A/N: Hey guys :) so first of all, thank you to everyone that has read, and also to those who took the time to review. I really do appreciate all of the encouragement! But as you are my readers, I would very much like your opinion on something. I've been stuck for months on this story, because honestly this chapter feels like the end of the story. But I feel bad, because I originally rated this as M, and this doesn't have any smut. I would prefer to switch it to T. Let me know.
Sherlock let his fingers flow against the bow, producing a beautiful sound coming from his violin. He had been playing for an hour now and he didn't want to stop. He was producing a piece from last night, of all of the confusion floating within his mind palace; confusion that was Molly. From Molly, about Molly; her scent, her soft skin, the way her breath fragmented when he was closer to her - it all sent a shiver down his spine. He had never felt like this for anyone before, why now? As much as he thought about it though, it wasn't just now - it was only something he couldn't admit to himself until now.
John would have found the sound more beautiful if it wasn't four in the morning. He dragged his hand down his face as he turned on the kettle. Clearly Sherlock was not going to allow him to get anymore sleep so he might as well get up for the day. He grabbed the paper off the front door and came back in to settle into his chair.
"You know, Sherlock," John began with grogginess in his voice, "they say that playing in the morning is bad for your violin."
Sherlock didn't even bother looking to him, but his playing subsided. "No, they don't."
"Well, it would be nice if that were true, so that you wouldn't wake me up at this time. I didn't get in until well past 11."
Sherlock placed his violin down and began pacing along the sitting room. John watched him go back and forth for at least five minutes, his dressing gown sweeping behind him at every turn. Sherlock looked more confused than John had seen him.
"Fine," Sherlock said angrily, waving his hand.
"Okay," John humoured, hesitating for a moment. He was trying to figure out what would have him in this mood, and then last night clicked into his head. "Was Molly okay when you brought her home?" he asked, putting his hands in his lap.
This caused Sherlock to slow his pacing now as he looked to John. "Please tell me that you were actually kind and took the poor girl home," John added with a groan.
"Yes, I took her home," Sherlock scoffed as he sat down in his chair. Under the confusion he remembered her small frame beneath his arms; he felt relief when remembering the comfort he gave her, and then ill when he realised he was dwelling on feelings. He clenched his hand when he remembered her warm one laced with his.
"You're sure that you're alright?"
"You've just asked that."
"Yes, and I don't believe that you're actually fine. Did something happen with Molly?"
"I'm not an idiot, you know," John started as he saw a smirk creep up on Sherlock's face. He pointed at him now, "don't even start," he reprimanded. "You only have a handful of people that you care about and I know that you feel guilty about what happened to her."
Sherlock narrowed his eyes but said nothing as John continued. "I know you care about Molly, so don't say that you don't. I also know that you were jealous of Andr- err, Moran. I may not know how many different types of tobacco ash there are-"
John stared at him for a second as Sherlock interrupted him, "-but that doesn't mean I can't figure out things like that."
"Sentiment is a chemical def-"
"Defect found in the losing side? Yeah, I've heard that one before. I'm going to call bullshit on you, Sherlock," John said as he got up from his chair to attend to the whistling kettle in the kitchen. "Maybe you should push out of your comfort area and actually talk to her."
Molly walked nervously towards her lab that morning, her eyes heavy as she dragged herself through the hallway; she hadn't slept well. It took her a long time to fall asleep - she laid awake, telling herself not to think about Sherlock. She also praised herself; he didn't want her and she made the right decision by backing off. That was a step in the right direction, wasn't it? Why did she feel like rubbish, though?
When she had finally gotten herself to sleep she woke up from vivid nightmares. It was always the memory of shooting Moran, of him dead on the floor. She constantly remembered her dream where Sherlock had told her to get rid of Moran, but she just never put two and two together. Andrew had never shown any signs of being bad at all. He was perfect actually, which she thought should have made her suspicious.
When she walked through the doors, she found Sherlock at a microscope. He wasn't usually in here this early, and if he was, it was with John. To her, he looked very concentrated, but in reality he wasn't looking at anything. He may have kept his eyes straight on into the microscope, but to him it was absentminded. He was alert as soon as Molly walked into the room and he looked up at her, deducing her within seconds. He could see the exhausted eyes, the trembling hands.
She gave a shy smile as she looked away, not wanting to make eye contact. She knew he was deducing her and it made her feel uncomfortable. She didn't want to bother him with her problems; she had cried on him enough. "Morning."
They were very quiet for a long time as Sherlock finally found something to keep himself busy with, looking to Molly when she was concentrating on her work. She was having difficulty paying any attention though. Everything was taking her almost twice as long and she would lose focus quickly. If Sherlock made any sudden noises, she would get jumpy. She reprimanded herself for doing it the whole time which, in turn, made it worse.
They both went to grab something at the same time and their hands touched; Sherlock didn't realise until then the extent of her shaking hands and she pulled away quickly. He narrowed his eyes in confusion as he looked down to her. He didn't have to ask, because she knew what he always deduced from her. "Just the nerves…" she tried to play off as she looked down to the floor, but she found a hand gently grasping her arm.
