AN - Thanks to Lilsherlockian1975 for giving this a look over for me.
A New Year's Kiss
The morgue was quiet for the moment, thankfully; but Molly knew it wouldn't last. She decided to take advantage of the temporary lull to tackle some of the boring tasks that routinely got postponed in favour of much more exciting options such as late night gurney races (she'd never personally participated but she'd heard the rumours and always thought it might be fun).
Into the supply cupboard she went-inventory sheet in hand-to count shelf after shelf of boxes of latex gloves, bottles of cleaning solution and saline, and other pieces of equipment that kept the morgue running in a smooth and timely manner.
She looked around the small room and sighed. What a dull and lonely way to spend New Year's Eve.
Not that Christmas had been any more exciting. Her mum had left for a holiday cruise on the twenty-third. Meena had gone with her current boyfriend to visit his parents. There hadn't even been an invitation to another awkward gathering at Baker Street to give her something to look forward to. Not that she would have gone if she had been invited (it may have been years ago, but Molly still cringed just a bit whenever she thought of that horrible evening). But it would have been nice to be asked.
The two only real highlights of the last week and a half had been the cute barista at the coffee shop she frequented remembering her name (and flirting a bit, she was almost positive he'd been flirting) and a very brief voicemail message from Sherlock wishing her a Merry Christmas.
Slightly out of character for him, but it had made her Christmas Eve in front of the telly just a bit cheerier.
It had been two days since that terrifying broadcast from someone who was definitely not James Moriarty. Jim was dead, and ghosts did not hijack television channels. Molly was very firm on that point anytime someone dared to ask if she thought it was really him.
She hadn't seen Sherlock in weeks, but his brother had sent someone out to check on her within half an hour of the broadcast. At first she had wondered why Mycroft had bothered, but the woman with the phone reminded her that Molly had helped Sherlock fake his death. Mycroft suspected whomever was pretending to be Jim would probably be a little annoyed at her for that.
Fair enough.
She finished counting boxes of sized medium latex gloves and moved on to the large ones.
Suddenly the door to the morgue flew open with a bang, and Molly dropped her clipboard with a startled squeak. She cautiously poked her head out of the supply cupboard and felt a surge of relief at the sight of the familiar Belstaff sweeping past in the direction of the small office used for filling out paperwork and sneaking a quick snack.
"Jesus, Sherlock! Haven't you ever heard of knocking? You nearly scared me to death."
He spun on the balls of his feet, the hem of his coat flaring out behind him as he turned. "Doubtful. You're young, a non-smoker, and routinely take the stairs. A very unlikely candidate for a heart attack."
Molly drew in a deep breath and wondered why she had thought it would be nice to see him again. "Never mind. Will the police be coming? Should I prep the morgue for a body or do you need to see one that's already here?"
"Neither." He frowned, looking a bit petulant in Molly's opinion. "I'm sorry to disappoint you, but it will just be me tonight. I thought I'd stop by for . . . a social visit."
She glanced at the clock on the wall, feeling more than a little confused. "At nearly midnight? On New Year's Eve? In the morgue?"
He shrugged and began to unbutton his coat. "You weren't at your flat." As if that explained everything.
Molly watched him for a long moment, her head titled to the side, as he finished removing his coat and haphazardly tossed it on a nearby table. Finally she shook her head, clearing it, and turned back to the supply cupboard. "All right, whatever. Was there something specific you wanted to talk about or . . .?"
Sherlock may have had nothing better to do at the moment, but Molly still had an inventory to finish. If he wanted to talk, he could do it while she worked.
"I never had sex with her."
The newly recovered clipboard slipped from her fingers and bounced off a shelf before hitting the floor once more. Molly whirled around to find him standing in the doorway, his tall form blocking her view of the morgue almost completely. "I-what-I-pardon?"
"Janine," Sherlock clarified. "I never had sex with her."
"Why would I . . . Why are you telling me this?"
He stared at her, a small hint of a confused frown tilting his lips downward. "Because I wanted you to know."
Her mind raced, trying and failing to come up with any logical reason why they should be having this conversation.
