Birthday fic for lilyismilesaway who requested steamy Sherlolly. Thanks to ThinksinWords for betaing and being generally awesome during the writing of this fic.

Molly was forcefully awoken by heavy pounding in her apartment. Pounding that could only be linked to a burglary or a football team practicing in her living room. Since the later was unlikely she slid out of bed, grabbing the nine iron she kept underneath her bed in case of emergencies. Slinking out of her bedroom she hugged the wall as she quietly stepped down her short hallway. As she got closer to the sound she could hear the intruder slowly rifling through her kitchen cabinets and groaning. The groaning felt familiar and she lowered the golf club slightly before peeking her head into the kitchen. Her suspicions were confirmed when she noticed that her intruder had dark, curly hair and was wearing his signature Belstaff coat.

She stood, stunned, as she continued to watch him go through her cabinets, obviously searching for something in particular. She was surprised to see him in her home. During his absence he had made a habit of stopping by in the dead of night, injured and needing to be patched up, but she hadn't seen him since his return. She assumed that she had outlived her usefulness and he no longer needed her. The realization had, at first, caused her heart to clench in pain but she was slowly working through it. She knew that she would always love him, but she had at least hoped to get to the point she could move on with her life and be happy. She had finally reached that actualization recently and his sudden reappearance in her life was causing her emotions to fluctuate rapidly.

She took in his frame, her eyes drinking in every part of him as she realized how much she had missed him. That she had hidden her feelings deep instead of truly getting over him. As she looked him over she noticed his hunched shoulders, his right arm clutching his side, and his facial muscles grimacing in pain as his free hand moved to another cabinet.

"You're hurt!"

"Yes, I was on a case, my first one since returning and I missed something… there is always something. And in this case it led to me getting injured and needing care. I still won in the end and the murderer was apprehended. Now, where do you keep your bandages? You have moved them."

Molly let her arm fall, the golf club hitting the floor with a resounding thunk. "Why did you come here? You could have gone home, John would have taken care of it… and much better than I could seeing as how most of my patients are dead and the other times you were bordering on that state yourself."

"Don't be daft, Molly. It appears that life moved on in my absence, as it should have and was expected. John is no longer living at Baker Street and has moved in with Ms. Mary Morstan. A relationship that I deduce that will last a very long time to come as she is a good match for him. That left the only logical conclusion of coming here. I still had your key and I assumed that our agreement was still standing since you never formally revoked it." He turned to look at her, opening his mouth to continue his speech when he stopped, speechless. He stood there, his mouth opening and closing a few times as he tried to come up with words and failing.

His eyes widened and slowly looked her over from head to toe. It was then that Molly remembered how she was dressed. When Sherlock was "dead" she made a point to dress in a t-shirt and pants for bed each night since she never knew when he would stop by. Now that there was no worry of that she had dressed in her normal tank top, shorts, and no bra… a deduction that Sherlock surely noticed if the slight reddish hue tinting his cheeks was any indication. He glanced down quickly and noticed the long metal stick clenched in her hands.

He smirked, "A nine iron, Molly? You couldn't have a more conventional weapon such as a gun or cricket bat?"

Molly looked a little sheepish before giggling lightly, "My father was an avid golf player before he got sick. It seemed like a good weapon to have in case of intruders… or consulting detectives who abuse the privilege of having a friend's house keys." She gave him a pointed glare before getting back to the issue at hand. "Let's get you patched up. I don't have any pain medication or local anesthesia so you better hope you don't need stitches." She stated, sighing as she walked back to her bathroom to retrieve the first aid kit, towels, and a bucket of warm water.

"I moved it when you first started dropping by so you wouldn't have to walk all of the apartment injured." She laid out a towel on her couch and motioned him to sit down. "Now where are your injuries?"

He stood there, grimacing, as he took stock of all his injuries for the first time. "I have some cuts along my arms from getting thrown through a window, the cut you see above my eye, and it appears that I have some mild bruising to my ribs." He walked over to Molly and sat down beside her. He unbuttoned his shirt slowly, trying to minimize any further injuries until Molly had given her diagnosis.

