Sherlock had never really considered what it was like, having Molly around in a capacity where she had power over him. He wasn't even sure what kind of power, and he wasn't particularly in the mood to coin a term for it. All he knew was that Molly – quiet, unassuming Molly happened to be living in his flat and making him do things which John had never managed.
After Moriarty had returned, they had decided – with a significant amount of browbeating on Sherlock's part – that Molly ought to be protected. However, Dr Hooper refused, point blank, to be pushed into the countryside with Mycroft as her 'protection.' Sherlock had attempted to use his Holmesian charm, but after the slapping episode, Molly seemed to have developed an immunity to him. Sherlock, significantly cheesed off, had irritably reminded her of her friends and family which she would also be putting in danger. Molly had just as irritably told him to shove off. In that moment, something overcame Sherlock and he blurted – in a very unpolished fashion – that Molly could come live with him.
He still remembered the scene exactly. She had weighed him dubiously, shifted from one foot to another, and said, "Are you sure, Sherlock?"
Sherlock, in an attempt to cover up the mistake had waved his hand.
"Well, if you really think so…" she had trailed off. "You can always just organize protection at my apartment, you know. And even if that doesn't work, I wouldn't want to intrude."
Sherlock had seized her up for a second, and said, "Molly, you are the one being stubborn about heading into the countryside. I assure you, one flatmate is as good as the rest, if they can all bare me. A quality which none seem to posses."
Molly had laughed nervously, and agreed to his proposition.
And here he was, six months later, having defeated the greatest villain of all time, eating a bowl of steaming soup in front of a sleeping pathologist.
It was deeply grating, that he was reduced to drinking – of all things – soup, forced by a tiny woman in brown hair. Molly cared too much, and was far too kind. A trait that could be both endearing or pathetic, depending on what Sherlock made his mind to. Molly was so kind, in fact, that she had asked Mycroft to stay for dinner. To Mycroft's credit, he only raised his eyes and said "Perhaps another time, Dr Hooper."
Molly had been deeply perplexed, but had shrugged it off. Sherlock felt nothing more than a prickle of annoyance.
Molly's innate naivety, her belief in the good in everyone eventually won Mycroft over to dinner. Molly had been so pleased, she cooked for him herself, instead of ordering usual take-out. Sherlock could take pleasure in the fact that his brother was completely bamboozled with Dr Hooper's behavior. He gazed at her with a mixture of annoyance, curiosity and interest. "This one I can't seem to piece together," he said to Sherlock, on an aside. Molly had been jabbering about how she found his favourite dish growing up was pasta. Of course, neither knew where she got their Mother's number.
Molly. The little anomaly in every equation.
It was odd how a mass of brown hair and a pair of brown eyes could make Mycroft want to stay for dinner every now and again. How they could make Mary want to come over despite the mess and help Molly. How they could make John demand Sherlock that he state his intentions. How they could make him eat soup while in the middle of a case.
She was curled up on his couch right now. Molly slept like a child, quite literally. She murmured in her sleep, she tossed, she turned, her hair went everywhere. And the worst part about it was she made absolutely no assumptions about people wanting her around. Her dexterity in pathology, her intelligence in piecing facts together, everything, couldn't account for the fact that she had absolutely no aptitude for judging relationships. She no longer showed any physical symptoms of affection. Molly disliked crossing boundaries, and she had never attempted to touch Sherlock since she started to live with him. She never curled up next to him, she never left her things outside her room. It frustrated Sherlock to no end. She didn't even sit on the chairs beside the fireplace.
Eventually, Sherlock had realized – she had been so used to being pushed away from the world, that she no longer made an effort to fit in. She was kind, caring and loving to the point of insanity. But she seemed to have – hopelessly, he may add – accepted that relationships were not her stage. She didn't cuddle around Mary, one of her closest friends right now. Retreating more and more into her own mind, her comfort bubble, he thought bitterly, angrily. The niggling conscience at the back of his mind told him that he was half the cause of this.
And then, sometimes – her guard would be down.
Molly didn't even realize it – she was getting comfortable around him. The thought filled Sherlock with a smug satisfaction. She would be watching Telly and would fall asleep quietly, next to him – fall on top of his lap and snuggle closer. Sherlock had been in an uncomfortable situation that day. He couldn't move for the brown head on his lap, yet he knew he had things to do. Lestrade had come barging in, wanting to know what was taking so long. Sherlock had hastily shushed him, and they had maneuvered Molly onto the sofa.
"You could have just woken her up, you know," said Lestrade slyly.
"Detective Inspector, please," said Sherlock, "I have reasons for not wanting to wake her up. She can be vicious when rudely lifted out of sleep. I'd rather not want a repeat of what happened to my white shirt…"
In truth, Sherlock hadn't wanted the small amount of comfort Molly had shown to be snapped back into reality. Knowing her, she would probably coach herself into never falling asleep around him.
