A/N: This is just a story that never left my head after watching The Final Problem. I feel that a lot of Sherlock and Molly's relationship happens off screen so thought I would delve into this a bit further. Thank you for giving this story a read, I haven't written any fanfiction for at least 8 years!

Disclaimer: All characters are credited to Arthur Conan Doyle and Moffat/Gatiss. This was an original idea but I understand if there have been other stories of a similar vein - any similarity is honestly not intentional.

Molly had been standing in her kitchen for nearly a full hour, leaning against the counter top with a glass of red wine in her hand. Her eye contact with the opposite wall was only interrupted by the occasional sip of her wine. It was not the wall that held her attention, but the myriad of thoughts running through her head. She had helped Sherlock to 'die' merely hours before. She had forged medical paperwork. She had lied to her friends. She had no idea what the ramifications of all these factors would be. How long would Sherlock stay in hiding? How could she pretend to grieve around all of Sherlock's friends? She saw how much this affected John so how could she possibly continue to pretend that Sherlock is dead when a quick word to John about the truth of the situation would make him feel so much better? Would Sherlock even be safe?

Molly interrupted her thoughts with another sip of her drink but paused as the glass came halfway to her mouth. The smallest disturbance at her front door took her attention. The doorknob was moving slightly from side to side as if someone was trying to turn it, but Molly knew there would be resistance as she had locked her door as soon as she got home. On edge, Molly pushed off the counter and reached for a small paring knife from the knife block to her left. It may not be a big weapon but she was a pathologist and knew what damage the smallest incision could do in the right location.

There were now small clicking sounds as the doorknob continued to subtly turn back and forth as much as the lock would allow. Someone was picking the lock. Molly quietly edged forward, knife in her right hand and the wine glass still held firmly in her left. She didn't know why she hadn't put the glass down but took another absent sip as she edged further forward. The clicking became louder and just as Molly had cleared the kitchen and was now in the dining area. Just then, the doorknob did a full 360 degree turn and Molly paused. She raised her knife and quickly plotted the best way to use the dining table as a barrier between her and the door, while simultaneously determining the fastest route to the doorway and therefore the carotid artery of her intruder. The door swung open quickly and a tall figure quickly slid inside and closed the door gently behind them.

"If I were a real intruder Molly I would hate to think how quickly you would be overcome with that insignificant weapon. As it is, even I have enough insight, observation and martial arts training to subdue you in say, 23 seconds without you ever being able to defend yourself. As for the glass of wine-"

"Sherlock?" Molly stated quietly, slightly in shock. "What are you doing here?"

Sherlock didn't reply straight away, just looking at Molly blankly with unfocussed eyes.

"Where else was I to go? I'm dead now." He replied blankly.

It was then that Molly realised he didn't look right. His usual tall, pompous stance was now hunched. Gone was his Belstaff, now he was now only clad in his slacks and plain white shirt which was blood stained, wrinkled and untucked. His hair was more dishevelled than usual and was matted together at the front with more blood. Molly wasn't sure if his appearance was due to their deliberate deception or from legitimate injuries. Her heart dropped. She had never seen him look this defeated.

"No, not dead. Not really. Well, only for a little while." Molly offered.

"Funny, I feel dead. Everyone thinks I'm dead. Maybe I am."

Molly continued to stare at Sherlock, wine and knife still held aloft, trying to gauge Sherlock's physical and mental state.

Sherlock had never had this particular feeling before. It was a feeling of extreme loss. The closest situation he could relate it to was losing Redbeard. Redbeard was his first true companion and the loss of him lead Sherlock to quite consciously decide never to care that much again. Unfortunately for him, he had broken his own rule. Now he not only had John, but he had Mrs Hudson, Lestrade and even Molly. He cared too much and now his worst nightmare had come alive, that one of them would die. Little had he realised that the death would be his own which somehow felt worse than the death of his friends, for they could grieve and move on while Sherlock could only watch from afar and know he could never let them know how close he was. He was reminded of the saying 'do not pity the dead, pity the living'. What do you do when you are both? In his mind, he had just lost far more than anyone else and was happy to wallow in this realisation.

