~ Dream Baby ~

With many thanks to Ellis_Hendricks for editing and feedback!

He woke with a convulsive gasp, and lay blinking at his surroundings for a long minute, the incongruity of the moment striking him with devastating force.

Three months after the Sherrinford debacle, he had thought everything was once again in order. His flat (and its surrounding environs) had been repaired. He and Mycroft had weathered their parents' wrath and dismay. A positive relationship with his mad sister was being established.

And he and Molly Hooper were, once again, good friends.

Just friends.

Though, in that case, how was he to explain his current state: body still a-tremble, sheets now in need of laundering (and not by Hudders, he could just picture the speculative, teasing gleam she'd throw at him), and his dream still vividly, vibrantly with him?

He found himself swallowing hard, his inner eye helplessly riveted on the slender yet shapely form of dream-Molly, her silken hair strewn messily over the pillow, sheets rumpled beneath her, and her smile… sated, yet oddly innocent, and completely loving… took his breath away.

There was a helpless twitch of reviving desire against the already damp sheets, and he groaned, cursing, threw off the covers and fairly leapt from the bed, and stood there for a moment, swaying.

Was he some spotty adolescent, unable to master his baser instincts?

This entire episode must be deleted immediately!

And yet, as he stripped the bed, throwing the evidence of his discomfiture in a pile on the floor, and repaired, with what dignity he could muster, to his new state-of-the-art and beautifully tiled shower, he found his determination to delete fading.

And this was what philosophers and theologians warned about.

Temptation, thy name is Woman.

And, more specifically, in this case, Molly Hooper.

How on earth can that be? he asked himself as he soaped himself down, annoyed and strangely flustered.

And, again, inspired by that vision of her smile.

Not to mention the rest of her.

He cursed again.

He should turn the shower straight to cold.

Was this the way to think about his friend?

Was this the way a man of mature years and disciplined habit behaved, even in the privacy of his own flat?

The warm water ran down his body. The warm eyes of Dream-Molly swam through his brain, enticing.

No. Enchanting.

He sighed, and finally leaned his forehead against the cool tile.

Apparently this was the way such a man behaved.

He closed his eyes to the world and was lost in that ephemeral vision… sighed again… and surrendered to the moment.

o-o-o

He had thought the dream would fade, as most dreams do, dissolving into a misty subconscious, leaving, perhaps, a warm afterglow, but affecting day to day existence very minimally.

This did not prove to be the case.

Strangely, every detail of that dream remained alive in his mind, and he found himself returning to it over and over as the hours and days passed.

He did not contact Molly. For one thing, she had gone out of town for a few days, traveling to the Lake District with a couple of her co-workers – both women, thank God, or he suspected he would have been piqued toward intervention. And after her return… Dream-Molly still plaguing him… bewitching him… there was a dearth of legitimate reasons to visit Barts – Lestrade was fairly astounded at the lull in criminal activity – and Sherlock was reluctant to visit his Siren's native ground for the less orthodox purposes that had served in the past.

This lack of real life Molly seemed to do little to assuage Sherlock's predilection for Dream-Molly's companionship. He began to wonder, in fact, if Dream-Molly's perfection would taint his view of the actual woman – which might be a good thing, considering what his imagination and subconscious were capable of in Dream-Molly's regard. Disappointment might yet cure him of this sudden, very strange obsession, and things could go back to… to what they had been before.

That his heart invariably sank at this idea told him how contorted had become his thought processes. He would have said deformed, but could not quite bring himself to use such a derogatory term in relation to his… beloved.

He was sitting in his new chair by the fire, drinking a cup of tea supplied by his landlady (who was still unaware of his state of unrest, thank God), when this description… this endearment… occurred to him.

Beloved.

Well, she was, of course. Had been, as a friend, for many years.

But Dream-Molly was… different. So much more.

Ridiculous, he told himself for the hundredth time.

Or was it?

There was only one way of knowing.

And fortunately for his sanity (for he had begun to wonder about it, of late), Lestrade called that very evening regarding a possible homicide that looked to be a seven, if not an eight.

A visit to Barts morgue was in the offing.

And, ever-cognizant of Molly's schedule, Sherlock knew that she would be on duty.

o-o-o

He swept in as per his habit, and there she was… there it was, as she turned to greet her visitors: that smile that lit not only her countenance but her whole being. The element of satiation might be missing, but the happiness, the love was there, as in his dream. He found himself halting in his tracks, and felt an odd tingling against his cheeks.

