A/N: This is just a fun long one-shot that's been in my head for a while. Please enjoy!

If you can, please read My Sherlolly Archives, read it, and leave your ideas!

Drunken Confessions

Molly was curled up on her sofa, with her cat Toby curled up on the back cushion behind her (his favorite spot). An old rerun of Doctor Who was playing on the telly, but Molly had to fight to pay attention. it had been a long day at the morgue, and she was very tired. Since it was nearly ten o'clock, Molly thought about just turning in now. But her sofa was just too comfortable, and she didn't feel like getting up at that moment.

But her peace of mind never lasted long, for her thoughts inevitably turned to Sherlock Holmes, the man who held her heart without mercy. She remembered the day he had truly returned, about a month ago now…

Molly didn't catch his reflection in the mirror when she first opened her locker; she'd been absorbed in pulling her bag out and digging for her keys. But after she had stripped off her lab coat, Molly looked up in the mirror and barely managed to stifle a scream at his reflection. She turned on the spot, her wide eyes trying to convince her brain that he was real and not a hallucination.

This was hardly the first time she had seen him since after The Fall. Every few months, he would come to her apartment or she would be taken to a safehouse by Mycroft where they would meet. Four out of five times, he would be injured and needed her care. But on the rare fifth time, he would just want her company. Molly couldn't blame him, considering the solo three-year mission he had assigned himself that was anything but pleasant.

But never before had he shown up here at St. Bart's. Now here he stood, looking perfectly fine, wearing no disguise, with a face that was neutral and cold but with eyes that didn't quite match it. "Sherlock…" she finally managed to say when she regained her breath. "What…"

"It's over, Molly," was all he said in a quiet voice.

After those words registered in her mind, Molly's first feeling was of great joy for Sherlock. His exile from all he knew was ended. His pain and the grieving of his friends would be ended. He could have his normal life back. His normal life…including her normal role in it: in the shadows, only to be called upon for body parts and lab work. Her joy immediately dampened.

Finally, she spoke. "Good," she squeaked. Clearing her throat, she turned back around to her locker to hang up her lab coat and gather her things. "Have you told John yet?"

"No…" said Sherlock. Molly thought she heard confusion in his voice, but put that down to her shock.

"Oh, well, thank you for that," she said, trying her best not to stutter. She shut her locker after grabbing her coat and turned to Sherlock, who still stood in the doorway. "Um…well…"

All Molly wanted to do was run to him, throw her arms around his neck, hold him and never let him go again. But his expression was so blank and cold, just like when he worked in the lab. Not at all like when he would come to her during his absence, and allow himself to show vulnerability in his physical weakness. But now that his mission was over, that Sherlock was gone. He was back to being the cold and calculating machine he worked so hard to be…human vulnerability had no place there.

And neither did she.

"Well, good luck with John," she said, putting on her coat. "He'll probably try to beat you up before he forgives you, but he will soon…" She wished he would give some kind of reaction, change his expression just a little, let her have one more glimpse of the man behind the mask she had come to know so well.

But when did Molly Hooper ever get her heart's desire? Never.

"You know where to find me if you ever…need anything, again," she said awkwardly, her nerves rising as she approached to pass him in the doorway. But when she was close enough to smell him again, she just couldn't help herself.

She rose on her tiptoes, and kissed his cheek lightly, just like he had done at that humiliating Christmas party so long ago. She whispered, "Thank you for coming back," and then rushed away as tears came to her eyes…

And since then, she'd heard not a word from him or seen him at all. John had paid her a visit to thank her for keeping him alive, and she accepted his gratitude with great relief – lying to him about his best friend had been near torture for her all that time. She'd heard and read in the tabloids about his glorious return from the dead and his return to his former status and normal life with John in Baker Street.

But she'd gotten nothing but silence. Not even a simple thank you from him. And so Molly was torn between fury that made her want to bash his beautiful face in and the desire to have a breakdown herself (not that she hadn't cried herself to sleep a fair number of times, but those were necessary to keep her sane). A small part of her wanted to run to Baker Street and beg him to just come back to St. Bart's – she'd even give him another head if he wanted! – just to see him again. But of course she didn't.

