Sherlock Holmes had long ago admitted to himself, if not to anyone else, that he cared deeply for his pathologist, one Dr. Molly Hooper. He had managed to suppress these feelings for the most part, putting them on the proverbial "back burner", as they say, for quite a while. But lately his resolve was beginning to fade quite dramatically, as he had come to the realization that his body, his transport, was betraying him in the most astounding way. He now knew that we wanted Molly Hooper, in an almost painfully physical way. He had long been aware that she had previously harbored a crush on him, an infatuation at best, he assumed. He had no idea if she still felt this way, or if her feelings had evolved into nothing more than friendship, or did, indeed, run deeper than that. It seemed Sherlock Holmes was very good at deducing people, with the exception of Molly Hooper. He had kept that part of his life on hold for so long, that he was now reticent to embark on a relationship without some guarantee of reciprocity. In short, even though he thought no one would believe it, Sherlock Holmes had found his heart, and didn't want to have it broken.

It had started one evening when he had made his way to his favorite bolthole, Molly's flat. He often paid her a visit when he needed to lie low, or recover his strength, or simply when he needed company. What had started out as a necessity was now definitely more of a social occasion. On one particular evening, he had let himself into the flat, without knocking, as usual, and found the pathologist just exiting her bath, with her wet hair hanging down her back, and a bath towel wrapped around her to cover all the vital areas. They both stopped in their tracks, staring across the room at one another.

Sherlock was frozen in place, hands in the pockets of his Belstaff, looking at the tiny dripping woman, and thinking to himself, if she just were to give me one little sign. Drop the towel just a bit to show a tad more skin, and give a come hither look. Just a sign, Molly. Please!

While all this was going through the detective's mind, the object of his desire was caught like a deer in headlights on the other side of the sitting room, thinking, Oh my god, why is he looking at me like that? If he doesn't stop I will make a complete fool of myself by dropping this towel and throwing myself into that goddam coat of his! But she was brought to her senses by Toby brushing against her still damp legs, and scurried off to her bedroom to change as the detective cleared his throat and regained his composure.

The rest of the evening was spent watching crap telly and sharing a pizza, each at their own end of the couch.

The following week, Sherlock did, in fact, find himself in need. He was exhausted. An important case on which he had devoted four days without sleep had finally come to a dramatic conclusion, involving a foot chase, and a bump on the head. Molly's flat was closer than Baker Street, and he much preferred to be fussed over by the tiny woman with the melted chocolate eyes, that maternally minded Mrs. Hudson. And Molly did not disappoint. She tended to his bruised forehead, fixed him a hot meal, and tucked him into bed in her spare room. He would have, of course, preferred different sleeping arrangements, but was much too tired to do anymore more than sleep, in any case.

As was always the case on occasions such as this, Molly felt it necessary to check on her guest in the middle of the night. She told herself this was just a precaution, due to his injury, but she knew this wasn't true. She just loved looking at him sleep, watching his face in repose. No smirk. No 'I know something you don't know!" smile. Simply Sherlock, the man she loved so desperately. She walked down the hall, approaching the door to the spare room quietly, not wishing to wake him. Awake, the smirk, the impatience, the arrogance would reappear. And, while she loved every aspect of the impossible man, she did prefer the gentle sleeping version.

Sherlock was lying in the lumpy bed, freshly awake from a deep and satisfying sleep, having dreamed of his pathologist in her tiny towel, when he saw the door open slightly, bringing a sliver of light into the dark room. He then saw Molly poke her head gingerly through the aperture, moving stealthily so as not to wake him. As he saw her face, half illuminated by the light from the hall, half in shadow, he was struck again by how lovely she was, and how loved she was. "Did you want something, Molly?", he said quietly from under his covers, hoping against hope that she would reply with a breathy, "You!"

Molly was taken aback by the sound of his voice, hoping that she was not the cause of his rousing, having not a clue that she was, in fact, the cause of his arousal. When he asked if she wanted anything, her inner voice was practically screaming, "YOU!", but she found herself saying, "Sorry! Didn't mean to wake you. Just checking. How's your head?"