For now, Molly was the exception but with time he would also have to leave her behind and lose contact for her own safety. He had originally had two options. Go with Mycroft into government hiding and move on immediately or go to Molly and have one last relatively normal interaction before he was to leave indefinitely. He felt too human, he was actually feeling things. This was why he chose Molly's flat as Mycroft and his government clones would never understand this very human element within him.

In the past, any time he would feel he would usually combat it with finding the nearest drug source. Cocaine, heroin and any available pills would usually seek him out to numb any physical and emotional pain and cease his excessive thinking. He found it soothing and distracting. It was a break from being him. In these times he needed a distraction in the form of an artificial high, altered sensory awareness and quiet. Oh, how he craved his brain to be quiet. However, Sherlock had more sense at this time than to take to the streets for a fix so he instead stood, thoughts and feelings racing through him so that he could barely function. Sherlock was brought out of his reverie slightly by the sound of a glass and knife hitting the table. He felt the air shift around him and then realised that Molly was now standing in front of him.

"Would you feel better if I took a look at you to prove that you aren't dead? Or at least to make sure there is no real blood under this fake blood." Without waiting for a reply, Molly continued, "Take a seat."

Molly made her way down the corridor to the linen cupboard for a wash cloth. Sherlock ceased to even move from his spot, remaining stationary but eyes following Molly while she picked up a stethoscope off the coat rack as she made her way past Sherlock to wet the wash cloth in the kitchen sink. Sherlock was about to comment on the absurdity of a pathologist with a stethoscope but this fleeting thought was not enough to break his mood. His eyes continued to follow Molly as she positioned herself directly in front of him. She sighed when she realised that he would not take a seat, realising that he was much too tall for her to reach his head where most of the 'blood' appeared to be.

"You don't make things easy do you?" She mumbled more to herself as she stood on tip-toes to check his forehead for potential injuries.

Sherlock recognised that Molly had entered her 'work mode'. She was focussed and methodical, and unlike in past encounters, she was not phased by her close proximity with Sherlock. To be fair, she had been much stronger around Sherlock in recent times; more confident and less flustered. It was this version of Molly that Sherlock realised he had come to rely upon and also consider his friend, hence her involvement in the events earlier today. Sherlock became distracted as Molly commented to herself as she worked, a habit from working in the morgue and talking to a recording device. He began to focus intently on her melodic voice as she spoke.

"A lot of blood but no underlying head wound. Looks to be mostly fake blood." She stated as gently pulled back Sherlocks hair at the hairline and inspected the site. She wiped most of the obvious 'blood' away from his face as best she could and then moved around Sherlock's side to continue to inspect the rest of his head with her fingers.

"Small lump, possible haematoma at the base of the skull. Likely an old wound as not tender to the touch but slight bruising present."

"Altercation with a fish vendor a week ago. I've had to sleep on my side ever since." Sherlock offered automatically.

Molly continued her inspection without any acknowledgement of his comments. Instead, she continued to study and manipulate his neck, shoulders and arms before palpating parts of his torso, all the while commenting on new and old injuries. Sherlock let her voice wash over him, finding it soothing that there was a semblance of normal within this horrid day. If she weren't inspecting his own body, he would think that he was back in the pathology lab on a regular case.

As Molly continued to work, she was no longer needing to stand on her tip toes so Sherlock concentrated on his bird's eye view of the top of her head. Like her, he was being methodical in his observations. Her hair was in her usual ponytail, pulled tight and high on her head but many strands had escaped their prison and were sticking out at odd angles. Sherlock had always liked her hair; it was long, smooth and had a playful bounce whenever she walked. He ignored the tiny pang of guilt for using this fact against her in the past – was it that bad that he used hair compliments as a tool of manipulation if there was technically an element of truth to his words? He noticed a slight waft of coconut from her hair as she continued to move, clearly the scent of her shampoo but he also detected the faint taint of various chemicals and formaldehyde from her office, an odd combination that Sherlock suddenly found normal and comforting.