"First, we need to get you cleaned off before I can see anything. I assume this isn't all your own blood?" His shirt had gotten stuck since his range of motion was limited and Molly leaned over to help him with the last of it, her fingers lightly bushing against his lower back, causing a shiver to run down his spine and the pleasure centers in his brain to alight for some reason. He assumed it was his nerves being on high alert as the adrenaline left his body, leaving him weary and susceptible to physical comfort.

"No, it's not. The other gentleman was a woefully inadequate fighter and was disposed of quickly. In fact, if he had not caught me off guard then I would have come out unscathed. But, as usual, there is always something to miss in deductions… like a hidden panic room that was never put on the building's blueprints for instance."

"That seems like a rather large 'something' to miss Sherlock." Molly said as she began gently cleaning the dried, crimson blood around his face and neck. His eyes closed in pleasure and he leaned back against the couch as the warm towel caressed his aching skin, her fingers gently trailing along the same path as she moved down to his chest. His central nervous system was bursting under her touch, igniting the pleasure receptors in his brain. It was only after a few moments of indulging in her touch that he remembered her statement.

"I would have known about it had the city workers not been morons. They placed all the files containing the blueprints for that area of town underneath a water leak, something that should have been obvious to even the most inept by the brown roof tiles! It wasn't until I was inside the room that I observed one wall was out of proportion, but by then it was obviously too late."

"I see," she replied absentmindedly, "I'm going to check over your injuries now so I need you to be as still as you can." Her fingers gently started probing the skin around his ribs. His eyes rolled into the back of his head as he sank further into her couch, slipping into a comatose like state. Her touch was so soft, exploitative as she kneaded along his body, feeling for any broken bones. He involuntarily sighed in pleasure as her delicate skilled hands slipped between his seven, eighth, and ninth ribs.

"Did that hurt?" His eyes opened sharply, as if forgetting he was not in a dream. He had begun having sensory dreams involving her for some time now and they always started with her touch, similar to what she was doing now. They had started sporadically after the fall and now they had increased to an every night occurrence since he stopped needing to come by her apartment on a routine basis. He needed to stay more alert, more emotionless if he didn't want her to catch onto just how much his body was enjoying this. It was in the same realm as sentiment and his dreams and unconscious feelings were a fact he was not ready to admit to himself. He had been rigorous in deleting his dreams from his mind palace but it seemed as though his body continued to betray him.

"No, Molly, it didn't hurt. Like I said, I have mild bruising along my ribs, most likely my eighth and ninth ribs. I should be fine once I take some over-the-counter anti-inflammatories/pain relievers." He sat up straighter so he would get lured under her spell again and decided to deduce some of the more invisible things, the things that required close contact, about her to keep his mind busy.

He watched her hands as she them flattened across his stomach and trailed up his side as she checked for swelling. Her nails were cut short but manicured, which showed that her profession was one where short nails were beneficial. The fact that they were manicured showed that she wanted to retain some femininity in a male driven profession. Next he noticed that her hands were chapped- hands that had begun to press slowly down rib cage and onto his pelvis – his thoughts were errant and he fought to keep his mind on track. He started over, the chapped hands, again, indicated her profession in the sciences by repeated glove use and hand-washing. It also told him that the morgue had been slow lately and that she recently had been spending more time in the lab at St. Barts because only the powder from the inside of the nitrile gloves would cause that amount of dryness.

She had begun to press down on the top of his hip, investigating a cut he had missed in his earlier assessment. He found himself getting distracted again by the feel of her touching him in such an intimate location. Her touch was clinical and professional but other areas of his body didn't seem to care, instead only noticing how her nails gently scraped along the top of his hip, her fingers barely sweeping underneath the top of his pants, and her breath bathing his skin. He shook his head to rid himself of these thoughts and forced himself to focus.

He made his eyes focus harder, willing himself to catch every little detail of her soft, perfect skin. Only after focusing for several moments could he catch the faint scars that marred her hands. They were faint, thin and perfectly cut; obviously made by a sharp, precise instrument.

"You were a nervous student. You preferred to work with the dead your first year because the living made you so nervous that anytime you went near them with a scalpel you would cut yourself. "He murmured almost to himself.

