A Vicious Motivator - Chapter Eleven

[darnedchild]

Summary: Molly was happy with her life. She's got a job she loves, a nice flat, her cat, and she's even begun dating again (now that she's over her infatuation with Sherlock, mostly). Then Sherlock dragged her out for a few hours of dress up and undercover work, and everything started to go to hell in a hand-basket.

She agreed to accompany him to one more event, purely as a distraction; and in the process ended up with an unwanted house guest (Sherlock's ex Janine), the attentions of a vengeful stalker, and a return of those pesky feelings for Sherlock Holmes.

Rating: M (There will be smut in later chapters)
A/N - Written for the 2015 Sherlolly Big Bang. This mammoth fic is over 114k words and complete in seventeen chapters.

Chapter Eleven

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

Sherlock's half of the bed was empty and cold when Molly woke up. She hadn't really expected him to be there. Hoped, perhaps; but she knew him well enough not to expect that he'd be able to lie in until nearly nine in the morning.

Nine!

Molly rolled out of bed in a rush and spun in a confused circle before she remembered that her suitcase was in the sitting room. She'd need to call Barts and let them know she was running late and . . .

Except, she didn't, did she?

Sherlock had already taken care of that.

Last night she'd been irritated that he'd taken it upon himself to interfere with her job; but this morning, a tiny part of her was relieved that she didn't have to deal with the outside world for a few more hours. Not that she would ever tell him that, and she fully intended to rip him to pieces should he attempt to do it again.

He'd left a dressing gown on the foot of the bed. It looked as if it might be the same one he'd left for her last time she'd spent the night. Molly slipped into it with a smile. This time she didn't bother trying to adjust it to fit, and the gown hem dragged across the floor behind her as she walked.

She ran her hand through her hair, lightly scratching her scalp, as she stumbled into the kitchen in search of a hot cup of caffeine. It occurred to her that Sherlock might not have any decent coffee hidden in his cupboards.

As she suspected, nothing but an ancient can of instant. Molly turned to shuffle into the sitting room, intent on going downstairs to beg some off Mrs Hudson.

Someone was sitting in John's chair. Someone who very clearly was not Sherlock Holmes.

Molly squeaked and nearly panicked.

John sat up straighter and turned to offer her a casual greeting, as if it were perfectly normal for him to be lurking about Sherlock's flat early in the morning.

Which, Molly supposed once her heart stopped pounding, it probably was.

"Is-is Sherlock here? Are you two working on a case?"

"Ah, no." He stood and shook his head. "Well, he's out on a case, but I'm just . . . here."

Something wasn't adding up. Molly narrowed her eyes. "Why?"

He froze for a moment, then his gaze fell on the open laptop on the desk. "Working on my blog."

"Why do you have to do that here?" That came out sounding a bit harsher than she'd intended.

"Helps me think? I mean, it's the right atmosphere for writing about cases. Inspiration and all that."

Molly realized that John really wasn't very good at coming up with excuses on the fly. If she hadn't been suspicious before, his answer would have tripped all sorts of alarm bells in her mind. "Tell Sherlock I don't need a babysitter, damn it."

"That is not what I'm here for." John held his hands out in supplication. "I swear. Sherlock simply didn't want you to wake up to an empty flat this morning."

She blinked, considering his words. He looked sincere; although it seemed a little out of character for Sherlock to be that concerned about her.

Or, at least, it would have been prior to last night when he'd kissed her, comforted her, and told her that cared about her.

"All right." She bit her lower lip. "I was going to see if Mrs Hudson has any coffee brewed. Would you like me to bring you a cup, if she's got any?"

"No. Thank you." John's eyes flicked down to her legs, which were mostly bare under her sleep shorts and the slightly parted dressing gown. He quickly looked toward the open flat door. "How about I go find the coffee?"

Ah. Molly blushed and pulled the dressing gown closed. She'd momentarily forgotten that she hadn't bothered changing out of her pyjamas. He was probably hoping she'd take the time to make herself presentable while he was gone. "That would be lovely. Thank you."

Molly hurried over to her suitcase, which had been deposited on the floor next to John's chair, and rifled through it for something to wear. By the time she had finished changing and returned to the sitting room there was a full mug of coffee waiting for her.

John was already busy hunting and pecking his way through another entry in his blog. She sipped her coffee, and wondered how he managed to get anything done in a timely manner on his computer when he typed like a novice who had never seen a keyboard before. It was oddly fascinating to watch.

Eventually she got up to examine Sherlock's bookshelves. It didn't take her long to find something interesting, and she quickly lost herself in a book about Ching Shih. The book was just beginning to go into detail about the pirate code she had used to command the Red Flag Fleet after the death of her husband when the front door of Baker Street opened.

Both she and John stared at the stairwell, waiting to see who would come up the steps. When Sherlock's dark curls became visible Molly relaxed.

"Hello, Molly. John. Anything interesting happen?" John started to talk and Sherlock spoke over him. "I thought not. Thank you for coming over, it's a shame you can't stay."

She and John exchanged a look as Sherlock pulled off his scarf and hung his coat on the back of the door.

"But, I thought, lunch?" John seemed bewildered.

Sherlock gave him a piercing look and gestured toward the door. "Yes. Excellent idea. You should definitely eat lunch. Somewhere else. Perhaps at home with your wife and daughter?"

That was rude, even for Sherlock.

