A/N - WARNING: POSSIBLE TRIGGERS. Mentions scars and cuts and I figured that might set some people off, so be wary.

Paper-cut

Sherlock's words were like a paper cut.

They were sharp, decisive, quick, and left a lasting pain. And it always takes you by surprise.

Speaking figuratively, Molly's fingers were covered in tiny scars, each a memoir of a painful word spoken at the completely wrong time by the man she loved. They would be small, almost undetectable, but Molly could see them. Every time she saw the man, the scars seemed to become larger, bigger, deeper, until she begins to wonder why her fingers didn't just get cut right off.

She knew it would only last for so long, though. Until he reached the nerves – then, she wouldn't feel them at all. Then, she wouldn't feel for him at all. But as a trained physician, Molly knew just how deep those scars would have to go before they even began to touch those nerves – and that's what frightened her the most.

Then sometimes, very rarely, he'd start the healing process. Even some of the scars would disappear; only for him to turn right back around and inflict more cuts, more scars, more pain. And she'd wonder again how long she would be able to stand it.

"Um, Sherlock, it's half an hour past my shift, I need to leave." She hated staying overtime; Mike didn't mind usually, but it was starting to wear her out. This was the third time this week he'd popped in an hour before she left and demanded her to stay until he was done.

"It's for a case, Molly." He didn't bother to look up at her, too focused on looking through his microscope to pay any attention to her. Surprise, surprise.

That usually worked. Her empathy would move her to stay, to help the living relatives of the deceased find comfort in any way she could.

But not today. Today, she wanted to go home and take a bath with candles and the works, and then maybe lie on her sofa for a few hours with her cat Toby, and watch the telly. Today, she was feeling selfish, and she wasn't going to let Sherlock Holmes take that away from her.

"Mike can help you," She dismissed, already beginning to unbutton her white coat. Today, she would be strong. Today, she would stand up to Sherlock and show him she did have a spine.

He looked up from the microscope, lips curved downwards into a frown, eyes narrowed as he deducted her, no doubt.

Stiffening up, she waited for the results. She waited for the harsh words; the angry jabs; the unkind but devastatingly accurate statements that would make her stay, even for a little longer.

Instead, he only huffed in annoyance, and returned to his sample for study.

Now she was surprised. She almost wished he would've said what was on his mind and they would've been done with it; but now she wasn't sure what to think.

"Well do be quick about it then, Molly." Sherlock snapped impatiently when she hesitated in leaving.

"Okay," She squeaked, hustling to go to her office to give Mike a call. Mike, of course, had no problem with coming down and helping him, and thanked her for staying as long as she did. He was always such a nice guy.

"Bye, Sherlock." She had the courage to call out, "Good luck on the case."

Before he could start to rant about how luck had absolutely no part with his abilities as a consulting detective, she scurried out of the room.

Once she hit the hallway, she let out that breath of relief she wasn't aware she was holding in. He always puts her on edge; his enormous intellect combined with his dashing good looks was a deadly combination. She didn't even mind that he didn't care for societal rules; she was a bit of an odd duck herself. The only problem was his mouth, his mouth that could scar a girl for life.

She glanced down at her hands, trying to pretend the red marks littered all over them weren't as obvious as she knew they were.

It was after her bath when she heard a knock on the door. Being that it was already eight o'clock, she was surprised somebody was visiting her. Plus, she was in a bathrobe (one with little ducks all over them).

"Who is it?" She called, peeking through the peephole when they didn't answer. Sherlock Holmes stood at her door, impatiently staring back into the other side of the peephole. Barely managing to maintain that squeak that threatened to spill, she stuttered, "J-just a second!"

After she ran into her room to change into a more suitable outfit (gone was the duck robe, and now she was wearing a plain blue t-shirt and pajama pants), she opened the door. "S-sorry about the wait, Sherlock. You can come in if you like." She offered, still finding it hard to believe that Sherlock Holmes was standing at her doorstep of his own free will.

"I see you took that bath you were thinking about," He commented, walking into her flat. Of course he knew she wanted a bath – should she really be surprised? Circling the room, he studied it carefully, probably deducing Molly's life story by the time he was finished.

"Um, would you like some tea?" She offered, blushing slightly because of the detective standing in the middle of her living room. True, she was a grown woman, but still, he's in her flat. Eep!

"Yes, please." He accepted, flourishing out his coat dramatically before sitting on the couch.

As she put the kettle on, she shifted nervously where she stood, wondering if she should ask why he was in her flat, or maybe wait until he brought it up?

"John kicked me out of the flat for a few hours," He explained, seeing her nervous posture in the reflection of the telly screen.

"Oh," Molly said with a little bit too high-pitched voice, "Well you're welcome to stay with me, then. I mean, here, at my flat. With me."