All in all, Molly had no idea what to do.

Molly was torn from the depressing musings of her exhausted mind when her phone on the coffee table began to buzz with an incoming call. Confused but curious, Molly mustered up enough energy to sit up, reach out and grab her phone. She saw John's name lit up on the screen, and immediately answered it. John wouldn't call at this late hour without a good reason.

"Hello, John. What's going on?"

John heaved a sigh of relief before speaking. "Thank God you picked up. I'm really sorry to bother you at this hour, but I need your help. It's Sherlock."

Molly immediately felt cold, and gripped the armrest of the couch. All thoughts and feelings of drowsiness fled from her being as she thought the worst. "Oh my God, John, what's happened? Is he hurt? How bad is it?"

"No, no, Molly, nothing like that. He needs help of a…well, of a different sort." John finished this statement with an uneasy chuckle.

It was then, with the worst outcomes eliminated, that Molly noticed the background noise of slow rock music and lots of chatter. "John, where are you?"

"Oh, I'm at Finian's Pub with Mary, it's on the same block as the Cineplex."

"All right…what exactly is wrong, John?"

"Trust me, Molly: you have to see it to believe it. Please, can you come?"

Molly huffed a sigh and got up off the couch. "Fine, John. Give me twenty minutes." She then ended the call and made her way to her room, stripping herself of her oversized t-shirt and sweat pants as she went. Molly knew that her fashion sense was not the best, but she wasn't the type of person to leave her house in clothes she could sleep in. Knowing it was a warm summer night, Molly just slipped on her favorite sundress and a thin cardigan to cover her shoulders. After slipping her feet into a comfortable pair of white flats, she grabbed her purse and left her flat, calling to her tabby, "Wish me luck!"

She had a feeling she would really need it.

Just when she told John, Molly arrived at Finian's Pub. After paying the cabbie, she hopped out and walked up to the small establishment. It being as beautiful a summer night as one could wish for, all of the outdoor tables were full, but she saw neither John or Mary at any of them. So she went inside, glad she didn't have to squeeze or push through the front door.

She spotted John almost immediately, for he waved at her frantically to come over. She made her way to their table and sat down between him and Mary.

"Thank you so much for coming, Molls," said John, as she gave Mary a quick hug. He then pointed to the far end of the bar, almost in shadow. "He's over there."

Molly looked in that direction and, after her eyes adjusted to the dark corner, she saw Sherlock's tall and slim figure perched on a bar stool, downing a glass of amber liquid before pounding it on the bar in a silent demand for a refill.

The pathologist looked back at John with wide eyes full of shock. "No…he can't be…him…really?"

John sighed and nodded. "I've only seen him like this once, when we were in Baskerville. But I didn't stick around long enough to see the alcohol taking a real effect, which should now happen any minute."

"What's brought this on?" asked Molly.

John shrugged. "Beats me. We finished a case today which ended quite tragically when a civilian woman got caught in the crossfire. But we've been through worse cases that he hasn't so much batted an eyelash at. Don't know what about this case has touched the worst nerve…"

Molly sighed; who knows what went on in that beautiful, organized, genius brain of his. "Is this his first case since he's been back?"

"Yep," nodded John. "I don't know if that has anything to do with…this…hell, I have no idea what." Mary rubbed John's arm when she saw the distress on his face.

"Well…what is it that you want me to do?" asked Molly, already afraid of the answer.

John sighed, already looking apologetic. "I've promised Mary that I would spend the night with her…"

"Ah," said Molly, understanding right away and feeling as though John had dropped a rock in her stomach. "And you need a babysitter for the kid who broke into the liquor cabinet."

"Please, Molly," said Mary, her blue entreating.

Molly sighed, knowing that she was giving in. When can I ever really say 'no' to anybody? She pinned John with a dagger-sharp look. "You owe me, Watson," she said in all seriousness.

John breathed a great sigh of relief. "Yes, I do, Molly. Why don't you and Mary go out and hail a cab while I go and get him."

"You mean wrangle him," muttered Molly as she and Mary got up from the table.

