A/N: Please Forgive Any Punctuation or Grammar Mistakes As This Is Not Beta Read.
Disclaimer: No Characters Belong To Me.
Molly Hooper feels warm. It feels more than just residual body heat given off by her blanket. She shifts, a little and finds a tightening around her waist.
It's an arm.
A male arm.
Her back is pressed into a male chest.
A naked male chest.
She stiffens and turn her head to look at who is in bed with her. She sees a mop of black curls at the edge of her vision.
Sherlock
"Go back to sleep Molly."
Dumfounded, Molly turns her head back away from him. Sherlock seems to nuzzling into the nape of her neck. Why was Sherlock Holmes in her bed?
It had been weeks since Sherlock returned from Sherrinford. and that cathartic phone call. Since his return she had heard little from the consulting detective. So, like many times before, Molly did what she always did regarding her feelings for the man painful as it was, she dismissed them. Hence, it was quite a surprise for her to awaken with him snuggled up to her so intimately.
Molly Hooper may not know it but Sherlock Holmes sleeps in her bed quite often.
It was a practice that started after the "Fall." He would sneak into her flat while she was at work, and rest in her room. He could not tell you why he likes her bed over the serviceable mattress in the guest room. Perhaps it's the fact that since Molly lives the alone, she doesn't feel the need to make it, therefore it is easier to disguise his presence, or perhaps maybe, her room informs him with his deductive ways, of how she is. Most likely is because her bed is filled with her scent, her sweat, mixed with baser notes that are distinctly Molly. In any case, Molly's bed is a place where he feels the most at home, where he can relax his mind and body into a fully dreamless, and restful sleep.
After his return to public life, being a true addict that he is, it was a practice he did not fully give up. He was more careful, with the addition of Tom "Meat Dagger" Jenkins to the picture. Sherlock seemed to take a vicious satisfaction in adding his scent to Molly's sheets when they both were away that some would call it marking his territory. He was pleased to overhear a conversation between the pair in the lab one day, in which he stated he preferred she sleep at his flat, stating something about her bed making him uncomfortable.
It was their space. His bolthole. Pale imitation or not, he had no right be there.
He relied on that space more heavily, during his relationship with Janine. Molly often worked the late shifts, which fortunately freed up her flat to him. His fake "girlfriend" had a habit of stealing his shirts and sleeping in nothing else, in his bed, much to his consternation. It was from her bed, he carefully plotted and planned his next moves to lure out the evidence Magnussen held against his friends and client.
After Magnussen's murder, Sherlock got high in preparation for his exile. Unfortunately, the drugs provided no chemical comfort similar to being in Molly's bed. They only would help suppress him from experiencing that feeling of mourning, that he would not have ever been able to go back again. That he missed the pleasure of knowing what it would be like to have Molly Hooper lie in bed next to him. Unexpectedly, with the Moriarty broadcast, Sherlock was given a second chance. He tweeted his elation of being given a new lease on life on social media.
He knew Molly would be waiting for him. He saw the brief dilation of her pupils when she stood close to him when she slapped him for being high. Her body recognized his scent, even if her angry brain did not.
The first time he returned to her bed after the exile, the detective slept deeply and soundly. When he woke up, he noticed he was half-hard. He tried to will away his erection, but his thoughts always came back to Molly. He knew she lusted after him. Did she…touch herself here? The thought of Molly Hooper masturbating to him caused him to unconsciously stroke himself. Visions of a naked Molly, touching herself with her legs spread wide, calling out his name, was more than the detective could bear. He came with a loud grunt, miraculously not getting anything onto the sheets. Sherlock was filled a sense of embarrassment and horror at what he had done. Molly was his friend, not something to be objectified. He raced to the bathroom to clean himself up, and swore never to come back to this place again.
Of course, that would a pledge he would be unable to keep. One day at the lab he noticed how tired she looked, and managed to yawn no less than an average three and half times per ten minutes. She was even mid-yawn when John returned into the lab bearing coffee. She thanked him as he handed her a cup.
"Long night?" He asked.
"Uncomfortable actually. I went and bought some new sheets when I went shopping with Mary. For some reason, I can't get comfortable in them. Might have to return them." She replied.
Sherlock knew why she was uncomfortable.
Molly had been conditioned to his scent, since his absence from her bed, the difference had caused her an unconscious anxiety which led to restlessness. She would have to either re-condition herself to get used to his lack of presence or he would have to resume his visits. A tired Molly would definitely affect her willingness to help and her productivity in the lab and morgue. His selfish ego would not allow him to ever let her go. He would rather keep her bound to him. The things he must do to keep his pathologist in top form.
The first time they had ever laid in bed together was the night of Mary's death. After leaving the London Aquarium, Sherlock made a beeline to Molly's flat while John went home to see to Rosie and the babysitter. Molly could immediately sense something was wrong seeing as he actually knocked on her door rather than letting himself in. She ushered him inside and took note of the utterly lost and forlorn look on his face. As he explained the events leading up to Mary's demise, Molly's face became sadder and sadder as if she knew what the ultimate conclusion would be.
Sherlock watched as her tears started dripping, one by one, down her face. Faster and faster until they were forming into little rivulets down her cheeks. She cried into his shirt and Belstaff, while the detective held her awkwardly. He really was rubbish with crying women, especially so when the woman was Molly. Unsure of what to do, he simply stood silent, while his pathologist was overwhelmed by her emotions. He guided her into her bedroom and laid her down in her bed, tucking her in. Sherlock turned off her lamp on her side table and turned to leave. He felt something tug on his Belstaff. It was Molly.
