Hello there everyone! So, a new idea popped into my head so here goes a cheeky Sherlolly. I think it will be a 3 parter. Bit of naughtiness to follow in the next chapter, who doesn't love a bit of smut? Brilliant. Here we go, let me know what you think, reviews always welcome.

Rain battered the window slats of the flat. The sound was timidly therapeutic to Sherlock's ears as he lay sprawled on the couch. Now past midnight, the only light illuminating Sherlock's face was that of the dim street lights, peeking through the rain into the dingy flat. He brought his left hand up to the crook in his right arm. Delicately stroking the skin beneath his rolled sleeve, his slender fingers caressed his bulging vein.

John left for Glasgow two nights ago, mentioning something about a wedding of one of Mary's, his latest flame, friends. None the less, Sherlock was bored. Lestrade has not called with a new case since his return. Apparently people weren't too keen on hiring a lying consulting detective. Not that it mattered, Sherlock's mind was elsewhere.

It had been 13 days since his return to 221B, to life. He'd spent it largely trying to get John back in his good books. They were slowly returning to being friends, but it was going to take time. Sherlock moped around the house, most of the time in his dressing gown and pajama's, shouting at the TV or fingering the taught strings of his ancient violin. He didn't know what was wrong with him. He could feel his brain rotting. He'd taken up smoking again, failing miserably at hiding it from John, not helping with the forgiveness thing. But Sherlock was ready to take up an old hobby tonight. And he was positively grinning for it.

He'd showered and scored earlier, now relaxed in the dark and laid across the couch, he rolled the syringe in his hand, prepping his vein. Closing his eyes, willing himself to forget his worries, to forget the torture he felt he was enduring every day, he pulled back, and injected.

The beautifully stinging substance coursed through every vein in his body, surging him with ecstasy. He laid there for a minute after flinging the needle into the corner of the room. He was bashfully thought about the last time he was happy, truly happy. It was an unfortunate memory, as it was so wonderful, but so filled with pain. His dying butterfly of a memory. Laying there, his hot back sticking to the leather sofa, he closed his eyes and hugged his body and pictured her stood before him.

"Sherlock, I don't understand." She held the towel close to her dripping body, her mousy wet hair clinging eagerly to her sodden skin, licking each bead of water from her neck and shoulders. His body tensed as his eyes ravished her up and down before meeting her pained eyes. Those beautiful brown eyes pleading with his weak, blue irises.

"It's time for me to leave, Molly." He approached her tentatively and rested his hand on her waist, his thumb wandering to a gentle stroke. Chastely kissing her cheek, he left, picking up his bags and turning away from her, leaving her sweet smelling flat behind him.

That was thirteen days ago.

Everyday that passed since, her face, that last, painful gaze haunted him every minute. For the four months that he spent with Molly, hiding himself from society, he could feel himself grow happier everyday. She recused him. He longed to see her face in the morning, to hear her singing in the shower, or to see her eyes shut after taking that first sip of wine after a long shift at the morgue.

He'd grown to love her.

And loathe himself.

He'd grown up not knowing love, passing it off as something that was a sign of weakness, something that would only bring hurt. But, as much as he wouldn't admit it, John taught Sherlock to find the good in people, to learn affection for other people.

He needed Molly, and he'd never told her. He had remained cold with her whilst he as with her, forcing himself to ignore his head, his body and his desired. He was good at it, he'd spent years avoiding sentiment. He had once walked past her bedroom door, seeing that it was slightly open, he found himself gazing at her sleeping form. Her lips were parted, her breasts rising and falling with her deep breaths. He'd returned to the couch and curled up, processing his feelings, and picturing himself lying next to her.

His phone buzzed, dragging him kicking, screaming and bawling his way out of his beautiful, drug induced daydream. Sitting up quickly, he head span as hie reached for his blackberry.

"Do you want to have dinner this week? -Mx"

His heart skipped several times as he re-read the text several times over. Glancing at the clock, is was now nearly 2am. Molly was clearly drunk, they'd not spoken since he left, and considering her rather forward text, most peculiar for Molly, he deducted she was indeed drunk. Excellent. He thought, his own intoxication now in full swing. Grinning coyly, he hit reply;

"Dinner would be fine. Or a drink, when you're free, of course. -SH" He hit send, two can play at that game Miss Hooper. As he predicted, her drunken mind replied almost immediately.

"Love the idea of drinks. I'm free most evenings, as I'm sure you know. -Mx" He smirked, luring her in;

"Shame you weren't around this evening. John's away, tonight would've been perfect for drinks. -SH" He could practically hear Molly kick herself furiously.

"Is it too late now? -Mx" He chuckled, oh Molly, you're butter in my hands.

"I'll have your wine ready, Miss Hooper -SH"