A/N: Prompted by nonny on tumblr to write Sherlock discovering Molly has a tattoo.

This is the extended version of the original on tumblr.

It's not that we're scared.

It's just that it's delicate.

- Damien Rice ('Delicate')

Bent on her pale knees that were rubbed red from the white tiles she turned her head, her pink lips parted in surprise. Her pale lavender wool jumper riding up on her lower back, the fabric tentatively bunching up revealing that small patch of flushed skin, and what his eyes lingered on all-too long, bewilderment and confusion colouring his senses.

Molly Hooper. Tattoo. Bandaged. Newly inked.

He knew the type - regularly young women in their twenties tattooing small-animated figures at the apex of their thighs, 'Chinese' words on their ankles from summer holidays, colourful flowers on their shoulders, but a thirty-year-old woman who regularly wore a cardigan with cherries on it? She wasn't the type. "Why not?" he ignored the voice, waving his hand like it would banish the feminine tones, the one that often arose when he needed to be clear-headed, when he needed to be brave. It wasn't something she'd do.

"That's not really what's bothering you, is it?" the voice continued amused, and he felt like rolling his eyes, though the thoughts bubbled underneath the surface. What would you get? What would you want to have branded on your body Molly Hooper? "Your name?" the voice teased. He could easily slide his fingertips against the familiar letters, most likely done in cursive, while she was spread out on her stomach on the bed, his tongue soon caressing the dark ink. What? Sherlock shook his head in confusion, banishing the imagery of Molly's bare back.

He'd never seen her naked, hadn't stumbled upon a part of her accidentally either, and neither did he feel like it. Throughout the years he'd barged into her flat for various reasons, often to lie on top of her soft bedspread, still in his coat with his hands steepled together, while she sighed to his left, pulling for the covers. She was Molly, there was no need to see her naked, as he wasn't interested in her nudity.

Naked people didn't shock him, didn't frighten him, though he knew that most people were extraordinarily bothered if he didn't appear clothed himself, like John who would cry out in anger, tossing trousers at his head over the kitchen table when they lived together.

"It's not that you need to, oh no, it's that you want to-,"said another voice silkily, and he leaned further back into his chair, his brows knitted together in irritation. There she was, appearing like she did these days, like some stalwart commentator every time Molly did something remotely – "You liked what you saw, admit it."

Nothing the pathologist did was remotely sexual; there was no lipstick, no cleavage, no dresses, and no stockings with seams. It was just regular sensible clothing – spotty, colourful, sensible shoes, and the occasional thick skirt to fend off the harsh winds that were preparing them for bleaker skies.

She wasn't being – "Sexy?" the woman said with a tinkling laugh. "Brainy is the new sexy after all, remember?" Shut up. And suddenly the woman's amused expressions, faded away, replaced by another woman sat in her lab coat, looking at him with an innocent expression, settled into John's chair. "So – my tattoo's bothering you, is it?"

"No," he scoffed.

She looked at him doubtfully; her eyebrows rose in the same way the real-Molly's brows would raise in disbelief.

"Yes," he drawled, shifting awkwardly in his seat. "You don't get tattoos."

"Why not?" she said. "Why can't I get tattoos?"

"Because you're – you."

"And what's that supposed to mean?" she said looking highly offended.

"People don't just-,"

"Change?" and the word brewed a storm within him, making his own skin crawl, for he knew what would come after - like clockwork. "You've changed…" Her gaze doesn't leap away, and he can easily see her looking at him like this, the same words leaving her lips.

"Not all of me-," he whispered, closing his eyes, focusing his mind on blocking out the sound of her voice.

"Of course not, then you wouldn't be you, and as you know – you're my-,"

"Type," he bit out, grateful to see that the chair in front of him was bare, and that television was on.

He can see a plate on the coffee table, evidence of crumbs from toast, and a folded newspaper from today, but John had clearly left in a hurry, the cup of tea leaving sprinkle of stains on the paper.

"You must find another way to relieve your boredom," said a voice and he felt like groaning at the sound of his brother, thankfully without the umbrella twirling in his hand, which meant he could be easily expelled from his mind. "Your emotions are getting the better of you."

"Oh please -," he said standing up from his chair.

Mycroft tutted soundly, eyeing him with a superior expression. "If you aren't careful you'll become like the other one-,"

"Happy?" snapped Sherlock derisively.

"And how bored wouldn't you be?" said Mycroft knowingly, and Sherlock felt himself pale, his breath catching in his throat. "You can hardly keep a promise to yourself – how on earth could you keep a promise to someone else? She might be strong, but you – you're hardly unbreakable."

"Some things go deeper than ink after all –," the voice continued, until it only echoed in his head, and he could finally breathe again, every breath a gasp for air.

"Fine," he said out loud. "Fine," he repeated, resolving to forget all about the bandaged area. If only it were that easy, if only if it was that, and not everything else.

She was naked, her body pieced together by mere glimpses, assumptions. She looked like he could crush her, like every movement of his body on top of hers would bruise her fragile skin, every bite; every nip would leave a mark. But the look in her bright brown eyes looked appalled by the sheer idea that he could hurt her.

"Tom was taller than you, you know-," she said and the slow fire is extinguished, mere wisps of smoke left, his body not calling or yearning any longer.

"Oh, it wasn't just his coat, then?" he said with a snort. "Long coats-," he began in a sing-song-voice -

"Huge egos?" she finished. "We had lots of sex you know."