John shut down his laptop and packed it away in a bag, glaring at the consulting detective the entire time. The doorbell rang and Sherlock grinned like a maniac. "That will be Molly's food. Shall I walk you out, John?"

Molly was certain she hadn't ordered take-away, and she didn't notice John doing it, so she had no idea what Sherlock was going on about.

Both men disappeared down the stairs. She waited, perched on the edge of her seat, for Sherlock to come back.

When he did, he had a bag that smelled like deliciously greasy fish and chips.

Sherlock smirked and began to unpack the contents of the bag on the coffee table in front of her. "Fish, chips, and mushy peas. I wasn't sure how much vinegar you'd prefer, so I had him send along a fresh bottle."

"Him who?" The chips looked too tempting to ignore. Molly snatched one up and bit into it, then moaned in delight.

Sherlock grinned and brought her a bottle of water from the refrigerator. "I believe I once told you I knew a fish shop off Marylebone Road. They don't usually offer delivery, but the owner offered to send his son over when I called to place an order for you."

"Why would he do that?" she asked around the rest of the chip.

His normally pale cheeks flushed as he took a seat next to her and reached out to steal one of her chips. "I, erm, told him the food was meant for a . . . lady friend, who was going to be stuck in my flat all day. I suspect he was hoping his son might catch a glimpse of you and report back."

"And now I feel like an exhibit at the zoo, so thanks for that." Lady friend? Really? Who still talks like that?

Molly opened her water and watched him devour the stolen chip, then lick his fingers. She was thankful for the water when her mouth went dry and her tongue threatened to stick to the roof of her mouth.

"You'll just have to come with me next time and assuage his curiosity in person."

The fish and peas were just as good as the chips were. Molly was nearly done when she finally brought up his earlier strange behaviour.

"You seemed awfully eager for John to leave."

"Did I?" Sherlock carefully removed the greasy paper holding the last bit of fish from her hand and set it on the table. He shifted closer and put his arm along the back of the sofa, curling it around her.

Molly's skin fairly tingled at his proximity. She found herself leaning into him and smiled. "You did. Why was that?"

Sherlock used his free hand to nudge her chin up toward his lowering mouth. "I'm sure you've worked it out by now," he murmured against her lips.

In the back of her mind there was the small worry that she must taste of salt and vinegar, but Sherlock didn't seem to care. Surely, it if bothered him, he would have pulled back after the first tentative press of his lips against her own.

She whimpered, lost to his kiss almost from the moment it began.

Molly had no idea how long they remained that way; joined in a sweet, almost innocent embrace.

Eventually, Sherlock drew back and looked at her, searching her eyes for something. He must have found what he was looking for because he smiled. His hand came up to brush a tendril of hair from her face.

"I'm going to kiss you now, Molly."

She wanted to remind him that he already had, but something in his expression told her that this one would be different.

His lips parted as he lowered them to hers. Sherlock licked the corner of her mouth, slid his tongue across her lower lip, and then claimed her with his kiss. Molly quickly opened to him; wordlessly welcoming him with her lips and her hands in his hair. Her tongue mimicked the actions of his, and soon they were leaning into each other.

He slid his hands to her waist, and tugged her as close as she could get without crawling into his lap. Her head dropped back with a ragged moan as his fingers burrowed under her shirt and caressed her back. Sherlock took advantage of her distraction and lowered his head even further to nuzzle against her neck. She felt the glide of his tongue against her skin, then his teeth nipped at the same spot.

Molly jerked. Her hands fell to his shoulders and her nails dug in.

Sherlock immediately lifted his head, concerned at her reaction. "Bad?"

"No. Good. Really good," Molly rushed to reassure him.

He smirked and returned his attentions to her neck. The scrape of his teeth against her flesh made her ache. The feeling was electric. Sparks of pleasure traipsed across her nerves; a sweet warmth that spread outward before pooling at her core.

Molly groaned and tugged at his hair, pulling Sherlock up so that she could take his lips. She'd been kissed before, but none of them had ever made her feel overwhelmed so quickly. His scent surrounded her, and he smelled unbelievably good. But he tasted even better.

The hair on the nape of his neck was soft and so touchable. She couldn't resist lightly scratching her nails across his scalp. Sherlock growled against her lips. His hands--which had been rubbing tiny circles against the small of her back--began to slide to her sides. Molly held her breath as Sherlock pressed his forehead against hers. His fingers continued to ghost upward until they brushed against the cotton of her bra.

They both stilled for a long moment.

"Molly." Sherlock slowly pulled away, smoothing her shirt back into place with gentle hands. "Oh, Molly. We can't do this."

"I don't . . . Did I do something wrong?" She could have kicked herself for sounding so insecure.

He laughed, but it wasn't a pleasant sound. Sherlock stood up and walked across the sitting room, putting a large amount of space between them. He ran his hands through his hair and took several deep breaths, before he turned back around to face her. "On the contrary, you were perfect. I had thought it would be . . . Especially after the kisses we shared last night, I knew it would be everything I'd been imagining."

"And that's bad because?"

"Because Billy will be here any minute. We're on a case this evening, and I haven't a clue how long it will take. Criminals are becoming more and more inconsiderate these days, insisting on committing their crimes at ungodly hours."

"So, if Billy wasn't coming, then . . ."

He planted his hands on his hips and frowned down at her. "We'd still be necking on the couch like hormonal teenagers, I imagine. Unless, would you rather we weren't?"

