I have found myself in the strange position of being asked by several people to extend this one shot. As one of those people is one of my best friends (hi there, Jen!), I suppose I had better, or she will eat me. This is going to be the only time I'll add to this story, as I really don't have enough plot bunnies to carry on beyond this. However, I do have several ideas for some Sherlock/OC stories, which I plan to make a start on in the relatively near future.
Song is 'Hurricane' by Panic At The Disco, on their latest album Vices and Virtues (which I am currently addicted to). I suggest you go find that and listen to it while you read :D
As always, review!
Saskia xxx
PS. Rating has changed from K+ to T, due to err...suggestiveness? I think I've skirted around the issue quite well, personally...

~Molly POV~

We arrive back at my flat. My hands shake as I fumble with the key – what was about to happen? From his...suggestive manner...I somehow doubted it would be a gossip over a mug of coffee then an innocent peck before he left. I finally succeed in unlocking my door, offering up a giddy prayer of thanks that I had cleaned up a couple of days ago as I usher him through the door. He walks into my cluttered, but clean living room, hands clasped behind his back as he surveys my home. I realise as I shut the door that I needn't have worried about the mess – he lives in Baker Street in true bachelor fashion. I couldn't out-mess him if I tried. I catch sight of myself in the mirror as I pull my coat off and inwardly groan. My hair hangs around my shoulders in a typically unruly way. Dark shadows circle my eyes, and my skin is ghostly pale in comparison. I look hideous, but at the same time, I sort of...glow...in a very happy, smug and self-satisfied way.

I mean, how many girls could honestly say they'd succeeded in getting Sherlock Holmes back to their flat with some sort of romantic connotation?
Hang on...
How many girls' flats had he gone back to? I was assuming this was completely out of character for him, but now I realise that I barely know his...habits at all! What is I was the most recent girl in a long line? I bite my lip anxiously.

"You're not." Sherlock comes up behind me, removing his scarf and coat and hanging them next to mine. He must be planning on staying a while then...
"Not what?" I ask uncertainly, telling myself that there was no way he could know what I had been thinking. Oh, who was I kidding? This is Sherlock Holmes, after all! Of course he knew what I was thinking – he probably knew better that I knew it myself!
"This is the first time I've returned to a woman's flat or house with her since my early twenties." He smiles at me, and I blink in shock. He never fails to surprise me.
"Been a while, then?" He looks at me, raising an eyebrow, and I suddenly realise was I just said. "I didn't mean that! I meant..." I trail off as he smirks at me. "Oh, never mind." I huff. "So did you want coffee?" His eyes become uncharacteristically soft, and he lifts my chin up with his fingertips, looking at me intently.
"You're angry, frustrated...why?" he asks, his voice devoid of its usual mocking undertone. I sigh.
"Being around you...it always makes me feel so stupid, and then I say such silly things..." I feel myself blush as a slow grin spreads across his face.
"You are silly, Molly Hooper. But you're nowhere near stupid." He says, and I smile, my cheeks still pink. "You'll have to forgive my...unusual uncertainty...in this situation. I haven't really found myself caring about a person's...a woman's...feelings for a long time. It's a bit foreign to me." My eyes widen. Sherlock cares about my feelings? More amazingly...
Sherlock admitting he doesn't know it all? That he doesn't really know what to do, that for once, I might actually have more knowledge on a subject than him? Wow. This is surreal. Surely someone slipped something in my coffee earlier, because this simply could not be happening to me.
"Coffee would be lovely, Molly." He murmurs, his face inches from mine – it was only his height that stopped our lips from touching. I swallow harshly.

~Sherlock POV~ (A/N I had one review for the first instalment of this story which said that Sherlock's character seemed a little all over the place. I'll try my best to keep him better in character here – hopefully this will help explain his strange affectionate behaviour towards Molly).

