Archive of Our Own

Hero Worship

“You’re wrong, you know. You do count.  You’ve always counted and I’ve always trusted you…”

“What do you need?”

“If I wasn’t everything you think I am, everything I think I am, would you still want to help me?”

“What do you need?”

“You.”

Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper, Sherlock, “The Reichenbach Fall”

It had been five days since Sherlock Holmes had faked his death with her help, and Molly Hooper was a nervous wreck.

The reason she was a nervous wreck was currently standing in her kitchen, frowning at a box of cereal.  “How on earth do you eat this?” Sherlock asked her.  “It’s got more chemicals in it than your lab.  You’re a scientist more or less: you should know better.”

“And good morning to you, too, Sherlock,” Molly answered, suppressing the urge to flinch at his criticism and assessment of her occupation.

He blinked.

“I eat it because it’s high in fiber, low in cholesterol, and tastes good,” she told him.  “And at least when I die I’ll be well preserved.”

He tossed the box into the trash.  “Get something better.  I don’t eat that rubbish, and neither should you.”

“I’m so glad you’re looking out for my welfare.”

He glanced at her sharply.  “Are you being sarcastic?”

“Yeah,” she said simply, and walked past him to take a shower, leaving a confused and ever-so-slightly intrigued Sherlock in her wake.

She sighed as she stepped into the shower.  She hadn’t meant to be cross, but having him living with her was wearing on her.  Oh, in some ways it was a dream come true: Sherlock needing her, staying with her, using her as a lifeline to the world.  But after five days of it Molly was coming to realize that all that glittered wasn’t gold. It wasn’t even iron pyrite.

Fool’s gold, she snorted.  The only fool around the flat was her, for allowing herself to think for even one second that he had changed at all since what happened, that maybe he could see her in a different light now.  No chance of that.  She’d always be Molly, the ordinary plain girl he looked through instead of at. 

And yet, she couldn’t get his words out of her mind.

The night he’d come to her for help planning and executing the scheme to save him.  Telling her she’d always counted and he’d always trusted her.  That he needed her.  How could she have said no?  At that point she’d have crawled over broken glass and walked into a gas fire if he’d said it would help him.  

Then, that first night he’d stayed.  He’d been tense, restless, and he had that haunted look in his eyes. At first he’d wanted to be alone. Then he’d kept her up half the night talking, finally stopping when she almost fell to the floor from exhaustion…

“Sorry,” she muttered.  “So tired…”

He raised his eyebrows. “You should get some sleep,” he said.

She nodded, started to stand up and almost fell again.

He sighed, but it wasn’t an irritated sound like usual.  He put an arm around her waist to steady her and walked her to her bedroom.  He propped her up against a wall while he turned down her covers, then to her amazement he put her to bed.

“You’ll feel better in the morning,” he said brusquely.

“No I won’t,” she murmured, half asleep.

He blinked twice.  “Why not?”

“Because… you won’t…”

And she’d passed out cold.

Molly shivered in the shower despite the heat of the water.  She wished she had never made that wish so many months ago, to have the chance to be close to him.  Being close to him was like being apart from him.  She felt the pain either way, but which was the lesser of the two evils she couldn’t say.

When she had showered, dressed and gone back into the kitchen, he was sitting at the table sipping some tea.  “I left you some water in the kettle,” he told her, not looking up from the newspaper.

“Thank you.”  She made herself some tea and toast, since he’d thrown away the cereal, and sat across from him, glancing at him occasionally as he read.

“Anything new?” she asked.

He snorted.  “The usual mix of vile sensationalism with the slightest hint of truth.”

“Are they still writing about you?”

His hand clenched slightly, but his face remained smooth.  “No.  They got what they wanted from me.  My death and my funeral.  Dead people are boring to the media.”

She dared reach across the table and touch his arm.  He jerked his head up and his eyes met hers.

“I’m sorry,” she said, withdrawing her hand.

“For my plight, or for touching me?”

“I… I’m just sorry.”

Molly got up quickly before she embarrassed herself again.  “I’ll be late getting home tonight,” she told him.  “There’s some dinner in the takeaway box in the fridge.”

She hadn’t taken three steps before she found him standing close in front of her.  Too close, she realized: so close she could see the glitter in his eyes. She forced herself not to back up.

“Why?”

She tried to deflect.  “Why is there dinner for you in a takeaway box?”

“This is hardly the time for you to try and learn to be clever, Molly,” he said, the intensity of his voice making her tremble.  “Why will you be getting home late tonight?”

For a second she considered lying to him.  But she never had and she wasn’t about to start now.  

“I have a date,” she told him, lifting her chin higher as if daring him to comment.

A muscle twitched near his mouth.  “A date.”

“Yes.  A date.”

“I’m supposed to be dead, staying here with you for safety, and you’re going out on a date?”

“I hadn’t planned on moving him in tonight,” she replied defensively.

“So when are you planning on moving him in?”

“I’m not!  It’s our first date!”

He snorted again.  “Probably some tabloid reporter trying to get new information about me to dredge up more interest.”

Sherlock realized his mistake four seconds too late.

All the color drained from Molly’s face. “You bastard,” she whispered.  “You selfish, uncaring, arrogant bastard.”

He had the good sense to appear slightly alarmed.  “Molly…”

“So that’s it?  That’s the only reason a man could be interested in me?  To get some details about a disgraced dead detective?”

“I didn’t mean it that way-”

“Then how did you mean it?  Because it seemed pretty clear to me,” she interrupted, blood coming back to her face as she got more furious.  “Oh, well, what man could possibly be interested in stupid little Molly Hooper, who can’t make a decent conversation and acts like a silly schoolgirl around the great Sherlock Holmes?”

He took a step back, shocked at the intensity of her emotions.  She followed him and took another step closer, close enough for him to see the full effect his words had caused.

“Well, let me tell you something, Sherlock Holmes,” she said, her voice calm and strong.  “I might not be anywhere near as clever as you, but I’m not stupid.  I am an intelligent, passionate, funny and kind human being, and anyone would be lucky to have me.  Which is more than I can say about you.”