"No, I-I was okay with that. Assuming you were. You were, right?"

Sherlock scoffed and gestured at his dishevelled hair and rumpled clothing. "Look at me. What do you think?"

The doorbell rang.

He groaned and grabbed his coat off the back of the door. "Don't wait up, it could be very late before I come back. Possibly morning. Go ahead and take the bed."

As he skipped down the stairs, Molly realized he hadn't actually answered her question. Not directly. She bit her lip and wondered if this was how it started with Janine. Wonderful kisses and then quick escapes with the repeated excuse of "I've got a case".

Suddenly there was the loud thud of feet pounding up the stairs. Molly jumped up and hurried to the door. Sherlock met her on the landing. She started to ask if he'd forgotten something, but he stole the words from her mouth with his kiss. It was hot and bone melting, and when he ended it Molly had to lean against the doorframe for support.

"I prefer the right side."

She was glad to see that he was just as out of breath as she was, but Molly had no idea what he was talking about.

"The bed. For future reference, if I can't have the centre, then I prefer the right side."

"Oh. Okay. I'll-I'll remember that."

"Good." He leaned down and pressed a quick, nearly chaste kiss to her lips, then disappeared down the stairs once more.

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

She knew she wasn't alone even before she opened her eyes. Molly carefully rolled over and smiled at what she saw.

Sherlock hadn't returned by the time she went to sleep. He must have come home at some point during the night, because he was sprawled out on his half of the bed (and then some), dead to the world.

HIs chest was visible above the covers, and deliciously bare. Molly didn't even try to resist the temptation to peek beneath the blankets to see what, if anything, he was wearing. She'd barely lifted the edge of the blanket when Sherlock put his hand on her wrist.

"Not nearly as exciting as you may have hoped for, I'm afraid. Blue cotton, a dully serviceable gift from Mummy last Christmas."

She threw her hand over her face to hide her bright red flushing cheeks. "Oh God."

He rolled on to his side and braced his head on his hand. "I thought you'd appreciate it if I didn't come to bed nude."

"I do appreciate that. Yes. Thank you. For not being naked."

Sherlock nudged her hand out of the way so he could see her eyes. "Breakfast?"

"You're hungry?"

He sat up and quickly rolled out of bed. "Starving. I solved the case. Garrett took the killer into custody around three, and Mrs Hudson gets rather tetchy if she's woken up before dawn so I haven't had a thing to eat yet."

"It's Greg," Molly called after him as he snagged a tee and a dressing gown from his wardrobe and vanished down the hall.

She'd barely managed to get out of bed and put on her own dressing gown when she heard Sherlock bellow "Mrs Hudson!" down the stairs. Molly winced and ducked into the bathroom, having more pressing concerns than chastising Sherlock for taking advantage of his landlady. He'd only ignore her anyway.

As she brushed her teeth, she realized that she'd begun to think of the gown he'd been leaving at the foot of the bed as Hers even though she'd only worn it a few times.

By the time she was done, Mrs Hudson was just placing a large plate covered in bacon butties on the kitchen table next to a tea pot. Someone had moved Sherlock's equipment to one side to make room for them to sit and eat, and the man himself was digging through a drawer in search of silverware.

"This should tide you two over while I get the eggs going. I know how hungry you get after a case, Sherlock. Thank you for not waking me up this time. Although you could probably have left a note on the door rather than sneaking in to put it on my refrigerator. I might not have been alone last night, you never know."

Sherlock dumped a random handful of cutlery on the table, and circled around it to stand in front of Mrs Hudson. He put both hands on her shoulders and leaned down to buss her cheek. "You're a godsend, as usual."

"Of course I am, dear." Mrs Hudson patted his chest and sent a warm smile toward Molly. "Morning, Molly dear. I trust you slept well, then?"

Molly blushed as she recalled the evening before when Mrs Hudson had come up to see if Molly wanted to watch the telly with her. Mrs Hudson had taken one look at the sofa and its lack of temporary bedding, then given Molly a knowing grin and asked if there were enough pillows on the bed.

"Like a baby," Molly replied, then snatched up a butty and took a huge bite in an effort to appear too busy to talk anymore.

"I slept well, too, in case we're taking a survey. You should probably get started on those eggs now, Mrs Hudson."

The older woman shook her head and smiled indulgently at Sherlock. "One of these days I'm going to tell you no."

"No you won't." He smirked back and leaned over to kiss her cheek once more. "We both know how much you secretly enjoy coddling me."

Mrs Hudson playfully smacked him in the chest with the back of her hand. "You're in a surprisingly good mood this morning."

Even though neither of them were looking at her, Molly felt her face flush and she nearly choked on her butty.

"The case, Mrs Hudson." Sherlock shook his head and tsked.

"It's always a case, isn't it." Mrs Hudson winked at Molly.

Again, with the knowing winks! Any more of that and she'd never be able to look Mrs Hudson in the face again.

Molly could hear the older woman giggling the entire way down the stairs.

"Ignore her. I usually do. Tea?" Sherlock poured a cup for her and then one for himself, before snagging a butty.

"There are two cups."

He frowned at her before examining his own tea cup. "Very observant. Why is that important? Is there something wrong with one of them?"

"No, it's fine. I just . . . Janine didn't get a cup."

