"Sherlock?" Her voice is plaintive as she calls out into the darkness.

Molly reaches out and finds the other side of the bed cold. Her fingers slide across the cool satiny sheets; reflexively, she takes a deep breath. His scent is almost gone. He is gone. Tears fall down her face in hot streams, a useless effort to cool her heart; even as hope remains in her mind, the tears make her angry as she slowly comes out of the horrible dream and gets herself back together.

She hates the impossible dream: a dream made much worse because it had actually taken place.

Molly sits up against the cherry headboard and draws the too-large light blue button-down shirt that she is wearing around her torso, trying hard to do anything to calm the aftershocks of the dream. She sniffs a little as she wipes the tears off of her face with her hands, irritated with herself for being so damned weepy.

This is only the third night.

She sighs and pulls the collar of the big shirt up to her nose and inhales. Her brown eyes close of their own accord as she takes in his scent. It eases the ache enough that she can relax. Molly begins to unwind a little and slides down until her head rests again on one of the pillows that she piled into the center of the bed before getting into it. The glowing red numbers on the clock on the nightstand inform her she has been asleep for exactly forty-five minutes. A framed photograph hangs on the wall over the clock, the glass and glossy black wood surrounding the image reflecting some of the red light back to her.

The bedroom has turned out to be so unnaturally silent over the past few days that she set up a small fan in the corner opposite the door; now its white noise keeps her company when the night is still. It is the only sound except for her heartbeat that fills up the empty spaces left behind in his absence. Empty spaces she had not noticed before, because ever since he returned, they have barely spent an entire night apart.

With that thought, Molly rolls to her side and curls around the thick duvet that she bunches and pulls up tight against herself, holding it tightly in her arms. For a while she dozes again, thinking about how someone who generally spends so much time around the dead can be bothered by so much quiet at home.

When Molly's eyes snap open it feels like she only closed them for thirty seconds; according to the clock, it has been an hour. At least this time there were no dreams. She rolls onto her back then drapes her arm over her face and sighs. Molly shoves the duvet out of the way and gets off the bed, the too-big and now wrinkled shirt hanging mid-thigh on her bare legs. She moves easily through the grey darkness of the bedroom taking note that not even the moon feels like shining tonight; perhaps it is missing its other half, she thinks in a sappily romantic way as she flicks on the kettle in the kitchen. Shaking her head to clear it of the useless sentiments that make her feel weak at eleven-thirty at night, she fixes a cup of steaming tea and carries it into the sitting room where she settles onto the soft leather sofa. The sofa is situated opposite a huge bay window that, if it were daylight, would overlook the small flower garden she planted beneath it a few months ago.

He laughed about it at first, though once she made her plans clear it wasn't long before he was kneeling in the dirt beside her, helping tuck the rose bushes into the ground and cover them with soil with those elegant hands. By the end of the day they were both covered in mud and moss…she remembers a particular swath of dirt that ran from the bridge of his nose across his cheek and smiles at the mental image. The next morning he presented her with carefully drawn and labeled plans for several more spots around their small house, a cottage really, where other flowers could be planted for optimal results.

Molly rests in the corner of the sofa, her back against the arm, tea cup neatly balanced on its saucer in her left hand. The cup is white porcelain decorated with dainty red roses like the ones in the ground outside; they all remind her of her grandmother, Isa. Isa loved roses with a passion that not many people could understand, but Molly always did, just as she understands a myriad of passions in the people she chooses to surround her.

…Especially those passions of one person in particular.

Molly remains deep in her recollections of her grandmother and sips her tea. She has shifted so that she rests fully against the arm of the couch, the warm bottom of the tea cup resting on her knee, staring out the windows at memories only she can see.

The gentle tingling sound of a key in the lock of the front door jars Molly out of her memories a short while later. Her heart threatens to beat right out of her chest when the door swings open easily, silently. A tall figure is haloed by the motion light above it; ebony curls reflect it when the hand not holding the doorknob hovers above them for a moment and then plunges in, creating even more chaos; a nervous tick that he never seems to lose. His long coat settles about him even as his hands still on his head and the door.

Molly smiles warmly at the few silver strands that are shaken loose as Sherlock pulls his long fingers through his hair. Even from this distance, she can virtually feel the silkiness of them in her hands.

