A/N: My first real Sherlock fic! I'm excited! I just can't help but feel that the Sherlock - Molly relationship is too good to ignore, although writing from a sociopath's (albeit high-funtioning) point of view, especially after watching the episodes! But this idea came to me having watching Sherlock charm Molly once again, and it occurred to me, what happened after The Great Game? I know there are other fics out there, but I wanted to do my own take xD Please do review, and tell me what you think! Also, there might be a lemon in the pipeline if it is so wanted, so rating may change...

Disclaimer: Unfortunately, the great Conan-Doyle owns Mr Holmes, and the BBC owns Sherlock...and Benedict Cumberbatch is not mine (Unfortunately!)


Basic needs, those which he had learnt to suppress, rose when he had nothing to do. The wall was still grinning, that bright yellow smile watching him as Sherlock Holmes looked unenthusiastically around the flat. John was at Sarah's; it didn't take a genius to figure that one out. He often did that now, disappeared to Sarah's, leaving Sherlock to wallow in boredom. He obviously didn't value the walls. The consulting detective huffed a sigh and levered himself off the couch, stepping over the coffee table and into his room, throwing his blue dressing gown onto the bed rather violently. He swapped flannel PJs for a crisp white shirt and his favourite black, Spencer and Hall suit, and then Sherlock snatched his scarf and coat and hailed a cab for St Bart's. Molly would let him in; besides, he thought he should probably check that she was still there. He needed that connection at the morgue, or he wouldn't be able to waltz in there as he did currently, Molly was the only person he could charm enough to allow him unlimited access.

The cab pulled into the curb, and Sherlock threw a few notes through the window before he strode into the hospital and down to the mortuary. He knew Molly was on duty, he'd been here at this time before, and when she saw him push through the door to the lab, her eyes immediately fell to the floor.

"Hello, Molly."

"Sherlock." She greeted him bluntly, he hadn't been in since the Moriarty case, not that it mattered of course. It wasn't like finding out your boyfriend was a psychopath was terrifying or anything. She didn't notice (the floor was too interesting) that Sherlock had opened his mouth to speak.

"I nee-"

"You'll need a permit."

That threw him. He hadn't thought that Molly would put up any fight. It wasn't like he'd done anything wrong! He thought giving her time to herself after the Moriarty number was the right thing to do. Molly evidently had other ideas, besides, now that 'Jim from IT' was gone, it meant he had to keep ignoring her blushes, giggles and general give aways that it was him she wanted.

"Have you changed your eye make-up?" He put his head to one side; she looked up at him with a cool expression. Not working. "It brings out the colour in your eyes, I like it." He flashed her a smile and saw a few sheets of ice melt in her gaze - time to turn up the dazzle-factor. He smiled slyly and stroked his thumb across her cheek; he had already taken his gloves off, looking at the glimmering blusher that clung to it. "Somehow I don't think that this is necessary with those cheeks, you have nice cheekbones – defined." That was it, all it took. She turned away, he heard her intake of breath, saw her arm move to trace the line across her cheek.

"Go on." She responded simply, waving the arm in the direction of the morgue. "I'll be down in a minute to make sure you're not waking the dead in there."

Sherlock strutted through the door she had gestured to, his expression only describable in one word: smug. He supposed John would be angry at the way he manipulated Molly. John was often angry. If it got him where he wanted, Sherlock didn't see the problem, she never expected him to go any further than the slightest hint of flirting anyway.

In the lab, Molly was desperately trying to reduce the Sherlock-induced blush that heated her face. She hated the way he could simply smile and she literally melted. It was the eyes. No, forget that. It was Sherlock. She took a few deep breaths and followed him. The detective was looking at a corpse that hadn't yet been zipped back up, natural causes. Silence, then they heard a gurgle which definitely wasn't Molly.

"Sherlock, are you...hungry?" She asked in disbelief.

"I'm not working."

"That's not an answer. Have you eaten?" She knew he didn't eat whilst working. Digesting slows me down, she mentally quoted.

"No. Couldn't be bothered. No suspicions about this death?" He was trying to change the subject, and was proved unsuccessful when his stomach rumbled again.

"Oh for God's sake, I'll grab you something."

A few minutes later, she returned with two coffees and a cheese sandwich, it turns out Bart's cafeteria at 10pm was not all that creative with their food. Sherlock smiled almost gratefully and quickly ate, taking a few sips of his coffee. Only he would be able to eat whilst analysing a corpse! This body was boring. Everything was boring. What was up with all the interesting murderers at the moment? Sherlock heaved another sigh, looking over at Molly, sitting together drinking coffee, he felt almost normal (how hideous!) and for once decided to embark in a conversation that didn't involve him trying to win Molly over for his own gain.

"How have you been, since the Jim Moriarty thing?" He asked gently, she seemed surprised that he was speaking at all.

