A/N: This fic was originally posted on my tumblr (sherlockadoresmolly) under the name "Just...Be" but it doesn't show up properly in the title heading so I've changed it for posting here. Thanks for reading! :)
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When Sherlock, uncharacteristically, started a secret, casual relationship with Molly, he thought he was being rather sneaky and mysterious. Stolen kisses and impromptu trysts in cupboards and offices were fun and a welcome diversion when he wasn't on a case.
But, as time goes on, he finds that Molly has no interest or compulsion towards having their friends learn of their relationship. She never gives off so much as a hint or vibe that they are at all acquainted on an intimate level. She doesn't seem to have an itch to touch him when they are not alone.
It bothers him that he does.
He begins to wonder what is going on inside that head of hers. It's been a while since he's been able to deduce her properly. Looking at her is simply too…distracting. He moves on instead of dwelling on that fact.
The not-so-offhand question is posed to her one day in an offhand manner. And, her answer is unsettling and unsatisfactory. She doesn't care because, as she says, it's nobody else's business. Which is true. But, then she tacks on another sentence: let's just enjoy this while it lasts.
For the first time, he stops the delicious things she is doing with her wonderfully soft lips against the sensitive skin just below his ear. She is confused when he kisses her passionately, his hands gently cradling her face, before he exits the darkness of the empty lab without a word. She doesn't see the dour expression he wears as he passes strangers in the hall.
He thinks about everything that has happened. He thinks for a long time and the problem compounds itself because Molly, his brilliant, incomparable Molly who can see him, doesn't. She doesn't see his confusion and distress. Or, perhaps, she doesn't care. No—that isn't it. She is neither distant nor spiteful. But, she doesn't initiate any further intimacy either.
He realizes that Molly never had any expectation of permanence with their arrangement. He knows, now, that it was not a relationship. People invested in each other emotionally don't have clandestine rendezvous that stop without requiring any notice or discussion.
His head hangs low when he recognizes that Molly Hooper deserved better.
He doesn't expect the emotions that he experiences in the wake of this revelation. He has the distinct feeling that something important has slipped through his fingers. It is disconcerting and gives him pause each time he sees her. There is an odd, bitter taste at the back of his throat when she begins to date again.
It appears that Molly is looking for something. She meets a surprising number of decent, normal men. Some that Sherlock really has nothing nasty to deduce about. There is one thing he is sure of— she does not share herself intimately with any of them in the way that she did with him. It is a small victory. However, he realizes that whatever it is she is looking for, she did not find it with him. Nor did she expect to.
He is not the man she wants to 'end up' with.
Given enough time, Molly will find someone that meets all of her criteria in a partner. Someone that laughs at her morbid, ill-timed jokes. Someone that appreciates her brilliant mind and her possibly unsettling choice in profession. Someone that can see that although she is surrounded by death and the dark things that people sometimes do to each other, she is still an amazingly selfless and optimistic person. Someone that realizes how unique and wonderful and beautiful and witty she is.
He grows still as his mind leads him to the only conclusion that can be made from his observations, data, and analysis.
Sherlock Holmes is well and truly in love with Molly Hooper.
As far as deductions go, this particular one isn't as satisfying as others usually are. He is typically much more smug about his triumphs. But, this time, he feels something else. Fear.
He is out the door running even before he has fully donned his faithful Belstaff. The time barely registers in his mind, but it must be late if the dark, empty streets are any indication.
He knows that Molly has been driven out of bed and a deep slumber due to the incessant pounding of his fist on her door. He doesn't have the focus to pick her locks after he installed more secure models to ensure her safety from the previous threat of Moriarty's hand. She is disheveled and disoriented and he's immediately relieved with the confirmation that she is alone. On top of that, he is heartened and speechless that her first reaction is pull him inside her flat to check for any injuries upon his person as worry supersedes her fatigue.
He is breathless for the moment and cannot answer the barrage of questions she rattles off. She asks about John, Mary, their two children, Lestrade, Mrs. Hudson and even Mycroft, but she fails to include herself. That barging in, unannounced, in the wee hours of the morning might have anything at all to do with her. Yet, she is more than willing to fight, to help, to try for all these people and most importantly, for him.
On two prior occasions, he has expressed that she counted. That she mattered most. She heard him but did not listen. And, this is where he knows he has failed her.
There is concern and panic written all over her face and Sherlock realizes that those saccharine romance films might just have a leg to stand on (not that he's seen any). Kissing Molly seems like a good way to interrupt her train of thought and calm her down. So, he does.
But, it is another calculated risk that doesn't pay off. Instead of her lips being soft and yielding to his, she stiffens and attempts to pull away. He releases her and apologizes before he begins to try to explain himself.
No. It's not that it's been too long. No. He doesn't have an itch that needs to be scratched. No. He isn't just lonely and in need of indiscriminate companionship. And definitely, no. He hasn't fallen off the wagon. He's fallen off something, but not that particular wagon.