For all her discomfort with people, Molly seemed to possess a superhuman capacity for making people feel comfortable. Mary, a spy, one who had made no female friends apart from Janine – and that was a friendship of convenience – would come to speak to Molly every now and again, help in cooking, and so on. John, supremely uncomfortable being when it came to keeping female friends, would be seen talking to Molly earnestly about his favourite shows on the Telly.
Most surprisingly, Sherlock had returned from a case to find Mycroft, patiently holding a ball of wool, listening to Molly talk while she knitted something or the other. Sherlock had been so stunned, that he had stepped out, taken a breath, called Mrs. Hudson and asked her to verify the scene before him. Sherlock really shouldn't have been surprised. Molly had made The Woman feel comfortable.
The circumstance of Molly meeting Irene Adler was completely unprecedented. Molly just waltzed into an important part of his life after saving him, and Irene Adler simultaneously waltzed back in – both of them meeting each other on the crossroad. Adler was needed since Sherlock was dismantling a giant criminal network, and criminals were necessary for the tracking of criminals. Sherlock had been temporarily at Molly's flat when she was supposed to come, and Adler, with her infuriating quality of making assumptions where Molly didn't strolled right in.
"Good morning," she said cheerfully. She was dressed in a sharp red number, with her red lipstick. Sherlock dropped his spoon. Molly had, on that very day, chosen to cook up some pancakes and oats as a goodbye meal.
"We were supposed to meet at the hotel," gritted Sherlock.
"Pish and posh," said Adler with her luxurious smile. "I was extremely curious to meet your lady friend."
"Hi," said Molly uncertainly. "Would you like some breakfast?"
Sherlock had internally smacked his head. Irene had surveyed Molly and smiled again. "Why not?" she asked. "What are we having?"
"Pancakes," said Molly brightly. "Sherlock likes them. At least, I think he does. He's never contradicted it, whereas he actually told me he detests porridge – sorry, I'm rambling. I shouldn't do that."
Irene smiled again, slowly. "Isn't that a pity. I quite liked that rambling."
Molly blushed. "You're an exception. Nobody else seems to. Meena just kind of laughs – and Sally says I ought to think a little before I – sorry. I'm doing it again."
"Molly, go for a shower," said Sherlock.
"Um – shouldn't you go first?" she asked tentatively. "You have to leave soon."
Sherlock squirmed. "Molly…"
"Go ahead, Mr. Holmes," grinned Irene. "I won't eat Dr Hooper."
It was deeply sinister, but when Sherlock came out, Molly was cheerfully sitting at Irene's feet, showing her an album of stuff and nonsense. On closer inspection, it was an album of her favourite cases. Trust Molly. Additionally, Molly had never shown this comfort with anyone else. Sherlock was jealous. Jealous of Adler, for having Molly's attention, however briefly.
Thankfully, she wasn't to meet Molly again. "Well, Molly dear," said Adler with a warm smile. "You're a delight to be with. But we must leave. Criminal network to take down."
"Oh – erm –" Molly murmured. "Yes. Sherlock?" she said. He looked up, ignoring her, out of envy. She had hugged him, tightly, ever so tightly, as if she may never see him again. His jealousy melted – he had wanted to assure her, to tell her that he will be fine – but he knew he couldn't. "Be careful, yeah?" she said. "I'd rather not keep the secret that you lived with my help and died anyway."
Irene Adler had watched the exchange curiously. Molly had stepped away from him, blushed, and said to Miss Adler, "You should also be careful. I know you're on the run, but I'm always there to help with anything." Irene had looked over her briefly, and smiled. She closed in, and kissed Molly on the cheek and said, "Au Revoir, Miss Hooper. I fear you are the one to be taking care of yourself."
Suffice to say that Molly made people comfortable. In a way no one could.
And here she was, sleeping in front of him. He had pulled a chair directly in front of her, watching her breathe, in and out. Regrettably letting her guard down. With a jolt, Sherlock realized that between the hug she had given him while leaving, the slap, and the time she had fallen asleep on him, Molly hadn't so much as touched him.
With another jolt her realized, while this discomfort was true for him, it wasn't so true for others. She did occasionally indulge in brushing across John, Mary, and so on. The only other exception was Mycroft.
Molly's eyes fluttered open. She would be there to witness the overwhelming jealousy on his face.
"Sorry," she murmured, getting up, wrapping the blanket around herself. "I didn't mean to fall asleep."
"No," said Sherlock ponderously. "You probably didn't."
"Are you okay, Sherlock?" said Molly.
"Relative term. Didn't Thomas postulate the relativity of being happy or sad?"
"I know – but you're watching me like that…"
Sherlock connected the tips of his fingers together. "Molly, why don't you touch me?"
