A/N: I've been feeling terrible of late, like really, really terrible. I am upset that I've not written in so long, upset that there have been no updates for The Admirer... but thanks to some lovely souls on tumblr, I managed to muster the energy and joy to come up with this little piece. It's probably rubbish and I feel my writing's gone down the drain for not having written so long but oh well. That's life. Still, I hope you'll find something to enjoy in it. xx
Reason
It was hot, unbearably hot. Summer was not welcome at a time like this. Even in the dead of night or at the cusp of dawn, the absence of sun did not mean reprieve from the heat. Under the additional and unwelcome heat of a desk lamp, Molly was on her knees, crouched next to the collapsed heap that was Sherlock Holmes and stitching up a nasty gash in his side.
Two hours in all, it took her, but she managed. Molly always did. By the time the clock struck two a.m., the detective was as good as new. All other cuts and wounds had been washed and dressed, and that worrying injury to his side, she had managed to address.
Sherlock was now seated in an armchair and Molly, having finished the job, gathered all the scattered equipment and gratefully turned the desk lamp off. Without saying a word, she simply turned around and walked away, knowing full well that once he had caught his breath, he would be out of her flat. To her surprise, she heard him clear his throat and what she thought was the sound of her name. Molly paused, wondering whether to turn back or not.
"Molly," he repeated.
It had been her name.
"Yes?" she said, turning around.
"Put the things down," he said, his voice still dry and weary, "And come here for a bit."
Molly obliged, setting her things down on the dining table and walked over to him. She sat herself on the edge of the coffee table, facing the detective directly.
"Yup?" she said, whilst redoing her ponytail.
She was met with silence as he watched her put her hair up. There was the tiniest hint of a smile in the corner of his lips but it soon gave way to a grimace when he shifted in his seat.
"You okay?" she asked.
"Fine, fine," he exhaled, gritting his teeth.
"You mustn't move about so suddenly," she chided softly, leaning over to check the wound on his side.
"Why do you always help me, Molly?" he asked.
Straightening, Molly stared at the detective with one eyebrow raised. The question had been unexpected. She folded her arms and exhaled slowly.
"I have my reasons," she said with a shrug.
He gave a laugh, which led to another grimace from the pain in his side.
"Is one of them at least the same as mine?" he asked, looking up at her.
"How do you mean?" she asked back, curious.
"Your reason for always helping me," he explained, "Is it the same reason I always come back?"
Molly unfolded her arms and placed her hands on her lap. She tapped her kneecaps with her fingertips, unsure of how to respond.
"I don't know," she replied with another evasive shrug. "Maybe, maybe not…"
The detective nodded pensively, looking away as he contemplated her answer.
"Come here," he said, suddenly.
"I am here, what are you talking about?"
"Closer," he gestured with his less injured hand.
"Why?" Molly asked, unknowingly leaning back.
"Fine," sighed the detective.
With a sharp intake of breath, he sat up and inched forward in his armchair. When he had moved himself close enough to her, he simply kissed her; once, quickly and gently on the lips. Sherlock then sat back, but not without a sharp hiss from having stretched his fresh stitches again.
"So…" he began.
"Sherlock, what—"
"Tell me now, is it…the same?"
Molly blinked, a little stunned, before relaxing into a soft smile. It was her turn to move closer, gently drawing his face to hers as she kissed him back; once, carefully and only tentatively touching his lips.
"Yes," she said with a smile, "I think it is."
END