He stared at her in amazement and something else she couldn’t read.  She grabbed her purse and walked away from him.  

“Molly…”

She turned at the archway to the hall.  “I’ll see you tonight.”

He heard the door slam a moment later and dragged himself to his seat, tossing the paper aside. He needed to think.

Right.

First off, she wasn’t throwing him out, didn’t want him to leave, knew he wouldn’t.  Otherwise she’d not have said she’d see him tonight.

But she was angry.  No.  Livid. And hurt.  Deeply hurt.  Why did he always seem to feel the need to cut her to the quick?  He didn’t hate her, didn’t dislike her.  He trusted her with his life.  She mattered to him.  So why did he, as she’d told him at the Christmas party, always say such horrible things to her?

Come to think of it, he did the exact same thing to John.

And Lestrade.

Never to Mrs. Hudson, but that was probably out of deference to her age.

But usually to John.  And Molly.

The Christmas party.  He’d been horrible.  All his contemptuous comments, all his derisive deducting, only to learn that the gift had been for him.  And though his apology had been sincere, it shouldn’t have been necessary.  It shouldn’t have happened.

He was abrupt, rude, and disdainful to anyone he was in contact with for more than two minutes.  One minute if they talked too much.  It wasn’t something he planned.  It was simply who he was.  And people who knew him at all, they knew that, didn’t they?  They knew what they were in for with him.  It wasn’t his fault if they chose to stay.  

All true, but with one small problem.  Their devotion and friendship didn’t make his behavior right.

“Friends protect you,” John had said to him that night before the fall.  John certainly had protected him; many times.  Mrs. Hudson, Mycroft (at times, in his own way), Lestrade, and Molly.  All of them had gone above and beyond for him.  And he repaid them by being… what had Molly called him?

“Oh, yes.  A selfish, uncaring, arrogant bastard,” he said aloud.

Except he wasn’t.  Well, he was arrogant.  And selfish.  Not a bastard, though.  And despite all his words about sentiment, he wasn’t uncaring.  Just careless.  With other people’s feelings.

And now he’d hurt Molly.  Again.  Molly, who had always been there for him unconditionally, sacrificed her time, home and safety for him.  Molly, whom despite earlier remarks he’d made since meeting her, he did not think was unattractive, or stupid.  If not for her, his ruse wouldn’t have worked, and maybe he really would be dead.

And he had repaid her for all this by being an ass.  Again.

Sherlock sighed.  John would be proud of me right now, thinking about someone else’s feelings, he thought.  Or have me committed.  Maybe both.

“Molly Hooper, what have I done?” he asked.  Naturally, there was no answer.

Even more importantly, how could he un-do it?

A kiss on the cheek wasn’t going to suffice this time, he knew that much.  It had been too hurtful for too long.  But what could he do?  What could he give her that could possibly earn her forgiveness, and be deserving of it?

His eyes lit up.  Of course.  She was going on a date.  With some fool reporter that only wanted to use her.  He couldn’t let that happen.  She was his friend: he had to protect her.

He stopped, shocked at what he had just thought, playing it again in his head to be sure he’d heard himself correctly.

She was his friend.

Right.  Well…. he’d analyze that more later.  At the moment, he had to deduce where and when the date would take place and figure out a way to stop it without leaving her flat.

He smiled.  It wasn’t exactly a mystery to solve, but it would give him something to do.  And think of how happy and grateful Molly would be when he ruined her evening!

Molly smiled at Terance as he pulled out her chair and waited until she sat down before helping her closer to the table and taking his seat across from her.  “Thank you,” she said.  It was so nice, being around a man who wasn’t sneering or ranting or making her feel like a complete idiot.  A man who was nice and maybe liked her. 

Terance smiled at her.  “I’m just glad you could come to dinner with me.  I was afraid you’d say no.”

Molly took a sip of water.  “Really?  Why?”

“Well, you’re smart, and pretty… you’ve the most amazing eyes.  I reckoned you had a boyfriend.”

She almost laughed, but stopped herself in time.  It wouldn’t do to appear pathetic, even if sometimes she was.  “No.  No boyfriend.”

“All the better for me, then,” he smiled again.

Molly returned the smile.  So far, so good.  And she didn’t have to worry about Sherlock demanding her help in the lab, or letting him in the morgue.  All was right in the world.

Except for an angry-looking woman heading straight for their table.

A very angry looking woman.

The blonde walked up to Terance, and he smiled nervously.  “Can I help you?” 

“You’re damn right you can, you little cheat!”  She snarled, snatching up a glass of water and tossing it into his face.  “How dare you bring another woman to out favorite restaurant!”

Terance paled, Molly gasped, and the dining room fell silent.

“Molly, I swear I don’t know this woman,” he began.

“Don’t know me? How can you say that?”  The blonde looked at Molly.  “Two years, I’ve been with him! And this.  Don’t worry, honey, I don’t blame you,” she added, as Molly began to lose some color.  “I know what scum men can be.”

“She’s lying,” Terance insisted.  “Molly, you’ve got to believe me!”

Molly glanced at him, then the blonde, then her eyes narrowed.  She sighed.

“You know, it’s OK, Terance,” she told him, getting up.  “Really.  It’s fine.”

“I’m telling you the truth!”

“Oh, I know you are,” Molly muttered as she walked away.  “That’s why you’re not the one I’m going to punch in the face.”

She didn’t open the front door to her flat so much as pound it open with a fist.  She tossed her purse and keys down and stormed into the kitchen.  She didn’t know how she knew that’s where he’d be, but she did.

He was sitting at the table, typing something into her laptop, the takeaway container open beside him along with a cup of tea.  He looked up and moved the laptop away as she stood looking down at him with an angry scowl.

“Well, you’re back awfully early,” he said, voice almost cheerful.  “Must have been a quick date.  I see you’ve not eaten: would you like some takeaway?”

She snatched up the container and hurled the contents into his face.

