YOUR WORST FEARS

A/N: Welcome to my first multi-chapter fic!

I own nothing. Everything belongs to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, BBC, Steven Moffat, and Mark Gatiss. If I owned Sherlock and Molly Hooper, then there would be a lot more Sherlolly in the show. All mistakes are mine. Reviews and constructive criticism are welcome.

Chapter 1

June 15th. One year ago today, Sherlock Holmes jumped to his death from the roof of St. Bartholomew's Hospital.

Only he didn't die. With the help of Dr Molly Hooper, he survived what was nationally dubbed as the Fall. Shortly after Molly administered the antidote to the drug used to slow Sherlock's pulse, he left to dismantle Moriarty's global network of criminals. That was the last time she saw him.

Now, one year later, the media was running archive footages and images of the consulting detective. Molly knew that various newspapers, magazines, and TV networks have reached out to Dr John Watson, Mrs Hudson, and Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade. All of them declined comment. Even Barts was swarmed with reporters who tried to get her to comment on the anniversary. She cursed Kitty Riley for releasing her name as Sherlock Holmes's favourite pathologist. The media even speculated that she was more than his pathologist. I wish, she mused as she got in the cab. She gave the middle-aged driver her address and leaned back against the soft leather seat. She preferred taking the Tube, but she needed to get away from those vultures as fast as she could and this cab happened to approach.

She had had a difficult day. First, a family of four, including a four-month-old baby girl, came into the morgue. She cried for twenty minutes in her office once she finished the post-mortem of the infant. Then her co-workers all chose to corner her in the cafeteria or in the hallways and ask her if she really dated Sherlock. One of them even had the audacity to ask if he was great in bed. "Oh, God. For the millionth time, no! Our relationship was strictly professional," was her constant reply. No one believed her, especially because they knew how much she fancied him. Now she was being hounded by reporters because Sherlock Bloody Holmes favoured her over other pathologists at Barts. So all she wanted to do was go home, order pizza, and drown her sorrows with red wine.

"Fuck," Molly mumbled to herself as they neared her building. Kitty Riley herself stood outside with her iPhone (which she doubted Kitty could afford a year ago) in her hand and a burly blonde man with a camera by her side. With a sigh, she paid the driver and got out of the cab.

The reporter approached her as she walked towards the building's main entrance. "Well, well. If it isn't Sherlock Holmes's favourite pathologist." Kitty gave her a smile full of arrogance and triumph as she attempted to block her way. She sidestepped the redhead, but the photographer stood in front of her and snapped a photo of her annoyed and disgusted face. She walked away from him and entered the building. Lord knows what that bitch would print even if I said nothing, she thought as she rode the elevator to the fourth floor. She longed for Sherlock's return so that she could see Kitty's face as it fell and the arrogance replaced with shame or embarrassment.

I wonder how he is, she thought. She hadn't heard from him in a year, even though he promised to text her every few months or so. She wondered if he was still alive, if he felt lonely, if he missed her. He probably doesn't, she told herself as she walked towards her front door.

Toby pressed his side against her trouser leg once she entered her flat. "Hi, Toby!" she greeted the cat as she petted him. "Did you have a good day today?" He meowed in response. She dropped her work bag on the floor and her purse on the small table beside the door. She carried her mail into the kitchen and placed them on the dining table. She refilled Toby's food and water bowls. She then grabbed a wine glass from the cupboard and poured her favourite Merlot into the glass. Holding the wine glass in her left hand, she sat down at the table. She went through her mail and found the usual bills, statements, and junk mail. She froze when she reached the last item.

It was a postcard. It had a photo of the Reichenbach Falls in Switzerland. Molly immediately knew who sent the postcard. She turned it over and smiled at the short note.

With your moderate intelligence, you should be able to get the joke.

Molly saw neither a return address nor a name. But she had seen enough of Sherlock's handwriting to recognise it. Plus, the note's backhanded compliment cemented the identity of the sender.

