Title: The Breeze Deep on the Inside
Fandom: BBC's Sherlock
Ship: Molly Hooper/DI Lestrade
Word Count: 4,800
Rating: R
Warning: One bad word, sexual situations
Disclaimer: They are not mine. The title comes from Duran Duran's Save a Prayer.
A/N: I have no idea where this came from. I'm tempted to blame Rupert Graves. A very big Thank You to fringedweller for the beta and enabling! I hope you enjoy!

Summary: When Molly and DI Lestrade share a drink at a pub, a part of her wonders why he's talking to her. The rest of her doesn't care.

And you wanted to dance so I asked you to dance

It starts over a glass of scotch.

It's close to midnight and she is sitting in the pub a few streets over from St. Bart's. Life post-Jim, Moriarty, whatever, hasn't been easy, but she's getting there. That isn't what brought her to the pub. No, what brought her to the pub was the desire to not go home and to attempt to forget the day she's had. It was absolutely freezing outside and the open fire looked very appealing from the pavement outside. So here she is, sitting at a booth, with a glass of scotch. Scotch because that sounded mature and daring and tough. However...

Molly really isn't a drinker.

At all.

Which is why when DI Lestrade sits down in the chair across from her, her glass is more than half full. Or empty. Depending on how you look at it.

She looks at it as half empty.

"Hi," he says, his coat all rumpled and bags under his eyes. If what she left behind her in the morgue is any indication, he's had a terrible week. "Fancy seeing you here. How are you, Molly?"

"Oh, you know," she says. "Fine. Mostly." She picks up her drink and takes a swallow. It burns and she coughs, her eyes watering and she feels like an idiot.

He smiles. "Not a scotch drinker, then?"

"Not much of any kind of a drinker," she says putting her drink on the table. She makes a face. "I'm not quite sure what I was thinking." Molly bites her lip and slides the glass his way. "Help yourself."

"You sure? Wait, that's not right, let me get you a replacement," he says. He's up and ordering something at the bar before Molly can say anything. She watches him order and notices how tired he looks, tired and yet still...vibrant somehow. Maybe it's the light reflecting off the gray in his hair. Maybe the scotch had more of an impact than she expected. Maybe...

He comes back to the table and hands her a clear glass with bubbles and a thick slice of lime.

"Gin and tonic," he says. "If you're looking for something hard without the burn, I think it'll suit."

"Thank you, inspector," she says.

He cringes. "Ah, god. It's Greg. Or Gregory. Or even Lestrade. I'm off hours," he says. "Finally."

She holds it up and watches the bubbles rise from the bottom of the glass to pop quietly on the surface. Lestrade, Greg, holds up her former glass of scotch.

"Cheers," he says.

"Oh, yes. Cheers," she echoes. She takes an experimental sip and appreciates the light, tart taste.

"Hellish week," he says, downing almost all of the scotch. "Those poor boys. Such a mess."

"Yes, I know," she says remembering the sight of the three young men laid out in her morgue with fresh Y-incisions. The ultimate cause of death had been a gunshot to the head, but how they had been treated prior to their deaths...

"Oh, god, of course you do," he says wincing. "I'm sorry."

She shakes her head. "It's okay."

"No, no, it's not," he says looking her in the eyes. "We always forget about... I'm sorry."

They sip their drinks quietly, until he asks, "How do you... How do you, you know, do it?"

Molly knows exactly what he's talking about. Too many Sunday family dinners have been filled with awkward questions about exactly what she does. Oh, isn't it gross? Isn't it ghastly? What kind of a person are you?

But, his question isn't for shock value or to imply anything, it's pure curiosity.

"I just, do," she says frowning a bit. "I try my best to treat them with more respect than they were shown in life. I like to think I'm...helping, I suppose."

Lestrade, (Greg), nods. "I think I know that feeling." He gives her another look, one that's both compelling and somehow kind. "How is everything else?"

Molly knows what he means. She's well aware that her phone has most likely been tapped and her computer watched since the Moriarty thing. But, the inspector has never been anything but professional and polite.

"It's fine, really," she says.

"Really?"

She sighs and traces the path of a bead of moisture on her glass. "Well, not really. But, it's… better? I guess."

"Well, 'better' is better than worse," he says with a slight grin. She can't help returning the expression.

"How are you?" she asks. "I heard you found the person responsible for the boys today."

"Yeah," he says taking another healthy swallow of the scotch. "He was shockingly easy to find, when I think about it. And we managed to stop him from killing the fourth boy. Just wish..."

"You could have found him sooner?" she offers.

"Yeah," he says looking into his glass at the remaining liquid. "Sooner would have been grand."

