For those who read this, there are a few things you should know. This starts out in Molly's POV, then moves into an outside voice with a knowing of what Molly is thinking, and finally finishes in Molly's POV again.

I will clearly mark those areas.

This is also set after the fourth episode of Sherlock. Right after Sherlock see's Irene Adler's body on the table after the Christmas party.

I do not own Sherlock, or anything BBC produces blah blah blah...

It was quite silly really.

I shouldn't have felt that way about it. The way that his brother had smiled at me when I asked the question, I knew I was right.

But the thing was…I didn't want to believe it myself.

I had…I had gone through so much for this man. I don't even know why I bother anymore. I feel like such a silly girl, dressing up, putting on lipstick…he even deduced an unconscious effort about lipstick compared to bloody packaging.

He's such a…he's such…I can't even begin to describe what Sherlock Holmes is…

But now, now he's sleeping in my bed. And I'm feeling a tad bit like the night star. You know, the one that was over the manger in the bible? That's how I'm feeling. Bright, angelic, like there's a beacon of hope in my life finally.

I should probably start from the beginning though shouldn't I? I was always rubbish with these sort of things, but the therapist tells me it will help. So, starting over.

Dear Diary.

Going to the Christmas party was the first night off I had had in over two months. I don't really have that many close friends besides Toby (my cat) and a few other spatters of friends around town. It's just that they tend to tell me the same thing.

"You keep going on about this Sherlock guy. If you love him so much ask him for a bloody drink and shag him already."

And it's not like I haven't tried. They just don't understand him like I do. He doesn't answer to the normal social aspects of society like they do. He's weird and brilliant.

Kinda like me in a sense.

Not that I'm as brilliant as he is. Oh no, he's far beyond me. It's just that I'm a tad weird, working with dead bodies and finding them more entertaining than living people and all that. Oh dear. I've made myself sound like a bit of a freak…

But that's besides the point. Anyway, getting on to…yea. I was hoping this would work. That maybe, maybe tonight, God would bless me with a real human emotion from Sherlock Holmes. I'm not very religious, but I was praying from the top of my styled hair down to the bottoms of my stiletto heels that he would notice me. I was going to do it. I was finally going to ask Sherlock out.

I'd wrapped him a present of a new wristwatch. He uses his so much. I was rather proud of myself noticing that. His was made of black leather, and it was starting to wear down a bit around the face of the watch. I bought him one made of metal, thinking that it would last longer, and maybe…maybe he would think of me when he wore it.

Though when I made it in the front door, I could tell things were not going to go well from the very beginning. I should have known. Well, now I'm okay with it, but then it was miserable. My heart just dropped like an anvil on that cartoon coyote. He looked so irritated seeing me. I was sure that he hated me. Just sure of it.

Then those hateful words starting pouring out of his mouth. Those little daggers of truth that hit the remains of my tattered heart.

I think if his words hadn't been so truthful, I would have coped. I would have been able to just call him a dick and move on. But I couldn't. Because everything he said was true.

Sherlock is one of those people you don't want to look in the eye. Because you feel like you're going to fall so far down into the pit of hell that you won't be able to escape. He's like a corpse. You don't think they can see you, but in a sense they see everything.

But he didn't see. He didn't realize. And I saw it in his eyes when he read the tag on the present.

I would have been more pleased with myself, if it wasn't for the pain I saw then. I'd never seen any emotional output from Sherlock Holmes before in the years that I had known him, but seeing the pain in his eyes made me want to weep. I just wanted to tell him it was okay, tell him I knew he was sorry.

But then it was his turn to shock me.

"I apologize…Merry Christmas Molly Hooper."

Then he placed a chaste kiss on my cheek, and his blasted phone had to go off and ruin my reverie.

Sherlock had kissed me. ME. Molly Hooper. I mean, it was only a chaste kiss, but it still…I still felt it everywhere.

And that is when things get interesting.

Molly Hooper walked home that night, hating herself more than she had in her entire life. She had realized two things that night.

One: Sherlock Holmes had no intention of dating her whatsoever.

Two: Sherlock had a relationship with a rather beautiful woman right under her nose.

It also didn't help that she saw it in his eyes how much he knew and cared for this woman. The emotions that ran through her were many. Confusion, depression, angst, and the worst of all jealousy. Molly couldn't believe it. She was jealous of a CORPSE.

She turned up her music in her ears, hoping the soothing sounds of Enya would keep her from spilling over the tears in her eyes before she reached her flat.

A bottle of wine was necessary. Definitely.

Toby was there to greet her as usual, rubbing through her ankles to remind her that his bowl was empty and needed filling. She did so, and then gave him a saucer of milk. It was Christmas after all. The pinot noir was sitting so beautifully on the shelf she couldn't help but pour herself a glass…or two…or three…

She was almost asleep on her sofa watching It's a Wonderful Life when she heard the light but precise tapping on her door. She knew who it was. She knew because she didn't even bother getting up. She knew, Sherlock being who he was, he would just come in on his own. He would have deduced by now that she was home and still awake somehow.

But surprisingly…he didn't. She turned off the telly, waiting. But she didn't hear a thing. It was so quiet she could almost hear his breathing on the other side of the door. Tentatively, she called out. "S-Sherlock?"

His voice was barely audible. "May I come in?"

Sherlock. Sherlock Holmes. He was trying to be polite. She stood up, opened the door.

"You've been crying," he stated, those eyes undressing every flaw about her.

She sniffed. "Yup. I have." She opened the door further. "If you don't come in now Toby will get out."