Sherlock relaxed. "Ah. Well, congratulations. Mrs Hudson makes a very nice pot of tea. I'm sure you'll enjoy it."

She thought about trying to explain why the presence of that second cup meant something to her, but she couldn't think of any way to express herself without sounding like a complete fool. She was attaching far too much significance to it. It was just a tea cup, after all. Molly took a sip and nodded. "It is good."

She took another drink and settled into one of the chairs at the table.

"She likes you," Sherlock offered without bothering to look at her. "You already knew it, but the confirmation was important to you." He turned his head just enough so that she could see the warmth in his pale eyes.

Molly shrugged self-consciously. "I know it's probably silly."

"It is," he confirmed. "But I'm . . . pleased, as well."

She enjoyed the rest of her tea with a wide smile on her face.

Mrs Hudson eventually returned with a full English breakfast for Sherlock and Molly. She bustled around, straightening up the kitchen while they dug in. "Are you staying in today?"

Molly looked to Sherlock, and he looked longingly toward his laptop. "Unless a miracle happens and someone dies in a way that isn't excruciatingly dull, or something entertaining shows up in my inbox, I've no plans to leave. Everything in there now is boring."

"Oh, Sherlock, I hate it when you get bored. I'm not sure the walls can take anymore of your boredom. You two have a good morning, try to stay out of trouble. I'm going out to do the shopping." Mrs Hudson stopped to pat Molly on the shoulder. "See if you can convince him to do the washing up after breakfast, would you?"

That seemed highly unlikely, but she agreed to try nevertheless.

The flat was quiet after the older woman left. Molly only managed to finish half of what was on her plate. She pushed the rest away, and wanted to laugh at the eager way Sherlock helped himself to her leftover tomatoes.

"You know, I'm really rather surprised you were okay with me staying here alone last night. I suppose having Mrs Hudson downstairs meant I wasn't actually by myself, though, right?"

She saw a brief flash of unease cross his face. Sherlock dropped his fork and quickly stood up. "All done?" He didn't wait for an answer before grabbing both of their plates and dumping them into the sink.

Unease and avoidance. A double whammy of bad signs. What had he done this time?

Molly eyed him suspiciously. "Sherlock."

"Fine," he huffed. "You've been living here barely two days, and you're already as bad as Mrs Hudson." He pulled the plates out of the sink and dumped the remnants of their breakfast into the trash bin. "I suppose you want me to wash them now, too."

"That wasn't what I meant. Did you make someone stand outside to watch me again?"

Sherlock turned to face her, leaning his hip against the sink. "I did not ask anyone to stand outside and watch you last night."

His deliberate and somewhat formal phrasing made her even more suspicious. She didn't think he was lying, per se; but she could read him well enough to know he wasn't telling her the whole truth, either. Molly settled back in her chair and crossed her arms.

"All right." He eyed her for a moment, then threw up his hands in defeat. "While I was dead-" Sherlock ignored her involuntary flinch. "Mycroft decided it would be prudent to have someone keep an eye on Baker Street and Mrs Hudson. She's worse than useless after one of her 'herbal soothers', and there were still plenty of people who out there who wanted access to information I've uncovered and collected over the years. Once John moved out, there was no one left to check in on her or the flat. Mycroft knew I would be . . . extremely irritated if something were to happen to her."

He shrugged. "He hired a few people to keep him updated, and installed them nearby. There seemed no point in removing the surveillance detail once I returned. As you've pointed out in the past, I am gone for extended periods of time on occasion."

Sherlock tilted his head toward the sitting room windows. "First floor flat across the street, double windows with a view of 221B. My dear brother apparently bought the building outright. An investment property, according to his accountant." He rolled his eyes, then frowned at the way her expression had softened during his explanation. "Don't start assuming Mycroft has gone soft or developed 'feelings'. He's been charging me rent for it this whole time. Not even a family discount."

He sounded so perturbed that Molly couldn't help but smile. "I suppose I can live with that. Anything else I would want to know, that you haven't told me?"

"You snore."

She gasped, outraged. "I do not!"

Sherlock smirked and sauntered into the sitting room to open his laptop.

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

By the time Molly had finished washing up the breakfast dishes (he obviously wasn't going to and it seemed rude to leave it for Mrs Hudson), Sherlock was buried in his work. He would occasionally mutter under his breath about imbeciles and people who insisted on wasting his time with lost pets.

She made herself comfortable on the sofa with her laptop and all of her research materials, and lost herself in her own project. It would have been a shame to waste her unexpected downtime when she could be working on another paper. Her last monograph had been well received in her field. The editor of a respected publication had even expressed interest in having her collaborate on another.

It wasn't until Sherlock waved a sandwich from Speedy's in front of her face that Molly realized how late in the afternoon it had become. "Where did you get that?"

He gave her one of his 'don't be an idiot' looks and wiggled the sandwich again.

"Right, sorry. When did you get it?"

Sherlock sat on the sofa next to her and waited until she'd saved her document and set her laptop aside to hand her the sandwich. "I told you I was going down a bit ago. You waved me off, so I assumed you'd heard me."

Molly eyed him as she unwrapped her lunch. He was still wearing what he'd had on at breakfast, complete with his silk dressing gown. "You went out like that?"

"Mrs Hudson hasn't come home yet, and they don't deliver." He said it as if that explained everything.

To Sherlock, it probably did.