They came outside and it didn't take too long to hail a cab. Then Mary pulled Molly into another hug. "Thank you so much for this, Molly," murmured Mary. "We really hate to ask, but after hearing about the case they've been on, I need to be close to John now."

Molly hugged her back, but she didn't feel better – she felt bitter. Why can't I have something like what John and Mary have? Is that really so much to ask?

A taxi pulled up at the same time that John brought Sherlock out of Finian's. He had the consulting detective's arm around his shoulders to support him, as Sherlock was already unsteady on his feet and mumbling about all of the types of tobacco ash he had classified on his website. Molly opened the cab door in time for John to shove him unceremoniously into the back of the cab. He paid the driver in advance, which Molly couldn't help but appreciate.

"Here is his key," said John, handing it to Molly. "Swiped it from his coat pocket." He pulled Molly in for a tight hug. "Thank you so much, Molly. I really owe you huge. I'll be sure to be back early, I promise you."

Molly just nodded and waved to the lovebirds before getting into the cab. She didn't look back as the cab pulled away and started its journey to 221B Baker Street.

Sherlock, in his drunken state, didn't seem to even know she was there. He just kept muttering to himself about tobacco ashes, even after the cab had arrived at Baker Street.

"Do you, uh, need any help with your, uh, friend, miss?" asked the cabbie hesitantly, looking at Sherlock.

Molly looked at Sherlock, and decided to take advantage of her bitter annoyance at life – as well as her anger and confusion for Sherlock – in a healthy and beneficial way. "No, thank you, sir. Have a good night," she said to the cabbie. Then, she grabbed Sherlock by the arm and coat collar, and dragged him out of the cab with one big heave. From there, she stayed behind him, pushing him through the front door (after opening both for him with his key), pushing him forward and up on his unsteady feet.

After she had shut the door behind them in 221B, Molly pulled off his signature Belstaff coat (how he could wear it in the summer and not die of heatstroke she had no idea), and then walked around to his front to take off his scarf.

Now that she was in his direct line of vision, his slurred rambling stopped and his eyes widened as he realized who his good Samaritan was. "Molly!" he cried.

Then he literally threw open his arms and flung himself at her. Unfortunately, it was more like falling like a ton of bricks on top of her. All Molly could do was shriek as she fell backwards onto the carpet – with Sherlock's full weight on top of her.

Molly feebly pushed against his shoulders, but he wouldn't budge. His arms were wrapped tight around her, and he'd buried his face in the crook of her neck, mumbling her name over and over again. "Molly…Molly Hooper…my Molly…Molly…"

"Sherlock!" she managed to gasp out, finding it very difficult to breathe, being pinned under his drunken weight. Deciding to try a different tactic to regain her breath, Molly shoved not upwards but sideways. They rolled over together, since his arms were still tight around her waist, so now Molly was on top of him.

Though Molly couldn't deny fantasizing about her and Sherlock in these positions, this was nothing like she had imagined – and not in a good way at all.

"Imissyou, my Molly," he slurred, raising his head towards, but Molly pulled her head back as far as she could. She coughed at the terrible scotch breath he had. Ewww! Yes, nothing like I imagined.

Deciding that scolding would fall on deaf ears for this drunken Sherlock, she said as patiently and calmly as she could, "I've missed you too, Sherlock. The morgue hasn't been the same without you. Now, the floor can't be very comfortable, so let's both get up now."

But Sherlock's arms remained firmly around her middle. "Noooo," he whined, "you feel so nice…"

This would have melted Molly's heart if it hadn't been accompanied by more of that terrible scotch breath. It made her stomach twist and complain in protest. A solution to her dilemma came in the memory of her father that came to mind. So, biting her lip, Molly lowered her hands and tickled both of his sides. Sherlock reacted by doing something Molly never thought Sherlock Holmes was capable of doing:

He burst into uncontrollable giggles.

Thankfully, her move did the trick: his arms loosened as he giggled, and Molly shot to her feet and out of his reach, breathing in non-scotch tinged air again with relief. Sherlock curled up on the floor, clutching his sides as he giggled. "Molleeeee, doooon't!" he managed through his giggles.