"Like I could forget?" he hissed. "Not that it makes any difference to me. The man looked like me after all, not that I told you that, but it was frankly so obvious that there was little point in pointing out what would clearly decimate your entire engagement. Boring."

"How come I'm naked?" she said and he had the decency to let his cheeks turn pink, at least, even if it was a short-lived bodily response.

"You're naked - because I still don't know what your tattoo is," he said as a matter-of-factly, his eyes flicking towards her, then back to the wall.

"In a room that has a fire-place and a bed with silk sheets? The room that looks like the one you had the woman in?" she said pointing out the environment he'd chosen instead of her usual white morgue walls.

"Oh – he wishes-," said the woman with a raised brow. "I had him in this room, not the other way around." He waved a hand and the woman was gone, though Molly was still persistently present, sitting on the edge of the bed, her legs jittery, her body bouncing slightly, causing her small breasts to rise and fall with every movement.

"This isn't where it would happen though," she said with a small smile, like the place is already mapped out in his head, like she can reach out for it with a wave of her hand.

"It's not going to happen," he said, his voice distant, cold.

"Sherlock?" said John confused. "What's not going to happen?"

Oh.

"Umm – the royal family won't be dismantled – of course -," he said quickly, pursing his lips importantly.

"Right… okay, then."

"You're going brother dear – do you think it's wise?" The expression on his brother's face so clear and steady in his mind's eye, as he wrenched on his belstaff. "Yes," he bit out, his teeth grinding together when another laughter trickled forward, light, breezy - comfortable. She was sat on his chair with red lips; mimicking those she'd had that eventful Christmas.

"Why am I dressed up like this?" she said peering down at her clothes, while he tried not to give it too much weight.

The sub memory surfaced anyway - his first view of naked women from a vintage magazine, and she was dressed similarly. "Oh, that's a bit wrong," she said with raised brows, a large smile showing off her teeth.

"Don't," he scoffed, blinking so he was back in 221B, before blinking once more returning to the white sterile room, though she was still dressed in that startling red coloured dress.

"Have you thought about updating your information about tattoos? Sailors aren't the only ones who get them-," she said referencing to her clothes, though it was clear to him that she knew why she looked like that.

"You - you -," he rose up from his chair, hands pressed together, before he pointed at her. "You were the one who told me about that. Your grandfather, wasn't it? Something - - something about secrets - why - why would you get a tattoo? Sentiment? But you didn't know your grandfather..."

"And you've never seen me naked, but here I am." she said smiling at him plainly, shrugging her shoulders and being the opposite of uncomfortable with her sudden nudity, while he walked around her in circles. Almost as if he hoped to catch a glimpse of her back properly now, instead of just seeing her bent down to capture some files she'd dropped.

"Why would you care about someone you've never met? No, it can't be family. And you've got no boyfriend. You wouldn't be stupid enough to put a name on your lower back. You'd hardly invest money in a rose or dolphins either. No."

"It's not that hard - you know what you want it to be-,"

"No-," he bit out with gritted teeth, as she began to peal away the bandage from her lower back and revealed a deerstalker. He frowned deeper. "No - no - no. You would not get that!"

"How would you know? You never thought I'd get a tattoo - ever."

He stilled. "You went out that night, didn't you? With those friends of yours."

"I got drunk, yes, if that's what you mean?"

"You must have gotten it then!"

"That was two months ago..."

He snorted. "How do I even remember that?" he said out loud, hands rifling through his curls.

"How do you remember me talking about my grandfather?" she said playfully and he threw her a dark look, before he stormed out of 221B intending to end it all.

"That's a terrible idea-," she said in a mock-hushed voice, as he gingerly forced the front door open smirking, pocketing his tools.

"Why?" he questioned out loud, surprised when he didn't find her behind him any longer, but he suspected that had very much to do where he was. Molly Hooper's flat - his safe-haven from the outside world and occasionally his own mind. It was a simple way of escaping the problem, but also 'asking' about the other problem that kept troubling him.

"Oh – listen – showers on," said her voice, and he tried ignoring the voice, besides the nerves that bubbled within him at the sound of the water. All of his answers were behind the bedroom door, past the bed, and then the door at the left. Simple really. "You sure? You'll actually see me naked."

"Nudity isn't a problem," he murmured, moving towards the bedroom door that was partly open, and he froze. Blood left his face, his hands trembled slightly, and his breathing turned shallow, as he took in the sight of her sliding off her clothes. She was kicking off her trousers, slim legs springing out – "You utter randy pervert," said a familiar voice, which he immediately ignored, he only wanted to see the tattoo.

John persisted however. "You can't just stare at her – are you mad?"

"Oh he's very excited at the prospect I think," said another voice, and he was about to argue against those silky female tones when he realized where his hand was.

Everything turned quiet then.

He could see her simple white knickers, then the edge of the tattoo, as she slowly drew up her blouse.

And then he saw it.

Of course.

He could leave.

He knew.

He didn't need to stay any longer.

There was no need.

But he did not move.

Simple black lines on her lower back, contrasting the sheer white fabric of her knickers that she slid down over her pert -

Cock twitching in his palm, he tried to think, tried to force his mind to wander from the scene of her body displayed in front of him, of her thighs, of the pink rosy buds on her small breasts, and that's when she turned, brown eyes finding him.