She'd never met someone who was so meticulous with his appearance the majority of the time, and yet perfectly willing to walk around in his--admittedly high quality and probably very expensive--jimjams, or less, when he didn't want to waste time getting dressed.

Upon realizing that her gaze had fallen to his chest at the thought of Sherlock wandering through the flat wrapped in a sheet as John had described on numerous occasions, Molly blushed and scrambled for something to say. "You're not hungry?"

The smirk on his lips told her that he was well aware of the direction her thoughts had been drifting. "I'll eat at dinner, unless something comes up."

"Anything good? As far as potential cases, I mean." She gestured toward the laptop he'd left open.

"Nothing worth leaving Baker Street." He leaned toward the coffee table and picked up one of her reference books. "What are you working on?"

He looked genuinely interested, so Molly told him. Sherlock listened to the premise of her paper, then asked several follow up questions. She made notes on his input, hoping to address some of it in the final paper.

Her sandwich was long gone, and she had been digging through her notes to try to find a drawing she'd made to illustrate a concept they'd been discussing, when he put his hand over hers.

"I've got another question."

She stuck her index finger between the pages of her notebook and turned to give him her full attention. "All right. Is it about renal parenchymal-"

"Did you want to have sex tonight?" Sherlock quickly interrupted.

Molly's notebook fell from her hand and several loose sheets of paper fluttered to the floor. "You can't just say that!" she sputtered.

He looked up from where he had bent over to gather up her things and finished putting them on the coffee table. "Why not?"

"Because." Molly realized that wasn't a real answer, but it took her a moment to find something viable. "Because that sort of thing might work when you're pulling at the club, but not when you're in a-a relationship."

"Is that what we are? In a relationship."

She wasn't sure if he was mocking her or not. "I-I thought so?"

Why was she stuttering so much?

"Was that a question? Either you think we are or we aren't, Molly. Which is it?" His face was blank as he waited for her answer, as if he didn't care one way or another. She hated when he did that.

There was something in his eyes, though. Something that told her what she said mattered a great deal to him.

"Yes. I thought we were--are--in a relationship. I thought we were a couple."

Sherlock nodded and settled back against the sofa with a pleased grin. "Good. Now that we've settled that, do you want to have sex?"

What, exactly, was she supposed to say to that? Yes to the idea of sex with Sherlock in general, obviously, because how crazy would she have to be to turn him down after all this time. But doing it tonight seemed a little fast, didn't it? They'd only just begun kissing a few nights ago.

And that wasn't even taking into account how unromantic being propositioned on the sofa while wearing a pair of functional--but decidedly unerotic--pyjamas with a rat's nest for hair was. Wasn't even a little bit sexy, honestly. There hadn't even been a few passionate kisses as a lead in. Just sitting around talking about hypertension and renal disease and then let's have sex, which seemed like a strange jump even for Sherlock. "This seems very . . . clinical? I mean, have you never heard of spontaneity?"

"I have. And I fully expect that we can--and will--have spontaneous sex at some point in the future," he assured her. "However, I'm asking about tonight specifically because I haven't done this in a very, very long time; and I will need some time to prepare if intercourse is on the agenda for this evening."

She stared at him for a long moment, trying to force the words that were coming out of his mouth to make sense.

"I'd rather not make a fool of myself in five minutes or less," Sherlock clarified. He was starting to look worried.

Molly finally blinked. "I'm sorry, you haven't what in when?"

"Had sex. Since my first year of uni, to be precise."

"But-what?"

"Oh, please tell me you weren't taken in by those rumours about my lack of experience or my sexual orientation." He grimaced and tapped his bare foot against the leg of the coffee table. "From my earlier inquiry it should be obvious that I'm attracted to you. And to set your mind at ease, I am not a virgin; so there should be no misplaced guilt about corrupting my virtue."

"I didn't think you were." Molly rubbed her temple with one hand. "Quite the opposite, in fact. I really don't understand. I mean, the papers? Janine? 'Shag-a-Lot Holmes' and the infamous hat?"

Sherlock finally began to look a little uncomfortable. He squirmed a bit and cleared his throat. "Ah, yes. Janine. She bought her cottage with the proceeds from all that salacious garbage. Not that I blame her, really. I have been informed from several sources that I treated her abominably." He shrugged in a manner that she suspected was supposed to be boyishly endearing, as if to say 'What else could I have done?'.

"You had to be informed of that," Molly deadpanned. "By someone else."

He looked around the room quickly, eyes darting from object to object as if searching for inspiration before coming back to rest on her. "Well, I wouldn't have to be anymore. I've obviously learned from that experience. Moving on. She received quite a bit of financial compensation, managed to embarrass me publicly across a large portion of the UK, and I let her keep the ring. Other than the occasional snide dig at my manhood and personality, we're good. You can ask her yourself, if you want. I could call her, but with the time change-"

"No, I'm okay, thanks." She bit her lower lip and tilted her head to look at him. "So, you're saying that you and she never . . ."

"Had sex?" He waited for Molly to nod in confirmation. "No. I thought I had made that clear earlier. Did I not?"

She pulled her legs up and put her arms around them, resting her chin on her knees as she tried to process everything she'd just learned. "Huh."

He gave her a moment, then nudged her toes with his knee. "So. Sex. Yes or no."

"Hold on, I've still got questions." Lots and lots of questions.

"We're starting to lose the mood here, Molly."

