But here in my arms, I'll keep you warm
And hold you tight on this winter's night.
-On This Winter's Night by Lady Antebellum
Molly was sitting on the roof of Bart's Hospital after her shift, bundled up to keep warm. Snow was drifting down slowly onto the lit up streets. She looked up at the night sky, looking at the stars that could so rarely be seen from below. It was Christmas Eve—exactly a year since the party at 221B where Sherlock nearly deduced her to tears. Even then, she'd prefer for him to be here doing that rather than be in danger whilst taking down Moriarty's network. She missed him—her best friend. To some people, it would be rather sad that she considered him to be just that, but she understood him and he understood her. They were both outcasts of this world.
"Molly Hooper," a familiar baritone spoke. She had been so lost in thought, she didn't even hear the door to the roof open.
"Sherlock?" she questioned in a whisper, looking up at him. "What are you doing here?"
"Nobody should spend Christmas alone," he replied, sitting down beside her. "Why are you up here, Molly?"
"I come up here every now and then to think," she told him. "This was where it all happened."
"Does it haunt you too?" he asked.
"A bit," she admitted.
"Sometimes, I have nightmares about it—thinking of how it could've gone wrong," he continued. "I wonder how it would've been had Moriarty given thought to targeting you as well. The alternatives scare me."
"Well, the truth of the matter is, you did save your friends," she reminded him.
"Not all of them," he muttered. Molly looked at him questioningly. "You're my friend too, you know. The only person who's ever understood me completely. I couldn't save you from the pain of helping me fake my death. It hurts you to not be able to tell anyone the truth when you see them, so you don't visit with our mutual friends often. And for some unknown godforsaken reason, you miss me."
"Of course I miss you," she told him. "John may be your best friend, but you are mine. You laugh at my terrible morbid jokes when it's just us, I trust you completely and you understand me."
"Do you not think you're my best friend too? Molly, I confide in you with things I don't even talk to John about. You are, ultimately, the only person I've never lied to. You do count, Molly Hooper," he spoke softly. "You've always counted. I'm sorry that I ever made you feel otherwise; it wasn't my intention. If I could take back the pain I've caused you, I would do it in a heartbeat. It is my one regret."
A chill ran through her, causing her to visibly shake. Sherlock slipped off his Belstaff and settled it over her shoulders. When he sat back down he wrapped his arms around her and held her close to him. There was a silent understanding between them. Molly now knew the truth about how he saw her. It was freeing. She reveled in the warmth of his embrace, breathing in his unique scent.
"I left something in that pocket," he told her, pointing to the Belstaff. "Could you get it out for me?" Molly did as he asked, surprised at the small sprig in her hand.
"Mistletoe?" she questioned.
"Mistletoe," he confirmed, leaning in slowly, leaving enough time for her to back away if she so pleased. She met him in the middle and just before their lips touched, he whispered, "Merry Christmas, Molly Hooper."
'Twas the night before Christmas and all through the flat, Sherlock was scolding Toby the cat. The sneaky feline kept trying to play with the ornaments and lights that decorated the tree. Sherlock headed into the bedroom to find Molly wrapping the last couple of gifts, her slender fingers making quick, efficient work of it. Once wrapped, she placed gift tags and curled ribbons to adorn them.
"Hey you," she smiled, looking up at him. Sherlock sat down beside her on the bed, careful not to sit on any wrapping paper. "Did you get Toby calmed down?"
"Yes, he gave up and went to sleep," he chuckled, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear. She took his hand in hers, lacing them together. He felt the contrast of her rings against her soft skin. They had been married three years ago, not long after he came back for good, 'rising up from the dead' so to speak. Sherlock bent his head down to kiss her tenderly, their tongues instantly mingling. He held her with his free hand, caressing her waist. Their noses brushed together and their soft sounds of pleasure curled her toes.
"Mummy? Daddy?" a little voice sounded from the other side of the door. Their daughter, Charlotte, stood on the other side.
"Yes, sweetheart?" Molly called out. Charlotte entered their room and ran straight to them.
"Were you kissing?" their little girl giggled. "Victor and I are ready for bed now." Their son now approached as well.
"You are?" Molly asked with enthusiasm. She turned to Sherlock. "Darling, you know what that means." They both lifted their children in their arms—Sherlock with Charlotte and Molly with Victor—and danced with them down the hallway. The laughter of the twins filled the room. They went upstairs to their room and settled their children into bed, tucking them in. Each of them had a teddy bear with a deerstalker, gifted to them by their Uncle John and Aunt Mary, who would be over for dinner tomorrow with Rosie.
When they turned out the light and went back downstairs, Sherlock went into the kitchen to pour them both a glass of Molly's favourite mulled wine. She was lounging on the sofa, smiling at him as he handed her a glass and sat down beside her. They spent some time in comfortable silence, sipping their wine. She sensed that there was something he wanted to say by the way he was now looking at her.
"You alright?" she asked.
"Hm? Oh yes," he replied. "I was just thinking." Thinking about how beautiful you are.
"Sometimes, you think too much," she teased.
"Do I?" he questioned rhetorically. "Well then, Mrs. Holmes, I guess you'll have to find a way to distract me from my thoughts."
"Does this help?" she asked before pressing kisses along his jawline.
"Mm," he sounded, unable to form any coherent words. "A bit."
"Only a bit?" she asked, her voice playful and sultry. She kissed her way down his neck, spending time with her lips at his pulse point. "How about now?"
"Mm, nope," he smirked. That's when Molly set aside their wine glasses and climbed into his lap, her fingers tangling in his curls before pressing her lips against his. They took their time with lingering drawn-out kisses that made their hearts beat rapidly together. His arms tightened around her when she brushed her nose affectionately against his. By this point, all thoughts ceased to exist in his head—Molly was all there was. It was moments like these that were the only thing capable of showing how much he loved her.
I love yous were spoken breathlessly between kisses, adding to the electricity between them. Sherlock broke their kiss, allowing her to catch her breath. As she did, he pressed soft kisses to her cheek and the tip of her nose. Molly left her hands in his hair, gently stroking the curls, whilst she buried her face against his neck, nuzzling her nose against his skin. Oh, how she loved him with every beat of her heart. She felt him shift slightly, but settled soon after.
"I know we said no gifts this year, but I wanted you to have this," he told her, handing her a small white box with a red ribbon tied around it. Molly slipped her hands from his hair to open it. Inside was—
"Mistletoe?" she asked. The succulent plant had been pressed in the way you press a flower. "Like the one from our night on the roof."
"Actually, it's the very same one," he told her. "I learnt how to press it properly those years ago, but never got around to giving it to you until now."
"Sherlock, this is so lovely, thank you," she told him, all choked up. "Thank you." It was just a whisper in his ear. He felt her press a kiss to his cheek and she snuggled back into him.
"Merry Christmas, Molly Holmes," he smiled, pressing a kiss into her hair. The sound of the crackling fire and the beating of his heart lulled Molly to sleep in his arms.