"Huh?" said Molly.
"You never touch me. Over the last three years, you've touched me exactly three times."
"Well… I don't touch other people either," said Molly, with a tinge of humor.
"You're still okay with it once a month or so… you never seem to be comfortable around me."
"Sherlock, we spoke about dislocated jaws and fractured spines yesterday. I'm fairly certain I'm more comfortable around you than anyone else."
"Then why don't you touch me?"
"I – erm –" said Molly. "I don't think you like it."
Sherlock frowned.
"Molly, you're the only person who can make me eat soup when there happens to be a case where the man seems to have died of no apparent cause inside a room locked from the inside. I'm fairly certain I'm comfortable with you."
"It doesn't mean you like it," she said evenly.
Sherlock struggled with his emotions. Molly, small, kind, courageous, Molly. Molly who was everyone's anchor without trying, who was made of something else. Passionate, loving Molly. Molly, you can't even do pretty properly – you're a mess of words and letters and thoughts which don't manage to stay together long enough. Molly, the Molly who was plain faced yet uniquely beautiful. Molly, Molly, Molly, Molly. The small reality which no one, not even Mycroft could deduce. His own private puzzle piece.
"Sherlock, you're looking at me strangely again," she said quietly.
"How do I look at you, Molly?" he asked, shutting his eyes. His fingers were still connected.
"Right now –" said Molly frowning. "You're looking at me like –" she paused.
"Like?" prodded Sherlock, eyes still closed.
"Like you'd shag me this second," she said, confused. His eyes snapped open. "But I'm not very good at this, so you could also be looking at me like you'd murder me this second."
"Murder you?" said Sherlock softly.
"It'd be very easy," she said in an animated voice. He watched her. "When you said you planned murders at the wedding, I thought about how I'd murder myself. I thought, maybe, to poison my coffee in the morgue, ditch one of the bodies that looks like me and replace it. Then, I'd go in for an autopsy with another name. Dump the extra body in the Thames, and everyone will think that body is me. It'd be perfect." Her eyes shined.
Sherlock shut his eyes again. She could plan a murder, he'll give her that.
"So yeah, I'll hazard you're thinking of murdering me," said Molly, a little too enthusiastically.
He tried imagining it briefly. Murdering Molly Hooper. Lifeless Molly on his hands.
His control snapped. He watched her. She got up, heading to the kitchen. "Tea?" she asked, without looking at him.
He got up, and in four swift strides, had her pinned between the counter and himself. He didn't touch her, not even a little bit.
"Molly," he said. "Molly."
She was looking at him again, part anticipation, part worry. "Yeah?"
"Don't ever –" he began, "ever, think about me killing you. Please."
He gripped her wrists in earnest pleading. Every bit of her appearance registered dimly – she was wearing her ridiculous Winnie the Pooh pajamas, her hair were in disarray, her face was flushed. All those months of growing close to Molly, who left him food, who made sure he slept. Her singing in the shower. Her absolutely charmless underwear, and him, watching her everyday, almost as cold a wall of ice as he was – except – except Molly believed she was alone by virtue of her being herself. Sherlock isolated himself deliberately.
"Sherlock –" she breathed. "I was only –"
"Joking, I know," said Sherlock. "Don't do it either way."
"I won't, I'm sorry," she gasped. "Please stop looking at me like that though."
"Why not?"
"Because I'm frightened that you're actually wanting to murder me," she confessed with half a sob. "There's no other explanation for it."
This silly, silly woman. "You absolute idiot," growled Sherlock. "You stupid woman." And then he kissed her – slowly, deliberately, almost reverentially. He bit her bottom lip, pushed his tongue into her mouth, kissing her like everything depended on it. His hands went to her hair, pushing them out of the way – her hands went nowhere – in the air – tentatively touching his curls. He had a feeling she had a hard time registering the kiss on its own.
"Molly," he repeated. "You have far too many problems judging relationships. Additionally, I just lost a bet to Mary about how long I'd hold out before kissing you."
"I – erm –" her cheeks were pleasantly flushed. "I'm sorry?"
What could he say to this one?
"Molly, do me a favour –" he said. "Stop talking. And get comfortable."
"What do you mean?" she asked hotly.
"You're all tense. You're holding back. It's deeply worrying. You weren't like this before."
"I – well – I can't help it!" she exploded. "I'm not used to it anymore. There was Tom, but the sex was satisfactory, nothing else, and then he broke up with me. I've made regularly bad choices where men are concerned, and I'm really tired of it. I didn't touch you because you always – always – always pushed me away!"
Sherlock listened. Tears spilled out of her eyes. "You just have to accept the hand you've been dealt with and move on, okay, Sherlock? I'm no one's best friend, no one's fiancé, no one's sister, no one's anything."