Her mouth fell open and she sat up straight, nearly kicking him as her legs dropped back to the floor. "We had a mood? Wait, you were serious? You actually wanted to have sex tonight?"

The look he gave her somehow managed to make her feel both stupid and strangely aroused.

"How was I supposed to know?" She threw her hands up in the air. "Yeah, we've kissed a few times, but barely that even. I mean, you've never even touched . . . stuff. You haven't indicated you were interested in moving down the line to that sort of thing until the question popped out just a bit ago. There wasn't even any build up to it, just 'Boom, do you want to have sex?' And you just told me you didn't do it with Janine, who is . . . Janine. If you didn't want to have sex with her, why would you possibly want to with me? For all I knew, you were just offering because you think I expect it, and you were planning to lie back and think of England through the entire ordeal!"

"Are you done now?"

She caught her breath and sheepishly nodded. "Yeah."

"Let's start with this, I didn't want Janine." Sherlock shifted closer and brushed a bit of her hair away from her face. "I want you. And I can assure you, England has never been on my mind when I'm near you like this."

"Oh," Molly breathed.

His eyes dropped to her mouth, and she saw the tip of his tongue slip out to moisten his lips. Molly mimicked the action without thought.

He leaned closer, and at first it was just a gentle touch of lips. Then it became sweet, open mouthed kisses that seemed to last forever.

Sherlock's hair was soft and fine, and Molly loved that she finally had a chance to run her fingers through it as she'd imagined so many times over the years. She scratched her nails against his scalp and he practically purred.

Sherlock pulled her close as he leaned back against the arm of the sofa. "Do that again," he growled, a deliciously low rumble against her ear.

Molly barely had a chance to do as he asked before he was kissing her again, hard and hot.

She came up on her knees and nipped her way across his jaw. His hands settled on her waist, then down so that his fingers barely brushed the upper swell of her bum. Molly licked the rim of his ear. When she blew on the damp skin, he gasped.

She was nearly giddy knowing that she could make him react like that, and knew that he could feel her smile against his throat.

"Would you like me to?" Sherlock whispered against her neck as he peppered it with kisses.

The sensation distracted her enough that it took a few seconds for her to ask, "What?"

He drew back and gave her a look full of seductive promise. "Would you like me to . . . touch 'stuff'?"

Molly froze for just a second and then laughed so hard she snorted. "Did I really say that?"

Sherlock chuckled and nodded. "I'm afraid you really did." He helped her settle back on the sofa next to him, although he kept his arms around her.

"Oh God." She dropped her forehead down against his chest, hiding her face. "Could I sound any more juvenile?"

"Probably. But you might have to work for it."

Eventually Molly relaxed. Sherlock tucked her head under his chin.

"So. Back to earlier. University. Was she pretty?" She drew her lower lip between her teeth as she waited for his answer. It shouldn't matter, but somehow it did.

He considered the question as he gently rubbed her back. "By conventional standards she was, yes. As was her boyfriend."

"Wait, what?" She jerked upright.

He scrunched his nose and tilted his head back and forth. "I suppose you're correct. Handsome would fit better in this context."

"Are you saying . . . Did you? With both of them?" It wasn't quite what she'd been expecting to hear. Although, it would explain a lot, actually. John always seemed to get a wee bit upset (a slight understatement) when the media implied he was anything other than straight, but Sherlock didn't seem fussed one way or another. He always seemed more concerned with reminding people that he didn't do 'relationships' period, than with the gender of the unfortunate sod he'd been linked to.

"Yes. It was an experiment."

That sounded exactly like something Sherlock would say (and do). "Of course it was."

"If you're finished interrupting? I was curious."

Molly bit her tongue in order to keep from saying something that would surely get her chastised again.

"I was surrounded by hordes of hormonal teenagers, many of whom were experiencing their first taste of sexual freedom and were gasping to indulge in all manner of recreational sinning. It seemed to be the topic of numerous late night discussions in the dorm, and I wanted to find out if what they were describing was true or merely fabrications created to impress each other. I found an attractive couple, a few years older and considerably more experienced than myself, who were interested in a bit of experimentation of their own--adding a third party with no risk of pesky emotional attachments to worry about."

Molly thought back to her first few years at uni. Admittedly she'd been more concerned with her grades than with scoring a random hook-up, but she had gone on her share of dates. Never once had she even considered having a threesome with a stranger. Then again, she'd never been approached by a guy who looked like Sherlock--much less one who was interested in hot, sweaty, meaningless sex--either.

"We met, had all the requisite testing done to insure we were all disease free, and then . . . we ran the experiment."

"Both of them." She knew she was beating a dead horse, but her mouth kept opening and the words just kept spilling out.

For the moment, at least, Sherlock seemed willing to humour her. "Yes."

"At the same time."

"Again, yes."

Molly tapped her fingers against her thigh as she thought about how best to phrase her next question. "Did you want them both?"

He shrugged. "As I said earlier, they were attractive. Neither of them turned me off, if that's what you're asking. However, I chose them primarily because they were a couple. Much more practical that way. I didn't have to go to the extra trouble of finding another partner of the other gender and doing all the initial prep work again. I was able to explore several different variables all in one go."

Sherlock's lips twitched and his eyes took on a mischievous glint. "Well, two goes, I guess you could say. We took a break for dinner and an evening lecture on campus. I came to two conclusions as a result of the experiment. While both of them were pleasing to the eye by societal norms, I was able to confirm that, in general, I find women more attractive and desirable than men. That said, without the drive to satisfy my curiosity, I wouldn't have bothered approaching either of them."

