30 Days (Kind of) to Fall in Love

Alright, so this is something that will be mostly fluff, bit of angst, but hopefully fun. The Magic of Soup is at a bit of an impasse that I'm working hard at (kind of). This is something to fluff in in the meanwhile. The prompt is inspired by ericandy's 30 day OTP challenge on Tumblr.

Disclaimer: If I owned Sherlock Holmes, the rest of the world would never see him Not mine.

Holding Hands

For quite some time Sherlock Holmes had held the opinion that touching others should be avoided at all costs. After the introduction of Doctor John Watson into his life, this opinion was somewhat weakened by the hugs and occasional touches that the man would bestow upon his flatmate. By no means were these the beginnings of a homoerotic affair, but there were instead the reassuring attempts at comfort and camaraderie. Dr. Watson happened to enjoy hugging people and found that a well-placed hug could be quite an excellent solution to many a problem, much like tea.

After his fall and resurrection at the hands of one Molly Hooper, Sherlock found himself wondering if touching was all that bad. This was not to say that he felt the need to go around holding hands with the entire populace, but there was a certain pathologist, who he would not mind sharing the occasional hug or hand hold with. Indeed, through his ordeal and trials thereafter, Molly had been developed the habit of hugging him whenever he showed up at her flat in desperate need of something or other.

When he revealed himself as being alive to his brother, the feud that had existed for so long between the Holmes brothers was dissolved as Mycroft had enveloped his younger brother in what could only be described as a bear hug. Mrs. Hudson had done the same, and even Lestrade had given him a good thump on the back. John had gone for a right hook but had followed it up directly with yet another hug.

This led the consulting detective to find himself standing outside of Molly's door several weeks after his resurrection. He and John had started taking cases again; Lestrade was reinstated and offered a promotion, which benefitted Sherlock with even greater access and freedom within Scotland Yard. Mycroft had helped to soothe over any issues that should arise in order to prevent anything from happening like it had with Moriarty. After finishing a case this morning, Sherlock's boredom had crashed down and he found himself with the desperate need of something to do, and thus he stood.

The thought that it would be polite to have at least texted before showing up at her doorstep flashed through his mind, but, knowing Molly, Sherlock knew that she was not working and that she would always have time for him. Pulling out the key that he had had made ages ago, he let himself into her flat, giving the poor pathologist quite a fright.

Living alone, Molly was not used to people coming over, let alone letting themselves in. She began to get up from her position on the couch to go for the gun that Sherlock had stashed in her kitchen drawer soon after the fall, but before she could get there, the man himself entered. "Sherlock!" she shouted, with a disapproving tone, "you can't just let yourself into someone's flat whenever you feel like it! It's just not polite!"

Hanging up his coat and toeing off his shoes, he turned to her. "Molly, I am not known for being polite and you are hardly someone," he informed her without thinking about what his words meant.

Molly had thought that they had been getting on rather well, but his harsh words brought tears to her eyes. Sherlock had been treating her like she was another human being and that she truly did count to him, but this was too much. This was back to Christmas and ignored coffee dates. Before she could think, she found herself yelling at him, "it doesn't matter if you don't give a damn about being polite, I am somebody and you said that I do count. You can't treat me like this! Get out! Get out now!"

Sherlock went over what he had just said that would inspire this reaction in Molly. While she stood there, fuming at him without speaking, he tried to understand what he had said when he thought back to her comment that she had said that he had said that she did count. Oh. Right. Not good. Sherlock walked over to the woman and took her hands in his to pull her back down to the sofa. Keeping her hands locked in his own, he looked her in the eye and spoke. "I didn't mean that you weren't important or that you don't count. I meant that you are not like everyone else. You mean much more to me than most others do. I wouldn't be alive if it weren't for you, and you are truly a good person, Molly Hooper," he said, solemnly.

He had maintained eye contact with her and noticed that the tears were threatening to overflow once more. Reflecting back on what he had said, he realized that there certainly was a good dose of sentiment in what he had said. Surprisingly, he didn't mind it too much. It wasn't as if he had to open himself up to everyone all at once. It was just Molly. Molly who he knew he could trust just as much as John. Without realizing it, his hands had started to gently rub circles on the back of her hands in an attempt to soothe the now openly crying woman. "Molly, are you alright?" he inquired, becoming concerned with her silence.

"Please don't be mad, but I have to tell you something Sherlock. This can't wait. It's too important. And I don't care if you don't return it or if you think that it doesn't matter or if you don't care. I just have to tell you that I love you, Sherlock Holmes, and it doesn't matter if you can't understand it or if you don't return it now or ever, I will always love you and will always be here for you," Molly declared, her stuttering noticeably absent. She dropped her gaze down to their hands, still entwined. She let out a small laugh and pulled away one of her hands to wipe at her face before returning it to his hold.

Sherlock didn't know what to say. He knew that the pathologist had had an infatuation with him, but he didn't realize how deeply it went. This was too much for him. He couldn't handle this intensity, this amount of sentiment. "I'm sorry, I have to go," he mumbled, dropping her hands and standing quickly. He pulled on his jacket and shoes and left without a word. Molly Hooper sat on her couch, devastated. She should have known that she would get a reaction like that, but she didn't think that it would be that bad. She chided herself for coming on too strong and overwhelming the man. She knew Sherlock and she knew that this was the wrong way to do this, but it had to be done. Letting out a deep sigh and knowing that she was in for a tear-filled evening, she let her body fall to the couch that had so recently held her dear Sherlock to allow her emotions reign over her body.