As the box fell away he blinked, dim sum dripping off his cheeks and sliding down his chin.  He frowned up at her.  “Most people would’ve simply said no.”

“You ass,” she spat.  “You damnable ass.  You did it, didn’t you?”

“Molly, I’ve no idea what you’re talking about,” he said, grabbing every napkin within reach to wipe the food off his face and chest.

“Yes you bloody well do!  You figured out where I was going for dinner with Terance and got that woman to ruin everything! Don’t lie to me or I swear the next thing in your face will be my fist!”

“Yes,” he said simply.  “I did.  I saved you from being taken advantage of by a tabloid trash leech.  It might have taken several dates for you to figure it out, and I didn’t want to expose either of us to that risk.”  He put down the napkins and smiled at her.  “You’re welcome, by the way.”

All Molly could do was stare at him.  “How do you know he was a tabloid reporter?”

“Please,” he sighed, rolling his eyes.  “You left the e-mail with the meeting details in your inbox.  How hard do you think it is to look someone up?  He’s with the Mirror.  Just started last week, and likely eager to make a name for himself.  Really, Molly, do you not Google any of the men who ask you out?  You really should start.”

She broke free of her mental stupor.  “You looked in my e-mails?”

“Of course I did.  That was the easiest place to start.  And you’re not deceptive or concealing by nature, so I knew it was highly probable that I’d find what I needed there.  I would’ve enjoyed more of a challenge, but it was a nice diversion for about ten minutes.”

“Nice diversion.  A nice diversion?  This is my life you’re playing with, Sherlock!”

“You seem upset,” he said, confused.

“I am upset, you idiot!”

“For what?  For saving you from that man?  Terance Smith, what kind of a name is that, anyway?  He was too pretty, he probably has more hair care products in one drawer than you do in your entire bathroom.”

“That doesn’t matter!  You should’ve let me find out about him myself!”

He stared at her, baffled.  “Why?  Molly, he was using you.”

“Then he wouldn’t have been much different from you.  Except he made me feel pretty and not like an idiot.”

That barb hit home: she saw him flinch.  “Are you saying I use you?”

“Oh, got it in one, Sherlock the Great,” she sneered.

“I have never-”

“Yes, you do!  You use me all the time!  To get into the morgue, into the lab, find out things you have no right knowing… and do you know why?”

“Why?” he asked in alarm and curiosity.

“Because I am an idiot!  Because I let you do this stuff!  You smile at me and say something not too horrible and I just do anything you want!  And you know it: you know I’ll give you anything.  So don’t you dare sit there and tell me you don’t use me, Sherlock.  Because you do.”

Her eyes filled with tears, but she didn’t care anymore.  “All this time, I’ve waited, and hoped.  Hoped that maybe someday you’d see me differently.  That maybe we could even be friends, if nothing else.  Isn’t that funny?  How sad and pathetic was that to think that you could… you could…” her voice broke.

He stood up, eyes wide with some undefined emotion, and took a step towards her.  “Molly…”

She thrust up a hand to ward him off.  “I adored you,” she said in a strained whisper.  “I thought you were the most brilliant man in the world.  I didn’t think I was good enough for you.  But I wanted to be.  So badly. But not now.

“The thing about hero worship, Sherlock, is that eventually you see your hero for who he really is, and not just who you think he is or want him to be.  And I see you now.  See you for who you really are.  A man who’s not capable of caring about others, who thinks love is a dirty word.  A man who only thinks about what he wants, takes what he wants.  And I pity you.”

“I pity you because you’ll never know how wonderful it can be to be held, to mean more to someone than anything else in the whole world.  But I do know how wonderful it is, Sherlock.  I do.  And someday I’ll have that.  Because I’m done with you.  I know now that I am good enough for you.  But you’re not good enough for me.”

He stared at her in complete shock, his already pale skin even paler.  He looked at her, really looked at her and not through her.  The thing she’d always wanted.  

It was too little too late.

She drew herself up and looked him dead in the face.  “Good night, Sherlock.”

He was still staring at her as she went into her bedroom.  Closing and locking her door, she buried her face in her hands and wept as though she hadn’t wept in a very long time.

The next few days in the flat were tense.  Molly stayed gone as much as possible, brushing off his attempts to talk to her.  She almost felt guilty, knowing she was his lifeline, his link to the people that mattered to him.  Almost.  But not quite.

On the fourth evening she came home to find the dining room table set, candles lit, and classical music playing in the background.  Ravel’s Bolero, to be exact. It made her uneasy and a lump of fear settled in her chest.  What was going on?

He emerged from the bathroom, dressed all in black, smelling faintly of soap and steam, and her breath caught in spite of herself.  Why did he still have to be so damn attractive?  And why did she still have to love him so much?

“Molly,” he said softly.  “I’m glad you’re home.  Please, let me take your coat.”

She drew a ragged breath.  “Sherlock…”

“Please,” he said, and her eyes widened at the genuine entreaty in his voice.  “Please.”

Cursing herself for her weakness, she let him slip off her coat and take her purse, putting them in their proper places.  He came back to the dining room and pulled out a chair for her.  Given the choice of her knees buckling or sitting down, she chose to sit.  He carefully scooted her up, poured some wine for her and unfolded her napkin with a flourish, placing it on her lap.

“Why…”

At that moment, a timer buzzed.  “Dinner’s ready,” he said with a smile.  “Please.  Relax and enjoy the music.  I’ll be back in three minutes.”

Molly sat in a stupor.  She didn’t understand.  Was he trying to apologize?  Make up for her date?  Had he injected himself with some bizarre compound that turned him into a nice man?  She knew she should be leaving, running to her room and closing the door on him.

But she missed him.  Terribly.  Even though he was so horrible, nothing felt as good as talking to him did.  She realized now how foolish she’d been.  In his presence, she was powerless.  She’d have to wait until he was able to leave to get over him.  Otherwise she’d go mad.  Of course, she could go mad anyway.  But at least he’d be with her and she’d have good company for it.

