Sherlock opened his eyes. He was surprised at how comfortable he was; it was rare that he found himself in a bed with just exactly the right amount of cushion, under covers with just exactly the right amount of softness, in a room lit light enough that he could see around but also dark enough that it didn't hurt his eyes, and with the perfect amount of warmth cuddled up beside him. Sherlock turned his head and found himself staring down at a sleeping Molly Hooper, her face peaceful and legs wrapped around one of his. He felt a swell of happiness in his chest, and moved to press a soft kiss against her forehead.
Her eyes fluttered open, and she greeted him with a smile. He watched her blink the sleep from her eyes and turn onto her stomach, her chin pressing into his chest. "Hello," she whispered. She reached an arm up and traced her fingers along his face. He turned his head to kiss her palm and she grinned at him, tongue between her teeth.
He poured her a cup of coffee in the little kitchenette that resembled his kitchen at Baker Street, but was small and had a homey wooden table like the kitchen in her flat. She sat, barelegged, on the island and swung her furry-socked feet back and forth. He turned around to face her, and couldn't help but be struck by how beautiful she was, hair down around her shoulders, still messy from sleep, wearing nothing but his deep purple shirt. The color suited her.
Sherlock handed her the cup of tea (she always did prefer tea, he remembered her saying once) and moved closer, standing between her legs and looking directly in her face, since they were the same height now. She smiled her bashful smile and he couldn't help himself, he ran a hand through her hair and wrapped an arm around her waist, pulling her closer. She was warm, so warm.
"Can I stay here with you?" He asked into her hair. Molly looked sad.
"You can't, love. You have to go help people." She wrapped her arms around his shoulders and peppered kisses along his jaw line.
Sherlock ran his hands up and down her back, despair building in him. "I'm not a good man, Molly. I'm bad. I don't care for anyone."
Molly pulled back, her hands in his curls. "You care for me, don't you? You love me."
Sherlock hid his face in her neck. "I can't."
Molly was so far away, looking at him from behind a glass of champagne, her makeup done, hair curled meticulously and dressed like a princess. Sherlock thought she was more beautiful in his shirt. "You've broken my heart." She cried softly.
An aching in his chest made him want to comfort her. He yearned to feel her again, to have her warm in his arms. "Molly," he tried to reach her, but she was too far away.
He started running, chasing her down the wine and champagne soaked streets, passing Bart's, passing Baker Street, passing Scotland Yard. He caught up to her outside her flat. She opened the door, dressed in her cozy pajamas, Toby purring at her feet.
"Molly." He sobbed. "I hurt everyone I love."
Behind her, he could see Lestrade lounging on her couch.
Molly gave him a sad smile. "I know."
And he was staring at the door, listening to the sound of laughter behind it.