Hey there guys, I got a request for Sherlolly, and I happily obliged, I've never written smut before but I was interested in doing more mature writing.

Obviously I do not own BBC Sherlock, if I did I wouldn't be writing Fan Fic would I?

Anyway, enjoy!

It was half past twelve before Molly Hooper and her fiance Tom arrived at her modest London flat, dressed still in their formal wedding clothes from John and Mary's wedding. But instead of an excited, happy atmosphere expected from a engaged couple that just left a happy wedding (despite the near murder of course)

Molly kicked her shoes off at the door, leaving them in the door way, while Tom tripped over them and stumbled up the flat's steps after Molly who seemed to be in a hurry to get inside. She pulled hair strawberry blonde hair out of its tight bun and her hair spilled loosely over her shoulders, Tom tugged off his tie but left his shoes on all the while giving Molly a angry look, he slammed his tie down on her kitchen table.

Molly didn't look at him, she faced the entrance to her living room, her arms folded across her chest. He clenched his teeth together, his breathing starting to be heavy, he seemed to be debating what he should say next. 'Molly' he started, but what interrupted by a quiet, sudden reply from her:

"no"

He looked at her bemused, "what?"

"I said no!"She yelled, now spinning around to face him her face flushed red with anger, "I just said no!" Her hands began to shake, perhaps she had drunk too much champagne tonight. 'I am so tired of you speaking so just please, just don't'. Tom swallowed hard, he himself perhaps drunk too much tonight, 'Oh you're tired of me? Because I embarrassed you during the speech?' Molly didn't say anything, just furiously pressed her lips together.

"Yeah I got the message pretty clear when you stabbed me with a fucking fork." Molly made a small smile at these words.

"Oh you are being such a bitch, Molly!"

"You shouldn't of been coming up with the most ridiculous theories, I did you a favor"

"Yes thank you so much, sweetheart" Tom hissed.

Molly turned on her heel and walked away into the lounge room. Tom followed her and continued to yell, "Molly I'm not going to ignore the elephant in the room, we both know what's really going on" Molly stopped her tracks, she became acutely aware of her rising heartbeat, 'Yeah that's right' Tom Snarled, 'You think I haven't noticed the way you look at him?'

"I don't know what on earth you're talking about-" Molly asked attempting to sound innocent.

"Don't act stupid, I've seen the way you look at that detective Sherlock! Hanging on to every word he says, you never shut up about him, and that your face lights up whenever he enters the room-" His voice broke up unable to finish the sentence, and he swallowed hard again but his anger was starting to be replaced. Molly's body began to un tense itself as she saw Tom trying to hide the fact that tears had started to well up in his eyes. Molly knew there wasn't any much more to this angry pretense, and she met his wet gaze her own tears starting to well up and she spoke to him very quietly:

"I'm sorry"

Tom swore, "I guess this is it then?" he asked her.

"Yes, I think so, I'm so sorry" She started to cry, Tom started to yell again and paced backward and forwards frantically around her living room. Molly just stood there and listened to him yell out obscurities, feeling that at least she owed him that much.

Tom then swooped over to her and pushed her into a frantic, clumsy kiss, but Molly pushed him away 'No, I'm sorry' she cried out, Tom pulled her left hand up to his face and kissed her ring finger on which nested their sparkly engagement ring. "Please Molly" he begged, "please let us work this out" Molly shook her head still crying.

Tom still looking at her, let go of her hand, disbelief clear on his face. Molly then tried to pull the ring off, but to her shock she found that she couldn't. 'you've got to be kidding me' she muttered. The air quickly became awkward as Molly struggled very hard to pull off the ring.

"Maybe you could run it under the tap or something?" He quietly suggested.

"Oh you know what" Molly snapped out after several failed attempts to tug off the ring. "Just forget about it, I'll mail it to you first thing in the morning"

"right yeah" Tom swayed awkwardly for a minute, 'so I guess I'll just be off then' he says slowly as he starts to make his way out of the room and ascend down the stairs.

Molly let out a sigh, secretly relived and privately glad that she had managed to avoid a massive argument that she knew was a long time coming. But with no such luck, Tom spun around angry again, and began to shout and argue.

Molly and Tom argued late into the night.

Sherlock's violin was slightly out of tune, making the fine notes he spun out have a slight unpleasant twing to them which he thought suited his mood perfectly. He glided the bow over the strings under the command of his fingertips, he played a slow, sweet but mournful tune. It's sound drifted lonely through 221b Baker street, almost unheard down stairs and in Mrs Hudson the landlady's headquarters.

Sherlock had heard her knock shortly after she arrived about midnight, but he paid her no attention as he laid down still and as pale as a corpse on his couch. Sherlock listened to sound of Mrs Hudson's clumsy foot work stumbling down the stairs, Mrs Hudson did tend to over drink at social gatherings. But she could of kicked down the door and threw it out of the window and he still would not of opened his eyelids, because for the first time in a very, very long time.