She took a large sip of wine and then another, hoping it would steady her nerves.  

He returned three minutes later, setting down a steaming plate of shrimp pasta with marinara sauce in front of her.  It smelled delicious.  She took another big sip of wine.

He refilled her glass.  “I know pinot grigio isn’t usually served with this, but it’s your favorite wine so I thought we could bend the rules a bit.”

“How did-” she started then broke off.  “Of course.  It’s the only wine I have in the flat: ergo, it’s my favorite.”

“Well done, Molly,” he said.  He filled his own glass and adjusted the volume of the music. “And nice use of the word ergo, by the way.  It’s one of those wonderful words that people hardly use anymore.”

“Thank you,” she said faintly.

He smiled and raised his glass for a toast.  “To friendship,” he said, looking into her eyes.

She managed to keep her hand and voice steady as she clinked her glass to his.  “To friendship.”

 They began to eat.  After the first few bites Sherlock paused.  “How was your day?”

She knew she had the stupidest stare in the world on her face, but she couldn’t help it.  “Sorry?”

“Your day, Molly.  How.Was.Your.Day?”

“Oh, it was… it was fine.  Only one person came through the morgue today.  Heart attack.  I spent the rest of the day in the lab pretty much.”

“And how did that go?”

She shrugged.  “I started working on my next paper.  The British Journal of Pathology wants it finished in two weeks for publication in the next volume.”

He tilted his head, which she knew meant he was accessing a memory.  “On virulent mutations, isn’t it?”

“Yes.  It’s making for some interesting cultures in the lab.”

“Excellent,” he said, and she smiled despite her hurt and misgivings.

They continued with dinner, not talking much, just a bit here and there as one of them remembered something they wanted to share with the other.  When the meal was over Sherlock collected everything from the table but their glasses, waving her down when she started to help.  She glanced at his wine glass.  He had drank half his wine.  Which either meant that he was being polite, or he felt relaxed enough to drink with her.  She drained her own glass and poured half of a third one, feeling a little mellower than she had an hour ago.

He returned from the kitchen, blew out the candles and took his wine glass.  “Let’s go to the living room, shall we?”

“All right,” she said.   

When she walked in, she saw he’d turned off the lights and lit more candles.  He’d also lowered the volume on the music and started it over.  Or maybe he’d put it on repeat.  It felt warm and inviting and definitely not the setting for mere friendship.  But she didn’t feel like another confrontation with him, so she resigned herself to the knowledge that he’d eventually tell her what was going on.

He moved behind her, and her heart almost stopped when he reached into her hair, deftly removing her ponytail band and hair clips so her hair fell loosely around her shoulders.  “There,” he said, combing his long fingers through the long strands.  “Much more comfortable, I’m sure.”

“Yes,” she said after a pause.  Inside she was having fits.

She sat down on the couch, expecting him to sit in the nearby rocking chair.  Instead he shocked her further by sitting down next to her and leaning back to look at her.

He studied her with those unreadable eyes.  “What?” she asked.

He shook his head.  “I was just thinking of how candlelight suits you.  You look lovely.”

She stared at him for a second and then drained her wineglass in one fast gulp.

Sherlock watched her, amused.  When Molly reached forward to set her glass down on the coffee table a sore muscle in her neck flared up and she winced.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“Nothing.  I just have a pulled muscle in my neck-”

As soon as the words left her lips, he had his hands on the back of her neck.  She froze.  “Where does it hurt?”

She half turned to look at him.  He regarded her questioningly, thumbs working in idle circles near the base of her shoulders.  “Molly, where does it hurt?” he repeated.

“About halfway up,” she managed to respond, and barely kept herself from moaning as he began to gently rub her neck.

This is a dream, she thought.  A beautiful, perfect dream and when I wake up I’m going to cry and tear all my hair out.

But she knew it wasn’t a dream.  And that frightened her even more.

He continued the massage for what felt like hours, not stopping until he heard her sigh and felt her relax against him.  “Better?”

“Yes, lots, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

His hands moved from her neck to her hair, stroking it, and she felt it like a lightning strike through every part of her body.  It seemed as though she wasn’t breathing but she could feel her heart pounding in her chest like a thousand wild horses running down a beach.

No.  She couldn’t do this.  She was upset and confused and angry at him and this was wrong, absolutely wrong.

“Sherlock…”

In one swift move he had her stretched out on the couch with him on top of her.

Her eyes widened at the feel of him, strong and warm against her, and she gasped before she could stop herself.  He was looking down at her with the gentlest expression she’d ever seen on his face.  Her hands went up to push him away, but her arms betrayed her and wrapped around his waist.  And he didn’t seem to mind.  In fact…

No.  Oh, no.  No, no, no…

“Sherlock, please,” she said, her voice breaking.  “Please…don’t…”

“Don’t… what?” he asked softly.

“Don’t…” Molly trailed off, mind reeling with confusion and body burning with need.

“Oh, Molly,” he whispered, one hand raising up to brush her hair from her face.  “It’s all right.”

“All right?”

His lips moved to press a warm kiss on her cheek.  Her face grew hot from desire.

“I know you want this,” he whispered again, planting more kisses along her jaw.  “You don’t have to try and hide it from me.  You never did a good job of that, anyway.  Don’t feel bad, though.  People seldom do.”

“Sherlock…”

“Shh,” he said gently.  “Let it happen, Molly.”

Before she could think about protesting again, he moved up and claimed her mouth with his.

Oh.  Oh, God, oh, dear sweet mother of all that is good…

The kiss was perfect.

He wasn’t trying to be an amazing kisser.  He didn’t show off or do any fancy tricks.  It was perfect because it was him.  Because his lips moved against hers slowly, carefully and made her feel like she was the only person in the world.  He gently parted her lips with his tongue to deepen the kiss and she moaned and gripped the back of his shirt with her fists.

Sherlock Holmes was, in a word, astounded.

He knew Molly was an emotional person.  He knew she loved him.  He’d even figured out that she was passionate.  He’d known as soon as he started kissing her that she would scale the mountain of ecstasy in record time.  He knew there would be a powerful and instantaneous reaction on her part.

