quiet in case she was still asleep. There was a book and a folded newspaper tucked beneath his arm and what looked like a packet of biscuits sticking out of his dressing gown pocket. Molly stifled a fond smile. The look of concentration on his face was very sweet, as he stared down at the pot of coffee as though _daring_ it to spill. The cups and saucers tinkled against one another as he finally stepped in and prodded the door shut with the toe of his slipper.

"Morning," Molly said warmly.

"_Oh_," Sherlock gave a little gasp, his head darting up in surprise. The milk sloshed over the side of the jug and he glared at it. "Damn it."

"Need a hand?" she asked, scrabbling to the edge of the bed and reaching out to take the tray from him. "Oh, dear-"

Sherlock's eyes went wide as the sheet fell away to reveal Molly's upper body - all warm, soft skin and curves pinked from the press of the duvet. Molly's face burned red as she grabbed for the sheet and sat back again, pressing an arm tight over her chest. She knew she shouldn't have been embarrassed, certainly not after the intimacies of the night before, but she did feel very graceless all of a sudden. Would Sherlock think clumsy Molly just as attractive as the Molly who wore stockings and cocktail dresses, or would he curse himself for picking up such a klutz?

The bed dipped as Sherlock perched on the edge of it, placing the tray over his knees. Keeping it steady with his left hand, he lifted the right to Molly's face and brushed the pad of his thumb over the bridge of her nose, carding her hair and smoothing his knuckles along her rosy cheek. His fingertips smelt of smoke. The dishes gave another protesting rattle as he scooted up and kissed her forehead tenderly, smiling against her skin. Molly flushed again, but this time from pleasure rather than dismay, her apprehension fading.

_It's alright._

"Good morning," Sherlock said, leaning back from her to gaze critically into her eyes. His own were a little raw, tired, as though he had hardly slept, but this was nothing new. Molly didn't think on it because in all honesty, how could she judge when it was their first real morning together? Perhaps he always looked this haggard in the early hours?

"You made breakfast?" Molly asked, trying not to sound too disbelieving as she surveyed the tray Sherlock was now pressing into her lap; toast, welsh cakes, coffee, tea, yogurt, fruit, pots of what looked like _homemade_ marmalade and strawberry jam, and all prettily set out on the whitest serving china Molly had ever seen. Smelling a rat, she raised her eyebrows at her - _boyfriend, lover, parter?_ - and smirked.

"Mrs Hudson," Sherlock admitted, rolling a nonchalant shoulder before climbing up the bed to slump down in the pillows beside her in a tangled mess of limbs. "But I brought the biscuits. They're John's bourbons. Terribly nice." His shoulder and the top of his head touched along her arm in an almost nuzzle, then he was unfolding the newspaper and staring at it with narrowed eyes, tongue between his teeth. His bare, long-toed feet pressed against her smaller ones at the end of the bed, where they peeked out from beneath the duvet.

_It's all fine._

Molly didn't know what to say at first. How comfortable it was to lie beside him, charmingly domestic and calm? How relaxing she found his company, so quickly and so naturally? Or how surprised she was by all of it having worked out at all? She had expected to feel different upon waking up in his bed, yet the realization of what they had done the previous evening didn't overwhelm her in the way she had thought it would. Physically she felt fine, just a little sore and more aware of her body. Mentally she felt strangely restful. No ringing alarm bells or rising panic, just a soft, simple truth taking over her brain as the smell of the coffee unclouded her senses. She was mousy Molly Hooper, and she had just spent the night with the great Sherlock Holmes, and he was still there beside her, not running away, not jeering, just _being_, just _near._ Not demanding, not pushing her, just idling close to her and not pressing her for anything.

"Do you want tea?" she asked, wanting something to do with her hands. She kept having to pen in the urge to reach out and touch him, to make sure this was all really happening.

"Please," Sherlock murmured, turning his face into her arm for a moment before returning to the newspaper. He didn't tell her how he took it, because she already knew. Milk, two sugars.

"What's the book?" she said as she handed him his cup, being careful not to spill it as he wriggled around, his sharp elbows and long legs getting in the way. When he was repositioned higher up the bed, he took the proffered tea and balanced it on his stomach as he tossed her the paperback.

"It's yours, from your bag." He supplied, grinning in a way that suggested he was pleased with himself. "I thought you might want it. Isn't that what couples do in the morning, lounge about half dressed, reading and being pleasant to one another- with tea? And toast?"

"Well, yes, I suppose..." Molly said haltingly, putting the book on the bedside table as she fixed herself coffee from the pot. "But, I didn't think you'd like that side of things much. Isn't it a bit, well, boring for you?"

"Oh no," Sherlock shook his head vigorously, in danger of knocking his tea over the bedclothes. "I like it. It's new, Molly. _Fascinating_. And really, without a case on I'd be doing exactly the same thing, only alone - you see? This is much better. This way I can be near you but I don't have to put on a suit or talk about the weather because that's the done thing, or get distracted by lab equipment or be interrupted by your annoying colleagues or-" He sighed, rolling his eyes, seeming less pleased. "Not that I mind those things really, but this way it's- I can just- What am I trying to say?"

