You know how i said i would wait until the weekend to update? I lied.

This is the 3rd of the 7 pre-written chapters. Each are about 3,500-4,000 words long, and i'm working on the 8th chapter now. Might as well post as i go...

Hope you like this chapter, one of my favourites so far :)

Chapter Three

Molly hadn't expected to be disturbed again that day, not after crawling home in the early hours physically and emotionally drained. Her conversation with Sherlock resounded in her brain as she pounded the London streets back to her apartment block, repeating itself again and again until she couldn't tell which were her words and which were his. She hadn't even gotten undressed, just sank down beneath the covers and succumbed to unconsciousness, Toby butting his head against her feet. Therefore, when she was pulled back from the rosy mists of sleep barely two hours later, she was not best pleased.

Someone was making a hellish racket outside her front door, banging and ringing the bell simultaneously. She gave herself a few blissful seconds of pretending she didn't know who it was, then she struggled out of the nest of duvets to answer it, her jaw set.

"Sherlock."

The ringing stopped. The banging stopped. There was a short silence.

"How'd you know it was me?" came a familiar yet slightly cowed voice from the hallway.

"Only a jackass like you would do this after our conversation last night, only you."

She fumbled with the chain and opened the front door a sliver, peering out. Sherlock peered back, his blue eyes dancing. His usual deathly pallor was replaced by a light flush on his cheeks, red rising up his neck from beneath his white collar. His dark locks were in disarray, and as she examined closer she saw that he'd cut the right side of his face. Typical Sherlock, he made it impossible for her to be wholly annoyed. Her curiosity was successfully piqued.

"Can I come in?" he asked cautiously, scraping his feet in the passage.

"Why?" Her tone was equally as cautious, but he suspected for different reasons. A muscle twitched in his jaw.

"I want to continue our conversation," he replied honestly, moving closer to the door frame and attempting to sneak a look into her flat. She blocked his view with her shoulder and frowned.

"Our conversation is over, I said what I wanted to say."

"But I didn't," Sherlock protested, "Please?"

Molly hesitated, chewing her lower lip.

"Please, Molly?"

It was exactly how Moriarty had sounded that night, pleading outside her door until he finally broke it down. That was when she had still believed him to be Jim from I.T., when she had dumped him over the phone number beneath the specimen dish. Sherlock had of course neglected to tell her the man she'd been dating was a criminal psychopath. He probably hadn't thought it was very important. She hadn't realised it was all a big game until the lock had splintered from the door frame and his shoes had found a home in her gut.

Molly's stomach clenched horribly at the memory of the pain and she inhaled deeply, steadying herself against the door. Sherlock heard her moan softly from outside in the hallway, and he glanced at what he could see of her face behind the security chain. She looked like she felt physically sick.

"Look," he continued in a different vein, sounding uncharacteristically worried. "We don't have to talk about anything. Just let me in so I can check you're alright and then I'll go away. You don't sound...good." He finished lamely.

He was being kind to her. He was never kind, not really. To hear such concern in his voice slackened her resolve and she opened the door to him against all her better judgement.

Sherlock hadn't expected to find himself wandering down the halls of Molly's apartment building. He'd intended to go to St Barts and wait for her to come in for her shift in the afternoon, but as he jumped into a waiting taxi he found her address tumbling from his lips. Perhaps his subconscious realised this was the sort of admission one made in person.

Now he was stood in her living room, feeling out of place. He stuck out like a sore thumb, angular and bat-like in the midst of her soft pinks, blues and creams, her cat-clawed vintage furniture and her distinctly feminine, flowery curtains. It struck him that this was exactly what he'd expected her home to be like, light and warm. Very different from the darkly painted, dramatically cluttered rooms of 221b. She was airy and he was dense. She liked open space, neatness, whereas he liked being cooped up in a flat like a citadel, all his possessions jumbled on every available surface. Only their bookcases seemed arranged on a similar theme, her medical textbooks and academic journals a comfortable stable for him in this female dominated apartment.