"That's right." She sounded slightly surprised, "How did you notice that? Not that you wouldn't have been able to guess it… but… I… I'm just curious. From the sound of your voice you found something that told you rather than a personality assessment." She stampeded before correcting herself.

He gently took ahold of her non-dominant hand, the left one. He let his fingers tickle her skin, just enough to activate the sensitive nerves at the surface so that his touch would resonate into her flesh, like water rippling from the center of a perturbance, the feeling growing and tingling as it sank deeper into the flesh. Her breathing hitched, her eyes closed momentarily, showing him that she had been affected by him.

"You have slight markings on your fingers and hands caused by your scalpel slipping. There aren't enough there to indicate a pattern, so it is not from lack of skill, they are also smooth and cleanly cut which tell me they are from moments where you were either a nervous first year or startled in the morgue. However, knowing how compassionate you are they are likely from your times when you first had to work on live patients. Your compassion for them made you nervous which would make your anxiety levels rise. This would cause your eccrine sweat glands to overproduce." He finished hastily but kept a hold of her hand, his fingers still tracing her skin.

"That's brilliant, Sherlock! I can't even see the scars anymore, and I know where to look." Her voice was slightly husky and held a note of awe and… something else that he couldn't place.

Molly cleared her throat before continuing, "It doesn't look like you'll need stiches on any of these, but I'm going to have to butterfly a couple of them and clean this one on your stomach a little more intensely. It appears you scraped against something in a rush and since we don't know what it could have been I don't want to risk the potential for infection, thank goodness you are updated on your all your vaccinations. It is going to sting a little bit, all I have currently is hydrogen peroxide… you cleaned me out of my supply and I haven't had a chance to replenish yet. "

Sherlock nodded in understanding. He was too focused on how close she was to him, how close her mouth was to his. She was so close he could feel puffs of air on his face when she spoke her vowels. He was also enchanted by her lips. The way they moved to expand or contract depending on what she was saying, the perfect pale pink of her natural shade that made her lips look plump and inviting. He wanted to curse himself for ever saying her lips were too thin or that ghastly red lipstick was an improvement. He felt his body begin to lean into her when,

"You should continue deducing. See what else you can discover. It should help you take your mind off the pain." Molly said, breaking him of his thoughts. He sat back slightly to give her more access to his stomach and let his eyes wander.

"You have a deeper, longer scalpel scar on your right forearm. From your first day of medical school, I presume?" He let his fingers trace the scar. He was mesmerized by the softness of her skin, the slight depression in her skin around it that was naked to the eye unless you searched for it. He had a sudden yearning to know her better than anyone, a yearning that he didn't understand and refused to be removed from the forefront of his mind.

He heard Molly expel a shaky breath, "Yes, it was our first lab… the first time I had to cut on a cadaver. I was so nervous and right when I was leaning in to make my first incision my instructor came up behind me and said something. I don't remember what it was, but it startled me and I jumped and cut myself."

Sherlock let the pads of his fingers linger on her arm, drawing warmth from her skin into his cold fingers. He felt her shiver slightly as their temperatures adjusted to one another, or that is what he told himself because it couldn't be due to him touching her, and it spurred him on to continue his search. He decided to take full advantage of her closeness and her openness for him to deduce her by touching the exposed areas of her skin to feel for anymore depressions that his eye could miss. He secretly delighted every time Molly let out a shaky breath or shiver.

"You have a scar, here," he said as he ran his fingers along the outside of her thigh, "most likely caused by a childhood accident… a bicycle from the way the scar curves halfway through it. You fell and the centripetal force from the tires caused it to skid out and swerve."

Sherlock heard her breathing hitch as his hand continued to feel the scar, the tips of his fingers slipping underneath her sleep shorts. He could practically see her make the conscious effort to force herself to regulate her breathing so he wouldn't get annoyed by her 'sentiment.' Always so considerate, his pathologist, and if only she knew how conflicted he felt, how much he needed her to be affected by him so he would feel like he was doing this right.

Molly nodded her head, "It was. I was riding home from a friend's home and got distracted by something. I swerved to avoid hitting a mailbox at the last minute and lost control." She shifted away from him, "Time to take care of that cut on your face."

