AN: Here's something I've been working on for a while. It's not particularly creative or original but it's done in a style I haven't seen too often in the Sherlock fandom. It's a departure from my constant smut, though it doesn't lack in sexuality. It will take place in two parts. With that said, I hope you enjoy it.

Wanting More

Here she was again as she'd been many times in the past three years. This time found her on her hands and knees while he held her tightly with one arm around her waist, the other used to support him as he slickly slid within her. His lips rested on her shoulder, not kissing because he never kissed her. He'd lick her when he wanted to or nip when the desire struck him but mostly his mouth remained removed from her body, never straying to her lips.

The position didn't matter. He rarely took her in the same way twice in a row. No, he would probably consider that boring. Which brought up a good point, why had he not yet grown bored of her, of this? Instead, he'd show up to her flat like clockwork, after a case had been solved. They'd have some tea, maybe wine, and then he'd ask rather matter-of-factly if he could take her to bed.

That's how it always started, with some plainly put words as to what he wanted and she always acquiesced. Well, it's not how it always started. At least that's not how it had been the first few times. This all started after his fall. Not right away, of course, he'd been a bit too banged up to accomplish much more than eating and sleeping, too many broken ribs, broken cheek, not to mention the widespread deep tissue bruising that had resulted from his five story plummet. The drugs she'd given him could only prevent his body from being tense as it hit, it couldn't turn his body to rubber. To this day, it still amazed her that he'd survived or that she'd had the physical strength to get him all the way from Bart's to her flat. The only explanation she could conceive was something akin to adrenaline and mothers lifting cars off their children in moments of panic.

No, interactions like these hadn't even started before he left her flat for the fist time three weeks after the fall. They'd started when he'd returned six months later. She distinctly remembered how lost he'd looked, how utterly alone. The feelings were palpable and had tugged on her heart so deeply that she'd actually felt physical pain just looking at him.

She'd made him tea as he sat on her couch. Though describing his position as sitting would have been generous. He'd more buried himself in the corner, his legs drawn up under his chin and both arms wrapped around them. The sight couldn't have been more pitiful. She'd sat next to him when he'd refused to break his cocoon to take the tea, instead she started to slowly rub circles into his back.

They sat like that for over an hour before he finally came out of his mind and looked at her. The first words to come out of his mouth since his return both stunned and confused her, "You know who I am?" She answered with the most obvious, hoping it's what he wanted to hear.

"Of course. You're Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective."

He looked away, seemingly staring into space. "Was."

"I don't underst…"

"There aren't any consulting detectives currently."

"There will be again," she said quietly, still rubbing circles into his back. That's when he looked at her again, really looked at her.

She'd understood then what it was and why he'd asked it of her. She was his only link, his only bastion of freedom in a world he was having to fight everyday just to remain alive, not to mention, to keep his 'family' alive. That's very much what they were, Mrs. Hudson, DI Lestrade and John Watson, his family. She wasn't a part of that group, she knew that even then but she was something. It had been enough, to be needed by that man. She'd said yes when he'd asked her for comfort in his truly Sherlock sort of way.

The first time had been on her couch. The act was done slowly and was drawn out as he tried to drown out the rest of the world in the only person who still knew he was alive and who'd never questioned the truth of him. She'd been his anchor to his old life, the only thing keeping him grounded, that kept him from breaking apart and giving up. That had meant so much to her back then, to know how needed she really was. It didn't matter that he wasn't making love to her, because he didn't love her. It didn't matter that she was letting him use her like he always had. Maybe she'd been foolish to let it start and even more foolish to let it continue. The alternative of turning him away and feeling responsible if he actually broke was what made her say yes the first time and never let her say no each time after. And to be completely honest, she never wanted to say no.

During the two years it took him to fight back in order to regain his old life and to clear his name, he'd come back to her periodically to lose himself in her physically, thereby holding onto his past life emotionally. After the first time, he always wore protection despite her being on the pill. That didn't bother her. He never kissed her or offered any of the normal endearments during the act and that didn't bother her either. At least, none of that bothered her until he actually came back.

