Disclaimer: This fan-fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta-read so all mistakes are mine. Originally written for Tumblr, suggested by the current Season 4 images of a flooded Baker Street...

THE LIST

She feels his arms come around her waist, his front to her back.

For a moment- just a moment- his chin presses into the flesh of her clavicle, his cheek against her hair.

It's… unexpected. Intimate. It comes as such a surprise that Molly tenses slightly, her eyes widening. Her breath drawing in. At this response Sherlock stiffens, goes to move away. The heat of his body pulls away from hers and without her quite ordering then to, her hands come up to press against his, holding him in place.

He stills. Takes a breath she doubts he realises is rather loud.

When he speaks, his voice is... hesitant.

"Not good?" he asks quietly, mouth at her ear.

She shakes her head and then realises that might be uncomfortable for him. Instead she turns her head to look at him. Gestures to the flooded front room of Baker Street.

"Unexpected, is all," she answers. "You don't-"

The words are bitten off. Unfinished. She frowns, unsure what she wants to say. (Or perhaps she knows, she's just unsure how he'll react).

"You don't just go around… touching people," she says after a moment.

He frowns. Peers down at her. She can practically see the cogs of his mind working.

"I touch you," he says evenly. "I touch John, and Mary. I even touch the Sprog-"

"Her name is Anna." And despite herself, at hearing Sherlock's nickname for his Goddaughter, Molly snorts in laughter. Sherlock joins her, a flash of humour lighting up features which for too long have been tense and drawn. This latest raid, the one which left Baker Street flooded and Mrs. Hudson taken into protective custody, it's just one in a long line of guerilla attacks, each one targeting Sherlock's friends and family. Each one designed to prove to him just how vulnerable those he loves are. When Molly had arrived ten minutes ago and seen his reaction she'd feared that this one might be the straw which broke the camel's back. The thing which convinced him to isolate himself and put himself at the Faux Moriarty's mercy.

With that fear in mind, the fact that he can laugh eases her worries somewhat.

Of course, the fact that he still has his arms wrapped loosely around- something which her makes her heart beat a little faster than is quite warranted- insures that she's still nice and tense despite this. Inwardly she sighs at the thought. Curses herself. Will there ever come a time, she wonders, when he doesn't do this to me?

Sherlock frowns though. Leans down to look more closely in her face.

She feels his breath against her skin and once more she curses her own damnable reactions to the man. Her own inability to be physically indifferent to him.

"What is it?" he asks. "You're looking all… frowny."

"I'm not." Molly pulls away from him, tries to get some distance. The water from the flat is oozing into the carpet at her feet, soaking her boots. She tells herself that that's why she wants to step away but of course she's wise enough to know that's rubbish.

Instead she steps out onto the landing and Sherlock follows her, his hand reaching out. Stilling her before she can reach the first step down to the hall.

"Molly," he says, and his voice is stern. "Molly, you know better than to lie to me." She looks at him, opens her mouth to contradict him and he speaks over her with nary a pause. "If you are upset then you must tell me," he says in his most damnably irritating tone. "I shan't be able to apologise if you don't tell me what I did wrong-"

"You didn't do anything wrong," she says quietly, turning to look at him and taking a deep breath. She even manages to force a small, tired smile to her face. "I was just surprised, is all," she continues, when his expression doesn't clear. "As I said, you don't just go around touching people-"

"Well of course I don't," he says sharply. "I don't like touching most people." And he cocks an eyebrow at her, crossing his arms over his chest. From long practice she keeps her eyes trained on his face, doesn't react to the rather lovely sight of his jacket and shirt sleeves tightening over his forearms. Besides, she's trying to parse what he just told her, and she's having trouble believing what she's heard.

"You don't like touching most people?" she parrots. He nods, a small smile curling at his lip. "The insinuation being that you do like touching me?"

Again he nods. The cockiness in his smile dims somewhat though, his body language shifting into discomfort. She feels his gaze narrow in on her. "I have a list," he says archly. "A list of people whom I am willing to touch. You are on it."

He inclines his head curtly.

"So is John," he continues. "And Mary. And Mrs. Hudson. I rather assume that the Sprog will eventually have a place, but she's too young to know right now; at the moment her status is undecided."

At this Molly smiles and she sees a flash of embarrassment, quickly covered by anger, in his eyes. He opens his mouth again, perhaps about to berate her, but she lays a hand on his arm. Smiles at him. Instantly he… gentles, that's the only word she can think to describe it.

He must realise she didn't mean any harm.

"So I'm on your list?" she says, and he nods. "You don't mind touching me?"

Again he nods, his face just a little uncertain. "I rather like touching you," he says. "And I- That is to say…" He frowns, takes another deep breath and looks right at her. "I should rather like it, if you were to touch me, too."

Molly blinks at him, surprised. She knows that this is no minor admission from the man before her. "So I can do this?" she asks, and places her hand on his arm. She rubs gently and he nods, stepping in closer to her.

"Can I do this?" he asks, and again his arms go around her, though this time they're face to face. She has to look up at him, and after a moment he tucks her head underneath his chin. "He got into my home, Molly," he says quietly. "Mrs. Hudson was here. You were supposed to be here-"

"Hush," she whispers. "I know."

She doesn't know how long she stands on that landing, and she doesn't damn well care.

That night Sherlock sleeps in a safe house with her and John and Mary, his arm wrapped casually around her as they curl together on a couch. They don't say anything but they don't pull apart either-

After all, Molly knows she's on Sherlock's list.