Final chapter. For real this time.

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Chapter 12

She woke three times before the dawn.

The first time Sherlock was tangled around her like flotsam, his breath steady and deep—a secret told inside the crook of her neck. Molly blinked up at the dark ceiling.

The sheet was bunched loosely below her bellybutton and across the sharp curve of his hip, cool against her skin. It felt real.

Molly let a fingertips feather along his shoulder, soft and real. Her lips moved silently as she counted the smattering of freckles hidden there. Too many to count. Sherlock's hand tightened on her waist, as if he were holding her in place. She took a shallow breath, afraid to wake him.

She had woken up in man's bed before, of course. Dozens of times to be honest. She was a grown ass woman thank you very much.

But this felt different.

Molly brushed a stray hair off Sherlock's forehead. His eyelashes were a dark curtain against the fine bones of his cheeks. He stirred, muttering senseless words against her skin. She pressed her palm against his spine, drawing him closer. He sighed and settled. Molly felt her throat tighten.

He didn't look like Sherlock Holmes in his sleep. The sharp lines of his face smoothed out, his tightly guarded defenses worn thin. His leg was warm and solid thrown across her own. Familiar and foreign just the same.

Sherlock shifted in his sleep, his hand trailing up her belly to settle between her breasts.

Molly swallowed, painfully aware that she was laying inside the fragile hollow of her deepest unspoken dream, her love a piece of grit trapped between the chambers of her heart.

She squeezed her eyes shut and tried to reign in her emotions. It wasn't the dark curls tickling her cheek that made tears prick behind her eyelids. It wasn't the vulnerable curl of his body or even the smell of him—chemicals and smoke and London rain.

It was the solid weight of his body pinning her against the mattress. The full press of him along her side, warm and real.

Molly seriously doubted he had ever slept with anyone before.

Sex? Possibly. But sharing a bed was a kind of intimacy she had never expected. Had never even thought to hope for.

But here he was, wrapped around her in his sleep, vulnerable and filled with truth. She pressed a kiss to the hollow of his temple.

He mumbled and rolled away from her onto his back. She had only had a moment to feel cold before he dragged her against his side. He tucked her against his side, his chin settling on the crown of her head.

Molly thought of a time when she was little and her father had taken her out to the countryside. She had played in the mud of a babbling river while he fished, pulling pale stones out to the water. She remembered the feel of those stones-cupped in her small damp hand, smooth and velvet. Remembered the way each one fit in her palm, cool and solid, as if it belonged there.

Molly curled her body around Sherlocks, tracing a finger down the bones of his ribs. They had things to discuss. A life to deduce. But the morning to would come soon enough. She closed her eyes and let the steady tide of his heart lull her back to sleep. As if she belonged there.

The second time she woke up, he was gone.

Molly laid still for a moment, listening to the silence of the flat and the hum of the distant city beyond. It was still dark, but she could feel morning breathing on the horizon even from the quiet bedroom.

She reached out a hand, flattening her palm against the cool sheets next to her. After a long moment, she rolled to the edge of the bed, searching blindly on the floor until her fingers found Sherlock's discarded t-shirt.

She stood up, fiddling with the frayed collar before turning the shirt inside out and slipping it over her head. The hem just skimmed the tops of her thighs. She glanced back at the empty bed, tugging on the edge of the shirt. Forcing herself not to jump to conclusions, she padded out of the bedroom, pausing in the shadows of the sitting room door.

His back was to her, one hand on the mantle as he gazed down at the crackling fire. Sherlock had slipped on his pajamas, but his chest was bare. She could see the lines of old scars cutting across his skin.

He didn't turn around, but she knew he had heard her, could feel the change in the room, as if their connection was a tangible thing thickening the atmosphere. The muscles of his back shifted under his skin as he swiped a hand over his face.

She crossed the room. He didn't move when she wrapped herself around him, flattening her palms against his chest. She pressed her cheek between his shoulder blades, listening to his sharp intake of breath as he came back to himself.

It felt strange. Touching him like this. Sherlock wove his fingers through hers where they rested against his chest. Molly wondered if it would ever feel normal. If she would ever get to a point when each gesture didn't seem like a fragile gift. She wondered if they would even get that far.

