Holding Hands
As their time as a couple increased and their relationship solidified, Molly started to notice more and more peculiarities about Sherlock. The one that pleased her the most was how much he liked holding hands. Out of the blue, most of the times when she was expecting it the least, Sherlock would surreptitiously slither his fingers between hers, and let his hand settle there; no words, no warning, just the familiar and perfect fit.
At first she thought that that need for human touch might have something to do with a difficult day, but soon she realised it didn't. Whether they were curled up against each other on the couch, watching a TV show Molly had chosen, or reading a book in unison, acting out the different characters and laughing at the funny voices Sherlock was capable of making, or at the lab, waiting for the computer to deliver the so awaited result to no avail, Sherlock was always keen to offer his hand and take Molly's in it.
Sometimes she would wake up in the middle of the night and sense Sherlock feeling the sheets, looking for her. She would then make his search easier, and pass his arm over her waist, and then she would hold his hand, like she knew was his intention. Other times she would spot his hand making way across the breakfast table to find her fingers, and he would play with them absentmindedly, without once looking up from his newspaper.
"Why do you like holding my hand so much?" Molly asked one evening, as they left a restaurant, heading to the comfort of their home.
Sherlock shrugged, "Does it bother you?"
"No," she reassured, "I'm just curious. You're not extremely fond of kissing all the time, nor hugging all that much, and yet we always seem to hold hands when we're together."
Sherlock looked at her, slowing down, "I do like kissing you."
"Not as often as you like holding hands," Molly pointed out.
"I like listening to you, and I like to be close to you when we are working on something together, but none of those things are compatible with kissing or hugging."
Molly giggled, "True. I was just wondering. Not everyone likes holding hands this much."
Molly felt Sherlock's hand skidding away from her grip and she was too late to grasp it back. Sherlock stopped in the middle of the pavement, turned to face her, and then he framed her face with his hands. Their warm breath was a visible whirlwind against the cold air of the night, evaporating within seconds. Sherlock lowered his head and his lips found Molly's. She opened her mouth and kissed him back, closing her eyes, letting it take over her senses.
Sherlock was a wonderful kisser; his tongue discovered Molly's skilfully, and she felt a warm feeling every time he bit her lips and alternated between passionate and chaste kisses.
"Let's go home," she whispered when he finally moved his lips away from hers, their noses still touching.
"See?" he said, as if he had finally found a way to make her see, "Holding hands is always the safer bet."
Molly took in his words and then she laughed out loud, burying her face in his chest, and Sherlock embraced her, laughing with her. Molly took a step back and then extended her hand in front of herself, for him to hold.
Sherlock took it gladly, and then he hid their intertwined hands in the pocket of his coat, for warmth, and they walked side by side.
Holding hands was their silent 'I love you.' Holding hands meant 'I'm here.' Holding hands was home.