Molly pressed a hand to his curls and petted him placatingly for a moment, before brushing a kiss to his cheek until he stopped huffing. She was almost sorry she'd asked, but she understood him. She knew what he was trying to say.

"You can just be yourself," she ventured, kissing his cheek again. "I get it."

There was a pause in which she retrieved her book, letting Sherlock settle again against her arm and sip his tea broodingly. Turning to where she'd last marked it, she nestled back into the pillows and began to read, the coffee cup warm in her hand and Sherlock's toes curling next to hers under the duvet. She didn't ask about the cigarettes, shoving it firmly to the back of her mind. If it was important he would tell her, all in good time.

* * *

Sherlock presumed - _quite rightly_ - that Mycroft would time his visit to coincide with Molly's exit from the flat. Standing very still, he listened from the living room to the awkward step of Molly's shoes as she made room for his brother on the stairs, her voice raised in apology amid Mycroft's placating niceties - _No after you, oh don't trouble yourself_ - then the rattle of the front door being closed, and her slim shape and bobbing ponytail appearing in the street, quickly fading. He tried to ignore the increased beat of his pulse in his neck as he realised she was gone, out of his immediate grasp, his protection.

"You have your people on her, I expect?" he shot at Mycroft the second the older man put a foot in the door.

"Naturally," Mycroft said after the briefest of pauses, his eyes flicking over his brother's expression, trying to gauge his mood. Putting his umbrella in the crook of his arm he made as though to reach out and touch Sherlock's shoulder, then he seemed to think better of it and ran it back through his short, slick hair. "Don't worry."

"I'm not," Sherlock cut back, moving to his armchair and sinking into it with a sigh. "I don't worry."

"Sherlock-" Mycroft began, his tone long-suffering, but the younger sibling raised a hand to silence him.

"Please, just tell me what you know. That's all I want from you, especially after that ridiculous display."

"I beg your pardon?" Mycroft strode into the room proper, taking the doctor's chair with an ill-grace.

"You wanted to get a look at her, didn't you?" Sherlock elaborated, fixing his brother with a withering stare over the tops of his steepled fingers. "I mean, I know you probably have a mountain of paperwork and surveillance photos by now, but nothing ever compares to the real thing, does it?"

"It was just a coincidence, I assure you. She was coming out as I happened to be coming in," Mycroft shrugged carelessly, twirling his umbrella by the stem. "Coincidences do happen, from time to time."

"Not with you," Sherlock snapped, losing a little of his poised edge. "_Never_ when it comes to _you._"

"_Fine_," Mycroft spat, his composure slipping in a way it only could when faced with Sherlock's intractability. "Can you blame me? My personal safety was placed in jeopardy for that woman - and a plain, _ordinary_ woman, at that. I wanted to see why you would _ever_ allow that to happen. I'm family."

"I don't give a toss for your safety," Sherlock gave a dismissive gesture. "You have the entire British government, the secret services of the UK and America - hell - even the bloody _Queen_ to protect you. What does Molly have?"

"You." Mycroft's tone was deadpan but deadly serious. "She has _you_, Sherlock."

"A fat lot of good I've done her," Sherlock snorted.

"For goodness sake..." Mycroft closed his eyes, gripped his umbrella and willed himself not to strike Sherlock about the head with it. "If only you'd done the decent thing and kept off the grass. We'd have been saved all this, _unpleasantness._"

"Careful, brother dear."

"I mean it. I'm not sorry I said it at all." Mycroft was defensive, raising his eyebrows in a pert challenge. "I've told you all your life: _caring_ is _not_ an advantage."

"And I've told _you_ all my life: I don't care what you think of me." Sherlock met the challenge, his lip a snarl and his posture tight. Anyone walking in on the scene might think the detective was about to pounce, to attack like a caged animal greeting its keeper. "I am tired of this game I'm in. If it isn't you I have to dance for, it's Moriarty. And if it isn't Moriarty it's some other lunatic with a wish to test my mettle. Well, I'm sick of it."

"You should have left the girl alone," Mycroft said, disregarding his brother's words. "Especially after what that man did to her. Getting involved with her after that was like rolling out the red carper for trouble. You do realise that you've handed that man an invitation to meddle with you, with her?"

"Of course I know it, I'm not stupid!"

"You do a mighty fine impression of it sometimes, for all you think you're so clever." Mycroft sneered, "And when I tell you what that man said to me-"

"Just spit it out!" Sherlock was on his feet, having no recollection of standing. His fists were clenched at his sides and he was breathing heavily through his nose, and thinking of Molly and of how much he wanted a stiff drink and a cigarette and to still be curled up in bed with her, the world firmly locked out. His brain hurt with the effort of not throwing a temper tantrum, of being denied his way in such an important matter. He could feel the bile rising in his stomach when he thought of all the things that could be happening to Molly right now, all for his brother's need to bridle him, to have control of a situation he had no part in. "I'm not going to sit here and be lectured by you. Either tell me what Moriarty is planning or I will _remove you_ from this flat, Mycroft."