He'd reintroduced himself to the world with a flourish, aided by his brother's vast connections. She'd thought their odd relationship had come to an end now that he'd won his life back. He wouldn't need her as his anchor any longer. He had John again, who fully forgave him after a few months. He had Mrs. Hudson again, who forgave him immediately and he had DI Lestrade who forgave him after Sherlock took care of a few unsolved cases for him.

He wouldn't need her anymore, not like that anyway. He'd need his pathologist again, sure, but not the connection.

She'd been wrong.

Three weeks after his reintroduction, he'd come to her and asked her again if he could share her bed. She should have asked why but in her own foolish way, she'd just been relieved that he hadn't cast her off. So it continued. For a year until now, he'd come to her a couple of times each week when he wasn't working cases. No one knew.

She wasn't sure when it started to bother her or what aspect of it did. She remembered realizing one time when he'd shown up at her flat that she wasn't excited to see him. She'd been surprised by that. She never would have thought that she, Molly Hooper, ever would have NOT been excited to be visited by this man. But she wasn't. She didn't turn him away but it was the first time she'd had to make the excuse that sometimes a woman just doesn't get wet, it just happened.

That sort of thing happened more frequently until she just purchased herself a small bottle of personal lubricant. He accepted her explanations, at least he seemed to. For as easy a time as he had reading others, he was a closed book to her most of the time.

Last week, she'd come to a decision. This couldn't go on. She couldn't even define what 'this' was. Everything else had finally gone back to normal. He took cases, he solved cases, he visited the morgue for her help with experiments and asked her to get him coffee. He no longer lived with John, since his friend had gotten married, but he still lived at 221b Baker Street, a place she'd only been to a few times. Once for Christmas and a few times to visit with John after Sherlock's 'death' but never with the man himself. She'd never been in his room, let alone his bed. No, they kept this strictly to her flat, her bed.

He'd been on a case until today, but once he'd solved it, he'd headed here. She'd been expecting him. Though she wasn't quite sure why she did it, she'd gotten dressed up nicely, fixed her hair as best she could and even put on a bit of makeup. Some take out sat on the kitchen table with two poured glasses of wine when his expected knock came at the door. He'd hesitated before entering, obviously the wheels were turning on why she'd gone to so much trouble with her appearance, though he said nothing about it before entering.

She hadn't given him a chance to make a move as she ushered him into the kitchen for some food. It's been a couple of days since he'd eaten so he hadn't put up any resistance, even drinking half of the wine she'd poured for him. When they'd finished, she just took his hand and led him to her room. That's how they'd gotten to the point they were at now.

He was now grunting above her, his fingers playing between her thighs as he sought to draw the pleasure that wasn't going to happen for her. She could tell he was holding off, so she made it easy for him.

"Don't worry about me," she'd encouraged, "just come." She felt him nod and speed up his pace even though he continued to toy hopelessly with her clit. He came a minute later with a groan, resting a little more of his weight on her but not too much before he removed his sweat slickened chest from its contact with her back. Pulling out of her, he rested on his heels as she turned over and grabbed a folded tee off the nightstand to cover up with. She knew he was watching her, taking in every new move she made. Usually, she just lay down or buried under the covers if it was cold. He studied her until she brought her eyes up to his. That's when he slid off the bed to dispose of the condom he wore in the bathroom wastebasket.

He stopped just inside the door and that same look was back. He was deducing her but by the way his brow was furrowed, he wasn't finding the answers he was looking for. Finally, he just asked.

"Something has changed."

Molly steeled herself, drawing a deep breath in preparation for what she was about to say. She'd thought this through a thousand times and each time; she had no idea how he would react. It was time to find out.

"I can't do this anymore."

His expression didn't change at all, it was almost as if it were frozen that way on his face.

"Of course you can. There is nothing preventing you from doing so."

