Molly knew full well it was John and Mary's wedding on Saturday, yet there she was trawling round a department store frantically searching for something to wear. Cursing herself for allowing herself to yet again, leave this until the last minute, she settled on a minimal, scooped back black dress. Deciding she would make do with the simple black heels she had a home, she became weary of the time and headed home as the city became illuminated with street lamps.
Why was she so tired? Without switching on the lights, she hustled through her front door of her adequate apartment and dumped her bags and coat on the bed before making the way to her small kitchen, aware that Toby was making a fuss- probably due to the fact Molly hadn't come home since she left at 6am this morning. It was late and she felt her eyes twitching with tiredness. Flicking on the spotlights that hung above the small table, she scooped some cat food in a bowl and chucked it to the floor. Deciding it was too late for food, and with the fact she had to fit into a relatively slim dress the next morning, she decided to skip dinner, and pour herself a large helping of wine. The light was flicked off and she made for the bathroom adjoining her bedroom.
After a shower and a few good gulps of the wine, she felt like a zombie as she pulled on shorts and an oversized shirt. Tipping the rest of the wine down the sink, she brushed her teeth in front of the mirror. She caught her own gaze in her reflection and her eyes sank to the shirt she'd wearily pulled on. Sherlock. It was Sherlock's tshirt he'd left befor eye moved back to Baker Street. "Well, he probably forgot it, it was under the sofa." Unaware of herself talking aloud, she stared at the black cotton before a thud against, what sounded like her front door, shook her out of her walking coma. Silence. She tip-toed to the front door and waited, weighing up the decision to get something along the lines of a weapon from the kitchen. The thud was softer this time, but it was accompanied with a whimper. A sickly, nauseating feeling crept into Molly's stomach. She knew exactly what was on the other side of the door. Marching to the door, she tentatively unlocked it and pulled it open.
Molly never got over Sherlock's stay at her own apartment before he returned to the world, and to John, as a miracle. It was very rarely she saw him now, unless he needed something at St Barts. They'd grew to, what she believed as friends, as she nursed his wounds after he'd returned from a secret case. Much to her dismay, nothing but awkward stares and loud silences surrounded them when her hands tended to his chest, or she saw him swagger out of the bathroom wrapped in a towel.
Yet here he was. Slumped in a drunken stupor against the wooden frame of Molly's front door. Aware it was now gone 1am, she just looked at him, her brows furrowed and confusion tainting her face. Is he drunk? He stepped forward, a little too forced, and opened his mouth as if too speak. Before confusion took over his facial features, Molly began, "Sherlock, what on earth are you doing here?" She moved to grant him entrance to her flat. He made his way over to the sofa, stumbling and swearing at the cat, a grin on his sharp face all the way. "John's stag night, Miss Hooper. I believe I have drunk more than I believed I could handle." He whipped off his coat and scarf and, in a way that could only be described as flamboyant, threw them gracefully onto the sofa. Understanding a little better for his behaviour, she locked the door behind him and instinctively went to put the kettle on. Reaching into the cupboard for two mugs and the tea bags, Molly felt frustrated that her evening had been disturbed, not that it was much of an evening, than of an early morning plan of sleep. He heard him kick off his shoes and possibly throw them at Toby whilst swearing once again.
Angry now, she chucked in the tea bags a little too violently into the mugs and span around intending to get the milk out the fridge, instead bumping furiously into Sherlock's chest. He looked at her questioningly, "Molly, why are you wearing my shirt?" Horror struck her face and her cheeks bruised a violent shade of crimson as she looked down at the shirt, unbuttoned to her breasts and just covering the short briefs she had on beneath. Shit. Before she had the time to formulate an answer, she felt his slender fingers under her chin, lifting her face up towards the gaze of his blue-bauble eyes. He left his hand there for a few moments before taking Molly's hand and pressing her, lightly against the countertop. Moments passed again before the kettle screaming it's finish. Breaking the tension between them, Sherlock backed away and left the kitchen. Molly exhaled, slumping down from her tip-toes, and finishing the tea.
When she plucked up the courage to return with the tea to the living room, she talked herself into not making a big deal out of what just happened. He's drunk. She picked up the mugs and walked in to find Sherlock lounging on the sofa, shirt unbuttoned and feet up on the coffee table. Brushing back her hair behind her ear, she slumped down, facing him and thrusting the mug in front of him. He took it and took a great full sip, before reclining his head back against the wall, eyes tight shut. "What's going on Sherlock? Why are you here?" She slurped her tea, wincing at the sound and her replied accordingly;
"Boring question. Good question- why are you wearing my shirt?" He was looking at her again, shifting her uncomfortably in her place. He placed his mug on the coffee table and turned himself to face her. She became very aware that his shirt was unbuttoned, as was her own, and his hand had made its way onto her knee. Hands trembling her mug, she answered timidly, "I didn't know it was yours.. It's comfy" she was watching his hand gently stroke her knee and paint illicit circles with his fingers. He looked at her, "Molly.. You know full well it's mine. My deductions lead me to believe you like to wear it, because it's mine". The way he annunciated mine made Molly's legs unwittingly open. Sherlock's hand made it's way painfully slowly up Molly's thigh, he continued, "I think, you wear it to feel.. close to me". Molly's throat was dry, her eyes unwavering from his gaze, she was sat unbelievably still, questions circling round her head so fast it was giving her a headache.
Sherlock leaned over and took her mug, placing it next to his on the coffee table, his other hand not moving from the top of her thigh. Her legs relaxed across his knee, opening again, involuntarily. His other hand now worked its way under her bum, squeezing slightly and pulling her closer to him. Noticing the seductive, yet dangerous smile on his face, she was well aware of the rucking of his trousers, mimicking her own arousal. Looking at each other, not knowing how or where to go from here, Molly made a decision she has yet to evaluate if she regretted it. "Sherlock, you're drunk. And I'm going to bed." With that, she moved swiftly from under him and marched to the bedroom. She didn't look back at his face before making sure she locked her bedroom door. She threw herself on her bed and fell asleep almost immediately, her dreams littered with Sherlock's face.