She didn't have Sherlock's deductive genius, but Molly Hooper knew exactly who was knocking at her door.

She ignored him.

She was tempted to turn the television up, but instead she curled further into the corner of the couch, bringing her knees up to her chest. She wrapped her arms around them.

The knocking repeated. Same pattern, no harder.

She continued staring at the television, not watching the rerun. She'd taken the day off, begged it off really. She should have known better than to think she could escape Sherlock.

There was a pause. She buried her head in her legs.

Every time, every time, she swore she was over him. And then she'd thought she'd finally done it, that they could be friends, that she could live with loving him. It was a strange sort of family, but the best one she had ever known, him and Mary and John and Rosie. And then everything fell apart, because of course it did, and just kept crumbling, and maybe that could be blamed for what she had said.

Say it like you mean it.

But she knew exactly why she'd said it. She loved him, of course she did, she always had. She'd given so much for that love, and would give so much more. But giving that last bit, giving it all to him, without anything in return, for whatever game he was playing - no.

And it was another tie, another link that she'd never be free of, because she would never be able to stop hearing those words. And she would never would never be able to stop wondering, stop playing over every last inflection like it would reveal the truth.

She knew Sherlock, and even on days like today she was so grateful she did, and she knew why he was here. He'd explain whatever case desperately needed him to hear what a lonely woman sounded like when she said those words, how it had helped him determine an alibi or a killer. It would be logical, and reasonable, and worth her words to solve the case, because he hadn't understood what they cost her.

He knocked again. She leaned her head back against the couch.

"Molly." His voice was soft and muffled even further by the door. "Molly, please."

She closed her eyes. It was quiet.

She inhaled deeply and forced herself from the couch. Not bothering to fix her clothes or hair, she walked to the door. Her hand hovered over the knob before she grasped the cold metal and pulled the door open.

The Sherlock on the other side was not the one she was expecting. She swallowed down her instinctive dismissal, looking over his damp and dirty clothes, his tangled hair, and the scrapes and bruises covering his hands. The shadow of his beard told her he hadn't been home for at least a day, and judging by his eyes, it had likely been longer since he'd slept.

"Hard case?" she said, voice catching.

He nodded, eyes staying fixed on hers. "May I come in?" he asked hoarsely.

Wordlessly, she opened the door wider. He entered carefully, as if waiting for her to slam it closed on him. She shut and locked it, then moved to the kitchen on autopilot.

"First aid?" she said, pulling the kit out from the cupboard.

"No."

She frowned. "Sherlock, some of those cuts on your hands could get infected."

He looked down at them, as if just noticing. He flexed them, then let them hang by his sides. "Molly, I need to tell you something."

She busied herself with the first aid supplies, ignoring the prickling at her eyes, pulling out the tweezers and gauze and antiseptic cream. "Sherlock, I understand. It was for a case-" She choked on a sob, pressing the back of her hand to her mouth.

"Molly, no-"

"Then why!" She slammed her hand on the counter, tears flowing freely. "Why did you make me say that, you knew how much, how could you not know-"

"I didn't realize - I couldn't have expected that you would - " He trailed off. "I'm sorry."

"Why."

"There was a woman. Someone very close to me, she was threatening you, said she would detonate explosives hidden in your flat if I couldn't make you say it."

She laughed humorlessly. "Another Moriarty?"

"Of a sort." He fell silent. "I never meant to hurt you, Molly Hooper." She shook her head, tears falling from her face. He looked at the floor. "I meant it." His voice was barely loud enough to hear.

She looked up, eyes wide. "What?"

He met her gaze. "I meant it," he said quietly. She shook her head again, closing her eyes. "I did," he insisted.

"Sherlock, you can't just say that." Her eyes shot open. "If this is some sort of game-"

"No!" He took a step closer, and then said again, softer. "No."

"You can't possibly-"

"I didn't know," he interrupted. "When I first said it, I didn't. But it was true."

"Then say it," she challenged. "Actually say it, no threats, no pretending."

Slowly, he walked around the counter to her, eyes locked with hers. She watched him nervously. He stopped just in front of her, looking down at her. "Molly Hooper," he said, and she felt the tears start again. "I love you."

She reached up and grabbed his shirt collar and pulled him down to her. Their mouths crashed together, and his hands came up immediately to rest on her hips, pulling her closer to him. He tasted like seawater and blood, sweat and tears and Sherlock, something warm and right. His lips glided across hers, desperately, and she pulled back for a brief moment.

"I love you," she gasped, and he smiled at her, wild and impossible and brilliant before their lips met again. His arms wrapped around her back until she was crushed against him. Hers curled around his neck. Their mouths explored each other, hungry and eager, and she breathed him in deeply.