Ever the one to use semantics but she didn't let it phase her.

"Ok, it's not that I can't, it's that I don't want to anymore."

"Why?" that frozen face asked her.

"Because I'm not like you. I need more than this."

"What else do you need?"

How did she explain it to someone like him? Anything she said he wouldn't understand, not really. His mind didn't work like a normal person's. The things she wanted in life; love, companionship, a family of her own, would all be things that he abhorred. But what else could she tell him? Nothing. So she went for the truth.

"I'm 37. If I want a family, I have to start working towards that. I don't want to do something like kids alone and I know that's not something you want."

He said nothing.

"I have to start looking for someone who wants to do that with me and I can't do that if I'm doing this with you."

"And this was why you altered your normal appearance and why we had dinner? This was your way of 'letting me down' so to speak?"

She nodded.

"Alright," he said coldly, his expression finally changing but only into something completely blank. "I won't bother you with this anymore." There was an edge to his voice that she couldn't identify. It might have been annoyance or anger but she couldn't tell.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock."

"Don't be. It was bound to come to a stop at some point. I just never thought it would be you who ended it."

That stung. It had been a long time since he'd been careless with his words around her but maybe this wasn't carelessness. Maybe this was purposeful. Either way, it didn't matter; this was happening and it needed to.

"Well, I'll just be going then." And he did after he gathered his clothes and redressed.

She felt hollow once the door to her flat shut.

Life continued on after that and finally it seemed as if things had really gone back to normal. Molly continued to work at Bart's and Sherlock continued to take cases that occasionally required her assistance. They were cordial with one another, she still got him coffee, usually without his needing to ask but there was a stiffness between them. She'd thought that it wasn't noticeable to anyone else until the day John pulled her aside while Sherlock was absorbed in his research. He'd wanted to know if anything was wrong. She denied that anything was and after that, she tried to put on a better show for everyone else.

About five months after their 'relationship' ended, Molly actually did meet someone. He was a nice fellow that worked for a medical consulting firm. Mark was intelligent and kind. He took her to dinner and the movies, made her feel beautiful in a way that she hadn't in a very, very long time and she felt comfortable with him. That's when she was able to stop pretending that she was happy and actually was. That's also when Sherlock started really acting like his old self again, except worse. He'd make scathing deductions about her or her work at odd times and no amount of scolding from John was making him stop. It wasn't until she, for the first time ever, told them both to get out of her morgue that the abuse stopped.

It stopped because Sherlock stopped coming around entirely. At first, she thought he must have found a different venue for his experiments and research for cases but when John came by her office one day alone, she found out the truth. Sherlock had stopped taking cases. He'd done it before. She remembered long stints, weeks at a time, where he wouldn't work. She also knew that he'd filled those times with drugs until he'd finally checked himself into rehab and gotten clean.

John was worried about him, about the way he was acting and hoped that she knew something about it. She could tell about halfway through the visit that he knew she wasn't telling him everything. He might not have been Sherlock but John Watson was no idiot.

"Tell me what you know, Molly. Please. I've never seen him like this. Mrs. Hudson says that all he does is play his violin and nap on his couch. Something's wrong and I can't help him if I don't know what it is. You know how stubborn he is, so I'm not going to get anything out of him but if you know something…"

"I really don't know, John. I wish I did but I don't." It was true in a sense. She didn't know what was wrong with him. She could speculate that it had something to do with her but the man had never said a word about anything outside of his work to her since she'd put an end to their liaisons. She couldn't read his mind anymore than John could. Telling John about the sex wouldn't do him any good anyway. What would it change? Even if it were the root cause of why Sherlock was acting the way he was, what was the solution? Would John plead that she change her mind? Would that even work? It wouldn't work for her, that part she knew for sure. She was finally happy with a relationship, happy with Mark, and she wasn't going to throw it away because one consulting detective, who'd never been able to treat her as anything but a convenient release, suddenly couldn't deal with celibacy. So mum she remained.