Greg finishes off the scotch and eyes her glass.

"Now is that only half full or half empty?" he asks.

Molly actually giggles and says, "I was wondering that earlier."

"And what did you decide on?"

"Half empty."

"Ah, good girl," he says with a nod. "Always lovely to meet another pessimist. Would you like another?"

Molly shakes her head and once again, watches him go to the bar. A part of her wonders why he's talking to her. The rest of her doesn't care.

He comes back with another scotch and they clink their glasses together. Conversation ranges from the case he just finished to where they went to school to the rubbish weather and finally back to the case.

"If I knew what was good for me," he says rubbing at his eyes. "I'd get out of this business and set up a shop somewhere."

"What kind of shop?" she asks.

"No idea," he says. "What do normal people do with themselves these days?"

Molly snorts. "You're asking me?" He gives her a lopsided smile that instantly endears her to him, so she continues, "Come on, you do amazing work. You saved a boy's life today. That's better than normal."

"Maybe," he says nodding his head.

"Surely, that has to be good for you?" she says.

"Oh, hell, I'm a forty-seven year old man with one divorce under my belt, a raging nicotine addiction and I haven't cleaned my sheets in well over a month. Believe me, I've got no bloody idea what's good for me," he says.

Molly shrugs and says without thinking, "Maybe a thirty-one year old pathologist would be good for you."

His eyes widen, while her heart stops. She really can't believe she just said that. She has the urge to shout that it was the gin talking, but she just stares back at him. Because, the truth is - she's really enjoyed talking to him. Of course, she's just ruined it, but it was nice while it lasted.

Molly starts to apologise and reaches for her bag, but stops when she sees the corner of his mouth lift up.

"Maybe it would be," he says his voice low and warm.

She feels a corner of her own mouth lift up.

The next time she sees him, a week has passed and she's in the cafeteria at St. Barts. Her nose is buried in her clipboard, so she doesn't notice him walk up behind her.

"You can be honest with me, you know," he says.

Molly whirls around. "What? Hi! Sorry. What?"

"Hi, yourself," he says smiling. "I was just saying you could be honest with me and tell me whether or not the food on offer here has actually come from one of your lockers downstairs."

A huge smile spreads across her face. "Ah, but that would be telling, detective inspector."

He chuckles and comes to stand next to her while he looks over the food choices. Molly notes that he looks more rested than when she last saw him. She also notes that he smells really rather lovely. Sort of spicy and well, male.

She likes it and does her best not to wonder exactly what she currently smells like.

"What brings you here?" she asks.

"I've got a consult with Dr. Murton, but he's out until after two and I haven't had lunch, so I thought I'd try my luck here." He glances at her and she's surprised to see a sheepish look on his face. "I also stopped by your lab and they said you were on your break, so..."

"Oh! Oh well, in that case," she says feeling an intense blush explode in her cheeks, "I'd try the spaghetti. It's the least offensive to a person's palate."

"Sounds good to me," he says rather cheerfully. "May I join you?"

"O-of course," she says with a smile. They pay for their lunches and Lestrade follows Molly to her usual table by the window.

They eat and talk about nothing in particular for a while. Then Molly asks about his current case, the young woman currently on Molly's list to be examined after her break.

Lestrade makes a face. "On the face of it, it looks rather open and closed, the husband was the one that killed her. He's got motive and means, but his alibi is very tight. And his display of grief was far too real."

"Really?"

"Definitely," he says. "I've seen all sorts of grief and it's much harder to fake than people think. His was real."

Molly frowns and pokes at her side salad. "I had a brief look at her before I came up here. It certainly appears that a blunt object was the cause of death." She bites into a piece of cucumber and chewed thoughtfully. "She smelled like salbutamol."

He looks up from his plate. "Isn't that for asthmatics?"

"Mm hm. I noticed it immediately," she says. "My brother smells like that."

"Hmm." Now it's Lestrade's turn to look thoughtful. "Asthmatic. Interesting." Then he looks back to Molly. "You have a brother?"

"Two, actually," she says with a nod. "One older, one younger."

"Oh dear, middle child, were you?" he asks.

It occurs to her that that is something Sherlock would have said, if he'd taken the time to know her. However, he wouldn't have said it with the underlying touch of teasing. It certainly wouldn't have had the trace of fondness Molly hears in Lestrade's (Greg's) voice.

"Very much so," she says in answer to his question. "What about you?"

"Oldest of four," he replies. They talk about their respective families and then he walks her down to the morgue. He disappears to talk to Dr. Morton, but comes back when she's finished with his murder victim.

