Flash fiction: a 500 word drabble. Sherlock/Molly, implied Sherlock/John.


She knows that when he kisses her, he's thinking of someone else.

At first, she'd hoped she was wrong; that he was just inexperienced, just nervous. It had all happened so suddenly – she'd woken up in the middle of the night, groggy and disoriented, to find him on the bed beside, lying on top of the duvet. She'd tried to speak, to ask him why, but he'd shushed her with one motion and she'd closed her mouth again.

He didn't say anything to her, nothing at all, before he moved forward to capture her lips with his own. He'd felt so good, so goddamn good – a combination of reality and fantasy intertwined themselves on somewhere between full wakefulness and half-sleep. He'd pushed her back off of her side and full onto her back, his arms coming down on either side of her, his hands buried in her hair. She couldn't quite breathe, always gasping for air, sneaking in oxygen between fevered kisses, his mouth still pressing so insistently at her own.

She'd noticed, that first time, that he kept his eyes closed, as if it were almost a game, a test to see if he could do this blind, operating on his other four senses alone. His fingers roamed her body like a blind man's hands over Braille, and she moaned out his name, unable to keep to this strange code of silence between them. His fingers and his mouth to wonderful things to her, and when he finally brings his own body to meet with her own, it feels so much better than she ever could have imagined, beating out everything she'd ever conjured up on her own.

He doesn't say anything afterwards, only slipping away back to his makeshift bed in the sitting room, a ghostly figure in the night.

They don't talk about it by day. They don't talk about it at all. He treats her much the same as he always did – condescending and arrogant and frustratingly obtuse as he always was. She wants to ask him about it, wants to ask him that one little question in the back of her mind (why?), but every time she opens her mouth, he looks over at her as if to say don't try it, Molly, and she simply shuts up and goes back to eating her meal silently, like a little reprimanded child.

On the fifth night, she gets her answer, and she regrets having ever wanted to know at all.

He's pressed up against her, skin slick with their combined sweat, his eyes closed as always as he kisses his way down her skin, his head pressed against her shoulder, his teeth buried in the soft skin just below her neck. She twists her hips suddenly, on a whim, trying to make him make a sound, and he groans as he does it, his release coming hard, as he murmurs a name into her shoulder, a name she wishes she'd never heard at all.

"John," he breathes, his words like fire, burning her instantly. They both freeze then, locked together, and he opens his eyes for the first time, looking up at her with guilt in his eyes.

The next day she finds him gone, scattered to the wind, and it was as if nothing had ever happened at all.