DISCLAIMER: I don't own Sherlock, nor do I own any of the characters . . . if I had control, Sherlock and Molly would be going at it like bunnies.
Also, this complete disregards S3E1 and is a complete imagination of my own. More at the bottom.
Trust
...
When she wakes up, she almost thinks she's in a dream. There is a warm body next to her, a gentle breath against her neck, and long, spindly limbs clinging to her like she vanish in thin air. She can only identify him by his hands - those handsome, smart hands that were often the star of her many, many fantasies - and when she finally remembers the night before, she has a hard time breathing.
Sherlock Holmes is in her bed . . . naked as well, because she can feel a certain hardness pressing insistently against the small of her back. The revelation makes her head spin, and she has to fight the urge to whip around to see if he's even real. But she doesn't, because Sherlock Holmes is a light sleeper (she should know, considering it was her restless movements that caused him to awaken throughout the night and demand more sex), and the last thing she wants is to wake up him now.
She wants to enjoy this moment she has with him, even if it is only just her and his sleeping form. She doesn't know when she will be this close to him again - if she will ever be this close to him again - and she's not taking any chances.
Slowly, the details come back to her as the fuzziness of sleep starts to ebb away, and she is surprised, truthfully, that it took them this long to actually do the deed. She'd helped him through the time he was supposedly dead by allowing him to stay at her flat whenever he was in London. She'd fed him, clothed him, stitched him up, and even went as far as bathed him when he was so disoriented from an injury that he was in no condition to clean himself. They'd shared a bed more times than she could count too, and yet it had never led to anything more than spooning. And soon, Molly had stopped entertaining the idea of a romantic relationship with Sherlock Holmes, because it seemed hopeless to yearn for something so beyond her reach.
They'd gotten to know each other while he was dead and, slowly, over time, developed an odd sort of friendship . . . if she could even call it that, because friends did not spoon as far as she was concerned. It was a hard thing to explain, and even now she cannot truly articulate it in a way that makes sense to her girlfriends. They were companions, in the truest sense of the word, and Molly had grown to accept that maybe that was all she would ever get.
She thought she was okay with it; she truly had, and had accepted it before this night had happened. Even if she never got to do the romantic things with Sherlock, she at least got his company. And not the company like before when she was just a pathologist he took advantage of at Bart's. No, this was a welcome companionship, one that lived on after his return from the grave. It went far enough where Sherlock started to go very out of character and text her to stop by 221b so they could share the takeaway he'd ordered. And Molly was happy to oblige.
For the first time, it'd felt like they were on the same page. Sherlock and her would sit in his living room, him in his chair and her in John's (which Sherlock, to her great surprise and delight, had started to call her chair on and off because John no longer lived there), and they would discuss each other's day. What interesting cases he'd had, what peculiar autopsies she'd performed, and they'd even talk about feelings, of all things.
Molly had known that Sherlock'd experienced things that she wished he hadn't, and even the great Consulting Detective had some emotional baggage that he couldn't delete. He wouldn't go into great detail, but he would give a general sort of statement ("first man murdered", "first bought of torture from Moran's goons", "first time alone and severely injured") and would give her a glance at what he was feeling, knowing that she could work out the little titbits for herself. She never pressed him about what emotions were stirring in his funny head, because she knew that was not the way to help Sherlock. She helped him by just being, by pretending to be his skull and just listening to him ramble almost incoherently about his time as a deadman.
She also had known that John knew much more than she did, and that Sherlock kept it that way because he feared she would be scarred if he went more in depth about his encounters with Moriarty's web.
Their odd friendship is how she supposes they'd finally did it, there in her bed, her with his purple, button-down wrapped around her and him completely naked, though how they got there was sort of strange. They had just been talking like normal, at her flat instead of his, which was unusual, when the conversation just had suddenly paused. She hadn't known how is face had suddenly gotten so close to hers and she could feel his breath against her lips, and then she had just leaned. The rest was a blur, truthfully, a wonderful, erotic blur filled with deep, baritone groans and the feel of skin on skin, and she is still working it out in her head when Sherlock stirs awake.