Molly frowns, understandably concerned, as he furiously paces her sitting room while words that may or may not make sense tumble from his mouth. He knows he is acting nothing like his normal self, but there is nothing normal at all about the situation. He has never been further out of his element and he feels ridiculously green and unschooled.
He doesn't know what else to say and stands in the middle of the room mortified by his own silence. But Molly, being Molly, kindly fills the gap and apologizes for not offering him tea when he arrived. He takes the time to collect himself as she potters around her neat, little kitchen. She is far too patient and forgiving towards him.
There are words he never intended to say to anyone. They're terribly cliched and there are a host of reasons why he should completely discount the emotions that this attachment has produced. He can almost hear Mycroft's voice in his head chiming in on the clouding of sound judgement due to imbalances of chemicals and the importance of resisting urges created by primordial biological instincts. But, he's found that there are few ways to truly express how one feels in a situation like this.
Then again, he is no more ready to say them than she is ready to hear them tonight. All he knows is that one day he intends to—No. He will say them. But, he is also a selfish man. He wants to be the only person ever to say those words and have it mean something special to her. He wants those words to make her happy and assured that she is so very… adored.
Adored.
He sees the clock now— it's a quarter past four. She should've thrown him out long ago or at least, asked him to get to the point. Instead, she's right there wearing her light pink kimono dressing gown and her fuzzy house slippers that look like deranged hamsters. Her hair is loose and a little tangled on the side of her head that rests on her pillow. He resists the impulse to smile when he realizes that they would never have to fight for which side of the bed they prefer. Some things just work themselves out sometimes.
He steps into the kitchen and walks up behind her as she's measuring out her best loose leaf tea. He gently touches her arm and clears his throat so as not to startle her. She turns, still a little apprehensive of what might be the matter with him, but she smiles anyway.
"It is no secret that I am not an easy man to be acquainted with," he begins, his throat feels scratchy and parched. "There are few people I can count as friends. It is a surprise that these people would, in turn, count me as such."
Molly's smile falters slightly and he can guess that she is feeling indignant on his behalf.
"I have never been, nor will I ever be, frivolous or cavalier with my affections." He ruffles his hair and looks at the floor as he finds himself unable to meet her gaze. "When I said that you were the one person that mattered most— I meant it. Every word."
"Sherlock?" She finally manages to say after a long moment. She shakes her head lightly in disbelief. "Are you trying to say, in very long-winded and vague terms, what I think you're trying to say?"
He huffs and grimaces and shuffles his feet before raising his head to meet her gaze. There is surprise, hope and wonder in her eyes, but her posture indicates that protecting herself emotionally is still her first priority.
"I… I adore you, Molly Hooper." He blurts it out the moment he realizes there is no better way to say it (at least, for now). "I adore everything about you and that should never have not been obvious. I find myself wholly inadequate, but I must ask if… perhaps, you would consider…?"
He trails off when he sees her eyes grow wet and she shakily raises her hand to cover her mouth. For a terrible moment, he is horrified that he has hurt her once again. But then, she exhales and with that, she smiles. And, the smile only grows wider when he returns it with his own loud, relieved exhalation.
He doesn't remember having moved this close to her while he was speaking, but she is flush against the counter and all he has to do is lean into her to close the remaining distance. But, he needs to tell her his intentions and what he can offer her- however lacking he might be right now. He needs to ask for a second chance. He tries, but Molly is having none of it.
"Talk tomorrow," She whispers as she quickly rises onto her toes, grasps him by his coat, and thoroughly kisses him. "But, yes."
His head is slightly spinning and he might have stuttered a little when he thanked and agreed with her. At least, he can be quite sure that she still cares for him a great deal. Maybe more than that.
With a yawn, she apologetically tells him she's tired and needs to sleep since she has to work later that day. Instead of showing him to the door, Molly leads him to her room. He knows what the invitation is for and what it is not for. He can't remember when, if ever, he's done this before. And, it's a bit awkward at first, but they slowly work their way into each other's arms. It doesn't take long for them to settle into comfortable positions that he just knows he can get used to keeping.
He leans down to capture her lips once more and this time it's slower and softer but also sweeter and there's an inexplicable sort of hitch his chest does. In the middle…a little to the left.
Sherlock doesn't sleep that night. He memorizes the feel of her body sleeping next to his and her breathing patterns in various stages of sleep. He likes the little smile that stays on her face even after she's fallen asleep.
He won't lie that he's not nervous about what's to come. He's had enough of that. Because, of all the things that he once believed his life could do without, this was his biggest lie to himself.
He doesn't know what to say or exactly how he should act. But, what he'll do next is to start it right this time. Coffee first, dinner next and then everything else. And, all the while they'll talk and laugh and love and just… be.