"Relax, Molly," he said, meeting her eyes. He still felt guilty, felt responsible for all of this. She was not falling back to her normal self as quickly as he thought she would. She was trying to play it off like she was, but her anxiousness made it difficult for her to deceive.
He found words coming out of his mouth that he didn't even expect himself to say. "You don't hate me. Why?"
She shook her head, "Sherlock, what?" she asked incredulously.
"Moriarty and Moran were after me. They used you to get to me and I've also been informed that I do not treat you well. And for some reason you think that it was your fault. I would say that evidence deems it on me. Most people at this point logically resent someone that put them in that position."
She looked more deeply at his expression to see that he was sincere in his question, and found herself taking a step closer to him. "Sherlock, I could never hate you." She bit her lip as he was quiet, still not understanding.
"Sherlock, I- I care for you. You know that I do, you know I would help you in any way that you needed. And I know that you weren't aware of what was happening as much as anyone else didn't."
Molly sighed again. "There isn't anything that anyone can do about it now. It's going to take me a while to get well- back to normal. But it isn't like I've been doing all the right things to make that happen as quickly as possible. I've been telling myself this whole time that if I pretend that it didn't happen, that it would go away." She was admitting it more to herself now than she was to him. "But I think about it even more now, it haunts my thoughts; it doesn't leave," she said, losing her composure as her voice cracked. "But I'll figure it out, I suppose… I know you just want things to go back to normal and I'm - well, I'm trying my best."
Sherlock didn't know how much he really wanted it to go back to normal though. He wanted this uneasiness in Molly to disperse, but maybe John was right. He did care for her.
Molly found that they were in the same position as in her flat last night and it was making her head spin familiarly. She bit her lip as her eyes stared at his mouth. They had been quiet for what felt like forever but remained in their spots. Somehow in the process, Sherlock's forehead had drifted down to rest against hers as he stared at her, trying to figure out what to say or what to do. Molly couldn't have been more confused as she was pressed back against the lab counter, and in front of her was Sherlock closer than ever.
Sherlock brought his hand up gently under her chin, letting his thumb graze over her lip. He memorized the way the soft skin of her mouth felt against his finger.
"Sherlock…" she began, but before she knew it she was cut off by his mouth meeting hers. He kissed her gently and she gave in immediately, a soft sigh escaping her lips in relief, almost in bliss. Her kisses were just as gentle but eager as she let herself press closer against him.
Molly realised that his lips felt so soft against hers, so incredibly warm, and the taste of him left her intoxicated. She did not comprehend immediately that Sherlock was kissing her, but when she finally had a grasp on the concept, a hand reached up to gently push against his chest as she pulled her mouth away. "Wait..."
If Molly wasn't mistaken, Sherlock looked a little lost. He had wanted to do that for longer than he thought, and it was more gratifying than he had expected. Other kisses that he received in his college and uni years were purely experimental and compared nothing to the way her lips felt on his. He found himself wanting to indulge more until he realised the concerned expression on her face.
Her eyes closed immediately as she felt only anxiety to be close against him now, a lump in her throat as she feared she would be rejected again. "Sherlock, you don't want me. You told me you weren't interested. Why are you…" she trailed off.
Molly found that she didn't want to believe that he was this close to her, that his lips were against hers, but the glistening of slight moisture on his lips said otherwise.
John has alluded to the same thing as you and if you are thinking the same preposterous idea that he is, you should dismiss the thought because it is inaccurate. I am married to my work; I have no interest.
It clicked in his head as Sherlock realised the conversation that he had with Molly prior to the major events that happened recently. His thumb caressed back and forth against her jawline now as he tried to find the right words to explain it to her. He watched his thumb in motion to keep his eyes away from Molly. He couldn't bring himself to make eye contact with her as he allowed vulnerability to seep through.
"I find sentiment to be weak and pointless, but I can't escape it with you, Molly. I don't want to. I have felt things that I have never felt for anyone before." He had closed his eyes for a second, registering what had left his lips. They fluttered open again though when he felt a small hand cupping his cheek. Molly bit down on her lower lip as she processed his words, a smile creeping onto her mouth.
Molly let her lips find Sherlock's again as she kissed him as gently as before, her hands running up and entangling in his curls as his hands were found cupping both sides of her face. She was pressed up closer against the counter, but she had completely forgotten where she was. All she focused on was Sherlock. She let her hands move around to explore the skin she had dreamed of for so long, need increasing within her as her kisses became more frantic.
Sherlock memorized every reaction, every little noise that she made to the movements of his mouth. A whole new room had been created for Molly, and he was going to catalogue everything. He would make himself remember what she liked best, and the ways to make her smile under their kiss. It was rare for him, but he found that he couldn't stop doing exactly that.
Molly pressed herself impossibly close to him. It was all so strange that it happened; that it was real. She trusted him though, as she always did. She had always believed in him and it took great effort for him to say anything of that sort. But he pushed out of his area to confess himself to her and it made her love him more.