Sherlock spoke again, "It was all a lie. She never wore that ridiculous hat, and there most definitely was not seven times a night." He focused over her shoulder for a moment, his thoughts momentarily derailed. "I suspect she may have shot herself in the foot with that one. It sets a rather intimidatingly high bar for any man to follow, don't you think?" His gaze snapped back to hers and she got the impression that he was waiting for some sort of a reply.
She blinked, looked around the small space as if searching for an escape route, then blinked again. Molly opened her mouth to tell him that she didn't care who he may or may not have slept with, thank you very much, but something else entirely slipped out.
"But she knew about the birthmark," Molly countered, almost accusingly. Her right hand fell to her hip, fingers brushing a spot well below her waistline. Then her eyes closed in embarrassment as she realized just how irrationally possessive she sounded.
He rolled his eyes. "I didn't say she hadn't seen me naked. We 'dated' for a month."
Molly wanted to slap those air quoting hands of his out of her sight. She took a step back, further into the closet and away from him, to distance herself from the temptation.
Sherlock huffed and ran a hand through his hair. He stilled, then his lips slowly curved into a lethally sinful smile. "You've seen it," he reminded her. As if she could ever forget.
She flushed and sputtered defensively. "That was different! And you know it. I was treating a knife wound, not ogling your bits!"
"Ah, yes." He stepped into the tiny room and she instinctively retreated, stopping only when she could feel a shelf pressing against her back. "I believe you said it was more of a deep scratch than an actual knife wound, didn't you? Just needed some ointment and a bandage."
"Yeah, that-that one." She swallowed and nodded. There was no reason why she should be feeling so jumpy, yet she felt as if she were going to come out of her skin if he came any closer.
"Did it ever occur to you that perhaps I didn't really need assistance with such a minor cut?"
It had-a bit-but she hadn't really been in a position to think about it at the time. She'd been far too busy making sure she kept her hands to herself and her eyes on her work.
"Perhaps I simply needed you." Sherlock moved closer, his long legs eating up the distance between them in one step. He stopped a hair's breadth from being able to press his body against hers from chest to knee. Her eyes fluttered closed and her heart began to pound. She could feel his breath against her ear as he whispered, "Touching me."
Molly shook her head in denial. None of this was making any sense.
He tilted her chin upward with his hand, and she opened her eyes to find him watching her intently. "Didn't you feel me shudder when you oh-so-delicately helped push my pants low enough to get to the cut, so damn intent on protecting my modesty."
She shook her head again, trying to read his expression. "I thought you were cold."
The hand at her chin slid back along her jaw until his long fingers were gently caressing her hair. "Far from it. I was hot. Burning." He cupped the nape of her neck and urged her closer. "Aching," Sherlock whispered against her lips. "Harder than I could ever remember being. Desperately hoping you wouldn't notice, and praying that you would."
"Oh," Molly gasped. "But that was months and months ago, you never-"
He interrupted her, pressing his forehead against hers as he looked deep into her eyes. "What could I have possibly said that wouldn't have been completely selfish and cruel? You were engaged to another man, Molly. Then it was too late, I'd messed up too much to even think about telling you how I felt. And there was the case, I couldn't do that to you, not when I knew I was going to . . . But that's over. I'm free and I want to be with you. If you'll have me?"
The expression on his face. So uncertain and yet full of hope at the same time.
Molly tried to push him away. He let her put a small amount of space between them, but his hand remained at the nape of her neck. His fingers rubbed small soothing circles against her skin as he waited for her to say something. Anything.
"Sherlock, I can't." His face fell, defeat overwriting the hope. "I want to, so much, but I can't. Being with you, intimately, it would be everything to me, but it's not enough. Not for me. I need-"
"I love you." His whisper was so soft, she barely heard him at all.
Molly swayed on her feet. Sherlock caught her and pulled her against his chest. "Not the most romantic place to say it for the first time, but you have to admit it will be a unique story to tell when people ask." His smile was boyish and lopsided, and Molly knew she was a goner.
"I love you, t-" A finger against her lips cut her off.
"Hold that thought." Before she could do more than glare, Sherlock held his hand up between them. She saw the watch on his wrist as he began to count down.
". . . four, three, two, one. Happy New Year, Molly Hooper."
Then he leaned down and finally, finally pressed his lips against hers.