Only Sherlock would get distracted from sex by the temptation of an academic lecture.

"And the other conclusion?"

He played with her hair again, running it through his fingers to test the texture. "Honestly, I didn't see what the fuss was about. The resulting endorphins and euphoria weren't that different from dealing with the rare inconvenient biological urge on my own. Even at that age, there were other avenues to pursue that I found far more stimulating."

She couldn't help but tense. Molly pulled away slightly, gently tugging her hair free from his hold.

Sherlock seemed to know where her thoughts had turned without Molly saying a word. He didn't protest when she moved to put more space between them.

"I meant honing my observational skills and deductions, not . . ." He took a deep breath and lifted his chin. "I can't change my past, Molly. I can only try to make better choices with my life in the future."

Her eyes closed at the pain and regret in his voice. She didn't want to discuss his prior drug use, and he knew how she felt about it. She'd made herself very clear that day in the lab after his relapse. Molly reached out and took his hand in her own, squeezing his fingers to show she understood.

"So, no one has tempted you to give it another go since?"

Sherlock ran his thumb across the back of her hand. "I never said that."

The way he was looking at her, heavy eyed and intense, was enough to make her blush.

Molly opened her mouth to say something, and then snapped shut. She tried again and only managed a simple "Oh."

"Temptation pops up in the most unexpected places," he continued. "I've just never seen the point to having sex for the sake of having sex, when there were so many other--more productive--things I could be doing. There's my work, the experiments, organizing the information stored in my mind palace, even playing the violin. All of them are a much better use of my time than 'pulling at the club'. Wasn't that how you described it?" He paused as if considering whether or not to proceed, then pushed on, "I won't deny that The Woman tempted me. She was a puzzle wrapped in a perfect, beautiful body."

Sherlock frowned. HIs eyes lost focus as he looked inward. She suspected he had accessed a memory normally buried deep in his mind. "Too perfect."

Molly tugged her hand free. "I don't think I want to hear this, Sherlock."

At the sound of his name his attention snapped back to her. "Ultimately, that was more of a relationship of the mind than of the body. I was intrigued by the theory, but in the end neither one of us had the drive to move past the initial trappings of intimacy. She because her inclinations pointed in another direction, and despite her attraction to my intelligence I didn't have the . . . right parts to truly satisfy her needs. And I because I knew there would be no real lasting interest once the relationship had been consummated and my curiosity satisfied. As I said before, now that I'm older and wiser, I don't see the point of meaningless sex."

"I don't understand why you're telling me all this." How had they gone from discussing her work to talking about Sherlock's fleeting interest in sleeping with a beautiful and apparently gay dominatrix.

He shrugged. "Because you asked and I see no reason to lie."

When he put it like that, she couldn't really argue with him. No matter how much she might have wanted to. "Why change your mind now, then?"

She just couldn't wrap her head around Sherlock turning down a chance to sleep with Ms Not-Her-Face (Although it did sound as if she hadn't really been interested in the end, either.) and Janine, only to want Molly; even with the clearly mounting evidence right in front of her face.

She blinked, and her mouth dropped open in a silent gasp. Suddenly Janine's "Been there, done that" comment (when Molly had explained that she and Sherlock didn't sleep together in her bed) made sense.

"Aren't you going to ask me where?" His voice drew her back to the current moment.

"Where what?" As if she weren't confused enough already. It was so much easier to keep up with him in the lab or the morgue. She could hold her own with the science, but this was going so far past her usual comfort zone with Sherlock that she kept getting turned around in circles. "You've obviously got several different strings of thought going on right now, and I suspect I'm not following most of them."

He sighed, and she once again felt as if she were missing something important. Some little detail that would force everything to make sense. "Where are the unexpected places that temptation pops up."

"Oh." So they were back to that again. Who was he going to tell her about now? A hot blonde behind the deli counter? An attractive cabbie with a lilting accent? Oh God, don't let it be Jim, Molly silently prayed.

Sherlock smirked. "The morgue at Barts, for a start."

"Don't ever say that out loud again," she hissed. Molly automatically looked toward the stairs to make sure Mrs Hudson hadn't been on her way up with tea or the post. "People will definitely get the wrong idea."

"People are unimportant." He rolled his eyes and reached out to grasp her hand, using it to pull her back to his side once more. "Did you get the right idea, or should I be more specific?"

"Oh. OH!"

As she looked up at him, she could see those beautiful pale eyes of his begin to dilate. If she could look in a mirror at the moment, she knew hers would be doing the same. She licked her suddenly dry lips, and his gaze fell to watch the movement.

"Still, I'm not sure that it's quite appropriate, saying things like that."

When he spoke again his voice had dropped a register into that deep rumble that never failed to make her tummy (and other places) clench. "Does that mean you think it's inappropriate to find myself distracted from my work because a colleague is exceptionally good at what she does--and I have discovered that I find that extremely attractive of late--simply because of the location? That it's wrong for me to occasionally have the strangest desire to wrap my fingers into my colleague's ponytail to see if it's as soft as it looks. To use that ponytail to gently tilt her head back, so that I might give in to the urge to kiss and lick the hollow at the base of her throat. The urge that has been known to abruptly and rather inconveniently pull me away from my observations of a corpse on one of the morgue tables."