When he asks her to dinner, his expression is honest-to-goodness bashful and something pleasant in Molly's chest curls and flutters.

She says 'yes'.

He has to cancel their first date because of a serial killer that's targeting teenage girls and considering she's part of the team doing the autopsies, she doesn't take it personally.

The autopsies are as horrible as she expected them to be.

As she's examining the third girl in as many days, she hears the door behind her swing open. Molly looks over her shoulder and meets Greg's eyes.

"I don't have a report for you yet. It'll be a bit longer, I'm afraid," she says quietly.

"No, I know, it's fine," he says. "Can I just..." He indicates the chair just on the inside of the room and Molly nods.

She turns back to the body in front of her and hears him sigh heavily as he sits down. Ten minutes go by before she takes a look over her shoulder. In spite of herself, she smiles a little at the sight of him asleep, his head at an odd angle on the back of the chair.

Molly finishes her exam. She's pulling off her gloves when he wakes up.

"How long was I out?" he asks rubbing his eyes with the heel of his palms.

"Just under an hour. I'm done," she says. "It's the same as the others. I specifically looked for the things Sherlock asked for in his text earlier and they were all there."

"Of course they were." He groans as he stands up and stretches. His mobile beeps. "Speak of the devil."

Molly manages a small chuckle and washes her hands and arms. Then she rolls her head and scrunches up her shoulders to loosen the muscles.

A warm hand presses gently against her neck and she freezes and tenses up. But, the hand simply makes small circular motions against her tight muscles and she gets the urge to purr.

"They should include daily massages in our benefits package," he murmurs.

"Couldn't agree with you more," she says hitching a breath as he hits a particularly sensitive spot.

Molly feels him take a step closer and realises that if she leans back no more than a few centimetres, she'd be resting against his chest.

His mobile beeps before she can put her theory into practice.

"Damn," he says softly.

The warm hand is gone from her neck and when Molly turns around, he's talking to Sgt. Donovan.

"Yeah, yeah, be right there." He hangs up and looks at her.

She gives him a small smile and says, "The report will be on your desk in about thirty minutes."

"Thank you, Molly." Her name sounds wonderful coming from his mouth. He looks down. "Shall we try the whole date thing next week?"

"You still want to?" is out of her mouth and she cringes at the pitiful question.

But Greg simply nods. "Yes. I still want to."

They (finally) go to a small restaurant that serves extremely good Russian food. Molly's soup and then dumplings are filling and hot and she cannot remember the last time she had such a nice evening out. Seriously, all other good evenings have been wiped out by this one.

Greg is polite, funny, smart, and when she breathes in, she can smell his scent over the smells of their food. She's pretty sure it's not possible, but she thinks he smells better than the food.

When he picked her up from St. Barts (due to one last minute exam that had to be completed before she left), she had just managed to take a quick shower in the locker room which made her hair go slightly wavy with moisture and throw on a dark brown silk wrap dress. He gave her such a once over that her toes curled in her flats and she had to bite her lip.

As he pulled out her chair for her at the restaurant, he murmured into her ear, "You look lovely, by the way."

Molly didn't bother to restrain her smile.

She thinks she's figured out what it is about the inspector that she likes. It's the fact that while they're talking about cases and current events and Sherlock (yes, she can talk about him) and how they haven't been to an actual cinema in ages, they're also eating. Really eating with big bites and she's using the crusty bread to mop up sauce, being all sorts of casual and she doesn't. bloody. care.

At one point, she wonders if she should be acting more lady-like, taking dainty bites and not finishing what's on her plate. But, Greg attempts to steal one of her dumplings and laughing, she aims her fork at his hand and she forgets what she was wondering about.

The weather has taken a turn for the pleasant, so he walks her back to her flat. Molly considers asking him up, but really doesn't want to rush or ruin this.

"I really had a nice time," she says. Then she rolls her eyes, because can she be any more cliché?

But, Greg just chuckles. "So did I. Would you, ah, like to do this again some time?"

"Yes, yes, I'd really love that," she says wondering if her face is going to split from her smiling so much.

"Good." Then he's leaning in and she's leaning in and his lips are touching hers. His hands slide under her open coat and grasp her waist, while her hands rest on his shoulders. At first, his mouth is gentle on hers, but she makes a soft needy noise in the back of her throat and suddenly it's not so gentle and she's taking a step back while he presses into her. Her mouth opens under his as her back meets the door. After a couple of minutes, he pulls away and she loves the dazed look on his face and how swollen his lips look. He must like the look of her, because he gives her a quick grin and swoops back down to capture her lips with his own.