For the first time in weeks, Molly had the great urge to laugh without abandon. She never thought Sherlock would be like this, even a drunk Sherlock. But she settled for a smile as she rolled her eyes and gave an exasperated sigh. "Oh, Sherlock, what am I going to do with you…" she muttered to herself.

Seeing him like this made her forget her anger and most of her annoyance for now. So, she stepped up to Sherlock, reached down and grabbed his hands. "Come on, Sherlock," she groaned as she pulled him up. She then pulled him along to his bedroom, and firmly sat him down at the foot of his bed.

Wanting to be as quick and efficient as possible, Molly knelt down and began untying and taking off his shoes. When she felt Sherlock's fingers in her hair, she forced herself not to pause or look up.

"Mmmmolly?"

She rolled her eyes. "Yes, Sherlock?" she asked patiently, taking off one shoe.

"I luuuh…Iloveyou…"

Under normal circumstances, Molly would have become frozen in shock that would melt into pure joy. But his slurred words and scotch breath reminded her that Sherlock was not in his right mind at all and did not mean what he said. Molly could only hope that he would not remember any of this in the morning.

She did not look up or pause in her task while she calmly responded. "I love you too, Sherlock, but now let's just get you settled, all right?"

The shoes off, Molly then stripped off his black socks. Sherlock's fingers were still entwined in her hair, and thankfully stayed there as Molly took off his belt as quickly as ripping off a Band-Aid. But when she stood up, Sherlock wrapped his arms around her again, resting his head on her chest. "You…you're alive…you're safe…"

These words sounded clearer than his previous ones had been, his tone rich with emotion, and Molly couldn't help but be moved. Her hands reached up to stroke his head. "Of course I am," she soothed. "I'm right here."

Sherlock lifted his face and began sloppily kissing her neck.

Not quite liking this turn of events (or, trying not to and reminding herself he was drunk out of his mind) Molly pushed against his shoulders and tried to sound patient as she spoke: "Ok, Sherlock, cool it. You need to rest."

"I neeeeed youuuu," Sherlock whined against her neck, his fingers clutching the fabric of her sundress.

Completely turned off by now, Molly shoved against Sherlock with all her might, and shrieked when his teeth bit the skin of her neck. That filled her with enough adrenaline-fueled anger that gave her the strength to finally push away from his grasp – even though it meant that her sundress was given a huge tear and a broken strap thanks to Sherlock's clutching fingers. "Sherlock!" she shrieked in indignant anger, free of his grasp and trying to hold her dress together.

But Sherlock seemed not to have heard her. His flushed face became extremely pale, and Molly knew immediately what was coming. In panic, she looked around the room and dove for the waste basket, managing to get it into his hands just in time.

In the next moment, Sherlock was emptying the contents of his stomach into the bin. Molly groaned in disgust and rubbed her forehead. But hearing that reminded her that he needed care right now, not criticism, Molly stomped out of the room and filled a large glass of water in the kitchen.

Coming back into the bedroom with that and a dish-towel, she found Sherlock completely hunched over, the bin between his legs, and groaning now that his retching had taken a pause. Molly sighed, sat down beside him, and rubbed her free hand along his back, knowing it wasn't over yet. Sure enough, in the next minute, Sherlock's retching resumed and continued for a while.

Molly soothed him, rubbed his back and stroked his curls the entire time, her only priority being to take care of him. In the small pauses in between, Sherlock would moan things like, "My stomach…" or "It hurts…" sounding more like a small child than ever. Molly would sooth as best she could with "I know…" or "It's okay…"

Finally, it seemed like Sherlock had nothing left to heave anymore, and shoved the sick bucket away from himself. After wiping his mouth with the dishtowel, Molly picked up the full glass of water, which she had placed on the floor, and held Sherlock's head as she held it to his lips. "Drink," she ordered softly. He obeyed, and steadily gulped down the entire glass.

After setting the glass back down, Molly gently eased him back onto the bed and threw the duvet over him before tucking him in like her father used to. "Sleep, Sherlock. You'll begin to feel better in the morning."

Molly turned, but then felt his hand grab the back of the light cardigan she was wearing. "Don't go, Molly, please," he mumbled, already beginning to fall asleep.