He caught a glimpse of a cat sat in the doorway to what he presumed to be Molly's bedroom, its green eyes narrowed at him, its tail flicking menacingly from side to side. It was as though the animal was daring Sherlock to say anything derogatory or analytical concerning its owner's home. Sherlock kept his observations to himself for once, much to Molly's surprise.

She shut the door behind him and turned, leaning back against it with a soft sigh. He watched her closely, not moving to take off his coat or remove his scarf. He was still unsure as to whether she would chuck him back out into the hallway at a moment's notice. He wasn't supposed to be there, and they both knew it.

"What happened to your face?" She ventured into the quiet, peering at the sticking plaster on his high cheekbone but not moving any closer.

Sherlock made an impatient, dismissive motion in the air, not meeting her eyes. He didn't want to tell her what a sickening idiot he'd been, or that he'd smashed Mrs Hudson's art deco mirror. He'd pay for that one later...

Silence settled between them once again, palpably awkward.

"So what did you want to talk to me about, Sherlock?" Molly asked at last in a tired, resigned sort of way.

"Do you feel well enough?" Sherlock probed, studying her wan features.

"You're not going to go away until you say whatever it is you want to say, so it doesn't matter." Molly observed dryly, folding her arms across her chest. "Go on, I'm listening."

Sherlock ignored the barbed comment and rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly wondering whether this had been such a genius notion. Molly didn't push him to speak, just waited patiently. It gave him courage.

"There's something I didn't say earlier," he made a gesture in the air with his hands, not wanting to expand upon the details of their uncomfortable confrontation from hours before. Molly shifted her weight uneasily. "I meant to say it, that is, I should have said it..."

Sherlock Holmes becoming inarticulate wasn't a spectacle Molly was accustomed to. It made her feel as though he was acting a part, putting on one of his many disarming disguises. She listened, but warily.

"I wanted to tell you that I'm sorry," Sherlock admitted truthfully, looking at a point on her shoulder and not at her face. It was very hard to meet her eyes. "I was an unfeeling jerk, for not appreciating how difficult it would be for you to be around me, or anyone for that matter, after what Moriarty did to you. I was ungentlemanly and callus, and I was wrong."

Wrong.

Sherlock Holmes was telling her that he had been wrong. Something in his tone just didn't really ring true. Or was it that she didn't recognise how he sounded when he was being perfectly honest?

"I shouldn't have acted like nothing had changed." Sherlock continued, and it was clear that he was reciting, that he had run over the words countless times in the taxi ride to her apartment building to make sure that they were right. "And more than that, I know I should have apologised for putting you in harms way. Moriarty used you to get to me, I don't really understand why he felt it necessary to do so, but he did and there's nothing I can do to make up for that. All I can say is that I'm sorry."

That was something Molly had been battling to figure out as well these past weeks. Why had the consulting criminal involved her in his scheme to destroy Sherlock, when it was clear to everyone at St Barts that the detective saw her as nothing more than a useful contact, at a push a helpful colleague. Surely, Sherlock couldn't have so few friends that Moriarty had viewed her as the only avenue of attack? But then again, before John came along Molly had never heard Sherlock talk about anyone else. Maybe he really was as alone as she had always secretly suspected? The thought made her pity him, but it did not make her trust him.

"And finally," Sherlock inhaled deeply through his nose, his eyes traveling from her shoulder to her lips. He focused his attention on them, hoping to discern some twitch that would betray how she really felt. Her mouth remained disappointingly passive. "I have never made it clear to you how highly I regard your skills and your help. Without them I wouldn't have been able to solve many cases, purely due to lack of evidence. You are a vital tool in my thought process. Thank you."

In Sherlock's mind this last confession was probably very high praise, but to Molly it felt stale. Just another empty compliment to get her to open up the contents of the morgue to his boundless curiosity. She didn't stop to think that she had never heard him thank anyone before. It was a rare thing to hear him use manners, let alone such plain-spoken encouragement.

