The heat pouring out from the shower clouded the air with rolling clouds of steam that were so thick they made Sherlock's racing mind seem clear.
Droplets of water poured from the bridge of his nose and his fingertips. Fountains of rose-colored water rained down from the dark mop of his hair and mixed with water in the bottom of the tub, sliding its way down the drain and looking all too cheerful as it contrasted with the alabaster tile of the bath.
The detective ran shaky fingers through his hair, attempting to wash away all traces of fake blood from his skin. His throat tightened. His hand fell and slapped against his wet side as he leaned against the wall for support.
Breathe.
Inhaling, Molly's citrus based shampoo startled his senses. His nose burned. When Sherlock had asked for her assistance in faking his death, he hadn't thought so far in advance about the minute details of his escape from London. But, that wasn't all true.
He'd meticulously planned what flight he would take out of London. He wouldn't leave from Heathrow -no- the airport was too big, too crowded. There was too much of a chance that he'd be spotted. He'd take a cab to a private airfield and leave from there.
He'd go to the snowy tundra of Russia and hunt down Moriarty's web. He'd dispose of them all, let them know that the mastermind, the spider, was dead from a bullet tearing it's way through his crazed, convoluted mind.
Exhale.
Everything would fall apart once the centerpiece was taken out.
"Jenga", Molly had exclaimed when he'd informed her of his plan. His eyebrows had knitted themselves together at her utterance of the word.
"I-it's a game. I-when I was a kid I- sorry." Her cheeks had turned a bright shade of pink, her lips pulling taut into a thin line.
Sherlock had planned down to the seconds what he would do once he'd escaped the city.
He hadn't planned on where he was going to stay in between then and now, or what he would eat, or how he would cope. He hadn't planned on having to cope with the guilt that had embedded its talons into his gut and tugged at him when he'd seen John's face after his rapid, vertical descent from Bart's. He hadn't planned on feeling anything.
"He's my friend! He's my friend, let me through. Please, let me through . . . please." That voice-John's voice-echoed in his mind. The skin on his wrist burned where the doctor's fingers had pressed so desperately searching for a pulse.
And he had to lay there, unmoving, holding his breath, biting his tongue until it bled, while he listened to John grieve.
"God, no."
Sherlock's hand felt for the handle of the shower. His fingers wrapped around the nozzle and threw the contraption as far to the left as it would go.
Heat. He needed more heat. He wanted it to burn.
He hadn't expected John to be so effected. He hadn't planned on being John's friend. He hadn't planned to be anyone's friend- let alone someone as deserving as John.
The air was thick with steam. Sherlock was nearly choking on it.
He didn't deserve John.
Sherlock gritted his teeth. His jaw strained under the pressure.
He wanted to feel something.
The detective cleans himself of blood and gravel from head to toe. He conditions his hair, shaves his face, and rinses himself a final time.
Fingers wrapped around the nozzle, Sherlock throws it to the right and bites his lip as the temperature of the water changes from fire to ice in a matter of seconds. The spray hits his back. He is startled awake by the change.
Waking up. He wants to wake up from all of this.
Dissatisfied, Sherlock steps out and towels off in silence. The detective doesn't think, he doesn't allow himself to stray from the task at hand. Get dry and get dressed, that should be easy enough.
Sherlock had only just strapped on a belt when Molly raps on the door.
"Sherlock? Are you done in there?" Her voice quavers. She is flustered, beating around the bush but attempting to avoid any kind of passive aggression. "I-I just have to get ready so that I can-uhm-I can get to work at the morgue and-uhm-oh."
Molly breaks off as the door is flung open. A tidal wave of heat billows outwards from the doorway. Sherlock stands, brooding, dressed and waiting. He is looking at her but he is not looking at her. He is looking at her but he is not seeing her.
She is there, grounded. He is not.
Sherlock is a penny thrown up in the air with the outcome pending. Heads or tails. Dead or alive.
"I have to get ready for work." Molly says more firmly. Sherlock is still staring at her with glazed eyes. "Sherlock, I have to get ready to go to Bart's. I'm going to be late."
The detective finally moves. But, instead of vacating the doorway, he moves towards her. He is suddenly very close to her and then he is leaning down towards her. His skin is feverish. He is radiating so much heat, Molly doesn't even have to make contact with him to know that his pulse is kicking underneath his skin.
"What are you doing?" She asks fearfully. Sherlock is still advancing towards her, his palms now open and outstretched, reaching for her, cupping her face, caressing her cheeks.
"An experiment," the detective justifies.
Sherlock closes the distance between them.
He kisses her.
Sherlock closes the distance between them.
He kisses her.
Sherlock closes the distance between them.
He kisses her.
Molly's breath hitches in her throat as Sherlock's tongue works its way along the seam of her lips. He presses himself against her, his tongue pressing against the barricade of her teeth. Molly cannot tell if Sherlock is waiting for permission or waiting to be welcomed.
He apparently grows bored and turns to wearing at her bottom lip. His canines take the skin prisoner and tug.
Molly inhales. He smells like her shampoo, too sweet and too cheery and too close.
She wants this. But she does not want this, not under these conditions.
Molly pulls away, opening her eyes to a reverent silence that feels all too cliché. Her nose bumps against Sherlock's. His lips press fraudulent endearments against the line of her jaw and back toward the crease of her mouth.
"Don't." Molly finally interrupts. She can't bring herself to look at Sherlock. Instead, she studies the buttons of his shirt. The fabric stretches against the muscles in his chest, taut against the skin as he inhales and sagging in the middle when he exhales.
There are still beads of water clinging to the skin of his neck, hiding in the hollows around his clavicle.
"Don't." She repeats. "Don't use me like that. You don't do that to me."
She finally raises her chin, defiant in the face of the detective she used to love so fiercely. She still loves him, she realizes. But Sherlock is broken and it is not her job to put him back together.
"Don't use me to feel something."
Sherlock breaths deeply. His hands, his massive hands, have come to rest on her shoulders.
Molly is acutely aware of her own palms pressed against Sherlock's chest. She can feel his heartbeat drumming away under his skin.
"I-I am sorry." Sherlock's throat works the words up out of his larynx and off his tongue. "Forgive me, please."
A minute slips by unnoticed. Molly nods, the movement sends a lock of hair spinning into her face. She takes her lip in between her teeth, biting.
Neither of them move.
She is going to be late.
When she returns home, Sherlock is sprawled on the couch. His hands are steepled under his chin. His eyes, formerly closed, flutter open as Molly balances expertly on the edge of the cushion. She picks nervously at her cuticles and finally folds her hands in her lap.
"Did you feel anything?" The question comes out of her mouth before she is able to stop it. She is just curious, that's all. She just wants to know; it has been eating at her all day.
Sherlock doesn't have the heart to tell her no.