"You're home," she says.

Sherlock steps in through the door and closes it behind him without turning to look at it. It clicks shut and he deftly locks it with one hand and drops his keys into his pocket with the other. He grins and steps closer to the couch, tugging off his heavy wool coat and tossing it towards one of the armchairs. It hits the back of a chair with a thud and a jangle, the sound telling of the miscellaneous things, including his magnifier and key ring.

Molly laughs and shakes her head, thinking that she could probably spend ten years trying to decipher all the stuff he carries about his person on an average day.

Sherlock settles down at her feet and drapes his arm over the back of the couch, unbuttoning his black jacket at that showcases the royal purple dress shirt he has on underneath. Molly smiles up at him, enjoying the way he looks in the greyness of the house around them. He says nothing, only watches her; green eyes taking in every expression on her face then travelling down to his blue shirt that is barely covering her breasts now from where it has fallen open as she drifted off.

"Your lock pick set is in your coat." Molly states. She does not move from her comfortable spot, even as he leans forward in order to run his fingers through her hair where it hangs free over the arm of the couch. His touch, even so soft, is like a livewire up her back.

"Indeed," he says, smirking.

"Sherlock, you didn't have to be so dramatic!" She playfully swats at him then drops her hand to her knee. He tilts his head and cocks an eyebrow at her. "Well, go on, how are they?"

Sherlock laughs, a real one this time, then ends it on a rumble that makes her want to shove him down on the couch and kiss him until neither of them can breathe; but Molly knows him well so she waits. He continues to thread his fingers through her honey-on-wheat colored hair; continues to simply look at her and time seems to slow down as they bask in this thing they have found that seems to comfort them in the times they are apart, but when they are together it hovers between them with the heat of a miniature sun.

"The Captain, his wife and the princess Lexi are doing quite well." Sherlock tells her, pulling her close to him so that her head rests on his shoulder.

Molly snuggles in closer and breathes in his scent: a little bit of sweat, bath soap and his own personal musk underneath. "Lexi?"

Sherlock closes his eyes, rests his chin against the top of Molly's head. "Not my choice to call her that, I assure you. Mary informed me that Alexandria Elizabeth Watson is too unwieldy a name for such a tiny one."

Molly laughs and begins unbuttoning Sherlock's shirt. He makes no move to stop her, only tightens his hold on her shoulder. "I'll bet she is beautiful." She opens his shirt and runs her palm along his sternum, feeling the play of the lean muscles across his broad chest as he brings up his hand to lightly touch the side of her face.

He huffs, "If you can call a tiny pink human with miniature fists and wispy golden hair and long, white eyelashes beautiful…" Sherlock trails off as Molly's hand trails down his belly towards his fly.

"Sherlock Holmes, I do believe you have fallen in love with that baby." Molly pulls away so that she can look up into his face, because in this position it is almost impossible for him to lie to her. Another laugh escapes her lips at the soft expression on his face.

The consulting detective shrugs, his eyes never leaving hers. "How could I not?" He wisely does not attempt to deny it. He leans in even farther and touches their lips together softly. "John forgave me," Sherlock whispers against Molly's mouth.

She pulls back in order to see his face clearly and wraps both arms around his neck. His arms pull her in closer, one broad hand on the small of her back and the other between her shoulder blades. Molly nuzzles against him, as his mouth plays against her cheek, her ear, the side of her neck; he speaks without sound.

"I knew he would, in the end, Sherlock," Molly says as she lips at the shell of his ear, "He loves you."She pushes herself up into his lap so that she is balanced with her knees on either side of his hips. His hands slide underneath the shirt she is wearing so he can cup her ass, kneading her cheeks as he grinds upward with a soft groan.

"I know." Sherlock's kisses are becoming more demanding as his arousal grows. Molly can feel the strong beat of his heart through what little material still covers her breasts. He lets go of her ass and slowly pushes her shirt off of her then slowly drags his hands up and down her back, finally ending with one hand on the nape of her neck and the other moving slowly between them. Her gasp when his palm brushes against wet heat causes him to roll his hips in sympathy.

"I want you, Molly." He says in a voice impossibly lower than it was a few seconds ago.