He turned in the circle of her arms. His dark curls were tousled from sleep, firelight flickering across the shallows of his face turning his skin golden. Her heart caught. His eyes were the color of lost sea glass, clear and green, as if they had never dared to be any other color on any other day.

His brow furrowed. "Molly—"

"Kiss me," she interrupted hastily, tangling her fingers in his hair.

His frown deepened. "Sorry, I don't—"

She shook her head, one knuckle drifting down the flat plane of his stomach. The muscles fluttered against her finger. "You are about to say something idiotic and man-ish," Molly said. She leaned forward and brushed her lips against pulse at the base of his neck. It jumped.

His hands circled her wrists, stopping her wandering fingers from slipping inside the front of his pajamas. "Man-ish is not a word," he countered.

She smiled up at him. "Yes well…" He arched an eyebrow. She shrugged. "Well it should be."

Sherlock laughed.

It was an easy sound—happy and strange. The low music of it danced across her skin, washing away some of the loneliness that had gathered on her shoulders. Chipping away at some of the of the despair that crowded the space around her heart.

Molly kissed him—pressed herself up against his lean frame and swallowed the end of his laughter. She could still feel the smile lingering on the curve of his lips as she slipped her tongue inside his mouth.

And then he wasn't smiling.

His hands tightened on the wings of her shoulders, pulling her onto her toes as he deepened the kiss. His teeth scraped against her bottom lip, nipping and licking his way inside her mouth. She tugged on his hair, wanting him closer, the kiss a bruise against her lips.

His searching fingers dipped below the hem of her shirt until he was cupping her backside, fitting her up again him. He was hard beneath the thin fabric of his pajamas, and she was throbbing and wet where they pressed together. Need rippled through her like wildfire, as if she hadn't already had him. As if it was the first time.

Molly's fingernails cut into his back as she wondered vaguely when the sharp point of this passion between them would subside. Or if all the years of suppressed wanting would burn them up before they could even begin to quench it.

He pulled back, panting, his lips tasting the sensitive skin below her ear. It wasn't enough. Molly made a desperate sound and fumbled at his waistband, desperate trying to push it aside. Anything to get him inside her.

Right here on the floor. Or against the mantel. Or standing in the goddamn sitting room. Just—

Molly yelped when he set her down abruptly, pushing her away in one rough movement. She managed to catch herself on the edge of John's chair, wobbling ungracefully before looking up at him in shook. Several feet away, Sherlock had his hand up as if to ward her off, his chest heaving.

Molly pressed her thighs together, her fingers curling around the chair. A shudder ran through her. God, she was so close so soon. It shouldn't be possible to want another person so much. Her whole body felt flush, as if she had spent too much time in the sun.

Sherlock frowned at her, his eyes dilated and slightly wild, as he took another unsteady step away from her. Molly forced herself to take a deep breath, wishing the air could cool the inferno he had ignited, trying to think.

"We already did that," Sherlock said, straightening his spine as if to shake off the flames of desire.

Molly blinked at him, her mind sluggish from his touch, and tried to understand. Sherlock huffed out a breath. "I have spent a lifetime controlling the baser needs of the body. To think that we would…after we just…" He shook his head, crossing his arms. "It is unnecessary."

Despite herself, Molly stifled a laugh. "You mean sex?"

Sherlock nodded stiffly.

Molly let the heat show in her eyes as her gaze drift down to where his body was telling a different story altogether. She arched an eyebrow. "You don't want to have sex with me again tonight?"

He swallowed, color touching the elegant sweep of his cheeks, and crossed his arms. "I think we should discuss the parameters of this…this…"

"Relationship?" she supplied helpfully.

Sherlock looked a little sick. "I need to know what is required of me. This is not my area of expertise."

Molly stood up. "You don't say."

He stiffened and turned back to the fire. "Now you are mocking me."

"I would never do that," she said firmly, thinking of all the insults he must have endure over his lifetime. She stepped closer, so she could see the shadow of his profile. "Tell me," she said. Sherlock took down the skull on the mantel, turning it in his hands.