But nothing had prepared him for his.

He didn’t have these...  these reactions and desires.  And yet… he was.

All right, when he’d first planned this encounter it was to get her forgiveness and give her some measure of himself for everything she’d endured for him.  That was true.  But those weren’t his only reasons.

He’d missed her.

It was insanity.  He, Sherlock Holmes, scoffer at sentiment, had immediately felt a sense of absence and loss when Molly had turned away from him for the past few days.  While she was at work he’d paced the flat a hundred times.  He’d smelled her robe, her pillow just to get the scent of her.  He’d listened to her MP3’s (he’d have a talk with her about some of her tastes in music later), read her books and generally done everything he could to learn everything he could about her.  Which, being as how he was Sherlock Holmes, was quite a bit.

These were the actions of a man who was smitten. Or a lunatic.  And he didn’t think his sociopathic tendencies really applied here.  Which left being smitten.  After he’d finished the requisite protests and denials in his head, he’d been forced to examine the evidence.

And it had scared the hell out of him.

He had feelings for her.

He.  Sherlock Holmes.  Had feelings for her.  Molly Hooper.

And even then, when he’d made his last desperate plan, he still was unsure of how it would end.  He had feelings for her: he’d finally had no choice but to admit it.  But feelings were vague, nebulous things: like dandelion seeds blowing in the wind.  Just because he… cared about her, didn’t automatically mean that he wanted her.

Or so he thought in theory.  But the reality had proved another matter entirely, as he soon found out.  Eating dinner with her, touching her hair, her neck… his fingers tingled when they touched her and his heart beat faster.  That, he knew, was desire.  Which meant he did, to some extent, want her.

When they kissed, when her body was pressed against his and she moaned in pure pleasure and gripped his shirt like it was a lifeline, the spark ignited and roared through his entire body like a wildfire and he gasped from the sensation of it.  And the realization of it.

Oh, yes.  He wanted her.  Wanted her so badly that for a few seconds he couldn’t think.  And there was no higher compliment in the world than that.

Now that he knew for certain all the necessary components were there, the final piece had been added to the puzzle and he felt relieved and, yes, happy.  He knew they needed to talk, and they would, absolutely.

But not until they’d done a bit more of this.

Molly didn’t want the kisses to stop.  Ever.  If someone had told her to choose how she was going to die, death while kissing Sherlock would be just fine, thank you.  

She knew, though, that it was crazy, something was very much amiss and she had to find out what it was before she lost all the ability to resist him.

With a strength of will she hadn’t known she possessed, she pushed him off and onto the floor, jumping up and off the couch as she did.

He sat up, rubbing his head in confusion.  “Molly, if you don’t like the way I kiss, you could have just said so!”

“Why are you doing this?” she cried, anguished.

“Doing what?” he asked, standing up and frowning at her.

“Acting like a… like a…” her voice failed her.

He took a few steps towards her. “Like a what?  A lover?”  he asked, voice so low and velvety it made her shiver.  “A boyfriend?”

“Acting like someone who cares about what I want.  About making me happy,” she stammered.

He paused for a moment.  She couldn’t read anything in his eyes or on his face.  She was about to give up on him answering when he said, in a voice so low she had to strain to hear him: “because I do.”

“Why” she asked.  “Do you feel guilty or something?”

“Guilty,” he repeated, brows knitting together.

“Yeah.  Guilty.  Are you doing this because you feel guilty for treating me like crap for years?”  Another, darker thought occurred to her.  “Or do you feel sorry for me.”  

His head snapped up and he stared at her.  “Feel sorry for you?”

“Are you doing this because you pity me?  Poor Molly, she’s been through so much because of me, let me repay her kindness with a textbook perfect date?”

“No, I’m not,” he said in a flat voice.

“You better not be, because I don’t want it!  I don’t want any… any pity parties or guilt gifts from you!” she exclaimed.

His face scrunched.  “Pity parties and guilt gifts?  What on earth have you been reading, avant garde poetry?”

“Sherlock.”  She fixed him with a steely glare.  “You have just given me one of the most fantastic nights of my life, and I want to know why.”

He blinked.  “Already?  Without sex?  You’re rather easily pleased, aren’t you.”

“It’s not the food, or the kissing.  It’s you.  It’s perfect because it’s you, Sherlock.”

That got to him: she could tell by the gleam in his eyes.  His lips lifted in a ghost of a smile.

“Thank you, Molly.”

“You’re welcome.”  She took a deep, steadying breath.  “Now please answer my question.”

He sighed, paced a few steps, forced himself to be still and look at her.

“I know I’ve hurt you badly.  Please, Molly,” he said dryly as she raised her eyebrows.  “Even I am not that much of an idiot about sentiment.”

“If you say so,” she murmured.

He ignored the comment, pacing the length of the living room twice before he stopped and spoke again.

“When I first met you, I formed an opinion of you rather quickly.  I do that with everyone, so please don’t take offense.  I thought you were a plain, ordinary woman who for some unfathomable reason had taken a liking to me.  I didn’t have any need for that.”

He saw the hurt on her face and hastily held up a hand.  “Please, Molly, bear with me.”

She didn’t reply, but stood waiting.  Satisfied that she would hear him out, he continued.  

“As time passed and I was around you more, I realized you were very intelligent and caring.  You showed bad judgment in men, but a lot of women do, so I can’t fault you too strongly for that.”

“But I realized something else about you, Molly, when the whole business with Moriarty happened.  I realized that you are fiercely loyal, and stronger than I ever realized.  Smarter, too.  You noticed I was sad that day in the lab.  You are capable of paying attention to details and making deductions.  It seems that I just turn you into a stammering schoolgirl when I’m around is all.”

“Is this supposed to be making me feel better?  Because so far it’s a crapshoot,” Molly said.

He fixed her with a stare.  “Please, Molly.”