She brought the postcard to her nose and smelled it, not really expecting to catch a whiff of Sherlock's scent. To her surprise and delight, she could still smell his eucalyptus aftershave, as well as a hint of cigarette smoke. Can't blame him for smoking again, she thought. At least it's not cocaine. I hope.

She took a sip of her wine as she stared at Sherlock's messy handwriting. She had missed trying to decipher his notes when he was in a hurry. She even missed his backhanded compliments. She missed his brilliant deductions. She missed the ever-changing colour of and the intensity in his eyes. She missed him.

Her thoughts returned to the night of the Fall. As she waited for the antidote to take effect, she gazed at him. She had wiped off the blood trickling down his head, although he still had a few cuts and bruises on his face. Despite the minor injuries and the few bruised ribs, he was fine and still beautiful. Knowing that he was going to wake up soon, she snapped a photo of him on her phone. Sure enough, his eyes fluttered open a few moments later. She couldn't be sure, but he likely never knew what she did. Or that she had kept that photo for a year. She took her phone from her pocket and scrolled until she found the picture. "I miss you," she whispered as she stared at Sherlock's peaceful and serene face. When are you coming home?

She finished her wine and called in the order for chicken BBQ pizza. She turned off the telly (a Doctor Who rerun) when the tall, cute guy delivered the pizza. She moved to the kitchen to work on her journal article as she ate. She had been working for a few hours when she heard a firm knock on her door.

She looked up with a slight gasp. Who could it be, she wondered. She wasn't expecting anyone. Her friends would have called or texted her before coming by. She stood up and slowly walked towards her front door. Upon reaching it, she hesitated for a moment before looking through the peephole.

She could see a flash of what looked like a white shirt partially covered by a dark coat. Who wears a coat in mid-June? She raised her eyes and her gaze ended on a pale neck and a pair of Cupid's bow lips.

She pulled away from the peephole with a gasp. What the hell is he doing here?

"Molly? Are you all right?"

"Y-yeah. Just a sec." She took a deep breath and opened the door.

Sherlock sauntered in, his hands clasped behind him. He looked her up and down. "Long day at work?"

Of course he saw, she thought. "Yeah. Family died in a car accident. There was a baby girl," she explained as she watched him sweep her flat with his intimidating eyes. "Tea?"

He nodded, his eyes trained on her. She had changed into a purple long-sleeved shirt that clung to her curves and a pair of black pyjamas with skull prints. She raised her eyebrow at him. The corner of his mouth raised in his signature smirk and he looked away. She went to the kitchen and put the kettle on.

She was about to reach for mugs from the cupboard when large, firm hands on her hips stopped her from doing so. "Sh-Sherlock? W-what are y-you doing?"

She felt hot breath on the back of her neck. She stiffened when she felt wet lips land on the spot where her neck and right shoulder met. Then those lips moved to the other side of her neck and sucked on it. She felt him turn her hips slightly to the left and then his lips sucked on her pulse point. She could no longer stop the moan from escaping her lips. He sucked on her neck again, his left hand moving from her hip to her breast, cupping and massaging it through her shirt and bra. "Sh-Sherlock…" she moaned.

She finally whirled around and faced Sherlock. She could barely see the blue-green in his eyes. Dilated pupils, she observed to herself. She raised her hand to his throat and lightly pressed the pads of her forefinger and middle finger on his pulse point. Elevated pulse, she noted as he inhaled sharply at her touch. She knew she didn't have to look down, but curiosity got the better of her. Tent in his trousers, she thought with a raised eyebrow. Her gaze returned to Sherlock's eyes. It had the look of pure lust - something she had never seen, something that she never thought she would see.