The older man didn't speak, just gazed up at the younger with a sick sort of expression. It was like he couldn't physically be near this new wealth of emotion, that the proximity made him nauseous. He grimaced for a moment before reaching into the inside pocket of his suit jacket and pulling out an envelope. Opening it wordlessly he produced a sheaf of photographs which he fanned out on the coffee table between them.

"It wasn't a very long conversation, worse luck, but the meaning was implicit. '_You're holding your brother's hearts, Mr Holmes_', he said. 'P_ass it on, won't you?_'" Mycroft drawled, annoyed at being pushed to play messenger boy. "You don't need to be a genius to work out what he plans to do." He leant back in the armchair and watched Sherlock's face as he stared down at the small collection of photos, his expression blank. "A pretty loaded threat, not difficult at all to get your head around despite the awfully_ florid_ language. That's not going to be the hard part you see... Figuring out a way to stop him, that's the tricky bit."

"When were these taken?" Sherlock asked, sinking down into his chair and resting his hands on his knees. He drew up short immediately, frowning. "No. Don't answer that."

"Too obvious a question?"

"Precisely," Sherlock blinked hard, a panic starting somewhere in the depths of his gut, clouding his faculties. "And they aren't from your own surveillance?"

"No," Mycroft replied curtly, a little offended at the implication of a mistake on his part. "I know the work of my men, and this isn't it. This is for you. Everything that man does if for you."

Sherlock reached out and picked up two of the images, holding them close together before his eyes, studying them.

"Molly-" he began, scanning the left before turning to the right and squinting uncomprehendingly. "-_and_ John?"

Mycroft nodded, watching his brother carefully. Some of the rigor had gone out of his face, and he seemed now more concerned than anything. Mycroft had scanned those pictures too, minutely, to the last detail. He could see them all in his mind's eye. John, leaving the surgery, the pub, carrying shopping home from Tesco, waiting impatiently for a train on the Waterloo line; Molly, in the hospital canteen, the lab, the morgue, in a coffee shop on her lunch break, applying lipstick in the window of a furniture store. Their carefree and preoccupied expressions, their different outfits and hair styles all pointed to the fact that they were unaware of their followers, and that the photographs had been taken over a long period of time. Weeks? Months? Hard to say.

"Why would he take photographs of Molly and John, just, going about their day, not even-" Sherlock stuttered to a halt, biting his tongue and scowling. "Oh - _stupid._"

"You can't tell me you're surprised?" Mycroft scoffed, twirling his umbrella again with renewed smugness. "My God, what has this girl done to you?"

"Shut up, Mycroft. This is serious," Sherlock felt winded, jumpy with anxiety. He knew that John was upstairs, sleeping late after his prolonged vigil the previous evening, but could Sherlock be sure? He put the photographs in his lap and scrubbed his hands through he hair, sighing deeply. "How did he deliver the package? Not in _person_?"

"Goodness, no." Mycroft laughed, but the sound was almost as hollow as his eyes. He carried an odd, haunted look that was unsettling. "That's not his M.O. No, envelope was on my desk when I arrived home from the club. The conversation came about half a minute after I'd discovered the contents, through my landline."

"Your _landline_, is he mad?" Sherlock asked, disbelievingly. "That's preposterous."

"Do use your brain," Mycroft said snidely, rolling his eyes. "It was all a blatant power play. Contacting me, a person with some of the highest ranking security in the country? Invading my home, my private quarters? Hacking my phone? I'm supposed to be impenetrable god damn it, and he knows that. The fact that he could infiltrate so deeply, it's all a joke. He's laughing at you, and he's laughing at _me_!"

"It isn't so impressive," Sherlock shrugged, trying to sound calmer than he felt. "All security is essentially subject to the same flaw, that irremovable _human element._ Finding one man to break, even in a system as complex as yours, is the end of that system, and I imagine he found a lot more than _one man_. I wouldn't be surprised if you found your entire staff riddled with his vipers."

"That's for me to worry about," Mycroft muttered, though clearly ill at ease as he immediately got to his feet. He buttoned his jacket and tapped his umbrella smartly against his leg. "Do you need me to spell out the rest for you, or are you satisfied?"

"He's going to play a game with both of them," Sherlock replied, resignedly. "He's going to make me... Lord, I can't even say it."

"I've said it before and I'll say it again, Sherlock Holmes," Mycroft hissed, "You're a damn, selfish fool."