"Coffee would be lovely, Molly." My voice becomes husky without my meaning it to, and Molly instantly becomes flustered, squirming and turning a flattering shade of pink. She swallows nervously, and I draw back to allow her heart to return to its normal rate. She steps around me and leads the way to her small kitchen, filling the kettle with water, (futilely hoping that I wouldn't notice her shaking hands) and preparing two cups. I fold my arms across my chest as I lean against the doorframe, watching her. I open my mind palace, and study my actions.
Emotions.
That's the only word that can explain how I am behaving. More specifically.
Affection.
Compassion.
Lo-
No. I do not love Molly Hooper. I am not capable of love, I established that long ago. So what was responsible for the surge of testosterone I felt passing through my bloodstream? It certainly couldn't be lust – lust is based on appearance, and she is hardly the most attractive of people (her mouth is too small, likewise her breasts, so definitely not the stereotypical 'beautiful' or 'sexy'). So what? I recall Irene Adler's words...'Brainy is the new sexy'. Was that it? I was attracted to her intellect?
For the first time in a long time, I was confused.
When she kissed me, something stirred within me. Something that hadn't stirred in a long time, not even when Adler was parading around in front of me wearing nothing but a pair of stilettos (Christian Louboutins, her favourites judging by the level of wear on the soles). I had found myself responding to her kiss, subconsciously reaching for her in the same way that she was reaching for me. I usually refrain from doing things without a purpose – I play violin to help me think, I watch crap TV to gently exercise my brain when I have nothing better to do. But I had nothing to gain by kissing Molly – nothing apart from the appealing rush of testosterone and the overjoyed look on her face when I pulled away. And then I threw it all out of the window by coming back with her to her flat – I knew what my body wanted to do, knew it with uncomfortable certainty. She was right, it had been a while. Not since university. I had thought that it didn't bother me. But maybe I was wrong.
I blink.
Conclusion?
I was attracted to Molly Hooper, and in the way that hinted at commitment rather than a 'fling'. Possibly that referred to commitment to a mental asylum rather than to her, but I'm sure that this is where I want to be right now.
"Molly?" I stand up straight as she turns around, preparing to pour the kettle. "Never mind the coffee." I walk towards her, focussed as she sets the kettle down, turning to me with a look of disappointment on her face. She thinks that I'm about to leave. Not. A. Chance.
"Oh, aren't you staying for a while then?" She speaks cheerfully, but it's forced. I stop in front of her, cupping her face between my hands. Her breath hitches in her throat.
"I rather thought that we could spend our time more productively than consuming needless caffeine." I barely see her face before I lower my lips to hers. It doesn't take long for her to be guiding us through a door to her bedroom, our lips never parting for more than a few seconds. My usually critical and emotionless mind is screaming at me, but I turn away from it, shut the door behind us.

No more thinking.

~Molly POV~

Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God, oh my God. I have no words. I cannot...I don't think...I can't think...no coherent sentences from this Molly, who is being kissed by Sherlock Holmes, who's slipping her hands under Sherlock Holmes' shirt, whose blouse is being swiftly unbuttoned by Sherlock Holmes...
Oh my God. I can't believe this. It's not exactly been recent for me – what if I do something wrong? Oh, shit...will he have a condom? I don't know if I have any in my drawer! What if...
No. Shush, Molly. You've been on the Pill for months, and you can always go to the chemist's in the morning. Just...go with it! You've been waiting for this for years!

No more thinking!

Are you worth your weight in gold? Cos you're behind my eyelids when I'm all alone. Hey, stranger, I want ya to catch me like a cold. You and God both got the guns, and if you shoot I think I'll duck. I led the revolution in my bedroom, and I set all the zippers free, we said no more war, no more clothes, give me peace...oh, kiss me.
Hey, hey, we are a hurricane, drop our anchors in the storm, hey, they will never be the same, a fire in a flask to keep us warm, cos they know, I know, that they don't look like me, cos they know, I know that they don't sound like me...
You'll dance to anything, you'll dance to anything!