This observation game appeared to be working for him, the muscles in his face relaxed and he continued to observe Molly. She was wearing one of her loud, colourful knitted jumpers which were always an assault to the eyes but at the same time, very Molly. While Sherlock despised these ensembles for their lack of class, he couldn't deny that it they were the most incredible juxtaposition to the morbid, dark nature of her job. Kind of like Molly herself who was in essence very cheerful and gentle despite wielding bone saws and weighing internal organs all day long. Her short fingernails and dark sense of humour were the only giveaways when it came to guessing her occupation. While Sherlock further distracted himself with eyeing the texture on her jumper, Molly had taken the stethoscope to check his heart rate and breathing.

Sherlock was almost startled when she instructed "Deep breath in," as she unfastened one of Sherlock's top buttons to allow the stethoscope easier access to his chest. It was not her actions that startled him but merely the fact that it was the first comment she had directed towards him in several minutes among the running health commentary.

The instrument was cold, as were Molly's fingers. Yet another thing for Sherlock to focus on, temperature. As Molly made her way to his back and checked his lungs through his shirt, he processed the things he had observed, storing any new information in the filing cabinet labelled 'Molly' in his mind palace. He was not thinking of being dead. He was not thinking of his next move. He was not thinking of losing John or Mrs. Hudson. His brain had become somewhat quiet. This drug appeared to be working for him so he experimented. He made further observations; socks but no shoes on as Molly would not wish to traipse human matter and chemicals throughout the floor of her house; creasing of her pants near the right pocket, likely caused by her clammy hand grasping her side in a moment of worry or stress (this wouldn't happen if she bought 100% wool pants as opposed to the wool blend that so frequented her work wardrobe); make up free eyes staring straight at him; her mouth moving with no sound coming out. Sherlock realised Molly was actually talking and decided he needed to tune back in.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?" Sherlock blinked and finally gave Molly his attention.

"I said, apart from some 'pre-morbid' wounds you're relatively unscathed. Nothing that would cause your imminent death anyway." Molly smiled slightly as she said this. Sherlock almost wanted to smile back but he was reminded of his situation.

"But I'm still dead to the people that matter."

"Not to me." She stated then quickly looked away in embarrassment. "Or um, nor your brother." She added.

Sherlock simply continued to stare at her, hoping she would keep talking so the quiet could return to his brain.

"I know it's hard, but you did what you had to do. I think that if you ever get to tell everyone, no, when you get to tell everyone what happened and why they will easily forgive you. Maybe not straight away but eventually."

As Molly continued to convince Sherlock that this was the only solution, he focussed on the drug like effect of her voice in conjunction with every other stimuli he was documenting about her. His senses were heightened (smooth bouncy hair, coconut, bright colours). He had found quiet (please keep talking). But there was one ingredient missing. Maybe there was a natural high he could seek instead of an artificial one. He decided to experiment. Sherlock reached out and touched the strands of hair from her ponytail that had migrated over her shoulder. He absently ran his other hand down her arm feeling the texture of her jumper until it settled around her waist. Enjoying the feeling of her hair between his fingers, he gathered up the separate strands and joined them with the rest of her ponytail, gently dragging his hand down the full length of her hair until it all settled down her back once more. He had not yet looked at her face, he was too busy categorising the sensations of the textures in both hands. He felt distracted but he hadn't found his high yet. He chanced a glance at Molly's face. She was close, concerned eyes surveying his face while her mouth was slightly open in shock. He returned his hand to the nape of her neck, still able to feel the enticing strands of her hair brushing over his knuckles. His hand was so large that his thumb reached right around to her jawline.

Molly inhaled sharply and froze.