She subsided, and he continued.  “You were ready to help me.  When everyone but John and Lestrade had nothing but contempt and ridicule for me, you stood by me.  You asked me what I needed and didn’t even flinch.  You are completely and utterly devoted to me.  And for the first time in my life, perhaps, I understood what an amazing gift that is.”

He looked up and met her eyes.  “Most people only want me for what I can do for them.  They treat me like some sort of bizarre alien creature.  Yes, they tell me I’m brilliant, but it’s not the same.  I don’t want the adoration of strangers.  I want people I know, people I trust, Molly.  People like you and John.  However, you seem to be the only people willing to apply for the job.  And that’s… all I want.”

“It doesn’t matter if other people think you’re plain, or if you stammer sometimes when you talk to me.   Because I see you.  See how you really are, instead of what you made me think you were. Yes, you’re rather ordinary compared to me.  But you… give, Molly.  No matter how much I hurt you, you didn’t give up on me or lessen your devotion.  I can’t understand that.  But I am in awe of it.  Of you.”

“Yes, you.  Molly Hooper who didn’t think she was good enough for me.  But you are, Molly.  Too good.  You always have been.  But that never occurred to you before, and I intend for it to never occur to you again.”

She stared at him, in shock from what he was saying.

“You know what I’m like,” he said.  His voice was calm, completely controlled: which meant he was nervous.  “I’m brooding and difficult.  I have my own way of doing things and it’s hard for me to be flexible sometimes.”

“Sometimes?” she smirked.

“All right, most of the time,” he conceded.  “I’m careless with emotions and don’t know when to shut up. Or when I shouldn’t.”  He slid her a sideways glance.

“Keep going,” she said.  Clearly she was enjoying his laundry list of his own shortcomings.

“I manipulate, take advantage of and dismiss people,” he said.  “But I don’t dismiss my friends.  My friends… count.”

He slowly walked over to her and took her hands in his.  “What I am trying to say, and not doing the best job at it, is that in a romantic relationship I have no doubt that I would, with dismaying regularity, be a terrible… boyfriend.”   His eyes held hers and she saw the anxiety and caring in them.  “But I would like to try.  If you’ll have me.”

There it was.

Sherlock Holmes, telling her he wanted her.  Just as she was.  The thing she’d been wanting, hoping for, dreaming of, despairing over, for the past three years.

She stared at him, and the insane random thought ran through her head: how can I ever ask for anything for Christmas again?

Because he was it, wasn’t he.  The one thing she’d wanted more than anything.  And here he was, standing in front of her, holding her hands, asking her to give him a chance.

She almost asked him to slap her to make sure she hadn’t actually just come home from work and passed out asleep.

She blinked a few times to hold back her tears.  From anyone else, Sherlock’s words might have seemed a bizarre mix of arrogance and affection.  OK, maybe they were still.  But she’d never imagined he’d be saying them to her.  

Now she had to choose.  

He was offering everything to her on a silver platter, but did she want to risk taking it?

She couldn’t imagine what having him as her boyfriend would be like.  How would he treat her?  Would they be in the middle of a kiss and Lestrade would call, and Sherlock would all but drop her onto the floor while he grabbed his coat and ran out the door?  Would he ignore her for days on end while he worked on a case, except when he needed into the morgue or the labs?  Would he send her flowers, bring her soup if she was sick, hold her hand in the street?

She didn’t know.

“I think tonight I’ve shown you that I am capable of doing the expected things,” he said as if reading her thoughts.  “I can’t promise to do them all the time.  I can’t promise I’ll never forget your birthday or Valentine’s Day or any of the other things women place a high value on.  But I do promise to always try to treat you properly.  And if I’m not doing enough you can call me out on it.  Though I’d prefer it not involve throwing food in my face or shoving me onto the floor,” he added wryly, causing her to laugh.

“All I ask is that you give me time when I need it, space when I need it.  And I will need it.  But I’ll do my best not to leave you languishing without me for too long.”

Molly nodded.  “Before I answer you, I need to ask one question.”

“All right.”

“The night you came to me, before the… before the fall.  And you asked for my help.  You said I was the only one who could help you.”

“Yes,” he replied, somewhat puzzled at this seemingly random change of topic.

“What if I hadn’t been?  What if there had been someone else who could’ve done what you needed besides me.  Would you still have come to me?”

Ah.  Not so random, after all.

He could’ve told her to spit it out, that this wasn’t really what she was asking, because it wasn’t.  But this was not the time for him to give a lecture.  She loved him: it was obvious.  What was equally obvious was that she was afraid.  Afraid to trust him with her heart.

He couldn’t blame her.  He wasn’t exactly quality material in that department.

But he wanted to try to be.  As difficult as it would make his life.

He stepped even closer to her, looking into her large dark eyes.  They were eyes that could swallow you up, he realized. She was an open book to him, Molly Hooper.  One that he looked forward to reading.  His lips curved into a slight smile.

“Yes.”

She sighed.  “Thank you.  I don’t have the energy to be afraid anymore.”

He enfolded her into his arms.  “You don’t need to.”

“Good.”  She sniffed and he realized she was crying.  But when she looked up at him, she looked calm, happy.   She hastily wiped her face. “Yes, Sherlock.  I would be… most pleased to have you.”

He raised his eyebrows.  “Not honored?”

“That remains to be seen, doesn’t it?”

He saw she was teasing him.  

“Fair enough, Molly,” he said, bending to kiss her.  

When the kiss ended, they stood together for a moment, his cheek resting on the top of her head, letting the reality of this new development  in their lives slowly settle over them.  After a few minutes, Molly looked up at him with a smile.  “There’s just one thing you’ve forgotten, Mister Holmes,” she said, eyes twinkling.

“Oh?” He asked, intrigued.  “And what might that be, Miss Hooper?”

Her smile turned into a wicked grin.  “You’ve not offered me any dessert.”

He returned her grin.  “How remiss of me.” Brushing his lips against her ear, he whispered: “lead the way, Miss Hooper.  Lead the way.”

Her bedroom.