"This will never work." There was desperation his voice—pleading.

Alarm bells went off inside of her. The fire was warm against her hip, but she suddenly wishing for a dressing gown or her mother's tattered quilt that lived at the foot of her own small bed. Anything to wrap around her. Anything to protect her from the regret buried behind the prism of his eyes.

Sherlock shook his head, his voice catching on each broken word. "I can't give you normal Molly. I can't do evenings in front of the telly or date nights to Angelo's. I can't do holiday's to Brighton or kiss your mum's cheek on Christmas Eve. I can't do marriage. It's not who I am."

Molly studied him as he stared down at the flames. He looked miserable.

And suddenly it clicked, each fact of him settling into place like the hidden tumblers inside a lock. It wasn't that he didn't want her. He did. But he was terrified that she would say she loved him, only to try to change him in the end. Like everyone did. Molly wanted to touch him, this brilliant man who didn't fit in the world. So he was miserable—wanting something that he was afraid would destroy him. She understood all too well.

Molly turned to the fire, hugging her arms around her waist. And made herself think about what she would be giving up.

Made herself think about the wedding that she would never have. The white dress and the flowers. The sweet easy man that she would never grow old with. The small modest house she would never own. The children she would never rock to sleep. She made herself think about the quiet life she would never have.

Molly fingered the pile of notes under the dagger stabbed into the mantel. Little clues from each of his cases. Missing pieces to a puzzle he was trying to solve. Beside the knife was a crime scene photo of a dead women, her bloated body still half submerged in the Thames. He had scribbled in the margins, his handwriting elegant but illegible. Underneath the photograph was a small rusty tin. Molly touched it with one fingertip. She knew it held a single cigarette and the shattered remains of the bullet they had dug out of Sherlock's side. Mary's bullet.

Molly shook her head and wondered what wrong with her. Wondered what made her want this strange, mercurial, brilliant man more than then a normal life.

She looked back at him. It wasn't really a choice was it? That was the lie about real love. It wasn't a choice at all.

Sherlock's head was down, one finger tapping nervously against the mantel. She shifted closer to the fire, balancing one foot on top of the other, her toes curling on the cool tiles. When he finally looked up, Molly could see what waiting for her response had cost him. Could see it in the anguish sketched around the lines of his eyes and the mask of casual indifference he was still trying to wear.

She reached out and put her hand over his, stilling his nervous tick. "Ordinary is boring," she said gently.

He wanted to believe her. She could see it in the relief that eclipsed his face. After a long moment, he scoffed. "You're just saying that. One day, you will wake up beside me and realize that you are trapped. You will wish that you had never let your body control your thinking. The norms of society dictate—"

"No." she interrupted quietly.

He frowned. "But surely, marriage is an import—"

She touched his chest, her thumb dipping lightly into the hollow at the base his throat. "Just you."

He huffed. "Is it always going to be like this when we try to engage in a serious conversation?"

She tugged on his hand, walking backwards toward the bedroom. "Only until you stop obstinately denying the nature of our relationship."

He followed her reluctantly. "I'm away a lot. I won't call."

"Yes. I know," she said, turning to lead him through the empty kitchen.

"My work is dangerous. I could die at any moment."

"Try not to," she called over her shoulder as they reached the hallway.

He cleared his throat, pulling her to a halt at the threshold of his bedroom. She stepped into him, pressing him against the doorframe. His hand gripped her shoulder, holding her back. "I'm a horrible flatmate. I play the violin constantly. Sometimes I don't speak for days."

Molly laughed. "I accept your conditions with one small amendment." She touched the corner of his mouth, leaning closer.

"If this has to do with copulation—" he said.

Molly pulled away abruptly and held up a finger. "Rule one of our new relationship—never call it copulation again."

His brow lifted, a ghost of a smile on his lips. "But that is what—"

Without warning, she slid down the front of him and dropped to her knees. His words trailed off.

She looked up. He shook his head, but she saw the way his hand groped for the door jam as she leaned forward and breathed against him.