* * *

**So, I left it on a bit of a cliff hanger... again. You may now throw things. **

**Love your faces, T/S x**


	22. Please Run

**So, here I was one day trying to work on my dissertation when _oh no_, an update happened! Sigh. **

**I'm not sure how I feel about this chapter. I do like it, and it's still following the plot I have worked out in my head, but i've never written this kind of action/drama/angsty style before so I don't know... I shall let you be the judge. **

**All the dialogue feels like it comes from a bad episode of Spooks... but again, I shall let you be the judge and I shall try to level up for the following updates! Suggestions for improvements welcome!**

**(Chapter track: 'Shake It Out' by Florence + the Machine)**

**This one is for _zoraarian_, i hope you had a lovely birthday 3 **

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Chapter Twenty-Two  


Though he hated admitting it to himself, Sherlock knew what he had to do. As soon as Mycroft had gone he set about his tasks with a grim determination and a heavy, aching heart.

Gathering the photographs off the coffee table he hid them in his desk draw between the pages of a scientific journal, not wanting John or Mrs Hudson to stumble upon them and assume the worst. He held one up to the light for a moment, studying it. He wasn't sure what made him want to, as there wasn't much evidence he could gain from the poorly candid shot. It was just Molly, sitting alone on her lunch break in the hospital canteen, head bent over a book, idly toying with a plate of pasta. Her hair was plaited to the side, leading his eye to the curve of her jaw above the bare skin of her neck. Sherlock wondered what she'd been thinking, why she hadn't been with anyone, _why she had to be dragged into all this bullshi-_ He dropped the photo back between the leaves of the journal and shoved it to the very back of the draw, covering it over with old notepads and other miscellaneous junk. It wouldn't help anyone if he got upset, it would only blur his concentration. He needed to focus.

_Caring is not an advantage..._

He had given Mycroft his instructions, and with any luck his brother would follow them without question or deviation. He knew that the idea was flawed, that it wouldn't make much difference to the inevitable outcome, but it would buy them all a little more time. That was all he needed, really, _time_ and the benefit of distance. From the moment he'd clapped eyes on those photographs he'd realised Morarity's intentions, and in the same moment he'd understood that there was nothing at all he could do to stop the lunatic's plan from coming to fruition. Sherlock couldn't watch Molly or John every second of the day and night. There would come that blind spot, a mistake, _and it would happen_. No, preventing the situation was a waste of energy. Instead, he had to hone in on the aftermath. If he could find a way of beating Moriarty's hand, of saving his lover and his best friend from the madman's clutches, then he would have to wait until the trap was sprung. He couldn't believe he had allowed Moriarty to bring him to this. He cursed himself for not anticipating the criminal's plan - _so insultingly obvious_ - for going about his life so blithely whilst all along this _disaster_ had been looming.

What scared him most of all, what really got him, was that the danger would barely touch him at all - at least, not in any physical sense. He, the epicenter of the storm, could probably walk away from it without a scratch if he so chose. _If he chose..._

He didn't want to choose. He didn't want to _choose. How on Earth could he possibly choose..._

The litany repeated itself over and over, echoing harshly through the empty corridors of his mind palace as he ran from 221b and hailed a taxi. He hoped that the journey to St Barts would help him regain his composure, hating how his hands shook profusely as he fumbled for his mobile in the pocket of his coat. _Keep calm, he may be watching._ As the taxi moved off up the packed street he began to text his contact within the homeless network, calling in a favor long overdue.

* * *

"Sherlock, what-"

"Don't stop, keep going."

Sherlock gripped Molly by the upper arm and steered her firmly down the hospital corridor. He didn't speak or look at her, just kept walking, shoes clicking hard on the polished tiles. His pace was brisk and Molly had to fight to keep in step with him and not appear cowed or put upon before the curious people that passed by them. She hoped someone would pick up the files she's dropped outside her office door, when Sherlock had bolted out of nowhere and begun dragging her along like a man possessed, without even a cursory hello. The shot of happiness she'd experienced at the sight of him had very quickly morphed into exasperation, not to mention hurt. She felt the anger in her growing as he continued to keep his mouth shut, a hard line that refused her questioning, uneasy looks. She could feel his broad fingers biting into her skin through the layers of her clothes, bruising her. A small voice whispered insidiously that she had made a _mistake_, that for all this time she had been wrong about him and now she would pay the price.

"_Sherlock-_"

The name had hardly left her lips before they had rounded a corner and she was pulled quickly into darkness, a harsh smell of chemicals strong in her nose and bulky objects tripping up her feet. There was the sound of heavy breathing and the click of the supply cupboard door being locked smartly behind them. Sherlock let go of her arm to fumble for a light switch, and a second later the cramped space filled with a sterile glow, sharply illuminating his stern expression in profile. She had to close her eyes tight to keep from blinking like a startled fool, and she hated to admit that she was scared. How had she come to be scared of _him_?

"What on _Earth_ are we doing-" she began, but he tread on her words with his own. His tone was purposeful, unabashed. It made her want to listen, despite her rolling fury.

"We just crossed into one of the only blind spots in the hospital security system. If we're lucky they won't know we're in here."