My God, he was blushing!

Her smile was fading at his hesitancy, and she suddenly looked concerned.

"Molly!" he blurted, forestalling the question on her lips, "It's good to see you. Can you show us Mr. Steed? Lestrade here has promised me an eight, but I'm reserving judgement until I see the body."

"Yes… yes, of course. Hello, Greg."

"Evening, Molly. It's been a while, hasn't it? But the forces of evil never rest quiet for long – much to Sherlock's gratification."

Sherlock said, with a slight wince, "Gratification is hardly the word, in spite of what you may have assumed in the past."

Lestrade rolled his eyes. "Assumptions be damned, you've always been like a kid in a candy shop when there's something wicked afoot. Though maybe recent events have changed things up a bit?"

"Yes. Well. How could they not?" Sherlock said, glancing furtively at Molly. He felt heat in his cheeks again, and said abruptly, "Mr. Steed, Molly? None of us wish to be at this all night." And then his heart sank as he realized how that must have sounded to her. Like the old Sherlock.

Who, in many ways, was no more.

And indeed, a look of annoyance slightly diluted the fondness of her gaze, though there was still a question in her eyes, too. However, she obediently turned to do his bidding and Sherlock stood silently watching her comply. Studying her.

Wondering what it would be like to ease that lab coat off her shoulders, let it fall to the ground… slip his fingers beneath the edges of that cherry-bedecked cardigan… brush his thumbs over the sensitive peaks that swelled beneath the flowered cotton of her blouse and the soft lace of her bra … take in her look of surprise… wonder… her small gasp of pleasure…

"Here he is, John Steed, age 41," said Molly. "The preliminary exam showed deep slashes to the abdomen reminiscent of the ritual suicide customs of Japan. Unfortunately not deep enough to sever the descending aorta."

Lestrade grimaced. "So, a helluva death. Poor devil."

"Yes," muttered Sherlock, though he was rather thankful than not for the gruesome distraction.

It was all business for the next quarter hour or so as they examined the corpse and questioned Molly on particulars.

"Murder," Sherlock said, finally. "I'm nearly certain of it. Lestrade, can we get a look at his flat?"

"Sure. But it can wait until morning, eh? I have a meeting at nine that I can't miss, but after that I'm your man. Say 11:30. Shall I pick you up?"

"No, text me the address and I'll meet you."

"Right." Lestrade gave Molly a grateful smile. "You're the best, love. Thanks for taking us in on such short notice."

"Always happy," she said, returning Lestrade's smile with great sincerity.

Almost too great. Sherlock felt a familiar twinge that he suddenly realized was jealousy.

Bloody hell. Had he never known himself at all?

His consternation was obviously writ large on his face, for when she turned to bid him farewell the words died on her lips and her brows rose. "Sherlock?" she queried uncertainly.

He stared at her for a long moment, then cleared his throat and said, "Your shift ends soon, do you fancy some takeaway? I can wait for you."

Her eyes widened. Perplexed. But also gratified. "Yes. I… yes! That would be lovely!"

Lestrade was observing the two of them with amused interest, of course. However, all he said was, "Well! In that case I'll take my leave."

"Yes, off you go," said Sherlock. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"Good night, Greg," Molly said, laughter in her voice. But as soon as the door swung to in the detective's wake, she turned to Sherlock, eyeing him curiously. "Sherlock, is everything alright?"

"Yes, certainly. I mean…" His voice trailed off as fear, confusion, chagrin warred for primacy in his breast.

But he could not lie to her. He would not.

"Molly… there is… something," he said finally. "But it should wait until we're back at the flat. Is that… acceptable?"

"Yes. Of course," she replied, smiling again, though somewhat worriedly. "Just let me finish a couple of things and I'm with you."

o-o-o

He wanted to take her hand as they were leaving Barts, but did not dare. He glanced down at her as the lift rose to the ground floor and wondered at his trepidation. It was only Molly. But somehow, now, he knew she was so much more. Everything, really. His better half, as old husbands said of their wives, being aware of so much history between them, good and bad, Heaven and Hell, and siting it as a matter of course.

There was a great deal between him and Molly Hooper, and it was past time the Heaven outweighed the Hell.

It was a black night, not too cold, but drizzling rain, and unfortunately, for once, his ability to flag down a cab failed him.