Finally, after both their coats are halfway off and Molly's lips feel chapped in the most wonderful of ways, he pulls away completely.

"I should go," he says his voice gravelly and unsteady.

"Yeah, you probably should," she says, her heart pounding and her body telling her she's an idiot and to get that man upstairs and in her bed right this instant.

"Good night," he says as he walks backwards down her steps.

"Good night," she returns.

He stands on her pavement making sure she goes inside and locks the door. Molly dashes up to her flat and with trembling fingers unlocks her door. She drops her keys on the floor in her haste to get to the window. He's still standing there and when he sees her, he waves. She waves back and then watches him walk down the street to the Underground station. She's pretty sure the spring in his step isn't imagined.

Molly spends the next thirty minutes dancing around her flat to every pop song she has.

Life goes on.

She continues to work.

He continues to work.

They go on dates when they can, usually at small restaurants with good, hearty food. The one time they go to the cinema, they end up snogging madly like Molly has never done before in her life before Greg's mobile beeps and he has to go check out a body that's just turned up on someone's doorstep.

They haven't gone past the kissing furiously stage and Molly's quite all right with that. Although, it's been getting harder and harder to pull away (pun is most definitely intended).

He meets her for coffee at St. Barts whenever he's there for a consult and he actually does his best to send her things during the weeks in which he can't see her. One day she got flowers, another day it was a postcard with the London Eye on the front.

Her favourite was the seventy-two year old man with no visible cause of death.

Molly wonders if she should consider the baffling autopsies as gifts, but considering he always wants to know what she found out, even if it wasn't his case directly, she decides that she's being wooed.

She likes it.

The one thing that they haven't really talked about, at least not in a serious sense, is Moriarty. Lestrade knows, of course, technically what happened. Molly knows she can talk to him about it. She knows that he understands. What she doesn't know is how he feels about the fact that she dated a man that used her to get close to Sherlock Holmes, the man she formerly had a terrible, terrible crush on.

So, leave it to Sherlock to be the one to make them finally confront the evil elephant mastermind in the room.

She's busy preserving some samples for a colleague when Sherlock strides in, throwing his coat in one direction, and rolling up his sleeves.

"I hear you have a male, early forties, from the crime scene this morning, may I?" He heads towards the body on the table without waiting for an answer.

"Knock yourself out," she says with a chuckle and a shake of her head.

He does something with the man's foot and mutters to himself. Then he stops and turns to look at Molly. His eyes narrow.

"You're happy," he says with the manner of a man accusing someone of something rather heinous.

Molly looks at him, her eyes wide. "Um, yes? Yes. I suppose I am."

"Why?" he asks. "No wait. Your hair is pulled up but not too severely, your eyes are somewhat bright, there are flowers on your desk and you were humming when I entered. You're seeing someone."

Molly feels a blush and not a little irritation coming on. "As a matter of fact, yes, I am seeing someone."

"Who?" he asks sharply.

"That is none of your business," she says with a frown.

"Considering the fate of your last relationship and the fact that it ended up being very much my business, I believe you should tell me this instant if you are, in fact, seeing someone who might again target me for their own amusement," he says far too matter-of-factly.

Molly is horrified. Her cheeks burn and her eyes sting with tears. She swallows hard and says with a thick voice, "That is a hateful, hateful thing to say."

"It's not hateful, Molly, it's prudent," he says with an exasperated sigh. "Now who are you seeing?"

"She's seeing me," a voice says from behind her.

Molly turns her head and sees Lestrade standing very straight, glaring at Sherlock.

"Ah, Lestrade. Should have known," Sherlock says turning back to the dead body. "That explains the cat hair on your coat."

Molly feels as though her stomach is going to revolt on her any second and her throat is aching with stopped up sobs.

"Excuse me," she manages to say before leaving the room.

She hears Greg say her name, but she doesn't stop. Once she's in the loo, she lets the sobs free. They wrack her frame and she buries her face in her hands. But, only for a minute. Then she wipes her eyes and washes her face. She looks at herself in the mirror.

Sherlock was right. Her hair is pulled back, but not too severely. Her eyes are bright (well, now the brightness is due to her crying) and she was humming when he entered.

She's happy.

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade is making her happy.

Damn it, she's going to own this.

She lifts her chin and heads back to the bay.

Lestrade is listening to Sherlock explain something about the body and taking notes.

Sherlock finishes up with "...do you see?"

Lestrade nods. "Yeah, yeah that makes sense. We'll look into it. By the way, don't you ever interrogate her like that again."

Molly feels her breath catch.