Another two weeks passed and still no sign of Sherlock. She worried about him but she let her new relationship push it away to the corners of her mind where the idea sulked just like she imagined the detective himself was. She'd gone out with Mark almost eight times and was finally ready to share her bed with another man. After dinner, she was going to invite him back to her place and see where it led from there. That's where she'd be in a few hours but first; she needed to finish the paper work of her last autopsy. An hour later, she shut off her computer, gathered up her things and left her office. She almost screamed in alarm when she saw Sherlock standing at the door to the laboratory, the same door she needed to pass through before she could leave. He looked terrible. His hair was too long and his suit wasn't pristine as they always were when he wore them. His features were drawn, like he hadn't been eating despite the fact that he wasn't on any cases but his expression… it was that same cold expression he'd worn the last time he'd left her flat.

"You're going to sleep with him."

Her mouth dropped open. How could he possibly know that? She recovered a few seconds later and gripped her purse a little tighter. He knew the same way he knew anything, some tiny details here and there must have tipped him off. Maybe it was the way she was walking or the way she'd done her hair. Maybe he'd seen something in the bin that led to his uncanny deduction. She didn't know what it was since she didn't have a mind like his but she did know it wasn't any of his business. So she said as much.

"That's not something I'm willing to discuss with you, Sherlock. Now is there a reason for your being here besides that?"

He didn't respond to anything she said, instead speaking his mind as he saw fit, as he always did.

"You turned me away but you'll let that loathsome…"

"Stop. Stop right now. I don't want to know one thing you've deduced about him. Not. One. Thing."

His expression changed then to one of annoyance. He didn't like being cut off mid thought, he never had.

"Why are you here?"

Silence.

"I really don't have time for this, Sherlock," she admonished as she started for the door. He didn't move an inch so she had to scoot around him but the moment her hand gripped the knob, his hand fastened tightly to her wrist, stopping her. He didn't do anything else, just kept her from leaving. "Sherlock, let me go." Again, he said nothing, didn't even look at her, his eyes remaining glued to where he was touching her.

She sighed and reached out to pry his fingers off of her. "I have to go." That's when she heard him mumble something so quietly that she couldn't make it out. "What did you just say?"

For a moment it seemed as if he wasn't going to respond once more but finally she heard him. "I don't want you to."

It only pissed her off.

"You're so damned selfish, you know that?" She saw him nod, still only looking at the hand that held her. "And what about what I want, Sherlock?"

"I want you to want me again, like you used to."

Her breath caught in her throat. "I'm not that girl anymore," she whispered.

"I made her go away, made you change, didn't I?"

"A lot of things did."

"But mostly because of me, because of how I am."

"Sherlock…"

"I tried," he whispered out pathetically and for the first time since he'd taken hold of her, he looked into her eyes. She was floored by the unguarded quality of them. Were his eyes really as red as she thought they were? Did it really look like he was about to cry?

"You didn't try hard enough."

"Neither did you."

The pity she'd been feeling was immediately replaced by indignation. "Excuse me?"

"You never told me what you wanted. You never asked for anything to change. You didn't ask me for anything until you asked me to leave and so I did the only thing you ever asked me to do."

"I…"

"You never said you wanted me to escort you to dinner. You never tried to take me to some ridiculous theater for an equally ridiculous movie. You never asked me to play my violin for you or ask to come to Baker Street. You never did any of those things. I was the only one that ever asked and I was only willing to ask what I knew you would give, had given in the past." He let her go then and strode away from her as if being near her had suddenly become too much for him, like standing too close to a hot fire and needing relief from it. For her part, Molly had become a mute, far too stunned with this revelation to form thoughts, let alone words.

"I thought that if I asked for more," he looked back at her briefly before he continued to frantically survey the room, "that you would think I was asking for too much."

The next words came out of her mouth without her thinking them, almost on instinct. "What would you have asked for?"

