This began as a short drabble piece but then morphed into a full story. I took inspiration from the song "One More Night" by Maroon 5. The lyrics fit perfectly how I think a relationship with Molly would go for Sherlock.
I would also like to note that there's a lot of debate in the Sherlock fandom about whether or not he's a virgin. I tend to like to think he is. So for the purposes of this story, Sherlock is a virgin.
I hope you all like it!
Disclaimer: Characters and Universe not mine.
Sherlock always deleted extraneous data. Details that were useless, he forgot. He had no use for trivia. Trivia didn't solve puzzles, trivia didn't solve crimes. People laughed, they made fun. Even John. Sherlock didn't see what was the big joke was. It was only logical.
Sherlock didn't know that the earth revolved around the sun but he knew that Molly's favorite ice cream flavor was vanilla bean. An unnecessary detail that Sherlock left alone. And he didn't know why.
But there was more
In his mind palace, there was an entire wing devoted to the things that he knew about Molly.
He knew that Molly usually didn't wear a lot of make-up. She wore foundation, mascara, perhaps lip-gloss or lip balm. He knew that she did this because she believed in natural beauty but also cared about her appearance. He knew that she only put on a lot make-up for first dates and when she wanted to impress someone (a tidbit he had learned the hard way).
He knew when Molly had had sex the night before. She always came into work the next day dressed with a little less care than normal. Her hair was not as meticulously pulled back and frazzled strands fell around her cheeks. And often her clothes mismatched. No matter what, a small smile tugged at the right corner of her mouth. But if the sex was particularly satisfying, she hummed Queen songs all day. Every time Sherlock heard the tune to "Somebody to Love" from Molly's lips he felt a little twinge in the pit of his stomach.
Sherlock knew what style of clothes she liked to wear. He had an itinerary of her wardrobe so he always knew when she bought something new. Sometimes Sherlock thought that she didn't wear clothes that presented her right. But he said nothing about this to her, having learned the effect his off-hand comments had on her self-esteem.
Molly wore her hair up, Sherlock knew, because of the sometimes messy nature of her job. If it was down it was when she was working on paperwork, rushed getting ready, or going out for drinks. Molly seldom went out for drinks.
Sherlock remembered the things she chatted about when he wanted quiet. He remembered all the complaints about her family, all the nauseatingly cute stories about her cat, every anecdote about about her drunken college days.
He knew when she was stressed because she would run her hands through her hair and mess up her pony tail. Then she would undo her hair and put it back up again. Lather, rinse, repeat.
Sherlock knew these things but he didn't know who the prime minister was.
He never thought all this data would ever help him solve a case, but he kept it anyway. Sherlock wouldn't have dreamed it would come in handy when he was staying at her flat. To be more precise, he never dreamed he would even stay at her flat at all. He was able to avoid a great many arguments with his arsenal of Molly-knowledge. Still, Sherlock didn't anticipate just how much he didn't know about her.
Sherlock had been a pain in Molly's ass since he "committed suicide". To be fair, he was going mad having to stay inside Molly's flat for two straight weeks. True, he was searching for a way to clear his name and untangle Moriarty's web. But it was painfully slow work, even with the odd quest he put Molly up to. Nothing too dangerous, Sherlock wasn't thick. Moriarty may have been dead but that didn't mean he didn't have people looking out for him. So Sherlock did what he could to stay occupied. He abused Molly's kitchen with experiments, reorganized her closet and dresser (Molly was surprisingly unorganized at home), among many other shenanigans that had Molly tearing her hair out. All of this only put a dent in his boredom.
Sherlock found it easy to placate Molly, using what he knew of her. Making her a vanilla-bean sunday, cleaning her flat, even an off-hand compliment was sometimes enough to mollify Molly. She might lose her temper with him, but she was so kind she always forgave him in the end.
One day Molly came home and her eyes were red and puffy and her nose sniffled. Sherlock had never seen her cry before.
"What's wrong?" He asked grudgingly. Crying females were beyond his comfort zone, but since Molly never cried, he felt obliged to ask.
"Don't you remember? Your funeral was today." She plopped herself down on the sofa like she did when she'd had a hard day at work.
"Oh." Sherlock was confused. "But you know I'm alive, why would you cry? Or did you fake crying for appearances?"
Molly looked at him as if he said something offensive. "It wasn't fake! I cried because of John, and Mrs. Hudson and everyone else who was there!"
"Were there many there?" Sherlock asked hopefully. If people believed he didn't do it, he might have an easier time proving it. Also he could not help but wonder what his funeral would look like.
"Well not really," Molly bit her lip. "Just Lestrade and Mycroft." Sherlock sunk back into the sofa. "But that's not the point. The point is you didn't see them. It's heartbreaking. Why can't we tell them you're alive? I can't bear seeing them in pain."
"Molly, I've told you why. It's too dangerous. They can't know until Moriarty's organization is dealt with." Sherlock sighed. This was recurring argument.
"Not too dangerous for me though," Molly mumbled. That was new.
"What was that?" Sherlock asked.
"Nothing. Forget it." Molly got up off the sofa and walked to her door. "It's been a long day. I'm going to bed." She was about to close her bedroom door when Sherlock stopped her.
"Molly you really need to speak up. What did you say?" He stared her down. Molly often got uncomfortable with prolonged eye contact. Especially when it was his eyes staring at her. As he looked into her brown eyes, wide and brown like a doe, he could see just how bloodshot they were. She must have cried a lot.
"It's too dangerous for John and everyone else, but not me. Everyone knows who's most important to you." Molly looked down at her feet.
Sherlock stared blankly at Molly. He'd not anticipated this. Had he treated her so badly these past weeks? Sherlock hadn't thought so. He'd thought that he'd used all the extraneous data to make her happy. Or at least make her content. What had he done to make Molly feel unimportant?
"Molly I-" Sherlock was at a loss for words. Molly smiled wanly and closed the door firmly. Later, Sherlock could faintly hear her crying through the walls.