It had started as, what she thought was, a one off. They had staggered into her flat, late at night, laughing at the sheer stupidity that finally got the criminal caught. There had been a pause, and the next thing she knew, they were snogging and then clothes were flying off and then bliss…she was waking up snuggled next to Sherlock bloody Holmes.
The next few meetings were awkward, till she tried to break the ice. When halfway through her monologue, he had just pulled her near and kissed her, which led to other interesting things repeating. The next time he met, he started the conversation by saying that he enjoyed the sex, and would like to offer a deal. No strings attached. He assumed she was long over him, they were friends, very good ones and could and should graduate to being friends with benefits.
She had almost dabbed his tongue and tested him for narcotics. He had been offended, but shrugged it off by saying she could apologise in their new 'arrangement'.
And so it began. It started first with him sending texts, asking her to come over. She hated how it made her feel like his tool, so on her next off day, helped along with red wine, she texted him, fully expecting to be brushed off. Instead he appeared on her doorstep, looking hungry as a hawk.
This arrangement was kept from their friends, though Meena did wonder where she ran off, mid conversation. For Sherlock, it was regular his MO, so no eyebrows raised.
She was surprisingly ok with this. The sex was mind blowing, she was sleeping with the man of her dreams and there were no emotional attachments that usually led to things going kaput. She was happy with the way things were, and she made sure she assured Sherlock of the same. She was free to live the single life the way she wanted, invest time in experiments, studies and detailed analysis without having to worry about freaking out a new date.
Till she noticed his smiles.
They had been wide and free when they started their little arrangement. But now they looked more and more forced, like he was making a huge effort each time they met. The sex was still great, there was no awkwardness nor were their professional interactions affected. But those smiles. They were affecting her and for the life of her she couldn't let it go.
Till he dropped the bomb.
They were on their way back from solving a case in Bath, John having stayed back with a colicky baby and Mary. She had been feeling good about her involvement in solving the crime, actually working on the field this time, when he said suddenly that things would have to be different once they were back in London. That he couldn't do it anymore.
She had been prepared for what he said next, and would have been fine with it. If he had said he had an alternate arrangement or had gotten distracted or even bored, she would have been ready for it. But he surprised her, as always. He told her that he couldn't pretend that it was only the sex that pulled him to her, and that he wanted more. Lots more, the whole nine yards.
And she had panicked. Had rushed out of the car, slamming the door on his face and asking him to stay away from her. Once inside her flat, she realised she was shivering, it had been a narrow lucky escape. 'coz Molly Hooper knew how relationships with her turned out, had enough experiences to prove that. Things that seemed fine always ended up with her nursing a broken heart. And those had been other, far lesser men. This was Sherlock. When, not if, he would turn her away, she would be totally crushed. So refusing him had been the wise choice.
If their friends noticed any change in their behaviour, they refused to comment on it. Her trips to 221B trickled down to none and he visited the Barts lab and morgue only when accompanied by John or Greg and that one time, Mary (how the woman just looked curious when even Sherlock looked uneasy at the brutally cut up body she would never know!)
The ensuing days had been surprisingly ok, she didn't feel a soul crushing grief or a huge depression. Things did feel a bit dull, but that was to be expected.
This dragged on for three months till one day, when she had been with Greg and her team in a pub, celebrating. When she was dragged by her fellow doctor to dance with him and suddenly her partner felt all wrong. Everything felt just wrong.
They used to dance, Sherlock and her; he loved to move along with her to any music that played and she used to thoroughly enjoy it. She had felt some connection with him during those moments, but had studiously ignored it. It all came back to her and she had felt like she couldn't breathe. The next conscious instant found her at 221B, out of breath and probably sweating for she had run all the way from the tube station.
"Molly, what's wrong?" He had immediately placed his violin in its case, his super sleuth persona in charge.
"Me. I have been wrong. And I am so, so sorry," she had blabbered away, afraid that if she stopped, she would never speak freely to this man ever again. "I was just so afraid, it was self-preservation. We had a good thing going and then you decided to up the ante. It took me by surprised and to be frank, scared the living daylights off me. I…I've missed you these past months. Terribly...and-"
"Molly," he cut in. "Stop." He paused for a long time, and just when she thought he wouldn't speak a thing, he said, "If you don't leave immediately…if you continue standing there …I would not be able to let you go. Ever. So this is your chance."
She hesitated, the passion in his voice startling her. And then she had moved, to be in his arms. This was one place she was never going to leave again.