"Molly," he warned, his voice a low rumble in the pit of her belly.

Without breaking his gaze, she let her lips brush where dampness had gathered at the tip of his arousal. His breath hitched. She pressed an open kiss to the tempting line of hair that disappeared beneath his waistband. The muscles under her tongue clenched.

She pulled back the elastic of his pajamas, licking a firm line up the hard ridge of him, tasting the salt of him. His knuckles whitened. She touched the tip of his erection with one finger, gathering the moisture there before she sat back on her heels. Molly put the finger in her mouth and smiled innocently up at him.

He made a strangled sound, the hard animal glint of ownership unveiled in his silver eyes. That look spoke of taking. Of wanting. Of barely controlled need.

Heat curled between her legs. She cleared her throat, aware of the flush that crept up her neck. "You haven't heard my amendment."

He didn't respond, his breath coming fast and hard. She should have felt vulnerable, kneeling in front of him half naked, but Molly knew she held all the power now. And it wasn't just the sex. She knew that in the deepest basement of her soul.

This was something more.

She tucked her hair behind her ear with a shaking hand. "You have to promise to sleep with me. Often. As in sex. Whenever I want...whenever you want."

He narrowed his eyes. "Is that all?"

She tilted her head and pretended to consider. "Maybe you could bring me a cup of tea once in awhile."

He snarled and hauled her to her feet. "Anything else?"

She swallowed as his gaze drifted over her face, predatory and impatient. Her lips tingled. "You have to kiss me whenever you leave. None of this running off and abandoning me in the middle of no where like you do with John."

Sherlock took a step, his thigh wedging between her legs as he pressed her back against the doorframe. Molly shuddered. He bent his head, his lips hovering just above hers. She put a hand against his chest, stopping him.

"Is that a yes?" she asked, trying to keep her voice light. Trying hide the fact that this moment was a ballbearing and that her whole life would pivot on his answer.

He placed his palm flat above her head. She held still.

His lips brushed against hers. "Yes," he breathed.

She closed her eyes at the word, suddenly overwhelmed. By the unbearable weight of her love. By the unbelievable path her life had taken. But mostly by the responsibility of showing this amazing man what it could be to belong to someone.

So Molly pulled him inside the bedroom.

She pressed him down into the mattress and showed him with her lips and her tongue. She took him in her mouth until he was shaking beneath her. She drove him ruthlessly to the edge again and again, riding his pleasure like the tide during a storm until every fraction of his mind was lost to the sensation of her. Until his fingers were knots in her hair and he begged for release.

Until there was nothing but the two of them lost on the sea of the rapidly diminishing night.

The third time Molly woke up it was morning, and she was lying in a puddle of her own drool. She flailed blindly for the side table, finding her phone after several seconds of hunting. She cracked one eye open and groaned. It was well past ten.

She rolled onto her back, spreading like a starfish beneath the covers. The rest of the bed was empty again. Molly squinted at the ceiling and tried to work out if she had been dreaming. If the gasp of his breath against her collarbone as he slid, hard and thick, inside of her had just been a lovely dream.

Everything ached, from the soreness between her legs to the bruised center of her chest, as if her heart had tried to escape from the confines of its ribbed cage sometime in the night. Molly yawned and stretched lazily. Sunlight danced across the ceiling. She grinned up at it, letting the secret girly-est part of her revel in her victory. Revel in the-

"I have a case."

Molly squeaked and bolted upright. She managed to grab the sheets as she sat up, grasping them tightly under her chin. Sherlock raised his eyebrows at the undignified sound, but didn't move from the chair at the end of the bed.

He had been up awhile, his hair dry except for the faint dampness clinging to the tips of his curls. Other than that fine detail, he looked exactly like the worlds only consulting detective, from the tailored lines of his suit right down to the gleam on the tip of his leather shoes.

He looked delicious.

She wanted to take him apart. Wanted to rip off his expensive clothes and do unspeakable things to him until the polish was worn thin. Until he was hers again. Molly flushed, bunching the knot of covers tighter between her fingers.