She had moved slightly whilst pondering their current, naked situation, and Sherlock must have felt the emptiness because soon he's grabbing wildly at her, as if afraid that she had left. He pulls her to him, pressing their bodies together deliciously as he buries his head in her neck, breathing heavily. She traces down his arm, feeling the veins the naturally stick out of the pale flesh, and stops at his wrist, the wild pump of his pulse against her finger tips. She's alarmed at his fearful reaction to her might-be absence, and slowly builds up the courage to speak.
"Why were you worried?" she whispers in the dark, staring straight ahead.
His face is still against her neck, and she feels his breathing hitch slightly at her words. "Why would you think I am worried?"
She knows what he is doing, and she scowls in the darkness. "Do not play dumb with me, Sherlock," she says crossly, sliding her fingers from his wrist and into his hand. "Your hands are sweaty and freezing, as if you've had a fright."
He is silent, and she is worried that she's angered him and says no more. They lie there in a tense silence, unmoving, which Molly takes as a good sign because she knows Sherlock does not like human contact when he's upset.
When he finally speaks, his voice quivers slightly, matching the tremble in the hand Molly holds. "I was worried you'd left yes," he starts slowly, before stopping completely. Only two seconds pass before he speaks again, this time more cautious. "I-I do not know how to feel like this," he murmurs, his lips pressed against her neck so much that she can feel each word he speaks just below her ear. "It is unnerving."
"Feel like what, Sherlock?" she presses gently, making sure to keep the urgency she feels out of her voice. Discussing feelings with Sherlock is like slowly creeping up on a skittish animal; move too quickly and they will bolt.
The silence that stretches on after her words makes the anxiety she feels double, then triple. Has she gone too far? It's still strange to feel so unsure with Sherlock, a feeling that she hasn't felt in almost three years. The situation is almost laughable; she's cared for him like a mother, learned his mind almost as well as John has, if not more, and she's just slept with him to boot. Still, she is not completely confident around him, and she suspects that a part of her will always be that way.
"Molly," he says suddenly, "do you know why I slept with you?"
Of all the things she expected him to say, it certainly wasn't this, and she blanches slightly before rolling her eyes. "Well, for one thing, you had this very hard thing that-"
"Do not make jokes, Molly," he drawls.
"Do not be rude to the woman whose bed you are naked in," she retorts back instantly.
"Stop distracting me," he snaps, though the irritation in his voice is half-hearted. "Anyway, do you know why I slept with you?"
She doesn't know where he's going with this, and she doesn't know if she particularly wants the answer, so she beats around the bush like a child evading punishment. "Well, there's the obvious reasons . . ."
"Yes, yes, I know, Molly," Sherlock snips impatiently, "but besides that."
Her voice is soft and slightly quavering when she answers, "No."
Sherlock takes a deep breath in response, and she wonders if he were hoping she had said something else. She doesn't have long to ponder because he's speaking again, and he talks so softly that she has to strain to hear the words.
"Because you're the woman that counts, Molly, and I have no idea how to . . ."
Her heart jumps in her throat, wondering what the end of the sentence is, and she feels silly, really. Because she's already slept with him, which is no slight thing in Sherlock's mind she's sure, and now she is waiting for . . . something. Something big, but what that 'something big' is, she isn't sure.
"No idea how to what?" she asks, her voice now carrying some of the sweet desperation she feels. The end to that sentence is going to make or break her, and Sherlock still isn't talking, or moving. He seems frozen against her neck, legs and arms still clasped around her. "No idea how to what, Sherlock?"
He shrinks into her more, as if he is trying to merge them together into one, and Molly can only lie there, hoping and clinging to his hand. The silence (silence, silence, she thinks, always silence) is deafening, and she is worried she will never get her answer, when it finally comes.
"I have no . . . idea how to . . . l-love you, Molly," he says, his voice low and words stilted, sounding awkward coming out of his mouth, "and I dislike not having an idea." The last part is said quickly, with irritation, and she can just imagine the up-turned-nosed expression he must be wearing.
It's funny how she reacts, and she wonders if there was anything in the curry she ate the night previously, because she has an overwhelming urge to giggle when his statement concludes. She doesn't know why, but his profession of love to her is so hilariously awkward and so acutely Sherlock that she doesn't know what else to do but laugh.