He turned from the locked door, leaning back against it and sighing heavily, agitated. Molly stood awkwardly between the piled boxes and upturned mop buckets, unable to move further back and loathe to get closer to him while she was still annoyed. But the annoyance was slipping, slowly, as she began to realise the state he was in, the flush high on his cheekbones and neck, the wild dance of his eyes across her face. Then what he had _said_ sunk in a little further and suddenly her own eyes widened in comprehension.

"Are we being followed?" she asked, already seeing the answer in his approving stare. She knew that he enjoyed it when she deduced the import of a situation, but now didn't seem the time to indulge him. A chill was on her, a nervous apprehension clenching in her gut. He caught it and frowned, reaching for her hand and grasping her slim fingers in his.

"I can't be entirely sure if they're watching us _now_, this minute," he explained in rushed tones, unsure of how long they could stay hidden inside the supply cupboard without being discovered. "All I know for certain is that after you left this morning I was delivered of some photographs. They were of you and John, taken over an extended period of time and in varying situations. They could be random, candid, unimportant and meant only as a mild threat. They could be a red herring, meant to throw my focus off some case or other. More likely they are evidence of a full-scale surveillance operation, implemented by Moriarty."

"_Jim?_"

"I do wish you wouldn't use that name," Sherlock said admonishingly, wincing. "There never was a_ Jim,_ Molly."

"I know that..." Molly faltered, dropping his hand and smoothing her fingers down the lapel of her lab coat in a fit of self consciousness. "But I didn't know that until afterwards. I knew him as Jim, more than anything else. It wasn't Moriarty who-"

"Yes," Sherlock cut her off, nodding as though impatient.

Somewhere in her chest something gave a pang at the brisk, dismissive edge to his voice. She had almost forgotten how callously cutting _case Sherlock_ could be. She gulped, averting her gaze to a bottle of ammonia sitting on the shelf beside her. She glared at it, focusing on the contrast of the lettering, red on white, a background of biohazard yellow.

"We're getting off topic," he continued, running his empty fingers through his curls and tugging, feeling the loss. He knew, deep down, that he had just made a blunder but hated to voice it less it were true. They didn't have time to smooth over hurt feelings, not if he was _right,_ so he strove to continue undeterred. "I need to tell you the plan, right away."

"What do you mean?" Molly asked, resolving to forget his harsh words and suck it up. There was more at stake than her pride, surely, for him to treat her this way.

"When your shift is over I need you to exit the hospital and walk in the direction of your flat. On the way a black car will stop beside you, and the driver will say a safe word. The street will be busy at that time of day, so if the word is not correct I want you to run and lose yourself in the crowd. Contact me via pay phone. Do _not_ use your mobile. On _no account_ are you to get in the car if you think something is wrong." At this point he drew his notepad from the pocket of his coat and wrote something down, showing her the scrawl and watching her closely as she read it. "Memorized?" he asked, and when she nodded he tore the paper off the pad and stuffed it into his mouth. Molly watched agog as he chewed, grimaced and swallowed, shuddering against the taste of the ink.

"You're mad," she muttered, slightly awed.

"It's safer than throwing it in the bin," Sherlock shrugged, smiling genuinely for the first time since he'd bumped into her outside her office. "The black car belongs to my brother, and will be driven by one of his bodyguards. They will escort you to a safe house where you will wait for my instructions."

"What do you mean, safe house?" Molly's mind had begun to swim, her knees wanting to knock together. The only thing stopping her from swooning was the serious, calculating look in Sherlock's face, and how much he seemed to _want_ her to understand the importance of what he was saying. "I can't go home? What about Toby? My things..."

"No," Sherlock shook his head vehemently. "None of that matters. You can't go home, not now I know what he means to do..."

"What do you know? What does Moriarty want?" Molly found her feet moving, her hands raising to cup his shoulders and clench down on the wool of his coat. The fabric felt harsh beneath her palms, grounding, and the heat from him made the situation a little less like a horrible dream.

"You are in a great deal of danger," Sherlock murmured, touching the side of her face and scowling in obvious frustration. "And I don't know what to do about it. I need more time. I need you gone, Molly. Out of the way, just for a little while."

"But what about John?" Molly pressed, "Isn't he at risk too?"

"Yes, John as well," Sherlock nodded, and his skin grew slightly ashen under the bright light of the bare bulb above them. "I've a plan for John. I'll keep you both out of his reach for as long as I can. If I can't then, if I'm right about his plan... God-" he shook his head, struggling for the words. His touch had become like a nervous flutter. "You just have to remember how much I care for you. That whatever Moriarty says, whatever he _does_, you have to remember that I care."

"What about you?" Molly asked after a brief, breathless silence. Her grip on him became firm. She stared steadily up at him, suddenly hating his ludicrous height. It was hard to be intimidating when she felt like such a tiny mouse. "How do I know that _you'll_ be safe?"