If Sherlock noticed the sudden change in the air-god, the smell of her unraveling desire-he showed no signs. His fingers were tented under his chin. He studied her cooly. God damn him and his casual sensuality.

His phone buzzed. When he looked down Molly took the opportunity to try to smooth down her hair, cursing when her fingers got stuck in the dense tangles. She had a pretty good idea how she looked, bed wrinkles pressed into her cheeks and dark circles under her eyes. The exact contrast to GQ sitting across from her.

She sighed in exasperation. He glanced back up, distracted. "I have to go. The Ukraine it looks like...it is uncertain how long we will be occupied."

Molly nodded. He checked his watch, and she groped under the covers for her underware. For her shirt. Hell, for his shirt. She came up empty, smiling brightly when he looked back at her.

He frowned, started to speak and then stood instead. He shifted awkwardly. Molly stifled a smile. Awkward looked particularly adorable on Sherlock. He cleared his throat, "John informed me that it is bad form to leave a woman in your bed without and explaination." He looked extremely put out by this piece of information, but Molly had stopped listening.

"John?" she hissed, glancing toward the door. "John's here? And he knows?"

Sherlock frowned. "Yes, of course. John is an integral part of my operation. Surely you understood that he was...that he would..." he paused, visibly trying to collect himself. "That he would be informed of our, uh, situation."

Molly dragged the sheet off the bed with her as she stood up, wrapping them around her like a toga. Moisture rubbed between her thighs, and she was suddenly desperately aware of her need for a shower. And a cup of tea. And about 48 hours of silence to process the infuriating and wonderful direction her life had just taken.

They eyed each other across the room. His phone rang. "Molly, I-"

"It's fine," she interrupted, waving a hand. "I just thought that we might keep this to ourselves for a few days before everyone and Mrs. Hudson knew."

Sherlock looked pained. He tapped a finger nervously against his side. "Uh, about Mrs. Hudson-"

"Oh for heaven's sake," Molly threw up her hands, before quickly grabbing the sheet as it started to slip.

He opened his mouth again, but she seriously couldn't stand to hear one more fumbling explanation out of his delectable mouth. She needed to pee and brush her hair.

She held up a hand. "It's all fine. Really. We can talk later. When you're not so busy. I just need to use your shower."

He looked relieved and gestured toward the bathroom door. "I took the liberty of drawing you a bath. Mrs. Hudson brought up some clean clothes."

Molly decided she loved him.

Sherlock put a hand on the doorknob, his phone still ringing. "I have to take this. John and I have some details to sort out before we go...we should still be here when you get out."

She nodded. He answered his mobile, his voice clipped and professional as he slipped out the door. As if he had never groaned her name the night before. As if he was just himself.

Molly looked at the bed, its covers twisted and half torn off the edge. She wondered if she might still be dreaming, but the sharp tang of sex still hung in the air and the throbbing between her legs was real.

She made her way into the bathroom, the tail of the sheet dragging behind her. The bathwater was still steaming, the air filled with the smell of peppermint. A set of comfortable trousers and one of her soft weekend shirts was folded nearly on the sink. Yes, it was most definitely love.

By the time she slipped in into the warm bathwater, Molly didn't really care if it was a dream or not. She decided that whatever it was, it was just fine. She leaned her head back on the porcelain and closed her eyes.

It wouldn't always be like this.

Sherlock was a minefield. He could shatter her into a million pieces with one slip of his clever tongue. She sank down further in the water until it covered her chin and decided it it would be the most enjoyable risk she would ever take.

Molly slipped silently into the kitchen, still drying her hair with a towel. She could hear Sherlock's voice drifting in from the sitting room, but it was John who stood at the counter pouring a cup of tea.

She bit back a sigh. This should be fun. Her own Baker Street version of the walk of shame. She folded the town neatly over the back of the kitchen chair, suddenly grateful to be back in her own clothes. Grateful to be clean, even though the smell of Sherlock's shampoo still clung to her.

It wasn't very good armor. But it would have to do.

John turned around and blew across the top of his tea, his eyes steady on her over the rim of his cup. She blushed, cursing herself. She had taken down the famous Sherlock Holmes. The genius detective. The Virgin. She had brought him to his knees. Literally.