It was the last injury to take care of and Sherlock was suddenly very aware of that fact. He didn't like it. He wanted this moment to continue, he was finally caving into some of his baser desires and his growing feelings for the cheerfully morbid pathologist. He wasn't ready to let that go. He reached for her hand, the one reaching for the additional gauze. "Wait."

Molly looked up, startled. "You should deduce me. See what you come up with." He would have sounded harsh if it wasn't for him still holding onto her hand gently, betraying any sharpness in his tone.

"But… Why? Don't you want to get out of here and go home as soon as possible? That is what normally happens… almost like you would rather be anywhere else in the world." She spoke shyly and her body language conveyed her insecurity, something that Sherlock never liked seeing in her. Over their repeated discourse during his death she had lost the stutter and became more self-confident. He liked that and didn't want her to draw back into her shell, nor did he know that she perceived their encounters in such a way. He hesitated in telling her the real reasons he always left quickly. He wasn't ready to verbalize it yet… verbalizing it meant he could never take it back. It would become fact then if he told her how he had to force himself to leave. That feeling grew every time he came around to the point that he would long for her touch during those long cold nights he spent searching for Moran.

He wanted her to know him.

"Molly, don't be silly. You are intelligent and more than capable of having the ability to deduce. Not as well as I, but nobody can be that good. You do it more often than you think with your job."

Molly bit her lip and his eyes were immediately drawn to those rosy lips again, lips that deepened in color from her teeth pressing down on the blood vessels that ran underneath. The knowledge that the lips were one of the most, if not the most, sensitive body parts ran through his mind and he wanted to test that theory by replacing her teeth with his own. He wanted to slowly drawn in that lower lip with the suction of his mouth and nibble on it delicately, just to see how the effects different levels of pressure would have on her. He could feel the phantom sensation on his own lips as he though more about it. The feeling was as seductive as it was cruel, making him almost ache with desire to experience the sensation for real.

"Okay… what do I do?"

"Just do what you would do during an autopsy; I know you notice things about your patients. You can use whatever you need… sight… touch."

Molly let out a sharp breath before reaching out to touch him. Her hand stuttered in mid-air an inch from his skin. She closed her eyes and Sherlock could see her shoulder straighten and her face turn confident. His body was taut in anticipation and he jerked when he felt her fingers lightly touch his chest.

"Well, the wounds you have received from cases are fairly obvious, the puckering from the two times you were shot and the jagged, uneven cut from a knife wound." She stated this clinically, never moving her hand from the plane of his chest. The warmth pooling in his chest from her touch made his heart race. Her hand was so close to his heart that he worried she could feel the accelerated pounding going on inside his body.

Her voice dimmed as her fingers trailed down to his ribs, her touch tickled slightly as the nerves along her path made his skin tingle like electricity was running through his veins. "I remember this one." she said as she caressed the long scar that ran down his side, "I stitched this for you after your fall… but… it looks different?"

"It reopened and tore further shortly after I left. I was chasing someone and had to twist out of the way to miss a punch."

He saw her face fall and flush with guilt. "I can tell that you sewed yourself back up… you should have come to me for help. You know that my door is always open for you, but I should have made you promise before stepping out my door…"

Sherlock placed his hand under her chin and drew her face to his, making sure that they were making eye contact. "Molly, it wasn't your fault. I knew that, but I also knew that it was too close to my death for me to come back. People could have taken notice and I didn't want to put you in danger. That's why it was a year before you saw me again."

Molly nodded her head and continued her deductions. Her hand prodded his skin, maintaining a professional feel. Sherlock, however, couldn't believe that one small appendage could affect him so much. He was just about to let his mind empty and drink in the sensations when he felt her thumb swipe along the inside of elbow. He could feel her thumb run over some of his most embarrassing scars. She went past them first before going back and resting her thumb on them.

He kept his head down, not wanting to look at her and see the mix of pity, guilt, sadness that was sure to be in her eyes. They were in everyone's eyes when they found out about his past problem.