Not wanting a repeat of Sherlock as a drunk letch, Molly unbuttoned her cardigan and walked to the doorway, the item of clothing gliding off as Sherlock still held it. She picked up the empty glass and left the room quickly.

When she was sure that Sherlock had fallen asleep, Molly came back into his bedroom. She set down the refilled glass of water along with a couple of aspirin pills. She also placed the garbage bin from the kitchen by his bedside, in case his stomach acted up again.

Looking more closely at him, Molly's heart twisted when she saw that he was holding her cardigan to him the way a child would hold their blankie. Molly could only imagine how angry and disgusted he would be when he woke up with his senses back and saw what he was holding. After all, he'd avoided and ignored her for a month now; maybe he wanted nothing more to do with her. Of course she could trust nothing he had said in his intoxicated state; that would be a new level of stupid.

But looking at him like this, looking so young and peaceful in sleep, Molly didn't want to think of the storm that was sure to come tomorrow when it brought a hungover but sober Sherlock. For now, she wanted to indulge herself for one last moment, in case Sherlock never wanted to see her again after this.

So, she bent over him, and placed a gentle kiss on his forehead before whispering, "I love you, Sherlock Holmes," in his ear. One last caress of his head, and then Molly left the room, closing the door softly behind her.

John kept his promise to Molly, and arrived back at Baker Street bright and early. He found Molly asleep on their couch, curled up in a blanket that usually hung over the back of it. John approached her, knelt, and gently shook her awake with a soft call of her name.

Molly gave a groan and opened her eyes. When she saw that it was John, all of the memories came flooding back to her. "Oh, John, you're here…what time is it?"

"Bout half past seven," replied John. "Is he knocked out?"

Molly nodded, rubbing her eyes. "Been knocked out for nearly eight hours now," she said. "Haven't heard a peep out of him since." She sat up to stretch.

"Yeah, well, with how much he was knocking back on an empty stomach…" muttered John, but stopped with widened eyes when the blanket dropped from around Molly and he got a good look at her – literally. "Christ, Molly, what happened?" he breathed in a worried tone.

Molly looked down and, horrified, tried to hold her ripped dress and strap with her hands. "Oh, that's…it's nothing, John…"

"Molly, you're a worse liar than me," said John. "Please, tell me if he hurt you."

"No, John, he didn't hurt me," said Molly firmly.

"Then what's that on your neck?" asked John, pointing to a bite-mark that was still visible there. Molly touched it and groaned. "Molly, please: tell me what happened."

Knowing that it would be best to be honest, and not make John think something even worse had happened, Molly sighed and told him everything that had happened. By the end, John had covered his eyes with one hand.

"Oh, my God…" he muttered.

"Yeah," said Molly awkwardly. "It shouldn't surprise me that Sherlock retains two extremes while he's drunk as well as when sober. When sober, he's either full of energy or as still as a rock. When drunk, he's either a little child or a teenage lecher."

"Molly, I swear, if I had any idea he would be like that –"

"It's okay, John, I know," said Molly, placing a hand on his arm in comfort. "Did you, at least, have a good night?"

"Yeah, thanks for asking," said John, finally managing to smile. "Can I make you tea? Coffee? Breakfast? It's the least you deserve."

Molly shook her head and stood up, still making sure to keep herself covered. "No thanks, John. I just really want to go home."

"Well, at least have something to keep your modesty," said John, pointing to her torn dress. "Weren't you wearing a sweater last night?"

Molly dryly chuckled. "Yes, I was, but…" She awkwardly pointed towards Sherlock's room. "He won't let go of it."

John rolled his eyes in absolute exasperation. "Oh, for heaven's sake…" he muttered, and looked around. His eyes landing on the coat rack, he went to it and picked up Sherlock's blazer, which Molly had hung up with his Belstaff the previous night. "Here, take this," he said, putting it on her. "This will guarantee that he comes to you, other than that I'll make sure he does, to apologize."

Molly sighed. "Good luck with that. Until last night, I hadn't seen him since he first came back."