Currently, Sherlock's head was not the problem. He managed to grunt out a response indicating that he was just fine, and Molly retreated back to her own bed.

It wasn't long afterward that the consulting detective once again found himself at Molly's flat, this time in need of a hot bath and a change of clothes, as he had just spent the night working undercover as a homeless man scavenging for necessities in every available dumpster in the vicinity of a rather brutal murder. He had, indeed, found the weapon used in a particularly offensive receptacle full of equally offensive refuse. The effect on his personal appearance and aroma was such that DI Lestrade, having joined him at the scene to retrieve said weapon, had refused to give him a lift back home. Not surprisingly, several cabbies had made the same judgement call. As he was much closer to Molly's than home, Sherlock made his way there, knowing he would be welcome, stench and all.

Molly took one look, and sniff, and hurried him into her bathroom, where she started to run the hot water. She then returned with some fresh towels, and a large plastic bag. "You'll have to dispose of those clothes, Sherlock. I can imagine they're salvageable!", she laughed as she handed it to him. "Shall I get you a scrub brush?"

"For my delicate skin, Dr. Hooper? I think not!"

"Not for your skin, you git. For my tub! You're not leaving whatever is coating you to coat my tub, Sherlock. It smells like it may be lethal!"

"Very funny, Dr. Hooper. Now leave me in peace. This may take a while."

Molly decided that she would reward the detective for a job well done by fixing him a hearty breakfast. She knew he would often put off eating until after a case was completed, and then would be ravenous, She also knew that he loved her pancakes, and decided that when he finally emerged from his bath she would serve him a large stack of them. Looking for the ingredients, for she used her grandmother's recipe, making them from scratch instead of using a packaged product, she realized that the baking powder was in her bathroom. This left her no option but to knock on the bathroom door.

"Sherlock, are you decent?"

"Yes, Molly, I am decent."

She opened the door to find the man reclining in her tub, almost fully exposed, with only a small washcloth covering the bare essentials. "You said you were decent, you git!"

"I am decent, Dr. Hooper. I am also naked," Sherlock replied calmly, "To what do I owe this interruption?"

It took Molly a moment or two to regain her composure. "I need the baking powder. I ran out of toothpaste, and I used it on my toothbrush…"

"Excellent idea. It does brighten the smile, doesn't it?" Sherlock smiled at her. Brightly.

She turned to reach into her medicine cabinet to retrieve the baking powder, thinking all the while that what she really wanted to do was dive into that tub, clothes and all, and wrap herself around that perfectly toned chest.

Sherlock looked at the woman's back as she reached into the cabinet. How much more obvious could he possibly be, for god's sake? He was lying naked in a tub of water, and he had invited her into the room! And she was showing no reaction whatsoever! How he wished she would join him in the now rapidly cooling water. I'll bet we could heat it up a bit, he thought. Then he realized that the washcloth covering his private parts was rapidly becoming unequal to the task! This could either be very good, or very bad. But he had no time to decide which, as Molly slammed the cabinet door shut, and left the room without a backward glance.

When Sherlock finally joined her in the kitchen for breakfast, after what seemed like an unnecessarily long time, Molly noted, he seemed more relaxed than he had in ages. A nice hot bath will do that for you, she thought, as she smiled across the table at him. And, after he had eaten and taken his leave, freshly bathed, shaved, and clothed, Molly decided that she, too, could use a nice, long, hot, relaxing bath of her own. To relieve her own tensions, so to speak.

The next time Sherlock Holmes visited Molly Hooper's flat was for no reason other than he wanted to be there. He knew she had worked a double shift, finishing at midnight, so at this hour of the early morning, even though the sun was up, she would most likely be in bed. And he was determined to keep her there! He had been patient. He had waited for a sign from her. But his patience was at an end, and he had to know.