"You have me." She answers, throwing her head back as his magic fingers coax pleasure from every place they rest on her and now in her. "You've always had me."

Sherlock grins against her neck then bites into the skin at the same time he ever so slowly rubs against her clit. Molly hisses between her teeth at the intensity of the dual sensations. She throws her head back and closes her eyes, her hair brushing against the small of her back with the movement that causes the fingers inside her to shift and her entire body to push against Sherlock's straining erection.

He groans again, louder this time and slowly removes his hand from between them. In one movement, both of his hands are under her ass again and now they are kissing as if it is the only way to breathe, and he is carrying her towards the bedroom. Molly wraps both legs around his hips so as not to lose any contact.

Sherlock untangles them carefully and somehow manages to get out of his clothes at the same time. It only seems like seconds before she is on her back, her legs replaced around his hips, ankles locked in place just above his ass. When he enters her in a single thrust, she groans and arches her back to meet him. He curves himself around her smaller body so that is face is against her shoulder, lips and teeth working against her collarbone. His thrusts alternate between hard and fast to slow and lingering. When her orgasm hits her, his thrusts become even slower and longer, dragging out her climax until she begs him to give her a minute.

"Alright," he whispers, changing his balance so he can look into her eyes.

The aftershocks of her climax are nothing compared to the tremors that roll through her body as he takes another long, slow thrust and follows it with two harder ones that threaten to shove her against the headboard. His hands, however, hold her in place as he bucks his hips and kisses her, his tongue plundering her mouth and swallowing every sound she makes.

When Molly can finally open her eyes, he is so close as to be blurry. His hairline is soaked with sweat from controlling his own orgasm; lose curls frame his face and whisper against her skin. Sherlock's expression is intense: adoration, need, and always that one thing she has never been able to identify.

For a moment they are silent, the only sounds in the room are the fan in the corner and soft whimpers from Molly as he begins to move again. Her fingers dig into his back as his thrusts become harder, less controlled; Molly hooks her legs over his waist again and lifts her hips to meet his. Sweat slicks between them and her back bows against him as her second orgasm washes over her and she screams.

This time the sound urges him on and he is up on his hands, his face on her chest, one nipple between his teeth, his tongue lapping at the hard bud. When she screams, he sucks harder. Molly's neatly-trimmed fingernails dig into the skin of his back and he growls, snapping his hips faster now. He is so hard inside of her and she thinks that she could hang on and enjoy this ride forever.

Finally, his arms trembling from the effort of holding himself over her, he comes hard, his face pushed against her neck and teeth latched into the skin there. He falls onto her as slowly as he is able. Molly's legs bracket his, Sherlock's head resting against her breasts. She squeezes around him and he groans as she pulls one last tiny shudder out of him.

Molly wraps her arms around Sherlock and holds him close, thinking about the way those love bites are going to look tomorrow. As he softens and finally slips out, a slight feeling of loss comes over her.

Something must give her away because he slides up her body and takes her face in his hands. He searches deep into the amber depths of her eyes until he finds whatever it is he is looking for.

"I love you," he says, as if it is a universal truth.

And maybe it is. Molly smiles, runs her fingers through his disheveled mane and nods. Nothing but those three words out of his mouth could ever fill her with so much joy. She starts to answer him but finds the words stolen from her lips as his mouth covers hers.

And, later, if she wakes up in the middle of the night with hot, salty tears running down her face and just watches him sleep the way any other person would; and if she reaches out to him and he curls around her; and she whispers I love you back to him, well, those moments are for her alone.

Tonight, though, when all of these things happen, she will settle back against his strong chest and listen to his heartbeat and Sherlock Holmes will fall asleep with a smile on his face and a belief in a future he never believed would be possible for him.

This fic is the fault of this drawing: deviantart/um-Sherlolly-329681624
I couldn't get it out of my mind.

March 3, 2014: Thank you so much to everyone who has read this and/or favored or reviewed...you are all BRILLIANTLY AMAZING. I cannot believe the feedback I'm getting from this story, and I am so glad you all liked it. I may be tempted to explore this relationship further...provided the right prompt would ever appear. (hint hint)

Again, thank you for all the positive feedback. I still feel very new to writing fiction at all, so it is a great boost in the confidence department!