"How's that tea coming, Molly?" Sherlock cut off her little rant, turning on the telly and switching it to some crap show. It wasn't nearly enough to entertain his mind, but it was better than nothing.

She scurried back to the kettle that was beginning to screech. "Oh, right, yes. Coming!" She set to work, getting some proper tea for the both of them made. When it was done, she gave one to him and nervously sat on the arm chair by the couch. He was sitting in the middle of the couch, so if she were to try and sit with him, they'd end up bumping into each other and… well, having him in her flat was enough for her heart at the moment.

"So, um, did you solve your case, then?" She asked, trying to start a conversation.

"Yes, boring. It was only a five. I told John I don't leave my house for anything other than a six." He explained with an irritated sigh, his eyes never leaving the screen on the telly. "Mike covered for you, but it wasn't the same degree of meticulous adherence to technical details, so I would advise you to stay at the morgue when I need you there."

Her heart began beating out of her chest. He just admitted in his own roundabout way that she did good work, and he needed her, at least on some kind of professional level – and that was a start!

"Okay," She agreed, trying to be discreet in showing how pleased she was with what he said. Somewhere inside, she knew that she shouldn't allow herself to bend to his every whim, because he would only use and abuse her. In fact, that's probably why he came over tonight – to convince her to stay at the morgue until he left, and then clean up his mess.

That thought did put a damper on things, but she didn't allow herself to worry about it too much at the moment. Sherlock obviously appreciated her in some kind of way, so maybe that was enough.

She glanced down at her hands, frowning slightly when she still saw the scars lined in red decorating her hands. Or maybe it wasn't.

Sherlock began showing up at her house at least once a week, just to invade her space for a couple of hours, and then leave abruptly. Meanwhile, he'd take over her couch, demand a cup of tea, and then watch some crap telly he could so very easily watch at his own flat. Instead, he chose to watch it at Molly's flat.

He continued claiming that John was kicking him out, and she believed him until she ran into John one day in a café. The topic of Sherlock inevitably came up, and she found out that no, he was not kicking him out; rather, he left of his own initiative.

It was a bit bizarre, and she planned to question him about it when he came to her flat later that night. Was he trying to win her over for something? Playing the long con? There was no way he could actually want to spend time with her, not when he insulted her right and left.

"Hello Sherlock," She greeted with a smile, taking his coat for him as he immediately headed towards the couch. This time, instead of turning on the telly and tuning her out, he immediately delved into his mind palace.

Shoot, she thought with a slight frown. There goes her chance to ask about his lie. Well, maybe he'll come out of it soon enough, then she can ask.

Silently determining she'd indeed do just that, she busied herself with making tea. It was automatic now; she didn't even ask him if he wanted it anymore. It was part of their routine.

Placing the tea on the coffee table in front of him, she took her spot on the armchair, curling herself up as she watched him delve so deeply into his mind he shut everything else out.

"Molly," His deep baritone voice surprised her, almost making her spill her tea. He had been in his mind palace for the last hour, so she had given up staring at him and instead turned on the telly while she waited for him to come out of there. "Come here." He patted the seat next to him on the couch, staring at her intensely, as if daring her to refuse to do so.

She obliged; because she is Molly, and Molly always obliges.

It didn't help, however, that he didn't bother moving over a little bit so she could have some space. No, instead her leg was pressed right up against his, and his weight in the center of the couch made her body tilt towards his. It was impossible to sit without touching him, so she gave up trying after a few moments.

"Molly," He cleared his throat. Was Sherlock Holmes nervous? No, no way. When did he ever get nervous? Molly was the nervous one, not him. Never him. "As this is our fourth pointless social function together, I believe it is time I state my intentions."

Molly's heart sank; so it wasn't just to be with her, he had a reason. Of course, of course had a reason. He was Sherlock frickin' Holmes, he never did anything without a motive or a reason. Oh well, at least she didn't have to ask him why he had been lying to her – he was finally going to come clean.

"Due to the nature of our acquaintanceship, I am aware that there are certain expectations one would require of the other at this point in time." He continued on, not even looking at her.

Molly sighed softly, trying to stop herself from tearing up. Instead she wrung her hands in her lap, softly tracing the scars only she knew where there. "What do you need?" She asked, surprising the detective enough to make him look at her.

She didn't repeat herself; she knew he heard her.

"I-I-" He stumbled over his words briefly before quickly regaining control. "I believe it is time that we fulfill the obligations that we are bound to pay to each other."

The tears were making her vision blurry, but she refused to let them go; she had her dignity, after all. "What do you need, Sherlock?" She repeated with more emphasis, closing her eyes as she struggled to maintain control of her emotions.