Any barriers fell quickly, burnt away in the moment where everything was suddenly and startlingly real. His hands clenched on her back a little too tightly, like he couldn't quite believe she was there, and tears still fell from behind her closed eyes. The salt and copper tang of blood didn't stop them from delving deeper into the kiss. He pressed her into the counter, trying to get closer than was possible, and her arms nearly strangled his neck. He bent at an angle that had to be uncomfortable if he cared.

He was hot against her, but the dampness of his clothes soaked into her light sweater. Her arms gradually unlocked from around his neck and lowered down his sides, against where they were pressed together, and rested on his waist. She paused there, unsure, and, with a hitch, his hands moved on her waist. Carefully, they found the edge of her sweater and slipped underneath, coming to rest again on her bare skin. Taking a deep breath, she picked at his shirt, pulling it free from his trousers until she could reach his skin. She let her hands pause there, exploring the muscle of his stomach and sides. He let go of her briefly, shrugging out of his jacket, letting it fall to the floor. His eyes met hers as he returned, hands resuming their place under her sweater.

He pushed it up, slowly, carefully, and she thought he might be holding his breath. Hers caught as his hands skimmed her ribs, fingers following every indentation. He paused when he reached her breasts, then even more slowly dragged the sweater over her head. She lifted her arms and let it fall to the side. She hadn't worn a bra, hadn't planned on leaving the flat for the day, and he looked at her bared body with reverence. She shivered, not from the cold, and pulled him back to her. Their mouths fused, and her hands fit between them, fumbling at the buttons of his shirt. Without their lips parting, he helped her, and the shirt fell.

His bare skin against hers was a sudden shock. She gasped, and he pressed closer. Every inch of her was oversensitized, burning at his touch. His mouth slid from hers, down her cheek and chin, tasting the tears dried on her face. He moved lower, along her neck, stopping for a moment in the hollow at her collarbone. He rested his head on her shoulder, panting, and she threaded her hands into his hair, fingers catching at the knots. His mouth returned to her, dotting her chest with brief kisses, and still slowly moving lower. His hands cupped her breasts as he moved past them, mouthing the soft flesh before his hands spread to her sides. He laid kisses across her stomach, pausing again when her reached her waistband. He looked up at her, and her hands reached over his, pushing her clothes over her hips.

His hands followed them to the floor then trailed back up her legs. His forehead pressed against her stomach and she felt his breath on her. She dug her hands into his hair harder, hips instinctively jolting. If she closed her eyes, it could almost be a dream, Sherlock Holmes kneeling in front of her in her kitchen, but everything told her it was real, from the uneven press of his calluses on her hips, to the pounding in her chest, reverberating through her body, expanding to more than she thought she could feel. His eyes on her were open, unguarded, and she met his gaze widely, feeling the flow of connection between them. Her blood sang in her veins.

Without looking away from her, he pressed his mouth between her legs, and she drew in a sharp breath. One hand trailed from her hip, tracing her folds, opening her to him. She curled over him, watching as he explored her, running back and forth, finding which spots made her breath hitch, until she was wet from his mouth and his hands. He was unsure, but meant every stroke, every movement, and she gasped and cried above him. Her hands clenched in his hair, tugging almost painfully. His confession had already left her raw and exposed, and his touch sensitized her to the point of near pain. He found the place that made her arch into him and worked it with fingers and tongue until she cried out his name. She pulled at his hair, guiding him away from her and then back to standing. He pressed immediately back against her, mouth ghosting over her cheek.

"Please, Sherlock," she whispered, pushing at his waistband. He obliged, shoving his clothes to the floor, stepping out of them impatiently.

Completely naked to each other now, he reached for her thigh, slowly drawing it over his hip. She bit her lip as he fit himself against her, bracing herself on the counter, then gasped as he pushed in. His forehead pressed against hers, eyes locked, sharing every breath. They moved slowly, gradually coming together until their hips met. She clenched around him, and he gasped.

"Molly," he groaned, burying his head in her neck. His mouth searched for hers, and they met, desperate for every point of contact possible.

They moved together, a gentle rhythm backed by urgency. Their bodies grew slick with sweat, and her hands clutched at his shoulders, nails digging in. Their mouths finally broke, desperate from air, but barely parted. No more space was left between them than necessary. Their pace increased, unhurried but aching for completion. She could feel his heart pounding against her chest, every beat of him alive and in her arms, and his uneven breaths against her lips, hot and damp.

He came first, crying out as he arched against her. His hands returned between her thighs, rubbing her until she came with him. She called his name again, head arching back, the strands of her ponytail sticking to their skin. He leaned against her, both of them supported by the counter, panting.

"I love you," he whispered, mouth brushing against her jaw.

She laughed, watery, and met his lips for another kiss. "I love you too," she whispered back.

That episode was very inspiring. My Sherlock blog on tumblr is thisjustsortofhappened, where I think I've reblogged a dozen versions of that scene.