"You shouldn't look away from me, Sherlock. I don't pity you… I had only known you for a few short months before you quit. I saw how much strength it took, how much resolve you needed and I am proud of you Sherlock. You should be proud of yourself too. They aren't noticeable, just faint impressions within the skin. They don't define who you are, only the struggles that you were strong enough to overcome."

Her voice held such conviction that Sherlock couldn't help but look up at her. Her face reflected her words, her pride in him and it blossomed within him. No one really knew how hard it was for him to quit, only Mycroft and that was because he was nosy and constantly mucking up his life. "Thank you for that, Molly." He hoped she didn't hear the crack in his voice as he said her name.

Her tone turned playful as she felt down his forearm, effectively changing the somber feeling that had fallen over him. He loved that she was able to do that, her cheerfulness was one of her most endearing qualities. "Now, what is this? It's faint, so it must be old… childhood, maybe? And it's a rough cut, most likely happened during a fall because the scar feels deeper on one side."

Sherlock could feel his cheeks flush in embarrassment. "It is from my childhood."

Molly smiled, "I can see that there is a story here… continue."

"I was ten years old and was still in my pirate phase."

He saw Molly do a double-take, "pirate phase?"

"Yes, I wanted to be a pirate. I forgot that you have had the pleasure of not being introduced to my brother, Mycroft and therefore don't know that little fact he likes to tell everyone. Anyways I was a resourceful child and coupled that with my parents not caring what I did I built myself a pirate boat. In reality, it was just boxes with some boards nailed together that sat on top. I was in the middle of a battle on the high seas against another competing fearsome pirate when I jumped out of the way to avoid a blow I lost footing and fell. Due to my inexperience in crafting pirate ships I fell and my arm hit a protruding nail. I didn't want to lose my ship so I took care of the wound myself and it scarred." He spoke rather indignantly, as if daring her to take away his childhood fantasy.

Molly had begun laughing halfway through his story, "That is… the most… adorable story I have ever heard!" By the end of her statement Molly was shaking with mirth to the point of tears, "I can just see a younger you thrusting a sword at an imaginary foe!"

Sherlock flushed further but was secretly glad that he was able to show Molly that he had a softer side, that he wasn't always this harsh and cold.

"Now that I have finished deducing some of your scars I believe it is time to take care of that cut." Molly turned to grab more supplies and her tight sleeping tank rolled up just enough to give Sherlock a peek of her skin, skin that was never shown. If she were facing him he wouldn't dare take a peek because he knew he wouldn't be able to look up until he categorized every bit into Molly's room in his mind palace. However, she had turned away from him and he could take the opportunity.

His eyes scanned that exposed four centimeters of skin. Her skin was a creamy white, showing that she hardly ever wears anything too revealing. He was still processing when he noticed a scar contrasting the paleness of her skin along the right side of her abdomen. It was puckered and a pale purple-red, indicating that is happened recently, six months ago. He didn't need to think past that. He didn't need to deduce anymore about that scar. He had many similar to it himself, seen that exact same pattern on his own body every morning. It was a knife wound. And it was his fault.

He was so lost within his own mind that he didn't even notice when she had turned around and started fixing his cut. If he could think normally he would be thankful that his eyes took on a glazed look so she had no idea where his eyes were looking. Her shirt rolled up even further with her movement and caused the line of the scar to extend further. He had to know how far it went. He didn't speak. He leaned forward, but only slightly so Molly didn't notice. She is too involved in what she is doing and he takes the pad of his longest finger and lightly touches the bottom of the scar. It starts right above her shorts and he can feel Molly stiffen at his touch. She had just finished fixing him up but doesn't move her hands. She is frozen in the moment. Her breathing shallows, her diaphragm barely engaging with each breath.

His finger slowly traces up the scar, noting that the rivet gets deeper the further he goes up, how it begins to curve even further to the side and how soft her skin is, the softness of newly formed skin. He hits the bottom of her tank top, right at the bottom of her ribs. He shifts his hand to the side so that her shirt will give easier. The cut looks worse as more is exposed. He feels that it is never ending and wonders if he will ever reach the point of origin. He finally gets there. The knife entered at the top of her ribs and came out of her skin below her belly button. He sees red, both in her skin and metaphorically. He can see that she twisted away from the assailant because the depth of the cut changes. Only a portion of it needed stiches and he can tell she did them herself.