Sherlock simply raises his head and looks at Lestrade. The two men stare at each other. Then Sherlock rolls his eyes. "Very well, Lestrade. I approve actually. You've been far more perceptive since you've started seeing her."

Lestrade glares at him and Molly chooses that moment to walk in. "Did you notice the needle marks between his toes? It's possible he was using heroin," she says nonchalantly.

"When will we get the tox screen back?" Lestrade asks her.

"Should be ready in an hour," she tells him.

"Well, I'll leave you to your sweet nothings," Sherlock says. "Let me know if anything fun turns up."

And with a scoop of his coat into his arms, he's out the door.

The door swings in his wake and for a moment, that's the only sound in the bay.

"Molly..." Lestrade starts to say. She holds up a hand to stop him.

"I'm not in love with Sherlock Holmes," she says looking into his eyes. "And yes, I dated a psychopath, who pretended to be a gay man who pretended to like me. I'm not what you might call, um, well-adjusted. But, I'm getting there." She looks away. "I just know that I like you. I like being with you."

"Good," he says firmly. "Because, I'm hardly well-adjusted myself and I like being with you, too."

"Good," Molly repeats feeling a smile coming on. He takes a step towards her with his I'm-intending-to-snog-you-senseless look and his mobile beeps. He groans dramatically and Molly laughs.

"Dinner, my place, Saturday," she says quickly before he answers. Greg grins and winks at her as he answers his mobile as he walks out the door.

Molly makes Guinness stew for dinner with Greg. She could have opted for something fancier, but she's noticed that he loves potatoes and they could both use some meat on their bones.

He has one bite and gives her a look of such unadulterated joy at the taste, she feels flushed from her head to her toes.

They finish dinner and move to her sofa with their tea. Toby, her cat, jumps up immediately to inspect the new person in his home. Greg scratches behind his ear and under his chin and Toby begins to purr.

"Should I take this as a good sign?" Greg asks. "Your cat liking me?"

Molly can't help but remember who else Toby has liked in the past and says a bit wryly, "To be honest, he's a bit of a tart for anyone who rubs under his chin."

Greg laughs and says, "Well, so am I, when you come down to it."

"Is that right?" she asks softly.

He turns to her and somehow they manage to start kissing without spilling their tea all over themselves. She got her hand on the buttons of his shirt and he's kissing her neck when he mumbles against her skin, "Molly. Molly, do you..."

"Dear God, yes" she says.

They stumble to her bedroom and fall onto her bed, losing bits of clothing as they go. He's lean yet muscular under his button-down and Molly trails her hands over his chest. Her shirt is whipped off of her and thrown in the direction of the floor. He presses open-mouthed kisses to her throat and down to the edge of her bra. His warm breath teases her through the material of her bra and Molly shivers and digs her fingers into his back and neck. Greg just chuckles before covering her nipple with his mouth. Molly gasps and arches her back.

There is more teasing and touching and gasping and a few threats when he takes far too long in removing her knickers. But, then he's inside her and she's on top of him rocking slowly. Her hair is coming loose from its elastic and she finally just pulls it free. Greg's eyes widen and his face transforms as her hair falls around her face.

"God, you're so lovely," he says, his hands cupping her face gently. "So fucking lovely."

Molly comes with their foreheads touching and their lips brushing against each other.

Afterwards, they lay on her bed with the duvet just covering their lower bodies. She has her head on his chest and his hand is lazily gliding up and down her spine.

She feels glorious. Every nerve is singing his praises and she still wants him. It occurs to her that she could have him again. There isn't actually a rule preventing her from jumping him.

"Should I be worried about that particularly naughty grin you're sporting?" he asks.

"Mmm, I was just considering jumping your bones," she says.

"Oh, I'm all in favour of that," he says. "Just give me a minute. I'm not a young man anymore."

"Psh, you're bloody fantastic and you know it," she says pressing a kiss to his chin. "Stop fishing."

"Hmph," is all he says, but he pulls her closer and entwines her legs with his.

"You know the girls in the lab think you're quite fit," she says.

"Do they really?" he asks, looking at her.

Molly nods and runs her hand over his chest. "I believe the term is 'silver fox'."

He snorts and says, "Blimey," then presses a kiss to her forehead, then her cheek and then her mouth. They kiss lazily for a while and end up with Molly on her back and Greg on top. Her knees come up on either side of his hips as they start to move against each other.

Greg stops and gives her a look with the trace of a smirk in it. "You do realise that you-know-who is going to have a field day when we see him next."

Molly adjusts her hips to feel the weight of him against her and what she says next is merely a reflection of the contentment and happiness she's feeling.

"Let him."