She regarded him thoughtfully for a long while, and he canted his head to the side and waited for her to say something, anything, in return. The early morning light spilled in through the curtains and bathed her body, bringing out the golden highlights in her hair. He picked out the lighter strands, saw how they shimmered when she began to shake her head.

"I still stand by what I said before, Sherlock," she murmured. "I don't want to see you anymore. By all means use the lab, continue to beat up bodies in the morgue. I'm not taking those things away from you, so please, if you're saying all this just to get access to equipment then save it. That isn't what this is about."

Sherlock had to fight very, very hard to keep the hurt from showing in his face. It was a close thing, and he thought she might have registered the effect her words had had on him but the look was gone in an instant. He moved closer to her, and she pressed herself minutely into the door. He stopped. He sighed.

"Molly, I know I've treated you badly. I know that in the past I've exploited your feelings in order to I get what I needed at the time, but you have to understand, I'm not doing that now." He held up his hands in front of him, empty but beseeching.

"Then what are you doing?" Molly asked, uncertain now of what they were discussing.

Sherlock had made his decision regarding Molly Hooper, had probably made it from the first moment he met her. All he had to do was reach down inside himself and push back all the pride and reserve that had been a stable, immovable part of his character for almost his entire life. Losing Molly was not an option, would never be, and it seemed the only way to convince her of this fact was to show the symptom of his confusion, plainly and openly.

He advanced towards her for a second time, trying to ignore how she once again shrunk from his proximity. Though he knew he wouldn't hurt her, she was still painfully oblivious.

"May I be brutally honest with you, Molly?" Sherlock asked, putting his hands either side of her head so as to hold his body above hers.

He didn't move to touch her in the slightest, but the mere presence he exuded was enough to make her shudder outwardly. His blue eyes flickered knowingly, noting the involuntary movement. She felt threatened by him. She could feel the heat of his woolen, winter coat bathing her on all sides. That smell too, that scent which always seemed to accompany him wherever he went, of aromatic black coffee and violin resin. It was sharp, but made gentle by his warmth.

"When are you ever anything else?" she countered, sounding both respectful and resentful at the same time. Though infuriating to admit, a part of her (the part which was truly Molly Hooper and not a silly, love-struck girl) liked that he spoke his mind no matter what the outcome.

Sherlock studied her expression, a crease appearing between his brows as though he couldn't quite make up his mind about something. He drew his bottom lip slightly between his front teeth, biting down a little in thought. Molly avoided direct eye contact, keeping her gaze fixed on the contours of his throat, watching as his adams apple jutted up and down as he swallowed, hard.

"I want to kiss you."

Molly's head jerked up and her eyes widened in shock and disbelief. There was hurt there too, Sherlock realised in alarm.

This was a new level of cruelty, Molly thought, one she had secretly hoped Sherlock wasn't capable of stooping to.

"I hope you understand how difficult it is for me to say that..." Sherlock entreated softly, inclining his face to hers minutely but not taking the plunge. A loose curl on her forehead tickled the tip of his nose. "It's not really me, to say things like that."

Molly nodded. That she could agree with.

She couldn't tell whether the feeling bubbling up inside her was one of anger or jubilation. She didn't trust him anymore, perhaps she had never truly trusted him at all. She had been drawn to the idea of him, the person who swooped in and saved people with cool logic and daring ill-grace. She had admired him, ardently. But in the end, when it mattered the most, he hadn't saved her. She had been an afterthought. She had wanted to ask him why, every single day since Moriarty had forced his way into her apartment, but had never done so. Maybe now, with his face so close and willing above hers?

She could have asked anything right then, and he would have answered her truthfully.

Sherlock watched the war raging behind her eyes and compared it to the battle going on inside himself. What was he doing? Why was he doing this to her? Surely, after everything, he owed her more than this? For her patience, her understanding, her loyalty, her love. Sherlock was a lot of things, and sentimental was definitely not one of them, but he could admit when he was wrong. He had always advocated a total absence of feeling in everything he did, but had overlooked the fact that being so had made him a walking time-bomb.