He goes back to the deepest portion of the cut, it sits right in the middle of her torso and he rests his hand there. "When?"

He asked her softly, already knowing the answer but needing it confirmed.

"It's nothing you need to concern yourself with." Molly said quickly. Sherlock cut her off before she could start rambling; he looked up at her and whispered, "You're stalling."

"Sherlock…" Her tone waved. Her eyes were indignant.

He kept eye contact with her, slowly whittling her resolve away with an unwavering stare.

"You weren't supposed to find out about this." Her eyes turned sad, her tone resigned.

"When, Molly." He repeated slowly, enunciating every word.

"It was six months ago… when I went on the case with you." She confirmed.

His eyes dropped back to the cut. The cut that he caused by association. Sherlock remembered that day clearly and slipped into his mind palace. It was the first break he had in a while and was the catalyst for catching Moran and getting to come home.

Sherlock had finally gotten a lead on someone in Moran's network, a low level thug but to get past the security was a two person job. He needed someone with excellent fine motor skills who was short and light-footed. Thankfully the only person that knew he was still alive fit those qualifications. He had approached Molly for help and was not surprised to when she jumped at the opportunity. He always suspected she longed for a more adrenaline driven life at times.

He should have seen… should have known, Moran was trained by Moriarity after all.

He told her that it would only be easy, that there was nothing to worry about. The security system was easy to breeze through; Molly had to hold the wires in places so he could crawl in through a window and disable the alarm system completely. Everything went according to plan until they got to the second floor. Sherlock wasn't expecting there to be any guards and they were ambushed.

Ironically, it was because of Molly that the mission was a success. She was walking behind him and her scream of warning was what alerted him to the problem. If she hadn't screamed… well, neither of them would be here today.

When he turned around there were two of them, identical twins. The only difference was their weapons of choice. One liked to finish things quick and easy. He was the one holding a gun on Sherlock. The other delighted in the screams of pain he inflicted, enjoyed watching the bright red color of blood turn dark with exposed air. He had a knife. A knife that was currently pressed against Molly's jugular. He had never experienced a fear of death until that moment, and it wasn't for his own.

He remembered seeing the terror in her eyes, terror that soon gave way to resigned determination. She was going to fight. He had seeing it and it is still an image that refuses to delete itself from his mind palace, no matter how hard he tries.

When he had rushed the gunman he could hear the other man shout as Molly fought his grasp. He disarmed the gunman and shot them both, not feeling the least bit guilty. They were going to hurt Molly and that wasn't acceptable.

Sherlock tried to focus in excruciating detail during this portion of his memory, there must have been something he missed. Molly was wearing a dark coat that night and by the time he had freed them she was wrapped up tight in it. Her face was blank and there was no visible blood on her from what he could recall.

He had told her to go home, that he would finish this. He didn't even apologize for getting her into a deeper situation than he expected. His face must have showed some remorse because she took a step forward and stopped suddenly.

That must have been it. The something he missed.

At the moment he thought that it was because she didn't want to be close to him, that she blamed him for what just happened. But looking back… she limped. It was slight, but when she stepped out with her right foot her body crumpled. That's why she waited until he was out of the room for leaving. She didn't want him to know.

Now that he knows this he wants to question her. He wants to know why she didn't tell him. He can see from her stitching pattern that she could have used help… why didn't she let him help her?

But he already knows the answer. She did it because she is Molly Hooper. His pathologist. She didn't want to burden him… wanted to protect him, let him finish what he started so he could get back to living.

It hits him like a bolt of electricity, how much she cares for him. Unconditionally and unselfishly. It's… sentiment.

Suddenly, what he has been trying to avoid thinking about ever since that night came bubbling up to the surface. It was like a baking soda and vinegar, proof and realization, they just needed to come together and react before it could bubble to the surface. He had feelings of sentiment for his pathologist, feelings that he didn't want to deny anymore but still didn't know how to react to or deal with.

He let his thumb swipe across the scar, a visual proof of how blind he was to her. "I'm sorry, Molly."