"You won't," Sherlock replied, taking hold of her hands and pulling them tight against his chest, gripping her wrists in earnest. So small, so breakable - he winced when he felt her rapid, frightened pulse. "I won't be able to keep in contact with you unless it's _imperative_ for me to do so. Only if you are in _imminent_ danger that I can't warn you about _in any other way_. You understand, don't you? We must remain completely separate. The further away from me you are, the better."

"You mean," Molly's words were low now, hesitant and disbelieving. "You mean to say that the moment we step out this door, I may never see you again?"

"I thought you had a little more faith in me than that," Sherlock forced a smile, pushing down the unfamiliar swell of dread rising at the back of his throat. He was used to being controlled, calm, but looking down at this woman with her wide, panicked eyes, knocked the surety from him. He wanted to tell her so much, but he couldn't. It would only make things worse if he did, if he _confessed it_. He just held her cheek, fingers tickling her ear, drinking her warmth in and wishing - _just wishing_ - that things could be different, that they had more _time_ than this. "I'll fix it, Molly. I promise."

"I don't want you to get in trouble because of me," Molly said, and she didn't want to cry but inevitably her vision was blurring. She bit hard on her lower lip, letting the sting of it blunt the desire to sob.

"Molly, it's not like that-" Sherlock said hurriedly, catching her distress and floundering in it. "It's all me, all because of me. You _know_ that, Molly-" He pulled her flush against him, wrapping an arm about her waist, pressing his mouth to her forehead. When he next spoke the words rushed, hot and anxious against her face. "I just need you to be all right. I need you to be safe. I _promise_ I will make you safe. You trust me, don't you?"

Molly pushed her head into the hollow of his neck and nodded, feeling the long, leanness of him pressing back, enveloping her in an embrace she didn't want to end. How could it be that less than 24 hours ago they had been happy and together, sharing each other for the _first time_. Was that all they were going to have? She had hoped with enough time they would- _But she couldn't think about that._

"Remember," Sherlock's voice rumbled in his throat, against the press of Molly's cheek. She screwed her eyes shut, letting the vibrations soothe her. "He'll try to break you, but I care. Remember that I care, and that no matter what he says I regret nothing. Remembering that is more important than anything else, Molly."

The kiss that followed was not unexpected, but the fervency of it shocked her. Molly had never experienced anything quite so tender, yet simultaneously harsh. What began as the cupping of her face, the gentle sweep of a tongue, became firm lips and a little gasp when he bit down on the flesh of her mouth and made her bleed. It was like he wanted to crawl into her, deep, deep down into the depths of her, where he could be alone with her scent and taste. Somewhere in the breathless heat of it she realised what perhaps he was trying to do, because on some unconscious level she had been attempting it herself every time they'd come into contact. He was building up a sense memory of her, with the slide of his hands, the fit of his body and the hot cave of his mouth. Why he was doing this, in a store cupboard away from all distractions, during perhaps the last few minutes they would ever spend alone together, was pretty obvious to Molly. It was_ obvious_ and it was painful, but she let him do it. She let him kiss her harder and rougher than she had ever been kissed by anyone, and she pretended to herself that she didn't care that he was saying goodbye. She even pretended not to know that this goodbye could be forever.

* * *

When John awoke in the late afternoon it was to the sound of shrill violin music. He lay still for a moment or two, listening in awed silence, not wanting to move. He loved the sound, had always loved it, but it made him uneasy too. Sherlock played when he was thinking, yes, but also when he was brooding or upset. Something in the way the music pitched and cried made John lean towards the latter. Sherlock was unsettled, and that never boded well for anyone.

Making his way down to the kitchen he went about making a cup of tea without glancing into the sitting room, keeping his eyes averted from the swaying form at the window, the rustle of sheet music. Sherlock seemed lost in the notes he played, eyes half-closed and lip drawn harsh between his teeth, as though he were trying to sink into the music entirely and forget. Forget _what_ exactly? John didn't like to think about it. He didn't need to ask. Something in the detective's withdrawn manner told him that Molly was gone and that nothing he could say would make it better.

"Is she safe then, away from here?" John asked once there was a break in the music, leaning his weight against the living room door and sipping his tea but hardly tasting it. He felt too on edge to relax his guard, half expecting Sherlock to turn and shout blue murder at him for interrupting. But he didn't, he just lowered the violin from the crook of his neck and paid the doctor a fleeting, distracted glance. He twirled the bow between his thin fingers, cutting the air at his side with a _swish_ and _flick,_ over and over. It was like watching someone trying to control a nervous tick, becoming more and more aggravated each time they failed.

"I think so, for the immediate future." Sherlock replied at last, and his voice didn't sound right. It was hard, the tone rich and repressive. His keen eyes were darting about the bustling street below, never settling on any one thing but jumping from one person to the next, one passing car, one speeding motorcycle. "I doubt it'll last long though, whatever security we find for her."