Sherlock felt a rush. He looked at Molly with curiosity and contemplated what his next move would be. Where would this experiment lead? Despite popular belief, Sherlock was not a virgin but he couldn't say he was overly cognisant during the small number of sexual encounters he had experienced. His conscious brain was the one to blame for his usual asexual nature. However, at this very moment he was fully aware of his immediate surroundings and Molly was now the experiment, the drug.

Sherlock held Molly's head and attention in his right hand, he subtly shifted her towards him using his left. He slowly bent his head down, gazing between her eyes and mouth, the initial rush becoming more of a tingly anticipation. Until Molly spoke, her eyes stern.

"Sherlock," she said with a lowered inflection. A warning tone.

"Molly," he echoed her tone, maintaining eye contact as his head came closer and closer to hers. She looked uncertain but was not backing away, her own conflict raging in her head. Maybe he could quiet those thoughts for her.

He kissed her, light and gentle. Testing. The warmth from another person's lips, from Molly's lips, was very welcome. Nerve endings were firing and tingling so he continued. He moved his mouth against hers and the feeling intensified. But that was nothing compared to when equal pressure was applied back. She had returned the kiss and he felt her hands find their way up his arms to eventually rest behind his neck. He didn't want to categorise any of these sensations because that meant he was thinking rather than feeling, but he would most closely resemble this feeling as his stomach dropping and swooping inside of him, which was ridiculous as he knew that was not how anatomy worked. He was thinking again so he pulled her in tighter, relishing her intake of breath and her hands tightening in his hair. He sought her mouth again, this time his tongue making contact with hers. Now it was as if a fire was ignited. Their kisses were faster, feverous. Molly had taken over control and he felt himself being pushed backwards. He always liked it when she was confident. The back of his knees hit a wooden surface which made him fall into a dining chair, Molly now standing above him while dragging her hands around the base of his collar and then to the buttons of his shirt. One by one she undid the buttons, hovering closer and closer until she reached the last one. She ceased kissing him at this point and dragged her hands up to his shoulders where she inched the shirt off his form while staring straight into his eyes. Their breathing was rapid and in sync. As the shirt nearly left Sherlock's hands, Molly inched closer and straddled him. Their faces were millimetres apart, both panting. Molly started to giggle as she realised the cuffs of the shirt were not going to fit over Sherlock's hands. She had tugged repeatedly until Sherlock insisted,

"Buttons?"

"Buttons" she replied, quickly launching at his wrists to rid him of his confines.

With his hands free, Sherlock enveloped her and slid her as close as possible, their torsos now flush. For the first time he let out a groan, for the sensation of her jumper on his bare skin was something he would never have imagined to be arousing. Despite enjoying this sensation, he captured her mouth once again and slid his hands up under her jumper, bare hands on her back enveloping her even closer into him. There were still no thoughts, only sensations which were becoming all to overwhelming and uncontrollable. But that's exactly what his experience of a drug was, something so overwhelming that there becomes a point of no return, of overdose, and he thought he had already tipped the scale in this direction. Or so he thought.

Molly had begun to shift her hips against his in a tortuous pleasure that he egged on with his own movements. Her soft pants and moans were all he needed to know this experiment was so far successful.

"Sherlock?" Molly breathed. He couldn't even vocalise a response at his point, he could only manage a "Mm?"

"Are you sure this is a good idea?"

He finally found his words. "I think we both know the answer to that."

In between kisses, Molly replied. "No, it's not."

"But we're going to let it happen anyway." He said matter of factly.

"Definitely."

"Molly?"

"Yeah?"

"Bedroom, now."

