I think this is the end of the sass, but I dunno. And I'm kind of upset that people've been reading Sherlock as gay in this story. I put it under Sherlock/Molly because it's a shippy Sherlock/Molly story, not anything else. If you've been reading him as gay, please keep that to yourself if you review.

Enjoy!

She knew it was impulsive and she'd more than likely get hurt in the end, but she willingly jumped into the bizarre relationship Sherlock offered to have with her. He would get bored with her when he ran out of excitement over her hair and her willingness to let him do as he would with it—it was flattering to be his muse at the moment, but something kept her reluctant to believe this could last in the long-term.

He appreciated her though, getting her to sit in the room during appointments. Some of his clients gave her a wary eye, but Sherlock waved away their concerns. "Sometimes my tastes go a little too high fashion, Molly is here to help me keep my wits," or something along those lines was his typical response. Molly found she liked her pixie bob and the blue Sherlock and chosen, but he steadfastly refused to keep it short for her. They'd bickered a little bit over it, not very seriously but the topic did surface from time to time.

"Molly, we are progressing from short to long to let you see your hair. Probably for the first time in your life—once you've grown it out long again, we can bring this back. Though," he put one arm around her waist and lightly touched her jaw with his free hand, "this bob is certainly fetching on you. I might have to do wicked things to you later on when you get back from work."

And he did to wicked things to her.

His self-admitted favorite was going down on her—and Molly couldn't deny that she loved him for the way he could drive her mad and the way his hair sliding between her fingers—but Molly loved it when she was on top and looking at him through her blue bangs and his curly hair was stuck to his forehead with sweat. She loved the way he clutched her hips so tightly when she came around him and nearly drove him over the edge himself—and she loved it more when he dug his fingers deeper when he lost it entirely. Her friends sometimes asked her out of the corner of their mouths—but he's a hairstylist, isn't he gay as a goose? Molly would blush crimson as she refuted their assumptions.

At parties his brother forced him to go to—Mycroft Holmes was something of an unspoken leader in British fashion—Molly's hands weren't her own. Sherlock held her hand, or slung an arm around her lower back while his hip jutted into hers. He wouldn't move more than a foot from her for the evening. Needless to say she'd never come back from getting drinks to find him flirting or being flirted with by another woman.

Still Molly worried that once their project with her hair was over he would leave her. He got bored with his clients all the time—and she'd started off as his client.

"Molly," his voice woke her up from the light doze she'd dropped into after waking up briefly one morning. The sunlight from his window was warm on her front, and Sherlock was curled around her back keeping her doubly warm. She put her hands over his arm and squeezed once to let him know she was awake. She'd been dead tired recently, and hadn't had a good solid breakfast for weeks. She knew why, of course, but she hadn't told Sherlock yet. The worry still lingered that she was his project and muse and nothing more.

"Molly I—" she fought for a little more clarity through her drowse and turned over to face him. Sherlock held her closer, his lips just an inch from her own as he spoke.

"We should get old together. I'd like to get married—to you. It's sudden, but I was watching you sleep this morning as the sun came up and I realized I don't ever want to wake up alone or have you wake up in some other man's house. There was plenty of time for that before you met me, but now we're…us."

Molly smiled and kissed him, reaching up to thread her fingers through his curls.

"You're much better at hair than words, Sherlock. But yes, getting married would be lovely. Though I don't know who I'll be able to book to get my hair done," her tone turned teasing, "My stylist will be busy that day." He laughed at that and leaned her back so he could settle on top of her, balancing on his elbows.

"Well, maybe he won't be too busy to see his favorite client?"

"I think it's going to be clients unless we get married in the next six months." That brought him up short for only a moment before a truly wolfish grin swept over his face. Molly felt something inside her that had been tense relax as Sherlock leaned down to kiss her.

"I'm going to have to raise my rates to pay for nappies and a ring." She gasped and swatted him.

"Only you would bring those two up in the same sentence!"

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