"What do you mean?" John asked, coming further into the room. "Surely if you_ and_ Mycroft are on the case-"

"But that's just it, isn't it? This _isn't_ a case, John. This is Jim Moriarty," Sherlock shook his head in an impatient jerk. "This is a man who has tried to kill me before. Hell, it was just a lucky chance that saved me from him last time." He was referring of course to the bomb blast at the pool, as though John needed reminding of that terrifying night. "And you know," Sherlock went on, ignoring John's mounting unease. "I don't think he truly _tried_ that time, not really."

"What makes you say that?"

"Because he failed so..._ strategically._" Sherlock laced the word with such reluctant appreciation for the criminal's craft that John found himself shifting in his chair, frowning. "How likely was it, really, for us to have escaped alive from such a blast? He wanted to keep us safe, so he flunked it. I think he set us up in that trap just to see what would happen, how we'd cope. Even _raping_ Molly, it was all part of it. He tested us, you see? He wanted to try our reflexes John, so that when it came time for the real game to begin he would know us better, how to have more_ fun_ with us."

"_Fun?_" John almost choked, a wash of anger starting at the knees and working up his body to make his ears flame. "You think he's having_ fun_? This isn't a _game_, Sherlock!"

"But of course it is, John!" Sherlock turned in a flurry of blue robe and brandished the violin bow in the doctor's face. His worn features were a perfect picture of exasperation. "Are you so naive that you think he isn't _enjoying_ this? That beneath this attack lies some great moral compass pointing him in my direction? He isn't trying to destroy me because he thinks it's _the right thing to do_. He isn't doing this _begrudgingly_ because the world would be a better place without me. He's doing it because he wants to _watch me dance_, remember?"

John stayed silent, watching his friend with a sick feeling growing in his gut. He was right, of course. Sherlock was always right.

"And it isn't just me, it's everyone else too. He's using you all to hurt me, and I can't stop him." Sherlock went on, his voice fainter now as he stepped closer to the doctor and knelt down on the floor. He had discarded his violin on the carpet and was now grasping at John's hand, looking up at him with an openness that for Sherlock was quite alarming. John would never get used to this side of him, not after all the heroics and the cleverness and the cool façade. "I was blind, John, but now I can see it all it's too late. I can't stop him from taking you, using you, I can only try and _save you._ Do you understand? It's Molly... and it's _you_, John. I'm sorry, I should have seen it from the beginning. His plan was always there, hidden in plain sight! He's been letting it fester for months, letting us sink into normality whilst this _entire time_ he's been waiting, scheming..."

"He's coming for me too?" John murmured, and somehow the words felt heavy on his tongue.

He suddenly felt the weight of the vest from _that night,_ the constriction and the horror of it strapped around him and the powerlessness of staring up at the dark ceiling of a van and knowing it was moving but not where it was going, where it was taking him and what would happen when he arrived. Sherlock's fingers clenched John's, harder than necessary, as though sensing where the doctor's mind had gone. The touch was like an anchor, pulling John abruptly back to the present, the warm flat, the dark haired man crouched in front of him, floundering in uncertainty.

"I won't let him kill you," Sherlock promised, but still, it sounded all wrong, like empty words. "John, I _swear_ I won't."

"H-How-" John stammered, grunted and leant forwards so that he could press his head into the heel of his palm. "What do I do? How can we stop it?"

"We can't," Sherlock said, and now the words felt right. He sounded so sincere, so sure of himself that John had to believe what he said next even if he hated hearing it. "I sent Molly away as a pretense, a diversion to help you slip under the radar. It doesn't matter how far she goes out of London, away from me, you see. Sure, it may buy her a little extra time but he wants her too badly and he knows using her will hurt me. It worked before, didn't it? He will find her, John, and he will find you."

"Find me-" John was rubbing his right eye, a slow ache building behind it as the truth came crashing down leaving him cold. His leg began to twinge, right on cue. "Where am I going?"

"You're going away John," Sherlock said, and his grip got so tight that John's knuckles hurt, the bones crushing together beneath Sherlock's fingertips. "I don't want you to, but I know you. If it's a choice between being taken here, helpless, and being taken on the run, _you'll run._ Please run, John..."

"How do you know you can't stop him?" John asked sharply, wrenching free of his friend's grip and standing up, wobbling a little on his weak leg. Sherlock rose with him, trying to touch John's arm but the doctor was too agitated. He was angry, and it felt good to knock Sherlock's hands away even if it made the man looked like a kicked dog, his blue eyes pained but equally aggressive. Sherlock swallowed, the frustration rising up in him.

"I don't have enough time!" Sherlock shouted, startling John but not quite enough to calm him. "Don't you think that if I had found a way of sparing you this I would have tried it? Are you so stupid that you can't see that, John? Why are you all so stupid?"