"What?" exclaimed John. "I know we've only had this one case since he came back and we didn't see you during that, but…so many times before that, he would disappear from the flat for hours…I assumed he would be going to experiment at Bart's or maybe see you…After all, when he told me about your role in his death, he threatened me with death if I got angry with you."

"He did?" asked Molly softly. Becoming more confused, Molly just wrapped the blazer round her and walked to the door. "Well, I haven't seen or heard from him in a month, so…"

"Molly," John said, stopping her from going out the door. "I promise, I'll get to the bottom of this, and I mean to make all of this up to you."

Molly smiled and gladly accepted the hug he offered. "Thank you, John. You're a good friend."

"I'll take it from here, Molls," said John, kissing her cheek. "See you soon."

Molly nodded, and left 221B, wanting nothing more than to have a long, hot bath to even attempt to soak all of her troubles away.

It was just past seven o'clock that evening when Molly, again curled up on her couch with her cat, heard a knock on her door. She felt her stomach drop, knowing who it could very well be. The worst part was that Molly didn't know if she really wanted to see him or if she really didn't.

But if this was Sherlock, she couldn't ignore his knocking; he could always tell if she was home or not. So, she sighed, approached the door, and looked through the peephole. Sure enough, there was the familiar mass of dark curls on top of a tall build. His gaze was downwards and he carried a bag in his hand. Damn him for wearing that purple shirt, she thought in annoyance (she pushed away the attraction).

Knowing she couldn't avoid the unavoidable, Molly took a deep breath and opened her front door. There he stood, his head lifting when he saw her before lowering it again. Molly never thought she would see an awkward and embarrassed Sherlock Holmes. Then again, before last night, she never thought that she would see a drunken Sherlock Holmes.

Molly said nothing, but stood in the doorway waiting for him to speak. Eventually he did, after awkwardly clearing his throat. "May I come in, Molly?"

So a hungover Sherlock is polite, then, thought Molly. She stepped aside and he entered the flat. He came to stand awkwardly in the middle of the living room, setting the shopping bag down by her sofa.

Deciding to get the ball rolling in order to get this over with sooner, Molly shut the door to her flat and turned to face him. "How are you feeling?"

"Much better than when I woke up ten hours ago," replied Sherlock matter-of-factly. "John was purposefully loud when I came out of my room, and lectured me before my senses had lessened in painful sensitivity." He had a pout on his face as he spoke.

Molly couldn't help but smile a little at that – of course John would really throw the book at him. "Did you take the aspirin?"

"Yes, I did…thank you," he made sure to add at the end. His gaze shifted to the carpet.

Knowing that now was the time to ask the question she most feared the answer to, Molly took another deep breath and asked it: "So…how much do you remember?"

Sherlock looked back up at her. "Everything," was his reply. "I spent the better part of today in my Mind Palace, digging up all of the memories...it was quite difficult, but I succeeded."

Molly closed her eyes; she had wanted any answer except that one. Well…at least he won't interrogate me for the details, she thought.

Deciding to at least try and spare a little bit of pain, Molly opened her eyes and walked into her adjoining kitchen. She scrubbed her dishes from lunch as she spoke, to find a release for all of the feelings she dare not voice to him.

"Well, since you remember everything, let me make this trip a lot more simple for you. I understand that everything you said and did last night was caused solely by the excessive amount of alcohol you unwisely consumed last night, and that I should not hope for anything you said to be true because you were not in your right mind. I don't expect to hear any gratitude from you, since you never even thanked me for everything I did for you, helping fake your death and lying to everyone I care about, just the little things like that. Now you can go right back to acting like I don't exist and can delete this entire episode from your mind palace. Just leave my cardigan anywhere, your blazer is hanging up by the door."

Tears filled her eyes as she spoke, though her tone was hard like Sherlock when he made a deduction. Her hands worked furiously at the sink, washing and drying the dishes. Once she had put them away, she turned around expecting to find Sherlock gone since he hadn't said a word. But she found the opposite to be true: Sherlock was standing so close to her she jumped in shock and nearly bumped into him. He was staring at her with such intensity that she wanted to crawl under her kitchen table.