Sherlock Holmes was high.

With the most interesting cases solved, John and Mary starting their new lives without him, he no longer had the distraction and the rush of the game, the thrill of the chase that keep him oh so occupied away from the needle was now gone. Giving him that sudden pull of an artificial rush of adrenaline that he sickeningly missed so much, he exhaled, his heart pumping fast.

As soon as he left John and Mary's wedding reception that night he headed down to the side of London he often found himself in to recruit more for his homeless network, but this time his legs knew what he was doing before he did. As he twist and turned down the familiar gratified, littered streets. He exchanged the money he had in his coat for what he required, he didn't go inside, Sherlock felt that this stage in his new case it was too soon to go into the house.

But even now as he laid still on the couch, pensive and planning his next move, he could not escape the wistfulness he felt towards the events that had transpired. Being called John Watson's best friend was undoubtedly an unexpected honor that Sherlock could not fully comprehend, for who in their sane mind would ever brave him for a best friend. 'well' he mused, John Watson would, an ex Army Doctor who loved the thrill of the chase as much as Sherlock did.

'But unlike you Sherlock, John Watson is not a complete and utter idiot when it comes to interacting with other humans'

Sherlock's stormy eyes flew open, the voice of his older brother Mycroft rung unwelcomed through his mind. He wanted to escape from him not submerge his mind into his constant put downs and nagging advice that was scarcely concealed behind the pretense of friendly and well meaning brotherly advice. 'I am the smart one' Mycroft growled at him lowly, scolding Sherlock for attempting to think any differently. Sherlock shook his head, trying to shake his voice out. He found it difficult to enter his mind palace whilst high.

'You... you told me once that you weren't a hero. Umm, there were times I didn't even think you were human. But let me tell you this, you were the best man, the most human...' John Watson's shaky voice started drift in through the fog that surrounded his mind. His voice was much more welcoming but Sherlock still didn't want to hear it, he didn't want to hear anything good about himself especially not when his needle was visible underneath John's chair.

John's Chair.

Well it wasn't John's chair anymore now was it? The next thing Sherlock knew he was pulling John's chair down the hall and into his room, he pulled it into the corner of his bedroom, it fit perfectly well in the interior of his room but it just felt so...wrong. Sherlock groaned and collapsed down on to his bed, he glanced at his alarm sitting on his bedside table.

2:27 AM

Sherlock sunk his head further back into his pillow his dark curls framing his angular face as they were pulled closer in. 'But you were right. I'm not okay.' Sherlock's eyes once again flew open, now that was different, he certainly was not expecting his own voice to come floating back to him. He remembered when he spoke those words to his friend Molly Hooper the pathologist, in Bart's lab, he remembered the sharp intake of breath he took and the spike of fear that stabbed him in his chest with every breath he took and the words he said to her.

'What do you need?' she had said, unyielding, and determined to help him. The sweet, mousy woman had said, for the first time in a while not stuttering and now spoke with network, (at least with less help from Mycroft) What Sherlock could not figure out was on earth Molly Hooper even gave him the time of day.

After all the things had said to her 'such awful things, all the time' she still stood un swaying by his side being a good and kind friend unafraid to tell him so when he got out of line. That's what he like about Molly Hooper, she was unassuming and unexpected, it got boring quickly when he knew everything that there was to know about someone. But with Molly it was just a little change in her personality, or appearance that just gave her that edge for Sherlock that others just did not seem to achieve.

She had long medium brown hair that was well looked after and she often played with her parting, he at first thought she did what a lot of people did when their hair styles drastically changed through a quick period of time, they tended to be unsatisfied with their appearance, often going through changing or challenging periods of time. But one day many years Sherlock had mention to her in passing as a sort of sweet talk (exploiting her for favors obviously) in when he pointed out her new part in hair, that he liked. Only after the brief encounter did he wonder why he even noticed something so miniscule like that, and brushed it into a dusty old file in his mind palace.

What had always irked him about Molly was how bloody cheerful and optimistic she always seemed to be, annoyed, however she was un yielding when Sherlock would cut down her chirpy remarks. 'ah sweet Molly' Sherlock thought to himself, rubbing his temples, she was one of those people like John Watson, just a genuine good person. Molly, he concluded was unassuming and pure intentioned.

It was nearly 2:30 am and Molly was a little drunk.

She had opened at bottle of wine and had been drinking since Tom left a half an hour ago, after her screaming at him that the neighbors did not want to, nor have to listen to him acting like a pectiulant child. Tom had slammed the door to her flat and called a taxi home with her promise of giving the ring back as soon as she could. She was waiting for the hot feeling of dread and regret to bubble in her stomach, but nothing came. Just a sense of relief and lightness that came with having a huge burden lifted off her shoulders. She knew that she hadn't been happy in a while, everything seemed okay when she and Tom starting going out and she was thrilled when he proposed over a Chinese dinner at his flat,but she always felt like something was missing.