More candles.  Did he have a thing for candles? He hadn’t seemed the type.  Perhaps it was all for her.  Not that she was complaining.  In fact, she would go to the candle shop tomorrow and buy a few dozen more.  She should’ve been angry at his assumption, to put candles in her bedroom like that, but she couldn’t bring herself to be.  Because those candles were evidence.   Proof that he’d planned this, that he wanted her.  Maybe she should get them framed, actually.

He closed the door behind them, the soft click barely audible over the roaring in her ears.  She already felt on fire and he’d barely touched her.  How was it going to be when they… 

She felt his lips on the back of her neck and twitched like she’d received an electric shock.

She felt the warm breath of his laugh on her skin and shivered.  “Molly, are you all right?”

“Fi..fine.  I’m fine.  Really.  Fine.”

“You’re stammering again,” he said, but his tone was gentle.

“I…”

“Breathe, Molly.”

She did as he said, drew in a long slow breath and exhaled just as slowly.  He felt her pulse drop a bit and smiled.  “There. Better?”

“Yes.”

He moved to stand in front of her and pull her against him.  She dared to reach up and kiss him and he responded, returning the kiss, fingers lightly stroking down her back with slow, gentle movements.  She sighed into his mouth and melted against him, the kiss continuing slow and easy as she relaxed.

Sherlock was pleased, if not confused.  He didn’t understand how anyone could want him so much.  Oh, the image, his façade, perhaps.  Tall, dark and brooding was popular with a certain type.  But Molly knew how he really was.  Knew it and wanted him despite of it.

He moved his hands to her collarbone, then began working his way downward, slowly in case she started having a complete fit of the vapors.  But she seemed to have gotten hold of herself. 

He pressed his hands against her breasts, cupping them through her shirt, thumbs stroking her nipples as he watched the expressions on her face.  He lowered his hands to the hem of her shirt and slowly pulled it up and off.  Then he slid them to her back, skimming his fingers down to the clasp of her bra, feeling around the hooks for a few seconds before deftly unfastening them and drawing the garment away from her body.

She opened her eyes then, and he returned his hands to her breasts, now bared to his gaze.  He moved down to cup them again…

And caught a look of pain cross her face.

Instantly he stopped, resting his hands on her waist.  “Molly?”

“I’m sorry,” she said.  “It’s just… I couldn’t…”

“What?”

“I couldn’t help remembering what you said at Christmas…”

Her voice trailed off, but he didn’t need her to continue.  

“I’m sorry,” she began, but he stopped her.

“Don’t be.  I was the one who acted like an arse.  Not you.”

“They are a bit-”

His eyes blazed as they stared into hers.  “No.  Don’t you ever say anything bad about your body again.  Do you hear me?  You’ve got nothing to apologize for or be ashamed of.  I was agitated and restless that night and I took it out on you.  I was sorry then and I’m sorry now.”

She nodded, dropping her head down because looking at him at that moment was just too painful.  He sighed and gently tipped her face up to look at him again.

“I can’t change the past, Molly.  But things will be different in the future.  I promise.”

He looked so… sad.  He really did.  As though he was hurting because she hurt.  She didn’t trust herself to speak so she simply nodded.

He kissed her, a tiny kiss as delicate as a bird, then another, then he was covering her face with kisses and well, damn it, of course she forgave him, she’d forgiven him for so much already it would’ve been insane to stop now.  Not now that he was holding her and kissing her and being so genuinely sweetly sorry.

He stopped kissing her face and looked at her.  “You’re lovely, Molly.  And don’t you ever let anyone tell you otherwise.”

“I won’t,” she said, and smiled at him.

Sherlock smiled back, relieved that he was still forgiven.   “Let me make it up to you?”

“By all means,” she said with a small laugh.

He returned his hands to her breasts, then moved down and added his mouth, kissing, licking and nuzzling them until she thought she would collapse.  He took one breast into his mouth, gently licking the nipple, then sucking on it until it felt hard as a tiny stone.  He repeated it with the other breast, his hands roaming her hips and stomach as he did, until Molly thought she would explode.  

He rose and grasped the snap of her jeans, unfastening them and peeling them off her legs.  He dropped on his knees in front of her and did the same thing with her panties, Molly groaning inside that they were just a simple pair of dark green cotton.  She reminded herself that Sherlock already knew perfectly well that she didn’t dress fancy when she went to work, and if he wanted a woman who always looked like a whore, then he’d have one.  But he didn’t.  He wanted her.

Then she felt his hands wrap around her hips and his lips on her stomach, and she wasn’t able to think anymore.

He was good.  Very good.  How was a man who seemed so asexual so bloody good!

He didn’t stop until he’d brought her to orgasm twice, his tongue flicking against her sex like a violin bow, playing her heat and wetness and need until Molly was crying out his name and bucking her hips against his face.  

When her tremors finally subsided her hands flexed on his shoulders and she gasped for breath.  He lifted his head and looked up at her.  “Well?”

“You’re probably forgiven for the next few days’ worth of being an arse,” she told him, and was rewarded with a laugh.  “How the hell are you so good at that? No, don’t tell me,” she said.  “You were reading my reactions, using them to figure out what I liked.”

“I told you you were smart,” he said approvingly, standing up in front of her and kissing her.

She could taste herself on him, a tangy musky flavor that was all the better for being on his lips.  She realized that he was still fully dressed and decided she needed to remedy that.

She undressed him slowly, trying to keep her hands from shaking until she realized he knew, he always would know, and just decided to shove it and enjoy the task.  When she was finished she drew a deep steadying breath and looked at him.

Oh, he was beautiful.

“What are you thinking?” he asked her, eyes sharpening as he watched her watch him.

“You’re beautiful,” she said simply.  “More beautiful than any painting, any sculpture... just… beautiful.”

It was moments like these, Sherlock decided, moments of her straightforward sincerity, which meant so much to him.  True, he’d probably never have to wonder for too long what was on her mind.  But playing games with people to get inside their heads was just that: games.  And though he craved these games, he also got tired of them at times.  There was precious little honesty and openness in the world.  But now he had his own little piece of it with Molly.