John made to open his mouth in a retort but Sherlock wasn't interested, he was too wound up. He got into John's personal space, put both his hands at the back of the doctor's neck and held on as tight as he could, forcing John's attention to focus on him. They stayed still, glaring at one another but it wasn't so much anger at each other anymore but at the situation and how _hopeless_ it all seemed.

"I know you're scared," Sherlock said levelly, holding John's stare resolutely with his own, insufferable in his reasonableness. John met his gaze, heartbeat racing and mind a fog of panic, but trusting in a way he could only be with Sherlock Holmes. "I know you don't want to leave. For god's sake, _I_ don't want you to leave. But I also don't want to see you dragged out of here in front of my very eyes, kicking and screaming. I can't watch him capture Molly, and I certainly can't watch him capture you. I can't be that powerless John, you know that. It's selfish, and I'm sorry, but I can't stand by and watch it happen, knowing there's nothing I can do to prevent it without getting us all killed. You have to run, and you have to run now. I can only help you when the game is set, do you understand? _When the game is set._"

"What is he going to do?" John spoke softly, lulled into an odd sense of being by that intense face, those meaningful words. It was like he was stood outside of himself, watching his world, his life in the flat and with Sherlock, all crumbling away, and he couldn't stop it from happening. None of them could.

"He's going to make me-"

Sherlock faltered, his gaze falling to the floor then flicking back in the space of a breath. His hands on John's neck lowered to his shoulders, and he held them with a strange, foreign tenderness, and John became very aware of how they had hardly ever touched like this. It wasn't like the friendly pats on the back, the supportive hand squeezes and jokey ribbings, their hearty laughter. Instead, it was so serious, deep and deadly, that John felt strongly off-kilter. He had always known that Sherlock was a rare friend, someone with whom John felt a startling affinity. They were best friends, yes, but never in his entire life had John Watson had a best friend like this one. The man in front of him was more than a companion, a flat mate, and just like he had made up his own unique career he had also made up his own sense of unprecedented importance in John's life. Imagining himself alone, suddenly, was more than John could stand.

"No. It's not important that you know, in fact it's probably better that you don't." Sherlock blustered, and it was like he couldn't bring himself to voice what he was thinking._ For once,_ John thought bitterly. "I have a pretty firm idea of what he's planning, based on the available evidence and his past behaviour... I know that what he will do will harm you, and Molly, and me... But I _will_ find a way to save you from the worst of it, I just need time."

"And if I go into hiding you'll have that time?" John asked, feeling the tension in his friend's fingers, seeing it in the tightness of his jaw, the brightness of his eyes.

"Yes," Sherlock nodded resolutely. "But be under no illusions John, it won't take him long to catch you. He's like a spider at the centre of a web, and you're just a fly... We're all flies now."

"Even you?" Absurdly, John wanted to laugh at the idea that Sherlock could think of himself like that. Even through all his terror, he just wanted to laugh at something, anything at all.

"Especially me," Sherlock said, and he seemed disappointed. "I was a spider, once, but I can't be that anymore. Not since you, not since _Molly._ The only advantage to the situation is that I know how a spider thinks, how he manipulates, how he bites, and you have to remember - I told Molly and now I'm telling you - you_ have_ to remember that I care about you. Whatever he may do,_ remember that I care._"

"That's as good as a declaration of love, coming from you," John said, a tad gruffly, his cheeks pinking.

"I mean it," Sherlock insisted, and for a split second he smiled. "I'd be lost without my blogger."

John was pulled into the hug before he'd even had time to smile back, and he was enveloped in the arms of a man that smelled of tea, toxins, violin resin and silk, and he didn't mind it. The embrace, though incredibly brief, was full of a passion John didn't know Sherlock possessed, least of all for him. It was as though Sherlock was trying to put a lot of _unsaid things_ into the hug, but John hadn't the chance to interpret what they might be because suddenly a gun was being hitched through his belt and Sherlock was pushing him away.

"You need to go now," Sherlock said earnestly, spinning John around and pushing him towards the door to the stairwell. "Go upstairs and pack some things. Essential and light, remember, just like your old army days. I'll give you money, but not enough to get you knifed on the streets. Use the homeless network, like I taught you. We might be able to stay in touch using that, but don't take risks."

"Alright," John's mind had become sharp, clear, his blood pumping with adrenaline from the feel of the weapon at his side. It was like being back in the desert, when staying alive with his comrades had been all he could hope for. He could do that again, he _could_ stay alive. "I'll be 2 minutes. Just- I can't remember- Jesus, where the hell did I store my ammo-"

"John-" Sherlock's hand was back again, this time stopping him by the elbow and tugging until their eyes met. They were wide, and fiercely determined. "I mean it. _Don't take risks._ I want you back in one piece when this thing is over."

* * *

**So... Guessed Jim's plan yet? **

**For the last two chapters I've been deliberately cutting Sherlock's speech/thoughts off when he contemplates anything beyond the immediate future for John and Molly, but i think it's probably pretty obvious where we'll be going next. **

**Until next time kids, reviews make me smile ;) **


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