Molly woke up as grey light began to filter into her bedroom through the cracks in the curtain. Shifting in bed she realised that she was extremely sensitive to the fabric of the sheets surrounding her. Ah, yes, she was naked. It took a whole minute for her to recall the events of the night before. If she hadn't felt the warmth of the person now laying in front of her and seen his silhouette, she never would have believed it. To be honest, she assumed that he would have left straight after they had slept together but something had kept him in her bed. She was unsure whether it was sentiment or fatigue. Maybe a combination of both. Either way she delighted herself with studying his face while he slept. He looked much more at peace than any other time she had seen him. Although he remained in her bed, she felt the unmistakable sense of foreboding. No guilt, just the feeling that this was almost like a goodbye. She edged closer so she could see him better in the dull light. She felt the urge to caress his face, all the better to remember him by, but she was interrupted.

"How long are you going to lay there and stare at me Molly?"

His voice was thick with sleep and his eyes were still closed but he was clearly aware of his audience. Molly blushed and covered her eyes with her hand.

"Oh god, sorry. I didn't…I was just making sure you were real." She squeezed her eyes shut tight under her hand, further embarrassed by her words.

"Definitely real." She heard him say. Then she felt his hand rest over hers while uncovering her face. She dared to open her eyes and found Sherlock staring straight back at her.

"You sure?" she added lamely. Sherlock smirked.

"Positive."

Molly put her hand to her mouth to hide her smile. Sherlock again pulled her hand away gently and then placed a chaste kiss on her lips, much to Molly's surprise and delight. However, the look he gave her afterwards said far more than she was willing to hear. But she understood. She always understood him.

"This is it isn't it?" she said sadly, not breaking eye contact.

"We agreed it wasn't a good idea." He replied.

"I know."

Sherlock stared at her a second longer and then sat up in bed. He drew back the sheets and sat on the side of the bed. For someone with little to no sexual experience, Molly thought he was quite unashamed to be naked in front of her. She couldn't help but smile.

"We may have agreed it wasn't a good idea, but it was definitely a great time." She said matter of factly, as if commenting on the weather.

Sherlock's reply was simply a deep chuckle.

He got up off the bed and searched around the room for his clothes. Molly caught him glancing at her once or twice but overall he remained focussed on his clothes mission.

He had to exit the bedroom to find his shirt which was now discarded in the dining room. This gave Molly time to take a large breath in and realise the gravity of the situation. She expected to hear the front door open and close as he left but instead, Sherlock re-entered her bedroom. It was like he was his old self again. Standing tall, buttoning the cuffs on his shirt which he had already tucked into his trousers.

"I'm going to need to stay and lay low for a while. Mycroft is still organising transport out of the country." He said in a usual conversational tone. Quite like the Sherlock she was used to. Molly wasn't even surprised, it was as if she knew he would re-set as soon as he left the bedroom. Despite the fact that she was naked in the bed they had slept in the night before, and feelings of sadness had started to creep up on her, she replied in a similar conversation tone.

"That's fine. You can stay in my room." She noticed Sherlock pause in buttoning his cuffs and she continued. "You might need the space, god knows when you leave here if you will be comfortable for a while. I'll sleep in the lounge."

"Excellent. Might I suggest changing the bed linen?" he quipped on the way out the door.

Molly was too slow in throwing the pillow at him. He had already gone so the pillow hit the empty door frame.

Sherlock overstayed his welcome at Molly's for a whole month before he was granted clearance to start his mission abroad. Despite the circumstances, he and Molly maintained their usual friendship and if anything, they seemed to get along and tolerate each other even better than before.

He knew Molly survived simply knowing that he was safe.

He kept himself sane with the thought that everything he felt that night was what he now categorised as the 'drug effect'. The tingling was just nerve endings firing. The rush was just increased blood flow. The swooping sensation was adrenaline. The euphoria was simply endorphins. Nothing that science and biology couldn't explain.

They both survived knowing that it was a one-time thing.

A/N Thank you so much for making it to the end! At this stage this will likely stand alone as a one shot but I do have ideas to tie this in with events in the rest of the series. If i don't get around to writing any more of this story, just keep this in mind any time you watch interactions between Molly and Sherlock in season 3 onwards!