"That is not what I wanted to say to you at all," he said, his tone a little hurt.

"Oh…" was all she could squeak out at first, trying to calm down at his close proximity and intense gaze. He stood so close to her now, her back was pressed against the countertop so that she was not touching him. Now that they were that close, Molly got a good look at his face. It was clear that his system had been through the ringer, with his gaunt face a shade paler than normal and the dark circles under his bright eyes. She wasn't at all surprised, considering how he had been last night.

Feeling like she could cut through the tension with a knife, she said shakily: "Well, then…what do you want to say to me, then?"

"I…I want…" Sherlock began, but he seemed to have a hard time. Molly stood still, determined to be patient and hear him out, no matter what came out of his mouth. This was the first time in a long time that Sherlock was really speaking to her (last night did not count).

Then, as he struggled for words, Sherlock took Molly's right hand with his left hand. Molly squeezed it, letting him know that she was listening. This simple, sober and innocent gesture gave Molly a much better feeling than his gropings of the previous night.

"I want…to apologize," Sherlock finally managed to say. "For the way I treated you last night…It was disgusting behavior on my part…" He lifted his free hand, and gently touched the place where he had bit her. Molly shivered at the gentle touch, and squeezed his hand again to let him know she was not recoiling.

She then took the hand touching her neck and brought it back down, still holding it. "You were very drunk, and therefore couldn't control your actions. I can certainly cut you some slack for that."

Relief crossed Sherlock's face, but only for a moment before he resumed talking. "I also must apologize for saying what I said."

Molly closed her eyes to prepare for the blow to the gut his dismissive explanation would be.

"That was not the way I intended to reveal my feelings to you."

Her eyes flew open in shock. "W-w-what?" she breathed, searching his face and eyes for any sign of a lie, but found none. "You mean you…when you said that…"

Sherlock nodded. "I meant it, even if the alcohol forced it out of me."

Molly shook her head in complete confusion, taking her hands from his and rubbing her temples as her tears escaped. "I don't understand…You've shut me out, ignored me, haven't seen me or talked to me for a month! I thought you wanted nothing more to do with me!"

She caught Sherlock's horrified expression before he gathered her to him, placing her head on his chest. "Molly, I never meant for you to think that! Oh, I've gone about this business all wrong. Why is it that when it comes to you, Molly Hooper, I always do everything wrong?"

"I don't know," replied Molly, letting herself rest against him. "But so far today, you've done nothing wrong."

"Really?" He rested his cheek on her hair, pulling her a bit closer.

"Really. Now just…be honest with me, Sherlock, and tell me why you avoided me like that."

She felt Sherlock take a deep breath, and lifted her head so she could look at him while he spoke.

"After The Fall, you became my lifeline, Molly. You didn't only tell me how John, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson were, and looked out for them. You reminded me of why I was doing all I needed to do, of the life I had left behind and the life I wanted back. You sheltered me and cared for me when I needed it most, and not out of any other obligation than the goodness of your heart…I had no idea that was possible until I knew you."

Hearing this touched Molly's heart profoundly, and hid her face on his chest as she wrapped her own arms around him, returning his hug. Sherlock held her close for a minute before resuming his explanation: "The moment I dismantled the network, and realized that my mission was over, the first thought I had was that I must come back to you. Not Lestrade, or Mrs. Hudson, or even John, but you. That confused me, and I resolved to return and resume my life exactly as it had been right before the Fall, including the role you had played in it. Molly…when I saw you again in that locker room, my first instinct was to run to you and crush you to me." He tightened his hold around her to emphasize his point. "That frightened me, so I did nothing. And then your reaction…I expected you to do what I kept myself from doing."

"I did! I wanted to!" exclaimed Molly, pulling back just enough to look at him. "When I saw you again, and you told me it was over, my first instinct was to run to you and hold you in happiness. But you looked so cold and distant, and that made me realize that, now that the mission was over, you would want us to be like how we were before…when I thought I didn't count."