He stopped moving then, his whole body going rigid, arms pressed tightly to his sides as his hands formed tight fists. He was in obvious agony. He was obviously so far out of his depth right now, resulting in the feeling that he had no control. Anyone could see that as clear as they could see the sun on a cloudless midsummer day. He mumbled his answer again.

"What?" she asked tentatively.

"I would have asked to kiss you!" he shouted at the back wall, anger seeping into his voice. "Are you happy? The great Sherlock Holmes brought so low that he has to plead for the affection of the only person who he never thought would stop believing in him?"

"Of course I'm not happy." She could feel the pressure behind her eyes and the ache in her throat as she said it. She jumped when he whirled around on her, pain evident in every facet of his being.

"Then why did you discard me?"

"I didn't…"

"You did. I was there and I recall it quite clearly, Molly. You are not like me and you needed more than me." He pinched the bridge of his nose then and tightly shut his eyes. "I wasn't enough for you. I always knew I wasn't good enough for you, Molly but I thought…" He didn't finish; instead he rubbed at his eyes with the fingers of one hand for a moment. "And now you've found someone that is enough for you?"

He opened his eyes to look at her earnestly; it was an answer he seemed desperate to know.

"He's…" But what could she say? What did she say when she'd just discovered, that this whole time, what she really wanted might have actually been right in front of her but they'd both just been the world's biggest idiots and bolloxed the whole thing? "I didn't know." It was lamely said and lamely worded. She felt how her cheeks reddened and she felt as the first tear slipped down her cheek.

"You didn't know that I needed you?"

She shook her head, too ashamed to look up at what were most certainly accusing eyes. She heard his footsteps and saw his scuffed shoes when he stopped in front of her. She also saw his hand rise from his side and nearly cringed when his fingertips brushed at the wetness on her cheek.

"I did," he said quietly. "You were everything that was right when everything else was so wrong. I thought you knew that."

"I did." She finally looked at him; she wanted him to see just how much she understood that part, that she hadn't been wrong about that at least. "I did know that but when everything got better, when you came back with your name cleared and with John and Mrs. Hudson and Greg all safe again, I just… Well, I wasn't the only thing good in your life anymore."

"You didn't stop being important. You still mattered to me." He closed his eyes. "You still do, more than anything, Molly. More than experiments or cases. More than anyone else combined."

Her heart was thundering in her chest and she couldn't hold back the chocked sob his confession brought out.

"I'm doing it again. I'm hurting you again, aren't I?"

She shook her head as she tried to get her emotions under control. God, she hated when they got the better of her.

"No, we're both just such idiots though." He looked confused at that and she just knew he was about to say something scathing as a retort. There was no way he could remain Sherlock Holmes and not, so she decided, quite spontaneously, to head him off at the pass. She took advantage of how close he was to her by reaching up with both hands, cupping his cheeks and pulling him down into a kiss.

Whatever quip he'd been formulating never made it past his lips. She might have kept him from acting like a git but he did not react like a dime store romantic hero either. He just stood there stiffly. If her eyes had been open, she was almost certain that his would be wide open as he tried to figure out just what the hell she was doing. When she pulled away and finally did open her eyes, that's exactly the sight that met her. Deep furrows between his eyes said it all but the way his eyes had trained on her lips said something else.

"You didn't ask," he said quietly.

"No, I didn't," she responded in kind.

At that moment, her phone began to chime in her pocket. She sighed and stepped away from him while he stayed stock-still. She almost cursed when she saw the name on the screen. She sent an apologetic look at Sherlock before she turned away and answered.

"Hi, Mark." She walked to the back of the lab as she rushed through the conversation, guilt gnawing at her from both sides. When she finished the call, she turned to find him gone. In that moment, Molly felt as if all her strength was leaving her. She sat down on the nearest stool, buried her face in her palms and cried.

End of Part 1

Insecurity and poor communication were definitely the two main ingredients for this angsty story's first half. So what did you think? Too much? I hope that it at least entertained you for a few minutes.