"Molly," he said gently. He cradled her closer. "You're my reality. My puzzle piece. My sanity. You're Mary's best friend. John's sister. Mycroft's protection. I've had a hard time living with you and realizing the damage the world seems to have done to you. It's painful to see – to see you visibly shrink away from me."
Molly stifled a cry. Always brave, this one.
And then she looked up and kissed him.
If Sherlock had lost control before, Molly did so right now. And it was almost comical in the way the kiss escalated on and on until he didn't realize what was happening, because, damn, Dr Hooper lost control.
Sherlock had never been more taken aback and pleased at the same time. He realized that he was already hard, that kissing her was proving amazingly difficult a situation to hold control in. He tried to keep his hands chastely on her waist, but they wandered as her fingers blindly unbuttoned his shirt. His hands slipped onto the smooth of her belly and he kissed her again, and again. They reached her breasts and found nothing there to stop him from touching skin on skin. He grinned at her.
"I was sleeping!" she defended.
"Perfectly fine," said Sherlock with a smile. "Bedroom?" she asked.
"Too far," he growled.
He lifted her bottom and placed her squarely on the counter. "This shall suit our purposes," he said with a grin.
She still slept with the abandon of a child. Hair everywhere, mouth slightly open, murmuring to herself. Sherlock watched her. Nearly a year of being with Molly. One year spent with her sleeping like this, beside him, every night. When they had shagged, he'd normally stay up, and he'd always have to pull her closer and make sure she knew he didn't mind her cuddling. He enjoyed the evenness of her breath that way.
When he was late from a case, he watched her sleeping sometimes – her comfort was most visible when sleeping. Molly was still one to feel she was imposing, where he was concerned. How long it had taken him to convince her that he didn't mind being seen with her in public, that holding her hands was perfectly fine with him. Sherlock deliberately hid her socks away, so that her feet would get cold and he'd be able to warm them for her. She blamed sock goblins.
She had grown to love cuddling though. It was her most endearing quality. Where she had fallen asleep on his lap once, now she did it periodically. She curled up next to him, warming her toes, and Sherlock found pleasure in gathering her up, a dull throbbing in his heart. It was almost natural for him now.
She even began wearing his clothes. The first time, he'd tossed her something of his, and she'd blanched. His best purple shirt? Molly would have rather died.
He'd kissed her forehead and told her to stop fussing. He had a case to go for.
He gave her love in these little pockets of affection. It was beautiful, watching Molly unfold in front of his eyes.
And shagging her was out of the world. He loved it when Molly begged – she'd say "Please, please, please Sherlock," so many times, he'd almost lose control and ejaculate fast. He had to hold himself back when she did that, because her small, oh-so-proper voice would become a myriad of sexual tension. She was an animal in bed, something that was unexpected. Reserved little Molly, who could bring him down to his knees. She had understood how he liked it almost in the first try – she was extremely skilled where he was concerned, tailored to his tastes.
One time, he'd asked her, "Molly, are you sure you want this? Wouldn't you rather have married a normal man and had children somewhere?"
Molly, who had been absently tracing his hands while they cuddled on the couch, jumped to her feet, sparks flying out of her hair – "Why does everyone assume I so badly want normality? Didn't I date effing Jim Moriarty? – and I broke up with him. I broke up with the greatest criminal of all time. Give me a break. I think I can live without beekeeping in the countryside."
Sherlock chuckled deeply. "Yes, you certainly aren't normal."
"Damn well right," muttered Molly darkly. "You absolute fucking tosser."
Sherlock had chuckled again and kissed her, held her close, as if she was what mattered.
Mycroft, perhaps the only one to have had an issue with his relationship – his emotions - was the one who seemed most bent upon it working for the best. John had told her very somberly, that he'd rather not have Molly hurt. Mary had told him something similar, adding that she still had an old Glock stashed away, which was very well maintained. Mycroft had only raised his eyebrows and told Molly – "I expect a continuation of our line, Dr Hooper. And I do wish you luck."
Molly confided later. Mycroft had said to her, in no delicate terms – that Sherlock was the one who was more susceptible to heartbreak. Molly was far braver, and far more sensible. And Mycroft had inevitably just accepted Molly's inherent weirdness – the fact that she didn't seem to have ulterior motives, after all, was weird to Mycroft.
He kissed his pathologist again. She woke up from her sleep. "Good morning, Mr. Holmes," she said, sleepily. "Why do you look like you've been standing there staring for ages?" There was a twinkle in her eye.
"My dear Molly," rumbled Sherlock. "Attempting to deduce all else apart from bodies will prove too hard for you to handle."
She grinned toothily. "You can try to beat me down, Mr. Holmes. But you shan't succeed – you see, I've grown far too comfortable with you to not know when you are simply teasing."
Sherlock would still rather not term the kind of power she had over him.