“Thank you.” 

She took her turn with him now: kissed and nipped and licked paths of passion all over his body.  She took his penis into her mouth, used every bit of skill she possessed, and was rewarded rather quickly when his chest heaved and he gasped.  “Molly… wait.”

She took him out of her mouth and sat back on her heels to look at him.  His pale skin was flushed with desire, eyes glittering, hair disheveled… the sight made her want to do flips, to run down the street shouting to the whole world: “Sherlock Holmes is my boyfriend!”

He regained some control and reached down a hand, pulling her to her feet.  “Perhaps we could have the rest of that dessert now?” he asked, and she smiled at the sexy eagerness in his voice.

She moved with him to the bed; they drew each other down onto it, kissing, tasting and touching until neither of them could wait any longer.  Then reality hit Molly like a ton of bricks.

“Sherlock, I meant to say-”

“You are on the pill and have been for at least seven months,” he said, kissing her again.  “You know that you’re free of any and all sexually transmitted diseases and are in good health.”

She stared.  “Ok, this time I want you to tell me.”

“You’ve kept your receipts from the drugstore, and you’ve run tests on yourself in the lab.  Your most recent set was an examination for HIV, herpes, syphilis and gonorrhea. Which I presume was after your… dates with Jim Moriarty.”

“What? No.  I never slept with that evil bastard!”

“Then why the recent exams?”

She looked down.  “I was… I was going to try and find someone.  I just wanted to be sure.”

Sherlock was at a loss for words for once.  “I see,” he said finally.  Then he smiled.  “How fortunate for you, then, that you did.”

She returned his smile.  Then: “and what about you?”

“Clean all around.”

“How long has it been since…?”

She felt stupid for asking, but he didn’t seem to mind.  

“Never.”

She found it hard to breathe suddenly.  “Oh.”

“Yes, oh,” he said.  He raised his eyebrows.   “I’ve told you relationships aren’t my area. And can you see me as a one night stand person?”

“Not really, no.”

 “And for you?  How long?”

“Years,” she admitted.

“Well, then.  We’re on pretty equal footing, I’d say.”

“Yes,” she said.  “Odd, isn’t it.”

“A bit.”

She leaned over to kiss him.  “Well, let’s rectify that, shall we?”

“Let’s.”

When it was over, and it took several hours and several orgasms for each of them for it to be over, they lay beside each other in the candlelight, her head on his chest, his fingers running through her hair, both of them utterly content.

“I’d tell you how amazing you are, but you hear it a dozen times a day and I don’t want to cheapen it,” Molly told him.

He laughed, nuzzling her hair.  “Molly, from you it will never sound cheap.”

“Good.”  She yawned. “I am seriously knackered after that.  But I bet you’re wide awake, aren’t you?”

“For now.  I’ll get tired later.  But I’ll stay with you until you fall asleep.”

“You can use my laptop if you like,” she said, snuggling closer to him.  “Maybe you can find something to occupy that enormous brain of yours.”

“One can only hope,” he said dryly, and she laughed.  “Go to sleep, Molly,” Sherlock said, kissing her nose.  “I’ll be back when I’m tired.”

True to his word, Sherlock stayed for the fourteen more minutes it took for her to fall asleep.  Then he carefully got up and went into the kitchen where her laptop was.

A few hours later, after engaging in an anonymous, heated and reasonably satisfying debate with someone over whether photography was an art form, he yawned.  He was just about to close Molly’s laptop when a message appeared on her instant messaging program.

Happy, Mr. Holmes?

He froze, knowing there was only one person who could’ve sent it.

Irene Adler.

Irene, who had, admittedly stirred his interest.  Irene, who was beautiful and ran hot and cold, was cruel and extremely clever, who used anyone and everyone to get what she wanted and made no apologies for it.  Irene, who blazed a trail of mayhem and frenzy in her wake everywhere she went.  Glamorous, ruthless, wits-that-cut Irene.

She was everything that Molly wasn’t.

Molly was kind and devoted, accepting and patient.  Warm and loyal, trusting and trustworthy.   Molly, who would cook him breakfasts and listen to him rant and never get bored of him, who would keep him grounded and remind him that he was, actually, a human being.

She was everything that Irene wasn’t.

Irene wouldn’t ever be content to share the spotlight.  Not really, not completely.  She needed to live her exciting and dangerous life, where every corner could mean her death, with no deep attachments to any place or anyone.  She would forever be in flux, and never need that connection that Sherlock claimed he didn’t care about but desperately wanted.

Irene would never need him.  But he needed Molly.

He smiled, a strange half-smile of knowing this could be their last personal communication.  He’d see her again someday; he knew that.  But he was a different man now.

He froze for a moment, realizing his thought and all that it implied.

A different man.  And maybe, just maybe, a better man despite himself.

The half-smile turned into a full one, and he leaned forward slightly, long, elegant fingers giving her the simple, earnest truth.

Yes.

He felt the pause, waited.  After about half a minute, the reply appeared.

Then Godspeed, Sherlock.

The connection disappeared.

For a moment he gazed into the glare of the screen.  Then he signed off, shut the laptop down and joined Molly in bed.

As he cuddled close to her, she woke up.  “Hey, you,” she said softly, sleepily.  “Everything OK? I mean, as OK as it can be right now.”

He looked at her in the dim light, her wide sleepy eyes and softly curved smile and felt some pain he’d forgotten about fading away.  There was still the matter of his faked suicide, and how and when he would return to the land of the living.  And John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade, and what would happen when they found out he was alive.  And Moriarty, because Sherlock no longer believed the man was dead.  Two could play a game, after all.  

But for now all those things had to wait.

And he wouldn’t be alone.  However long, however difficult it was, he wasn’t alone.

Sherlock pulled Molly into his arms and held her as if she was the most precious thing on earth.

“Sherlock?”

He kissed her, trying not to let it show that he was on the verge of laughter and tears.

“Yes, Molly.  Everything is OK.