Sherlock took her face in his hands, more urgent than gentle. "Must I repeat myself, Molly? You've always counted and you always will." Sherlock stopped himself, and rested his forehead against Molly's as he took a deep breath before continuing in a calmer tone: "I've spent the last month coming to terms with how I felt, Molly. So many times I found myself walking to your flat, debating whether or not to knock on your door and tell you. But I didn't know how, and I knew you deserved someone better."

"Sherlock," said Molly fiercely, taking his hands from her face and pressing them over her heart. "I don't want anybody else, I want you just as you are!" To emphasize her point, Molly went on her tiptoes and, still feeling overwhelmed and a bit shy about all of this, kissed both of his cheeks.

The detective's eyes closed at the loving action and, finally, complete relief took over his features. He opened his eyes, and mirrored her actions: he put her hands over his own heart, and kissed both of her cheeks.

"You could have talked to John, Sherlock," said Molly after a minute, remembering that John had been left in the dark about all of this, too. "He would have helped you, and gladly."

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly. "I needed to do this on my own. Besides, I didn't want to tell anybody else that I love you before I told you."

Hearing that, Molly found that there was a big difference between him saying it when drunk and him saying it sober. She preferred the latter much more. "I love you, too," she tenderly replied.

"I know."

Molly had to laugh at that. "Of course you do…" Her eyes drifted to just behind him, and spotted what he'd brought. "Is my cardigan in that bag?"

"Ah, yes," said Sherlock, and led her by the hand back into her living room. "And something else, too." He picked up the bag and held it open out to her. Molly reached inside and pulled out her cardigan.

Seeing something else inside, she pulled it out and gasped as it unfurled before her. It was a new summer dress, white background with purple blossoms. "Oh, Sherlock, it's lovely! You really didn't have to do this."

"Yes, I did, I ruined your favorite one," said Sherlock, his embarrassment coming back.

A question that she had wondered about the most in the past twenty-four hours suddenly needed to be asked. "Sherlock, neither John nor I understand…why?"

He didn't need her to be any more specific. He sighed and ran his finger through his curls. "It had nothing to do with the basic case or the fact that it was my first since coming back. By all accounts, I've seen far worse. But yesterday, when we had cornered the criminal in a small building where he was holding a few hostages, he made to kill the man he was after with his gun. But his wife threw herself in front of the bullet and died…" He paused, and lowered his eyes. "She bore a great resemblance to you…even wore a white coat…"

Molly's heart broke for him, and gently pressed her cheek to his while his arms wrapped around her waist. That certainly explained everything, especially when he had drunkenly held her saying, "You're alive, you're safe." It also confirmed in her mind that his feelings were genuine.

After that soothing moment of silence, Molly pulled back and Sherlock said, "Your cardigan would go very well with the dress."

Molly smiled. "Would you like me to try it on now?"

"Well, I would very much like you to wear it now so I may take you to Angelo's for dinner. My body still needs nourishment, and you haven't eaten dinner yet."

"All right, give me ten minutes," said Molly, taking the clothing and walking towards her bedroom. At the door, she turned around to look at Sherlock, who read her mind and said, "I'll be right here."

Sure enough, when she came out of her bedroom ten minutes later, he was still there and waiting for her. She wore the new summer dress and her light cardigan, along with a nice pair of small heels (to bring her further up to his face level). She wore her hair down and side-parted (which was his favorite style on her), so it flowed down her back in gentle waves. She wore no make-up, and a simple necklace for her only jewelry.

Sherlock stood frozen; his eyes drank her in as she approached him. She gave a shy smile. "Well?"

The consulting detective responded by taking her face in his hands again, and kissing her squarely on the lips.

A few seconds later, he pulled away and said in a slightly husky voice, "I know it is normal to have the first kiss at the end of the first date rather than the beginning, but you should know that nothing about this will be exactly normal."

Molly beamed like the sun she was in Sherlock's life. "As long as you never ever get drunk again, that is just perfect."

"Deal." His hands descended to her waist to pull her against him, keeping eye contact with her. "Thank you, Molly Hooper...for everything."

In response, Molly wrapped her arms round his neck and brought him down for a more passionate kiss, to which he gladly complied after smiling in reaction.

They made their reservation at Angelo's in time, but Sherlock didn't go back to Baker Street until the next day.