Sherlock strode in with those long legs that Molly had been so fascinated by. But now she felt as if she were one of the bodies on the table. Cold, lifeless. Her heart was broken. How else was she supposed to feel? And now she was feeling terribly exposed…

"I came to…apologize for my attitude this evening." His words were clipped. Almost memorized. "Thank you for the gift." He lifted his arm, the watch gleaming in the poor light of her kitchen.

She cleared her throat, unsure of what to say. "Tea?" Grabbing the pot off the drying rack next to her sink, she began to fill it. And she instantly dropped it again when she felt warm hands on her hips.

"Molly…" His voice was so different from what she was used to. She was used to the confidence in his voice, the stoic nature of his sentences making her want to ravage him and beat him senseless at the same time.

But now…now it was soft and unsure. There was a vulnerability deep beneath the surface.

Sherlock Holmes was vulnerable…

"I…I need something. But I don't know…what…" As he spoke, his arms wrapped around her waist. She felt the bridge of his nose on that little spot where her neck met her shoulder, and a small shiver ran down her spine. "I feel…" he stopped.

She turned her head, the feel of his curly black locks tickling her nose. "Sherlock…you're sad."

He lifted his head, looked her in the eye. "Sad about?"

She turned to face him, her hips cradled by the counter. She picked on her hands as she spoke. "You obviously had a close…friendship with that woman. And now she's…she's in a better place."

"She's dead."

The way he said it made her heart break for the hundredth time that night. "Yes. Yes she is Sherlock. And I'm sorry."

He continued to gaze at her, and she couldn't read what he was thinking. It also didn't help her that he was so close their noses almost brushed, and he was reading her entire face, not just her eyes.

"Molly...I don't think I'm sad."

"Then what do you think?"

The pregnant pause before his answer had the hairs on the back of Molly's neck standing on end.

"Give me permission."

"Okay…you have permission."

The move into the kiss was almost as passionate as the kiss itself. Molly felt the brush of his nose, the breath he released as he crossed that imperceptible distance. Don't be afraid…

Molly didn't understand why the thought crossed her mind, but as his lips touched hers, she couldn't feel more afraid of what was to come than she was at that moment.

The kiss was a brush. An 'experiment'. She let him lead. She wanted to revel in the fact that Sherlock for the first time in his life was learning something about himself and not about the people around him.

Another brush…an incoherent mutter, and his lips pressed against hers to cling. She felt his hands bunch in her ratty t-shirt from college. She pressed her palms against his warm chest. He was wearing her favorite purple shirt, his long coat already hanging from when he had come in.

The heady kiss was beginning to expand, their tongues meeting for a slight caress, then a tangling of passion. Her hands had made their way into his hair, those curls feeling as soft as they looked.

The feel of cold hands on warm flesh made her gasp in shock. He froze.

"No…it's okay," she murmured into his lips. "Touch me…"

The way she said it made her feel like a temptress. She had never felt more empowered before in her life.

There was a growl in his throat when he kissed her, and his hands moved roughly up her skin to claim a breast. Both of them moaned at that touch, and he kissed her throat as he did so. She could feel the marks that would be there in the morning, but she didn't care.

He lifted her shirt off, pressing her further into the counter. Their hips meshed, and Molly could feel him through his slacks, his arousal cradled where her thigh met her hip.

There was a sudden moment when the tempo hitched to a high pace. Molly began unbuttoning his shirt, her panties somewhere on the linoleum of her kitchen. He cupped her mound, his other hand moving to lift her leg around him so he could access her further. Their mouths were desperate, open kisses moving from lips to ears to necks and back again.

First a single finger entered her, that long slender middle finger that Molly had often thought about. Then two…then three. Her mewls of ecstasy had Sherlock moving faster within her, his fingers pulsing in and out of her almost harshly. As she came, her body on fire and slick with desire, he lifted her onto the counter, fell to his knees, and began to nuzzle her to another peak.

His tongue was flicking at her clit at a rapid pace, her hands scratching the wood of her cabinets as she tried to find something to cling to. Her fingers scraped into his hair again, pressing him closer. She came again, crying out his name, "SHERLOCK!"

She wasn't sure when he had unbuttoned his slacks, but when she tasted herself on his lips, he entered her, her swollen body tightening around him in the aftershocks of her climax.

Passion swallowed them up like a typhoon. She came again and again, her already swollen entrance going into overload.

She came one last time, legs wrapped around him for strength as he pounded in her over and over again. White spots flashed before her eyes, her thighs quaking, her whole body a quivering mess as he pulled out of her body.

She didn't realize how close she had clung to him, her arms and legs wrapped around him like a vine on a branch. She didn't realize that she had bit his neck hard enough to leave a mark. She only knew she didn't want to let go.

Sherlock picked her up off the counter, made his way to the bedroom as he stroked her back, a purr escaping her lips. She finally untangled her weakened limbs from his body, amazed by his strength after such an arduous workout, but at that point, she didn't care. He crawled into bed next to her, spooning close.

She didn't want to think about what would happen in the morning. She didn't want to think about if he would leave or not. She was only happy enough that he was there.

And now Diary, I can say that he is still here. Of course, I was so buzzed afterward that I had to get up and finish making that tea. He sleeps so sweetly, his hair all amess and his face all squished like it is.

I just don't know what to do now. What happens after this? I can't help but feel as if I'm a rebound for him. But…I guess…I guess I can say that now I've helped him realize that he can feel.

He's not a robot. He's still human. It's just…hidden.

Thank you for reading! Pleeeeeeeeeeeeease read and review. It always makes me inspired to write.