She wasn't about to let John Watson scare her. She crossed her arms.

"So..." he said to a spot above her head, "you and-"

Molly nodded. "Yes."

John squinted at her, his tea hovering half forgotten on the way to his mouth.

Her stomach rumbled. The whole kitchen smelled like warm chocolate, and she could just see Mrs. Hudson's silver breakfast tray peeking out behind John's back. It suddenly occurred to her that she was ravenous. She started inching around the table.

John opened his mouth and then closed it again, his face twisted. Molly understood. Everything she knew about Sherlock was suddenly rearranging itself in her head.

"So did he..." John stammered, "I mean, did you..."

"That is none of your business Dr. Watson," she said primly, taking down a cup from the cabinet.

She glanced sideways at him as she picked out a teabag. "But yes. We did. He did."

John put his cup down with a sharp click.

Molly hid a smile and filled her cup from the still warm kettle. John was silent as she squeezed lemon into her tea. She knew from the weight of his gaze what was coming next.

"Molly-" he started.

She leaned a hip against the counter. "Why do you stay with him?"

John frowned. "Pardon?"

She took a sip of tea. "You were about to warn me. Tell me that Sherlock will hurt me-as if I didn't know." She shrugged. "And you're probably right. So my question is, why do you stay with him?"

John glanced over his shoulder and shrugged. Molly knew that he was about to dismiss her. She took a breath.

"He didn't just hurt you, John. He evicerated you. You listened to the sound of his body hitting the pavement for god sakes. And yet you stayed."

John looked down, his shoulders hunched. "He's my best friend," John said finally, as if that answered everything. As if friendship was some sort of inevitable force that left him without other choices.

Molly thought about Sherlock. About the pull of him, as if he were gravity itself. Maybe it was enough of an answer. Baffling and infuriating and true.

"I love him," she answered.

John looked at her for a long moment, a sort of understanding passing between them, like two drowning victims who have just discovered they are clinging to the same life raft in the middle of the endless empty ocean. He shook his head, "I think, Molly Hooper, that you might be even more insane than I am. And that's really saying something."

John slid the folded newspaper out from under the decomposing human hand on the kitchen table, winked at her, and heading out to the sitting room. "Welcome to the family," he called over his shoulder.

Molly huffed out a laugh and swiped a muffin off the tray. It was still warm. She finished it in three very unladylike bites. Sex and warm chocolate muffins-her day could not get any better. With a sigh of contentment, she grabbed another muffin and stepping out into the sitting room.

She froze in the doorway, oblivious to the hot tea sloshing over her fingers.

Her grandmother's chair.

The ratty old armchair she had inherited after her grandmother's funeral was sitting in Sherlock's living room like it belonged there.

Molly frowned. She could see where the soft gray fabric had worn thin on the arms and the bright pink patch she had sewn over a hole last winter. Yes, it was definitely her grandmother's chair.

Except that it was no longer in her own small living room. It was here. At Baker street. Looking somehow wildly out of place and yet perfectly at home nestled between the boy's chairs.

A flock of starlings took flight in the hollow of her chest, at the sight of that familiar chair, their wings beating against the inside of her breastbone. Her teacup shivered in its saucer. Sherlock turned from his place in the window, the mobile still pressed against his ear, his eyes a question she didn't know how to answer.

So she looked away, and crossed the room on unsteady legs. She couldn't help but trace the curved edge of the chair with one reverent finger before sitting down. In front of her, John sat in his chair reading the newspaper as if something monumental wasn't happening.

With a shaking hand, Molly managed to set her cup down on the side table. Rosie played with John's shoelaces, babbling happily at his feet. The sound of Mrs. Hudson's off key singing as she cleaned the foyer downstairs drifted through the open door. John rustled the paper, oblivious to the fact that a picture of Sherlock and him graced the front page. Molly leaned back into the chair, and tried to remember how to breath. Behind her, Sherlock came closer, his hand resting on the chair above her head as he continued his conversation. She closed her eyes.

It sounded like a home.