-8 hours later-

I wake up in an empty bed. I sigh. I dreamt it. I must have. I roll over under the covers...wait, if that was a dream, why am I only in my underwear? I inhale deeply...and why does my pillow smell like Sherlock? I sit up quickly.
It wasn't a dream. I wasn't on drugs. Last night...actually happened. I blush as I remember some of the more intimate details – who'd've known that Sherlock Holmes would know that? I stand up, swaying slightly on my feet. I look around for something to cover my body up with, and my eyes settle on a crumpled purple shirt lying on the floor. Well...he was hardly going to complain?

...

Okay, definitely dreaming. There's no way that Sherlock would be standing in my kitchen in his pants and nothing else in anything other than my wildest dreams. Or hallucinations. I rub my eyes, and he's still standing there. He turns to face me, eyes running up and down my body, taking in my bare legs, and his shirt that comes down to my thighs. He smirks, raising an eyebrow.
Not dreaming. That looks too perfect for my brain to come up with.
"Oh, shut up." I mumble, sitting down on a chair by the counter he was working at. He's doing toast. Sherlock is toasting bread to make toast in my kitchen.
"I said nothing." He says smoothly. He turns and presses his lips to my ear. "Hardly an improvement on last night, but I definitely prefer this look to your normal daywear." He almost growls, and I blush again. Being around...with...him made me feel like I was constantly being slapped in the face. I fight the urge to wrap my arms around his neck and carry on where we left off last night and lean back, crossing my legs casually.
"So." I say, trying to work out how to phrase my queries.
"So?" He asks, catching the toast as it pops up without even looking.
"So...well..." I knit my fingers together, my timid persona taking over. He sighs, and touches my face.
"I thought we were past your stuttering and nervousness." He chides softly. I inhale deeply.
"So...what are we?" He frowns. "I mean, obviously we...spent the night together...but was it just that? Because if it was, then fine. I can handle that. I just didn't know if that was going to be all, or if-" I begin to babble, and he rests a long finger over my lips (causing a new wave of memories from last night to engulf my brain – memories regarding that finger...oooh...).
"I don't do one night stands, Molly. I never have done." He pauses, looking as though he's searching for words. "I...do like you, Molly. And I don't want this to just be a...fleeting thing. At the same time..."
"You don't want to be my boyfriend." I finish for him. I should've known. He shakes his head.
"No, it's not that. I just don't think I'd be a very good...boyfriend." I look away. "Molly, I want to be with you. Don't ask me why, because I'm not entirely sure myself, but I know that you're not someone who I want to let go. Especially not after last night." I smile in spite of myself. "So how about we say this. We're...together. And no more labels. Labels give benchmarks, and standards to live up to, and expectations that I know I could never meet. But let's say together. And we'll take each day as it comes." I look back at him, my eyes shining involuntarily. I nod, giving into temptation and kissing him, pressing myself against his bare chest (oooh, his bare chest is rather lovely). His arms snake round my waist, and the toast is completely forgotten.

-One hour later-

I roll onto my back, breathing heavily. He's lying next to me, naturally seeming infinitely more composed than I am. I push my hair off my face, trying to control my heartbeat.
"That was...pretty..." I begin.
"Amazing? Unbelievable? Fantastic? Enjoyable?" He offers.
"All of the above." I laugh, and look at him. I swear he has never been more beautiful. A thought occurs to me, and I prop myself up on my side. "Sherlock?"
"Mmmm?" He answers, absentmindedly tracing patterns on my back (which is pretty distracting...)
"You've always said you were asexual etcetera...so where the hell did you learn that?" I exclaim. He grins at me wickedly.
"I read fanfiction." My mouth drops open in shock as he stands up, stretching and allowing me full view of...him. "So. How about that coffee?"

A/N2: Okay, I couldn't resist. This is romance/HUMOUR after all. Hope you enjoyed, will NOT be posting anymore (sorry Jen!), and please review (that means you too, Jen!)
-SM (no, I'm not referring to kinky sex, those are my initials...) xx