He bent down and gently pressed his lips to it. He could feel the bumpy texture of scar tissue underneath and could feel his heart pounding in guilt.

Molly had been still during everything, letting him process things in his own way. Understanding him on a level that no one did and he wondered again how he could have been so blind, but there is always something.

"It's not your fault."

Sherlock let his head fall forward, resting it on her abdomen, avoiding her statement. It was what he did when he didn't want to hear something.

"Sherlock, I know what it means to go out on a case with you. I have known you for years, after all. I have seen and patched up both you and John numerous times. I went into this knowing I could get hurt and I was okay with that. The reward outweighed the risks and you got to come home. I don't regret what happened and you shouldn't either."

She spoke with such conviction that Sherlock had to see her. He lifted up to see her, ending up within inches of her face. She looked surprised, but not uncomfortable, to see him so close to her but her eyes never changed in their depth of compassion and conviction. Her eyes dilated, her lips parted and breath quickened due to his closeness. He wanted to bring his lips to her neck and test her pulse. He imagined it would be as rapid as his, if the flush across her chest was any indication.

He was driven by involuntary muscle movement, motivated purely by now conscious desire and feelings. His lips brushed hers, gently at first, a light meeting of the lips to test the waters and see how she responded to him. He pulled back and could feel her breath leave her.

His gaze dropped to her neck. The curve where her shoulder met her neck had never looked so inviting. He leaned down and kissed it gently before nuzzling her neck, breathing her in and enjoying the feel of her smooth skin. She smelled like home, for she had become his during those long three years away, and he was glad she rarely used fragrant lotions or perfumes so he could bask in it. He let his lips trail across her skin, running across her collarbone and nipping at the juncture where they met. He could hear Molly moan deep in her throat as her head tilted to the side, inviting him to continue.

He continued his upward exploration of her neck, letting his hand cup the side of her head and running his nose along her jawline. She turned into his hand before dipping his head and letting their lips meet again. Their lips caressed each other slowly as they learned the shape and texture of each other's mouths. Molly sighed into the kiss and sank back into the couch, pulling Sherlock with her. She ran her hands through his curls; lightly tugging it her fingers got tangled. It was sensory overload and caused Sherlock to groan and deepen the kiss.

He was conflicted. Which was more sensitive, the hair follicles she just tugged or the nerves in his lips? She ran her fingers through his hair again, causing the same sensation and he decided that they worked in tandem, each amplifying the other. His thoughts made him remember his desire earlier and he could finally gather the data. He pulled her bottom lip into his mouth and bit down lightly, effectively changing the tone of the kiss, not that he realized that. Molly gasped and grabbed the back of his neck, pulling him down and flush against her body. Caught up in the moment Sherlock wrapped his arms around her and pulled her as close as he could, his hands going beneath her tanks to touch her warm skin.

He wasn't done collecting his data. He continued nibbling on her lips every few moments, changing pressure with every bite. He delighted in the range of sounds and gasps she emitted and made a mental note to revisit this memory and catalogue every single one. She appeared to gasp at the lightest of pressures and moan breathlessly when he bit down harder and tugged her lip as he drew away to take a breath. There was even a groan when he just had to see the reaction she gave when he did the same to her top lip.

Neither wanted this moment to end, Sherlock expressing it by running his hands up and down her bare back while Molly grasped his biceps to bring him in even closer. Finally, after a long snog session they both broke apart breathing heavily. Molly's eyes were closed in contentment and Sherlock couldn't help but bend down to give her an Eskimo kiss. Her eyes opened at the tender gesture and were alight with happiness. He knew she saw the mirror emotion in his own face towering above her and touched his forehead to hers, closing his eyes to steady himself from the onslaught of sentiment.

Molly knew he was overwhelmed, she always knew and he could feel her small hands running up and down his back to help him regain his center. He was touched by her gesture, by her sheer knowledge of him. He breathed deeply, noting that they were sharing the same air space. Normally it should bother him, he knew that he was just breathing in excess carbon dioxide but he didn't care. It was too comforting, sharing each other's personal space. He leaned down to take her lips again and lost himself to sentiment, if only for one night… but hopefully not just tonight.