"Please don't leave." She pleaded.
Sherlock took off his outer coat, suit jacket, and toed off his socks and shoes, before joining Molly in bed.
"Thank you." Molly's voice was small.
Sherlock did not know why she was thanking him. He did not want to be alone right now either. He could see Molly curled into herself with her back towards him, making sure to give the detective plenty of space. He could hear her sniffle occasionally, and see her tear tracks glitter from the streetlight light shining in from her window. He pulled Molly against his chest when she shivered. She buried her face into his open neck, inhaling his scent deeply and relaxing.
Sherlock rested his head atop hers, the shock of the day finally wearing off. He could smell the green apple scent from Molly's shampoo in her hair. Now in his safe place, his mind was able to slow down enough so his body could catch up. His eyes were painfully tired, as he felt a cold droplet on his cheekbones. He rubbed his face with his fingertips and noticed they were wet.
Mary was dead because of him. If he had not pushed Vivian Norbury to firing her gun at him, she would be alive, Rosie would have her mother, and John would have his wife. But no, he had to show off his deductive prowess. His ego would demand nothing less.
A few drips fell on Molly's head causing her to look up.
"Sherlock…are you crying?" She asked softly.
The consulting detective didn't answer.
She slid her body upwards so his head could lean against her chest. Sherlock wrapped his arms tightly around her waist. Everything was all his fault.
Molly with her uncanny ability to see through him, wipes his tears and chanted, "It's not your fault" over and over as she gently rocked him.
Her hand dug into his scalp and strokes his curls. She placed reverent kisses over his face, still repeating, "It's not your fault."
Sherlock badly wanted to believe her.
They both fell asleep entwined with one another.
In the early morning hours, Sherlock woke up first and slowly extricated himself from Molly's body. He gazed at her sleeping form. Despite all the darkness and ugliness he caused, this woman always made him feel loved and cherished. He does not deserve her warmth and friendship. He chided himself for breaking down in such a weak, cathartic display. He gathered his things and left the flat quietly as possible. There is work to be done.
It would a few hours later that Molly Hooper would wake up in her bed cold and alone.
The next time she would see the detective was at John Watson's home, where she handed him the letter his grieving best friend penned, stating that he would accept help from anyone but him. Molly, in her role as godmother, stepped up with Mrs. Hudson to take care of Rosie, as John was in no shape to do so. Sherlock honored John's request that he stayed away, but made his presence known in other ways. There were days that Molly Hooper imagined she could feel that her bed seemed warmer than usual, as if someone had been lying in it sometime shortly before.
Go to Hell.
Sherlock Holmes knew he had to follow Mary's posthumous instructions to the letter, if was going to get Watson back. So he holed himself up in his flat for weeks, refusing to take cases under the guise of being in mourning. He and Billy Wiggins carefully calculated doses of his drugs of choice to bring him close to the edge of death, all the while crafting the narrative of the Culverton Smith case for Watson to solve and save his best friend. During those weeks, Sherlock was forced to stay away from the comforts of Molly's flat. His own bed provided him with no succor. Unable to gain the deep rooted rest that he so craved in the past, drove the consulting detective into a state of constant and growing exhaustion. Compounded by the effects of the drugs as time went on, Sherlock experienced a growing loss of control. The manic pantomime act he performed became all the more real. It had reached a point where even Billy was starting to worry about him. For Sherlock, losing his grip on reality was where his real hell began.
In the end, the risks were worth it, as the gamble paid off. Smith was behind bars, John was back in the fold, and Sherlock was placed on the road back to recovery. The men were even meeting up with Molly Hooper at a cake place for Sherlock's birthday, a celebration of his life, after he once again risked it all. But for Sherlock, the real birthday gift would come later, when Molly would leave for her shift at St. Bart's, when he would strip down to his pants and sink his face into her pillow, and let the sweet oblivion take him.
After he awoke, hours later, he noted the significant difference in his energy levels. While the sleep he had was restful, it was no way near as satisfying as it was when he slept with Molly the night Mary died. Did he want Molly in bed with him? It would be a notion he would tuck away to consider for a later time.
A dark shadow lurked over Molly Hooper's sleeping form.
He stood there, watching her. She was so beautiful. His mind was overwhelmed. He was still essentially himself, but in a way he felt different, more raw. It had been weeks since that fateful phone call that his sister Eurus forced him to make. He had very little to no contact with Molly since then. He was avoiding her, while he distracted himself with the repair of 221B. He pushed Molly into the back of his mind. They both needed time. Now that things had settled, he found himself back in her room. Now he was finally ready to obtain the last piece of his life that he needed to get into order. He craves the love and peace she gives him. He loves her too. He understands that now.
Sherlock quietly removes his clothes and slips into the bed. He wants to feel as much of her pressed into his skin as he can, to know that she is right there, real, and safe. He lets out a large yawn. Molly does not stir as the detective snuggles up to her. If he is every going to gain any proper rest again, she is going to have be by his side from now on.
But that is an issue that will be dealt with in the morning.
A/N:I realize Sherlock is a bit OOC in this story, but I had the concept stuck in my head.