She heard his breath catch in his throat, even felt the couch shift beneath her, but didn't make the connection about what he was doing until his fingers tilted her face and she felt soft supple lips placed so gently on hers.

Her eyes snapped open in shock, only to see Sherlock's closed shut as he focused on what he was doing. Kissing her. Kissing Molly Hooper.

Oh god, was she dreaming? No, this was way too real to be a dream. The majority of her told herself to just go with it, but the tiny voice in the back of her mind demanded she take action. This was a game. He was using her to get something, again. Who cares about little ole Molly's feelings, as long as he got what he wanted?

Her mind having been made, she shoved him away and quickly stood up, trying to create as much distance as possible between them at the moment.

"Sherlock," She was slightly out of breath. "Th-that. You can't just do that! I don't know what it is you want from me, b-but I think…" She took in a deep breath to steel herself, trying not to focus on the puppy eyes being sent her way. "I think you should go." Opening the door for him, she stood resolute.

"Molly," Sherlock tried, "I did not-"

She waved him off. "Save it, Sherlock. You took it a step too far this time." Her eyes glistened with unshed tears. "Please go." Her voice cracked, the sobs in her throat threatening to start at any moment.

After staring at her for a solid minute, he wordlessly took his coat and left, shutting the door behind him.

Molly cried, the scars on her hands all fresh wounds once again and pulsating with pain.

When it was in her power to do so, Molly tried to avoid running into Sherlock after that. The only time she almost got stuck with him in the lab, she managed to beg off and make Mike switch with her, claiming she had lady problems and needed the rest of the day off.

Honestly, she did feel guilty about that, but she'd get over it. She knew the moment Sherlock got her alone, he'd say something about what happened, and right now, she just needed to push it as far away out of her mind as possible.

Two weeks she had managed to avoid him. That is, until he came to her flat on her day off and banged on the door like he owned the place. "Molly!" He called her name, "Let me in!"

She quickly opened the door and let him in, not wanting him to disturb her neighbors and not having the courage to call the police. "What, Sherlock, what do you want?" She asked angrily, surprised when he immediately gathered her in his arms and pressed her head to his pounding heart.

"You." He rasped, sounding like he had run a marathon before reaching her apartment.

She tried to push him away, but he only clung on tighter, like a child being denied his favorite toy.

"Sherlock," She managed to get out, "I don't understand, what-"

"Of course you don't, of course you don't understand." He let her go, choosing to pace her living room instead while Molly tried to catch a breath.

Why was this so hard? Why couldn't he just say what he meant? This was definitely not his area. So how could he convey to her what he had been trying so hard to explain?

Suddenly, it him like an oncoming car. He knew what to do. He'd explain using the same methods he explained everything else – through fact and deduction.

"Molly," He turned to her suddenly, internally berating himself when she flinched away from him. "This is not my area." He explained, somehow hoping she'd catch on. She didn't, of course.

He took a deep breath to steady himself, and gently grabbed her wrist, the pulse beating rapidly beneath his fingertips. "You are a trained physician. You know the science of affection." He kept his eyes trained on hers as he placed her hand over his heart. "Tell me what you see."

Molly felt uncomfortable, to say the least. But she still tried to follow his line of thought, allowing her hand to remain on his chest as she felt his throbbing heartbeat thrum beneath her palm.

Wait, throbbing?

She checked his pupils as he stared at her, inviting her to do so. They were fully dilated, to where she had a hard time seeing the blue except on the rims.

Molly quickly withdrew her hand as if she had been burned. "You- Wait, so um. You're heartbeat is almost twice the speed of normal, and your pupils are fully dilated."

"Yes," He used in a voice Molly could only describe as husky, taking a step closer to her. "Tell me, Dr. Hooper. What does that mean?"

She paused, "You're high?"

He frowned, and she smiled, finally getting it. She knew what he was trying to convey; it was the last possible option she had ever considered.

"No." He hissed, narrowing his eyes at her.

She grinned, leaning over to catch his hand and intertwine it with hers. "Well, when you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth."

His eyes widened slightly, hearing her say the words he himself said so often.

"You've solved the case, Doctor Hooper." He murmured with a small measure of pride for her, leaning down to catch her lips with his.

Before he did, Molly glanced down at their intertwined hands, not surprised when she saw her hand clean of any and all scars. It was perfect. This was perfect.

A/N - Ah, symbolism. My prompt was 'Papercut' so I figured I'd use it as a symbol. So no, Molly couldn't really see the scars all over her hands, in case that confused any of you.

I still feel so new at this Sherlolly business, any tips would be greatly appreciated.

Reviews are loved, cherished, framed on the wall and dusted at least once a week.

-Zara Lavine