"Let's take the Tube," Molly said, giving his coat sleeve a tug, near the wrist, and leading the way, a last flash of her smile seen in the pool of light by Barts' doors before they were swallowed up by the night.

He turned his hand swiftly and caught hers. He knew she turned to look up at him in surprise, but he ignored it, and together they walked up the street.

Almost immediately the rain began to increase, from a drizzle to a shower.

"Oh, no!" said Molly, laughing as they walked faster – and then five seconds later she gave a squawk of dismay as the heavens opened and they were caught in a real downpour.

"Come on!" Sherlock shouted. Together they hurried across the silver and gold of the lamplit street to a place he knew, the side entrance to an office building that was situated down a few stairs, a well drained and solidly sheltered alcove at the foot of the tower of steel and glass. "Careful!" he admonished, as she slipped a bit and half fell down the ill-lit steps, but as he steadied her he found she was still laughing.

They fetched up against the solid door and, in that small, cold space, hidden by the noisy curtain of rain, he took his life in his hands, bent, and swiftly kissed her.

He felt her small gasp of surprise, felt her stiffen, felt her small hands clutch at his coat. He drew back slightly, and he knew she was staring up at him, trying to see him in the black night.

"Sherlock?"

She sounded so shocked that his fear reared up again. "I… I suppose I should have asked first."

There was a moment's hesitation. And then she kissed him.

A sound escaped him that he could not but acknowledge was a small moan of relief, and he slipped his arms about her slight form, pulling her close against him, his head bent to hers, her kiss turning to kisses, tentative, yet eager, too, the moment stretching out, his heart thudding in an admixture of wonder and delight.

They were both panting a bit when they finally paused for breath. And Molly said, "Sherlock… is this… what is this something?"

"I dreamt of you," he said, shamed. And, at the same time, thrilled.

"A dream? Wh-what sort of dream?"

He gave a chuff of laughter. "The sort I haven't had in years," he admitted, cheeks burning again, and infinitely grateful for the blind, cool night. "Molly… I know you will always be my friend. But… I want more. And you… you still think of me in that way… don't you?"

Her hand rose to caress – he turned his head and placed a kiss on her palm – her slim fingers brushed the wet curls from his forehead. And she was silent for a long moment,

But then she spoke. "Are you sure? I mean—"

He kissed her again, with nothing tentative about it this time, showing her a little of the passion that was so new to him: a shining, beautiful thing with which to show his love.

He had never thought of carnal relations in this light. But with Molly…

When it ended, and they were forehead to forehead, warm breaths mingling, keeping the cold at bay, he demanded, low and intent, "Do you still want me in that way?"

"Yes. Of course I do," she said, her voice shaking.

They held each other, then, for a time, and those moments were replete with such tenderness, such heart-filling love, that neither of them noticed when the downpour slackened, faded, then turned to mist.

o-o-o

It was past nine when the small sounds of the arrival of morning tea served to wake Sherlock, still lying abed, snug and warm with his Beloved. His Better Half.

His Molly.

His Molly.

"Oh! Oh!" came Hudders' startled coo, and he could not repress a crooked grin. She must have noticed the pile of discarded raiment: still damp coats, Molly's cherry cardigan and flowered blouse, his own shirt – the aubergine Dolce and Gabbana, worn last night as extra insurance, what with the whole of his future happiness at stake. Shoes, too. But not trousers or underthings.

The bedroom had been the place for that… and the beginning of intimacies… well, that he had only dreamt of.

Prolonged, and oft repeated, through the hours, and the dark night, and the sound of rain.

Intimacies that had left them both wrung out… probably a bit sore… and yet even now he could feel renewed desire seeping through him. His fingers twitched against her skin,

Hudders was leaving – his landlady now knew which way the wind blew and he had no doubt he and Molly would be subjected to some twitting and smug laughter when they eventually emerged from their nest.

And now Molly was waking.

She moved… groaned a little, and when he loosened his embrace, she turned onto her back.

He followed, for fear suddenly prodded him once more.

What did she think of all this in the light of a new day?

But there had been no need to worry.

There was nothing but love in the brown eyes that looked into his… her silken hair strewn messily over the pillow… the sheets rumpled beneath her...

Beneath them.

"Good morning," she said, her voice soft, and edged with that now-familiar admixture of wonder and delight.

And her smile… that smile… took his breath away.

~.~