Not a normal home, certainly, but a home all the same. She swallowed against the hot lump in her throat.

Sherlock cut his phone call off abruptly. "Lestrade is waiting for us at the airport," he announced to the room, sweeping past her to gather his coat. John put down his paper as Sherlock continued, "Sensitive evidence. He wasn't able to relay it all over the phone. Multiple homicides. Someone is killing them after he cuts them open and adds a second liver to the bodies...why another liver? It doesn't make any sense. Fascinating..." he trailed off, muttering to himself as he shoved things in his overnight bag.

John rolled his eyes at her and reached for the baby. But Rosie had rolled over and fallen asleep on the rug, one pudgy hand clutching the soggy corner of her favorite blanket. He glanced up at her. "Do you mind? Mrs. Hudson is on her way up-"

"Of course, its-"

"John." Sherlock snapped. "come on." John stood, hastily gathering his own coat as Sherlock swept out the door without another word.

John hesitated.

Molly smiled. "I think," she said, "if you start apologizing every time Sherlock acts like an ass, well, you'll never stop."

John nodded and followed Sherlock down the stairs. Molly looked down at the sleeping baby. At the pile of crime photographs at her elbow and the simmering benson burner on the kitchen table. She fingered the frayed tuft of cotton peaking out from the worn chair.

"Oh Molly," Mrs. Hudson breathed from the doorway, both hands clutched over her mouth. Even from across the room, Molly could see the tears shimmering in the old woman's eyes.

Molly shook her head, shrugging one shoulder. "I know...it's..." she paused, laughing to herself, "I don't know what it is to be honest."

Mrs. Hudson crossed the room, touching Rosie's sleeping head lightly before perching on the edge of John's chair. "Oh, Molly dear, he must-"

Sherlock cleared his throat from the doorway. Mrs. Hudson's mouth snapped shut, and she sunk back into the chair, as if trying to fade into the fabric. Molly turned away from the gleeful smile Mrs. Hudson was failing to hide behind a handkerchief and watched Sherlock step stiffly back into the room.

He was bundled in his coat and gloves, dark curls tousled by the wind. His cheeks were flush. Molly could see the shine of the new case gleaming in his eyes. Could practically hear the whir of his mind processing the data.

But he stood still, hesitating on his own threshold. Molly waited.

After a pause, he crossed the room. Molly looked up as he slid one gloved hand under her jaw, tilting her face up as he bent over. The leather was achingly soft. Molly had a sudden vision of other places those gloves could touch. The buttery fabric tracing the lines of her body, those long fingers playing along her skin. She met his eye and saw that he knew where her thoughts had strayed.

She just had time to see the answering heat flicker in his gaze, silver to gunmetal, before he kissed her. His lips were soft, barely a touch. But she felt the brief brush of his tongue against her top lip before he pulled away.

His thumb lingered on the corner of her mouth before he stood up again. It occurred to her that she wasn't sure if she could handle Sherlock getting any better at kissing. Or bless her, other things. Molly tucked her hair behind her ear and tried to ignore Mrs. Hudson's wide eyes.

Sherlock clasped his hands behind his back, drawing himself up to his full height. "I believe I have fulfilled the relationship requirements that you stipulated earlier." Molly could hear the hint of roughness in his otherwise formal tone. She smiled at him. He rocked back on his heels and frowned. "I'm not sure how long I will be gone. It is quite possible that communication-"

Molly waved her hand. "Go. Be Sherlock Holmes."

He turned on his heel, hesitating briefly at the door. He looked back, something she couldn't name bristling on his face as if he had something left to say but no words left to say it. She tried not to memorize him standing there.

"Go." she said softly. He nodded and was gone.

She pressed back into the soft cushion. It smelled like mothballs and rosewater. It smelled like her old life.

"He loves you." Mrs. Hudson said.

Molly touched the edge of her grandmother's chair and tried not to look at the empty doorway. She nodded. It wasn't a question.

That's it my friends. I fell in love with this version of these characters, and am considering a sequel. Or perhaps something new in the Sherlock fandom? Let me know what you think. Either way, thank you for reading. Love, versarilaetus xoxo