And when that something missing returned, she found herself unsatisfied with what she had found. What she had found...well there was nothing wrong with what she had found, in fact what she had found was in fact rather lovely, and he treated her nicely and got along with her friends and her Mother. Her cat Toby curled around her ankles, purring as she slumped in her armchair. She sure did feel stupid, she remember the heat flaring up in her cheeks the moment Tom mentioned Sherlock, absolutely humiliated that she was that transparent. She wasn't an un smart woman for goodness sakes, she still kicked herself over her stammering over Sherlock Holmes, while he shows no apparent interest in her and she didn't even know if she wanted him to see her in that way.

The way she saw it, she liked Sherlock for who he was, well who he was deep down inside. Which was in reality a very compassionate man who cared a lot but was so afraid of rejection because he was different he kept all his compassionate feelings under his asshole tendencies. Not that she ever though that he wasn't one, oh no no, Sherlock Holmes was most defiantly an arse. But she liked Sherlock because he was just so different, and so was she, and Sherlock never used that against her in fact that is what perhaps made them such good friends because they were both different and outcast to others. Sherlock provided a good sense of escapism from her mundane world of going to the local pub with her friends, gossiping over celebrity news or heaven forbid who was pregnant or getting married.

It wasn't because he was a handsome man that fit the forbidden fruit role, (although that was a pleasant bonus) No it was because Sherlock threw himself into the grit and game of the streets, which the results of she often saw in her moruge. He emerged himself in the thrill of the chase, and the captivation of a good mystery and Molly Just found her self amongst the whirlwind of it all, and she now could admit it to herself, she loved it, she loved the thrill, she loved the mystery, she loved him.

Molly groaned into her hands feeling stupid she took large sip of her drink, when her phone lit up pelting out a chirpy tune. She picked it up, surprised that anyone would text her at this hour. When her Dad was ending his days, her phone would light up and ring all through out the night to answer his confused calls. Sometimes Sherlock would ask a strange case related quest, but never tended to elaborate on them, she looked at the screen, it was Sherlock:

Molly -SH

Molly blinked, now she was just to vague texts from Sherlock, such as 'crop' 'beaker' or '2nd post' but just her name wasn't something she was used to. She then remember another thing that had been bothering her throughout the night: Sherlock leaving the reception early, no one else noticed him leave and she wanted nothing more than chase after him and leave with him.

What do you need? -MH

Molly supposed she wouldn't mind helping Sherlock with a case to distract him, or her for that matter as she clearly wasn't going to be sleeping at any time soon. Molly had no less just put down her phone when it lit up again with Sherlock's reply:

You-SH

Another cryptically short text, oh she wished that sometimes Sherlock was like other men in this department, if that was any other man texting her like that at this time of the night it would be an obvious 'booty call' but alas Sherlock was not like other men. Before she typed out her reply he had already sent another message:

In taxi. On my way. 5 mins-SH

He was coming here? She sat up quickly- too quickly, the room span around her. There was some evidence of an unhappy dispute that had happened in her flat, she could try to tidy it up so Sherlock wouldn't say anything, but honestly at this point she was too tired of fighting, shrugged it off and went to the bathroom to at least brush her teeth.

Sherlock was frigid in his seat, paying no mind to the taxi driver's questioning stare as Sherlock tapped his long fingers impatiently on the door handle. 'Molly knows what to do' Sherlock was thinking to himself, 'Molly is good with this sort of thing' This sort of thing being martial domestication, which Sherlock convinced himself was the reason why he was going to Molly's. She was always talking about a friend who was getting married or pregnant, I mean she was engaged for goodness sakes.

Right.

She was engaged, How did Sherlock forget about that one? Sherlock ignored the deflated balloon that shrunk in his stomach, Molly was getting married to that Tim person- the one that dressed suspiciously like him, he added as a smug after thought. Smug? He wasn't smug...

He was nervous though, now that he had arrived he was unsure why he had truly decided to come here in the first place, what if her fiancee was here? Should he turn around and get back the cab and go back to Baker Street? But when he did he saw the taxi drive away into the night. So he might as well go in and talk to her.

He walked up to her front door, he outstretched his arm but let his hand hover the wood. It suddenly occurred to him, if he was anything other man and she was anything Woman what would this scene look like to an outsider's perceptive. Deducing it from another perspective: High man, single, nearly 3 am outside a female's flat after a wedding, it must be because he is high after all, but he was really looking forward to seeing her again tonight.

He knocked on her door.

Yeah? Nay? I rather like this pairing and I really am trying my hardest to keep them in character, because they are all such great characters!

I feel like this is rated 'M' for its next chapter which will be up very soon, I hope you enjoyed. :)