A Kiss is the Route to your Heart, chapter 1, by chibiness87
Rated: K+ (for now. Might change in later chapters.)
Spoilers: None for this chapter.
Disclaimer: Not mine.

A/N: I started another multi-chap. D'oh. This is part one of the story I was working on when I wrote a smut story instead. It will have 6 parts. Eventually. Life is completely hectic at the moment. So of course it is the opportune time to start something new. *facepalm*

A legal kiss is never as good as a stolen one - Guy de Maupassant

The first time he kisses her, it is for a case.

More specifically, it is while he is undercover on a case.

Oh, and he doesn't even know her name.

Yet.

(That will come later.)

The suspect he has been following has turned into the busy pub, and Sherlock finds he is at once in danger of losing sight of him, while also in danger of being made.

So he does what he normally does in situations like this. He keeps to the shadows. Observes from a distance. Pretends he is somewhere, anywhere, else.

He just doesn't realise he is not the only one using this tactic until it is almost too late.

The boyfriend of the sister of the cheating wife of the latest murder victim he has been roped into helping the Yard with (it's a five at best, but he's bored) suddenly turns, and makes his way towards where Sherlock is skulking in the shadows.

He needs a distraction. A diversion.

He looks around him, eyes drinking in all the details as his mind races, searching, searching, sear- there.

In two steps he's by her side, and with a quiet, "Sorry about this," promptly kisses the breath out of the small woman he has spotted who is doing her own impression of a wallflower. He tries to keep it chaste, barely touching her lips with his, but the mere contact still makes the blood sing in his veins, and he presses more firmly against her. His tongue traces the seam of her lips, and he nips at her lower one for a moment before gentling the contact once more.

She gasps against him, hands flailing around her head slightly, completely shocked at his actions. Before she can do anything more, like, for example, slap him, he pulls away.

Her eyes, a deep brown, are wide, and there is a deep flush highlighting her cheeks. Her hair is parted to the side, and he tucks one stand carefully behind her ear, before realising what he has just done. Stepping back quickly, he lets his hand falls to his side.

"What the fu-"

He gives her a small, embarrassed quirk of his lips. "Needed to hide from someone for a moment."

"I, uh…"

She stutters at him, biting her lower lip. The sight does something to him, something he thought he was above (the body is supposed to only be transport for the brain) and he ducks his head. "Sorry about that."

And then he turns, spotting his prey across the floor, heading towards the second exit of the pub. Sherlock silently moves after him, keeping to the shadows as much as he can.

He doesn't think about the press of his lips against the stranger's mouth again.

Well, for about nine hours.

Give or take.

Because, eight hours and fifty three minutes after he leave the bar, deleting all but the most pertinent information, he walks through the doors of the morgue at St Bart's. He is expecting to see Stamford, but is instead met with a pair of intense brown eyes.

The shade reminds him of something, of someone, and he dips into his mind palace trying to place them.

It is only when her hand makes contact with his face that he suddenly remembers.

"You." Ironically, it is her voice that places her, front and centre, back in his mind. He winces.

"Ah."

It is suddenly apparent that this second-first meeting is not a private one when he hears his name being called from behind him. "Sherlock?"

He ignores Lestrade, sure that the detective is wondering just how he has managed to already annoy the specialist registrar that, as far as the detective knows, he has only just met.

"Sherlock? So that's your name?"

Her voice makes that same something from last night wake up in his chest. Soothing and calming and exciting him all at the same time. It is a not altogether unpleasant sensation.

"Sherlock Holmes. Consulting detective."

She nods. Sighs. Looks down for a moment, then back up. "Molly Hooper."

Some deeply suppressed manners come to the fore, and he sticks his hand out to her. She takes it, wariness easy to read on her face. He tries to calm her with a small smile. "Forgive me. When Stamford said he was getting a new pathologist, I was unaware that it would be a woman."

She bristles. "Why? Because women are meek and shouldn't be doctors?"

Sherlock balks. It is suddenly clear he has said something wrong. "What? No. I am sure that you are more than proficient. Better than your male cohorts, even."

Dr Molly Hooper, her name already being filed away in his mind, says nothing to this, but one eyebrow creeps up in question.

Sherlock sighs. Tilts his head at her. "You're young. Assured. Obviously don't come from money, so mummy and daddy didn't buy you this position. And women always have to work harder than men in science fields because men in authority are so outdated that even in today's society most cannot admit that a woman might actually be smarter than they are. You worked hard and it paid off. You graduated, what, top of your class? Honours at the very least. Had pick of the top pathology positions in the country. Chose Bart's because of its reputation of working with the cops, and you like big cities. Strange, for someone born in the country. But you grew to like the city life at university. You like mysteries. Like solving puzzles. It's why you chose pathology in the first place, right? The mystery of death."

Her eyes are wide, shocked, but her voice lacks the timid tone he thought it would have. There is something there, though. Something he can't quite name, even as she asks, "How did you…"

He smiles. "It's what I do."

"And what's that, Mr Holmes?" The unknown quantity in her voice comes to him in a moment of clarity. Awe. It is awe that he is hearing, and his heart stutters a beat in his chest.

"Solve mysteries."

Dr Hooper blinks at him. And he finds himself unable to stop the next words escaping his mouth. "And please. Call me Sherlock."

"Sherlock?"

"Mmm. I have a feeling we'll be seeing much more of each other, Dr Hooper."

"Molly." She ducks her head for a second, before meeting his gaze with her own. "You can call me Molly."

They smile at each other, and then the moment is completely destroyed when Lestrade clears his throat. Loudly.

"Great. Glad that's sorted. Can we get back to the bloody case now?"

Sherlock shoots Dr Hoop- Molly – another small smile. And with that, they get back to work.

TBC

Thoughts?