Molly Hooper was having a bad night. She had returned to her flat at just after midnight, but found that she could not immediately get to sleep, her mind still churning from the problems of the workday. She had fixed herself some herbal tea, not quite as potent as Mrs. Hudson's herbal soothers, but it would do in a pinch, and settled down to watch a boring film, hoping it would lull her to sleep. But when it finally did, her sleep was interrupted at regular intervals by rather potent dreams of a certain detective. Was this never to end? She was a grown woman, for heaven's sake, and she had been mooning over the same man for years now. Sure, their relationship had improved. She no longer stuttered and stumbled in his presence, and he no longer took advantage of her infatuation. He did, however, still make the occasional cutting remark, but since this was not limited to her alone, she tended to overlook it. It had taken seven bloody years to progress to the "friends" stage, and she had given up hope of anything more. Not that it mattered, for at the rate the relationship was heating up, she would be on a slab in her own lab before it developed to her desired conclusion! The sun coming through her bedroom window had awakened her once more, so she reached into the drawer of her nightstand and pulled out her blindfold. Darkness once again enveloped her world, and she tried once again to get back to sleep.

Sherlock Holmes entered the flat as quietly as any burglar, but with much more honest, if slightly dishonorable, intentions. He moved to the bedroom door, hoping to find his pathologist fast asleep. He really hadn't thought much further than this. Should he rouse her gently? Not very dramatic, that. Should he simply pounce on her and silence her with an impassioned snog? But what if she had a weapon under her pillow? She had been threatened in the past, after all. Perhaps he should call out to her from out of the range of any weapon she might have? But what if she had a gun? No, Molly hated guns. A knife? Could she throw a knife with any accuracy? These were things he should know! Maybe he should take a position in her closet, and call her name? Now he was being ridiculous. Damn it, he simply was no good at these things!

He opted to open the door quietly, and take his chances. But Molly was, indeed, sleeping soundly. And with a blindfold over her eyes to block the morning sun. He approached her sleeping form, and gazed down at her. She was everything he had ever wanted, without even knowing that he wanted anything. All he could hope for was that she still cared for him, even if it were only a fraction of what he felt for her. He would settle for that, he had decided ages ago. And so, he leaned over, careful not to disturb the bed, and touched his lips to hers. His heart almost stopped when he heard her murmur, "Sherlock."

Was she awake? Asleep? He really couldn't tell, but did it really matter? Either way, she was saying his name in a way that made him go weak in the knees. He pressed his lips once again to hers, this time for a longer period, and with more gentle pressure. She moaned a delightful little moan, and he decided to go for broke, easing himself onto the bed, and then onto his Molly, as her arms came up to encircle his neck.

"Molly?", he said gently, breaking the kiss.

This time he heard a surprised gasp, as her hands moved from his neck to her face, removing the blindfold. "Sherlock! I thought I was dreaming! What the bloody hell are you doing?" The small pathologist was now pushing at his chest, trying to dislodge the much larger man from his position.

"You dream about me, Molly? What a coincidence! I hope yours are as pleasant as mine," Sherlock spoke, and Molly noticed that the familiar smirk was back in all its glory.

"I asked you what the bloody hell you were doing, Sherlock!"

"I'm trying to seduce you, Molly. Do keep up! Although I admit that I may be a little rusty at this sort of thing! I've only had sex once in the past ten years or so, and I was the seducee as opposed to being the seducer…"

Sherlock was currently tracing kisses up and down her neck, and his hands and fingers were doing wonderful things around her hips, and other adjacent areas. For one brief moment, Molly thought she might still be dreaming, but found that she didn't really care. "Oh, god, Sherlock. that feels wonderful. Are you sure its been ten years, because…" That was as far as she got as his mouth descended once again on hers. And her last coherent thought was, trying to seduce me! Hell, he's succeeding admirably!

Some time later, Sherlock Holmes was holding a rather sated Molly Hooper close against his chest. She was doubly exhausted, from both a double shift a St. Bart's, and, shall we say, a double event with her favorite detective. The poor woman could barely keep her eyes open as she moved even further into his embrace. "I love you, Sherlock. And I know you're not good at this, so I'll understand if you're not here when I wake up." Then she closed her eyes and settled down.

Sherlock kissed her gently on the forehead, and quietly said, "Me too, Molly. And I'll be here. Always." Then he looked down at her slightly open mouth, and, as he listened, he realized that he was so besotted with his Molly that he found even her snoring adorable.