It takes Sherlock a moment to catch on, and when he does, he does not sound at all amused. "Why are you laughing at me?" he demands, sounding like petulant child. "Though I am not exactly the comedian, I know well enough to know that this is no laughing matter!"
And at that Molly laughs harder. She must be deranged, and when she turns to face him because he's pulled his face back, the expression on Sherlock's face seems to mirror what she's thinking.
"I - I'm - sorry!" she manages between guffaws, which she is sure do not look the least bit attractive. "But - you - sounded - so - uncomfortable!"
Sherlock waits patiently for her to have her laugh, which, when they later look back on the memory, was quite a long time much to her sheepish chagrin. When she finally settles down he takes her back into his arms, though from his posture she can tell that he is slightly miffed by her reaction.
"Are you done?" he questions, his voice holding an air of annoyed indifference.
She smiles and lets out another giggle, and she can see the outline of his scowl through the darkness of her room. "Yes," she says, and as an afterthought continues with, "I'm sorry I laughed at you, but you just were-"
"Uncomfortable?" he finished for her. "I'm even more uncomfortable now that you've just had a cackle." His words make her snicker, and she almost starts full-on again before reconsidering. She has a feeling that he is done being laughed at for today. "I thought you said you were done," he snaps, his words full of half-hearted accusation.
"I am, I am," she sighs, her free hand going up in surrender. "Now we can try being serious again."
"Yes," Sherlock continues, his voice droll, "before you had your fit, I was professing my love for you, and now I await your response."
"My response?" Molly asks, raising an eyebrow after turning to face him.
He nods stiffly. "Isn't that how it works? The man proclaims his love for his woman and then receives a response either in the positive or the negative."
"So formal," she laughs, kissing his jaw in apology when he glares at her, crystalline eyes narrowed. "So, you would like me to give you a response?"
"Yes," he says conversationally, "preferably in the positive."
Molly takes her hand from his and wraps both arms around his neck, pulling herself up to where they are at eye-level. His hands automatically go to her waist before trailing down to her bum. They lie like that for a moment, her fingers twisting in the hair at the nape of his neck while his trace secret patterns into the soft skin of her backside.
"You know I love you, Sherlock," she says quietly, after a moment, "and I think you know what my response is."
The breath he lets out is a mixture of relief and happiness, and Molly grins widely against his cheek before pecking it with soft lips. "Well, both you and John have told me before that I should not be a presumptuous git-"
"Your words, not mine," Molly sings happily, elation spreading through her body like wildfire.
"-and so I thought it be best for you to tell that to me yourself . . . though I could have deduced it if I wanted to."
"'Wanted to' being the key words," she teases, "because you wouldn't have; you were too afraid to do it otherwise."
He scowls into her neck, and his "I was not afraid" is half-arsed to say the least.
"Sure you weren't," she says, though her voice doesn't hold any argument. She's too genuinely happy to start a dispute, even one as silly as that. She is about to open her mouth to tell him her feelings when he beats her to it.
"So, you love me, and you want to be with me?" She can tell that it was supposed to be a statement, but ended up as a self-conscious question.
"Yes, Sherlock, I love you and want to be with you."
He pulls his face out of her neck and slides his hands up to her shoulders, caressing the top of her back gently. "How do I know you are not just teasing me?" he asks with mock suspicion.
She smiles so widely at him that her face hurts and replies cheekily, "Well, you are gonna just have to trust me, aren't you?"
A/N: So, I'm back from the pits of hell . . . just kidding.
I would like you all to know that this one-shot was more of a heads up that I plan on returning to you wonderful people within the next year. I didn't want to leave you with nothing for Christmas and the New Year, so I just spewed this one out (it's been in my head for a while) in the hopes you haven't all abandoned me yet. :P I do plan on continuing all my stories, for my family problems have cleared up nicely. I plan on updating a lot over the summer when I do not have the stress of school hanging over my head, so you will be seeing me a lot more during June, July, and August.
All my love! -Carly
PS: This is unbeta'ed, so all mistakes are mine. I'm sorry if they're rather awful . . . fill free to point them out to me so I can fix them. :)