"Well, not well obviously, but ok, I'm surviving. I'd feel better knowing he wasn't skulking around somewhere with all those contacts and snipers intact." She shuddered slightly. After Sherlock had aimed the handgun at the jacket, the snipers had run, leaving him, John and Moriarty. He had put together a plan, yanking the John's jacket off him and setting fire to it, throwing it next to the jacket, a time-bomb. Then, Sherlock, spotting the red lights had disappeared, had taken one shot, right in Moriarty's foot. Then they ran, running for their lives again, making it just out of the way of the blast before most of the swimming pool went up. He thought he had gone, until he got an email from an anonymous address the next day, signed Moriarty.

"Well, I don't think he'd come after you. You know who he is, he probably slipped up around you to keep in character, and he'd be worried about encountering you again. Besides, he knows you have connections to me and won't want to confront that again in a hurry." Sherlock tried to be comforting, offering a weak smile in her direction. He wasn't sure whether it was genuine or whether he was acting like usual. He gave up on the body and went back without a word to the lab. Molly followed, she always would, picking up his abandoned coffee and zipping the body bag up.

"You're probably right."

"Yes, I am." Pause. "What do you see in me, Molly?"

She looked at the floor, heat flushing her face again. She would ask what he meant, except she knew perfectly well.

"I..." She looked briefly at him, his face was expectant. "You're a genius, Sherlock, what wouldn't people see in you? Surely I'm not the only one?" She quickly turned the question round to him.

"People normally just find me odd." He shrugged casually, Molly had to look away - she was losing coherent thought.

"You're gorgeous. Oh God. I said that out loud." Molly stared at the floor, letting out a few profanities as she glared daggers at her foot. Now she had done it. Sherlock looked triumphant.

"Aha!" He cried. "Really now?" He grinned, a smile which soon fell when he noted she was no longer looking at him, which according to her recent revelations, she liked to do. It bothered him and so, in a mimic of the movement he had made earlier, he tilted her chin upwards on two fingers. There was a hiss as she drew in breath, no point in hiding that now, and Molly reluctantly looked back up at Sherlock.

"Damn you." She muttered. "You heartless idiot, you."

"Now, I thought you knew I'd been reliably informed I don't have one. Do behave, Molly." He purred, one edge of his mouth twitching upwards in a crooked grin. Her chin still rested on his fingers, he could feel her breathing, shallow and fairly quick, watched as her gaze fell from his eyes, across one cheek and rested on his lips. His self-restraint sounded alarm bells in his head. Sherlock silenced it. Screw that. I'm experimenting. He thought, just testing out the extent of his emotional detachment. With that reason in mind, he tilted her chin a little more and lowered his lips to hers, kissing her gently. He smiled inwardly as she gasped into his mouth and allowed him to trace her lower lip with his tongue. As with everything he did, Sherlock made a point of doing this extraordinarily well. Were it not for the fact he had moved one hand to the small of her back, and her arms had wound around his neck, he had a suspicion poor Molly might've collapsed. She kissed him back, allowing his tongue to inch its way into her mouth. An alarm rang loudly somewhere in his head. He ignored it, this was an experiment after all, and it wasn't like he was enjoying it or anything. Ahem. In fact, Sherlock only began to realise the alarm bell was important when he found himself drawing her closer, his instincts yearning for the release he felt as she buried one hand in his dark curls.

When his phone beeped, Sherlock faded back into his normal, hyper-active stream of conscious thought, slowly feeling sanity return to him as he broke away slightly from Molly, his forehead resting against hers. He was breathing heavily, as was she, as he checked the screen of his phone. John. He was meant to be back in the flat by midnight. He'd forgotten that.

"John." He muttered, knowing Molly would hear. He hated the gut feeling he had that told him he needed a reason to leave. He would shrug this off as another of his heartless ploys for a gain of some kind. He would work out exactly for what later. Probably. Disentangling himself from her, Sherlock vanished from the lab in a manner of moments. A few moments later, she felt her phone buzz in her pocket.

To be continued. SH

Molly smiled to herself, knowing that it wouldn't. Sherlock returned to Baker Street, knowing she wouldn't believe him, hell, he wasn't sure he believed himself. John was sat in the arm chair.

"You look...dishevelled." He commented, raising one eyebrow at the detective's hair and crumpled shirt collar. Sherlock merely hmmed. "Where've you been?"

"Bart's."

"Doing what?"

"Experimenting." Not exactly a lie. John didn't look convinced.

"Run into a particularly rowdy corpse?" That was the last straw, Sherlock turned, resting one hand on each arm of John's chair.

"John, I think I've done something remarkably stupid." John tipped his head to one side. "I kissed Molly Hooper."

"You what?"

"You heard me perfectly well. I'm not saying it again." Sherlock growled. John said nothing and his flatmate's mouth twitched in frustration before he stalked into his room.

Back at Bart's, Molly's phone buzzed yet again as she was walking out the door.

221b Baker Street. You coming? SH

She stood for a moment, then hailed a cab, and opened the door before calling through the window.

"Baker Street. 221b."