Then his mouth captured hers. It took only a moment for her to return the kiss with a passion matching his. Oh, hell, she thought. It's now or never. She pushed his Belstaff coat off his shoulders. He shrugged it off without breaking their kiss and threw it on the chair. She started popping the buttons of his white dress shirt as he pushed his hands under her shirt and caressed her sides. She felt his hands stop when they reached her bra-clad breasts. One hand cupped her breast, while the other rolled the hardening nipple on the other breast. With a gasp of pleasure, she broke their kiss and shed her shirt, throwing it on the floor. He finished unbuttoning his shirt and threw it aside, not caring that it landed on the floor. Her hands immediately caressed his pale, hard chest. She revelled in the feel of his light ginger chest hair under her hands. She let out another gasp of pleasure as he bent down to kiss her jaw, then her throat, and then her collarbone. He pushed a bra strap down her shoulder and kissed the exposed skin. She felt his lips move back to her neck and suck on it. She moaned loudly when he lightly bit on her skin and then laved it with his tongue.

With a grunt of impatience, he put his hands on her buttocks and sat her on the counter. He then pushed her bra down and wrapped his lips around one hard nipple. She threw her head back at this and put her hands on the back of his head, pulling his mouth closer to her skin. He gave the other nipple the same attention as he rolled the still wet and hard nipple between his thumb and forefinger. Then his mouth returned to hers, claiming it in a rough kiss. His tongue pushed between her lips, demanding access, and she opened her mouth, her own tongue meeting his. She felt one hand return to her hip, while the other hand parted her thighs. She felt him move forward so that he stood between them, his arousal pressing against her. Then she felt his fingers fumble to remove her bra. And then it was off and she had the vague memory of it landing on her laptop. Their mouths crashed against each other again, until she broke away. "Bedroom," Molly rasped.

Growling, Sherlock carried her off the kitchen counter and into her dimly lit bedroom. He gently placed her in the middle of the bed and stood at its foot, gazing down at her. She met his gaze as she removed her pyjamas, leaving her in her skull knickers. He kicked off his shoes and removed his socks. He unbuttoned his trousers and pushed them down his hips. His silk boxers joined his trousers on the floor a moment later. God, he's really built like a Greek god, she thought as she slipped her knickers off and threw them on the floor. She propped herself up with her elbows on the mattress to get a better look at his full nakedness.

For a long moment, Sherlock and Molly stared at each other's naked form, both admiring and committing each curve and exposed skin to memory.

And then Sherlock finally moved to join her on the bed, his hard and lean body crawling over her small and curvy body. His mouth captured hers in a gentle kiss, surprising her. He bent his head to lick her nipples as his hand moved downwards. She moaned when he cupped her mound. She was sure he could feel how wet she already was. She gasped when he slipped one long finger inside, his thumb pressed on her sensitive nub. His mouth swallowed another moan when a second finger pushed into her. She met each thrust with her hips, their lips never leaving each other.

She groaned into his mouth when his fingers slipped out of her. The groan of disappointment was replaced by a loud moan when he entered her. He stilled as she adjusted to the feel of him being inside her. It had been too long since the last time and she was tight. "Molly…" he whispered, his voice strangled. She looked at his eyes and saw gentleness, affection, and desire that she had never seen on those blue-green eyes before. The look was gone in a moment, but it was burned in her memory.

She nodded and he started moving, thrusting in and out, always filling her to the hilt. She arched up and met each thrust. They eventually found a common rhythm. Countless moans and grunts filled the room. He shifted slightly and hit the spot that made her moan louder and longer than her previous moans. "Fuck… Sherlock…" she whispered as she neared her climax. Then she felt his thumb back on her nub. Not long after, she tumbled over the edge, her toes curling, her back arching up. A few thrusts later, he followed her over the edge, shuddering, whispering her name over and over again.

Panting, he collapsed on top of her, his face buried in her long brown hair, her hands buried in his curls. Once their heartbeats began to return to normal, he withdrew from her and laid beside her. She felt an arm slip beneath her, urging her to roll over. She laid her head on his chest, listening to his heartbeat. His arm wrapped around her sweaty naked body, while his free hand rested on his stomach. She watched as he turned his head towards her and gave her an exhausted yet satisfied smile. Then he kissed her forehead.

"Goodnight, Molly." For only the second time in her life, she saw peace and serenity on his face.

She smiled up at him. "Goodnight, Sherlock."

Shortly after, she drifted off to sleep, warm in his embrace, with a smile on her face.

So what do you think? Terrible? Decent? Good?