Molly Hooper is excited.
She has a date.
She hasn't had a date in about a year: not since the lunch date she cancelled to help him.
He's been back for a few weeks now. And if he's been a little kinder than he used to, a little more thoughtful, weighing his words carefully to make sure that she won't buckle and break under the weight of them, well: she has earned it.
After all: she saved his life.
And if he has watched her a little more closely, and asked her questions here and there, as though he is genuinely interested in her answers, well: he's expressing gratitude in the only way he knows how. Molly knows this man: knows him better than anyone except John Watson and his brother. She isn't sure whether that is a point of pride or stupidity, but she wears it gladly nonetheless. She has earned a few badges to wear of the sleeves of her life over the years, but this one was by far the most difficult to deserve.
So happy is she about her date that she doesn't realize he's been speaking to her until he moves right in front of her, staring down with a confused and irritated expression.
"Molly, why aren't you listening to me?"
"What? Oh, sorry: I was thinking," she answers with a slight laugh.
His eyes mirror the sea, and they go from choppy water to tempest in the time it takes her to blink. "And what were you thinking about?" He asks in a soft voice.
She blinks again and gazes up at him. "I, ah, I have a date tonight," she says, wondering why her voice decided to turn down its volume level without consulting her first.
Now it is his turn to blink: there is something savage and incredulous in his face for that split second before he smoothes it back into a neutral mask. "A date," he echoes, as though making certain he heard her correctly.
"Yes," she replies, frowning. Why on earth is he reacting this way? He's never cared before about her personal life, except to burst the balloons of her happiness and frown in puzzlement as she got hurt. He's driven more than one man away from her, or her from him, admonishing her right before the Fall to avoid all future attempts at a relationship. This won't be any different, except that this time she isn't going to listen to him.
She waits for his scathing comments, stands braced for the caustic remarks she knows he is about to hurl at her like weapons. Sherlock has no need of a sword: his tongue has cut deeper than any blade could ever hope to reach.
So when he merely says: "Well. Enjoy your evening, Molly," and walks out of the lab, she is at a loss.
She finishes the rest of the day and goes home to change, all the while feeling as though Sherlock has changed the game on her midstride and neglected to tell her what the new rules are. Whatever the cause of his behavior, she will find out eventually. He always tells her at some point; even if he doesn't use words.
Her date doesn't show up on time. Which would be fine, if he showed up at all. When he is 15 minutes late Molly calls him, even though she's not really worried. She assumes he's not the considerate sort and that he'll be there in just a few more minutes. When he answers his mobile, however, she gets a surprise.
"Look, Molly, I'm sorry but I just don't think it'd be a good idea for us to go out. I'm an easygoing guy but when Sherlock Holmes came by-"
"What?" Molly interrupts, feeling all the blood slowly drain from her face to be replaced by a flush of bewildered anger. "What do you mean, Sherlock Holmes came by?"
"I don't know how he knew, or how he found me, but he stopped by work. Said he just wanted to have a chat. Well that chat turned into him telling me I'd best stay away from you."
"He... what…" Molly shakes her head hard to clear it and finds her mind again. "There's nothing going on with us. He's got no business doing that! He's not my brother or my dad or anyone else who's got a right to do that!"
"Well, whatever his reason is, he was pretty adamant about it. I suggest you go sort it out with him. Bye, Molly."
The line goes dead, and so does something in Molly's heart.
All the way to Baker Street in the taxi she alternates between crying and raging. She hates Sherlock, then she is confused, then she hates him again. She doesn't know what he's playing at. Does he need help in the lab tonight? Was he trying to make sure she stayed at his beck and call, his own private pathologist?
Molly feels sick. This can't go on. She is no doll, no toy for him to take down from a shelf, play with, and then carelessly fling aside when it suits him. Molly is a living, breathing woman with feelings, and she is about to go remind him of that in a way that he will never forget.
She storms up the stairs, not caring if John or Mrs. Hudson or the Mayor of Simpleton hears her. She especially doesn't care if Sherlock hears her. She wants him to hear her, wants him to know she's coming. Molly is small like an exotic bird but she feels 5 meters tall at the moment and is about to transform into a raging beast with claws and sharp pointy teeth.
She doesn't knock, doesn't open the door so much as fling it aside as she storms in the room. Sherlock is sitting on the sofa, hands folded beneath his chin, but he springs to his feet as she approaches. He looks surprised, a look that is about to be amplified by the recoil from Molly's anger.
Molly barrels straight in front of him and without word or pause slaps him as hard as she can.
The sound echoes loudly through the stillness of the room, and she can still feel the shock and cool smoothness of his skin as she snatches her hand back.
Sherlock blinks, two fingers cautiously touching his cheek as though to make sure she had really just struck him. "You bastard," Molly snaps. "You drove him off, and what for? To use the lab tonight? Get a good look at a body no one else will give you access to? You don't have the right, Sherlock!"
She is trembling now, her eyes molten fire burning into his. He says nothing, just watches her, his own eyes hawk-sharp as they flit over her, analyzing and deducing. Molly doesn't give him any more time to speak.
"Why did you do it? This is my life, Sherlock! Who the hell do you think you are?"
His eyes widen at this, and he draws himself up and unleashes the sound and the fury that is Sherlock.
"Who do I think I am?" He asks softly. His voice is a symphony of incredulousness, righteousness, and yes, there is passion in it as well. He begins slowly walking forward, and Molly reflexively steps backward as he does. He directs her through sheer presence, turning them again and again as he speaks, leading her in a volatile emotional dance.
"I am the man you've been in love with for two years. I am the man you risked your life to help. I am the man who has apologized to you when I have apologized to almost no one else in my entire life. I am the man who has always trusted you and always noticed you. I am the man who until recently didn't understand that my life isn't the same without you in it, and was trying to find the words to tell you when you up and decided to go on a date."
He stops so abruptly Molly stumbles back a step. She stares at him, eyes wide and mouth slightly open, her ragged breathing matching his.
He moves until his body is almost touching hers. She is impaled by his eyes, stunned into silence, trembling as she fixes her gaze on his.
"Who am I? I'm Sherlock Holmes. And you, Molly Hooper, are mine."
Her brain is trying to rearrange itself to comprehend what he's just said when he closes the gap between them and kisses her, and in that instant Molly understands everything he's ever done was because of jealousy buried deep, possessiveness hidden away, emotions long denied.
She realizes that what Sherlock said is his version of a declaration of love, and that all her suffering has not been in vain. It's taken a long time for her to find requital, but she's OK with that. Sherlock says she is his, and who is she to argue with the world's only consulting detective?