"Yeah, that . . ." She cleared her throat, her own voice had come out far huskier than she'd expected. "That last bit about the corpse isn't really-"

Sherlock released her and leaned back against the arm of the sofa with a pout. "I'm beginning to feel as if you are deliberately missing the point. You've distracted me in tiny ways for years, simply by being in the same room and just being . . . you. Then, so subtly that I didn't even realize it until it was too late, the distractions began to shift from mild annoyances to slightly amusing to affection. And recently, recently it has become attraction and temptation and-" He took a deep breath and looked at her with such heat that she thought she was in danger of melting right there on the spot. "And desire."

"I didn't know," she whispered.

"Oh course you didn't. Why would you?" He cupped her cheek, the lightly calloused pads of his fingers played along her jaw. "I wasn't about to mention it to you. I barely even understood it myself, and I most definitely did not want to deal with it. Remember, I have no interest in sex as a purely physical release. So, on those rare times when you would wander past me in the lab--usually wrapped up in your many atrocious layers of polyester, wool, and lab coat--and the wish to strip each hideous piece off your body and drape you in silk or the softest sheets I own would slam into my gut like a sucker punch . . ."

His thumb briefly brushed against her lower lip, and then he withdrew his hand completely. "I simply banished the thought to a locked room in my mind palace and moved on."

She missed his touch immediately. "Did that happen often?"

He shrugged. "I've managed to hide away all but a small handful of times." Sherlock pulled her closer until she was leaning most of her weight against his chest, and she had to tilt her head up to see his face. "But it was disconcerting that it was happening at all. My work is everything to me. It is very rare for simple physical attraction to distract me from my work, but you managed to do it more than once."

"That still doesn't explain why now. You've managed to ignore your interest for-for how long?"

"Months," he absentmindedly offered before leaning his head down enough to ghost his lips against her forehead.

"Months? Really? What changed?"

Sherlock pulled her even closer so he could whisper against her ear, "It's not simple anymore."

Her heart began to pound as hope blossomed in her chest. She'd known he was physically attracted to her; the kisses and their current conversation had finally managed to push through her insecurities where Sherlock was concerned. What he'd just said though, could that mean . . .?

"I'm not in love with you, Molly."

Just like that, the hope was gone. She dropped her head to his chest to give herself a moment to grieve the loss of something that had never had a chance to exist. His arms closed around her, holding her tight as if he'd expected her to try to run away. Sherlock's chest expanded as he pulled in a great lungful of air, before he spoke again.

"I did some thinking after we talked that day in your flat. I realized that you were right, I do have 'feelings' for the people we discussed."

She could practically hear the air quotes in his voice.

"If that was what caring felt like, then perhaps love wasn't something I was incapable of."

Even though she was so very disappointed, she loved him enough to be happy that he was finally beginning to understand what she had known all along. He had a heart, and it wasn't the frozen abyss he'd believed it to be.

He continued talking, pressing his cheek against her hair as he did so. "That, if I was willing to concede that I had feelings of . . . love for the people you named that day, then it was possible I might also have those same sort of feelings for someone else."

Sherlock lifted his head. "Saying that you're 'in love' with someone implies a wealth of things that I'm not sure I'm even capable of. It's that first giddy rush, that initial overwhelming desire. A volatile passion that burns so hot and bright, it can't help but burn out. I can't be the sort of person who would feel like that, not about you."

He reached under her chin and cupped her jaw, gently urging her to raise her head so that he could see her once more. "But saying that you love someone . . . That's a feeling that's taken hold, deep down. It can't be easily swayed or revoked. It's got a stable foundation that so many things can be built on, things that can last a lifetime if cherished and nurtured. It's not as showy as 'being in love' but it doesn't need to be."

That horrible feeling of hope was beginning to return. She could feel her eyes beginning to prick with tears as she looked up at him.

"I can do that. I can--and do--love you, Molly Hooper."

"Jesus, Sherlock," she breathed, barely audible. The threatening tears escaped, wetting her cheeks as they fell.

With a concerned and slightly panicked look, Sherlock tried to use the hem of his dressing gown to wipe away her tears. "Why are you crying? You shouldn't be crying. I fucked it up, didn't I? I knew I should have practiced first. What did I do wrong?"

She pushed the slightly damp dressing gown away and beamed up at him. "Nothing. Not a thing."

It was there in his eyes.

She wondered how she could have seen that expression over the last few months and not recognize it for what it was. Love. For her.

Molly pulled him down into a kiss, wanting to show him what she couldn't find the words to say. His lips parted and Molly eagerly took advantage of the movement. Sherlock let her. She'd just begun to lean back--hoping that he'd follow her down because she needed to feel his solid weight above her--when he mumbled something against her mouth.

"What?" she asked as she continued to pepper his jaw with tiny kisses.

"I said, isn't there something you want to say?"

"Hmm?" She was more focused on the shape of his lips and the way they moved, than on the words he was saying.

He huffed and straightened, using his height to keep her from reaching his mouth again. "I just told you I loved you. Don't you want to return the favour?"

"Oh, yes. I do. Love you. Yes." Molly blushed and released her hold on his shoulders. "Sorry."

He smirked at her sheepish expression for a moment, and then bent to kiss her one more time. "I'm sure you'll find a way to make it up to me."



Part 1 / Part 12