He was not above this.

He was not apart from this.

This, he thought, this is what makes the world move. These little moments of clarity.

"Why are you saying all this to me, Sherlock?" Molly said eventually breaking the heavy silence, her mind full of screaming voices. "When I've begged you to leave me alone?"

"Because-" Sherlock exhaled frustratedly, his fingers flexing on the wood of the door behind her head. It cost him a lot to carry on. "Because the very idea that you could think me capable of-"

"Why do you care what I think?" Molly interrupted, frowning up at him. She twisted her hands in front of her, anxiety flooding her stomach. She felt heady with his closeness, his breath on her cheek.

"Exactly!" Sherlock laughed irrationally, the corners of his eyes crinkling. "Why do I care what you think, Molly? I never care what anyone thinks and yet you-"

He moistened his lips, inching a fraction closer. He could feel his pulse beating a mantra in his neck. Blood rushed in his ears. Molly's face was a haze of peach and soft pink and dark hair, close to his and very nearly touching. This woman who was afraid of him, looked up with a fearful gaze and the air in his lungs turned to ice.

"-you brought out a side of me last night I didn't know existed. I care so much now. But only about you, your thoughts. It makes me want to please you, don't you see?"

"Don't."

Molly moved her hands to his chest and pushed him away firmly and decidedly. She ignored the warmth radiating against her palms from beneath his thin dress shirt and the deep, resonant beat of his heart against her finger tips. Maybe he does have one after all. She believed with all her might that this was all a game, and that at any moment Sherlock would cut her to the quick. Though she was little and he was large, she found it easy to move him backwards and out of her personal space. It was obvious he wasn't exerting his full strength against her, which was a comforting thought. Sherlock retreated a few steps, sensing that he was pushing too far but lingering all the same. His impressive mind was buzzing a million miles a minute, but understood virtually nothing. This was virgin territory.

"Please don't do this to me, Sherlock," she whispered, her chin inclined down so that she was looking at her bare feet against the hardwood floor. Her eyelids felt inexplicably heavy. She just wanted to curl in on herself and sleep the sleep of the truly exhausted. And she wanted above all things for him to leave.

There was a silence. Molly let her eyes drift shut, as though she was alone in her living room and that all this horrible daylight was a dream she would soon awake from. The tall, dark figure would disappear and she would be able to forget he had ever existed, if only he would let her.

She'd crumpled without even realising it, her legs folding up beneath her. Sherlock, mirroring John's quickness of hours ago, swept forwards to catch her without the slightest hesitation. Gripping the lapels of his jacket, her nails scrabbled at his chest as she tried to find purchase for her feet. She was muttering apologies and trying to extricate herself from him even as his hands clasped behind her back, steadying her body against his. His pointed chin rested lightly on the top of her head whilst the rest of him became rigid, and he didn't say anything in reply to her splutters and sighs of exasperation. He was fighting every instinctual desire within him that wanted to drop her to the ground and settle above her, all mouths and nipping teeth. He wanted to make Molly surrender to him utterly. To give up everything and let him indulge in this new, breath-taking rush of unfamiliar impulses.

Maybe he was more like Moriarty than he'd thought?

But that wasn't right.

He didn't want to hurt her, he wanted to be with her.

Touching. Kissing. Sex?

Everything that he abhorred as being unnecessary and vain indulgence of a weak mind, and yet he craved to explore these things with her now. Only her.

Still grasping her firmly around the waist he caught her jaw with his free hand, pressing the pad of his thumb against her bottom lip and using his fingers to map the curve of her cheek curiously. Her skin was feverish under his fingertips and her eyes were unfocussed, but he couldn't mistake the sudden panic that flared up inside her. Her eyelashes fluttered, becoming damp with unshed tears. Sherlock wanted to blanch.

"Please don't," Molly's voice sounded pathetic and strangled in her throat. Her body spasmed in Sherlock's loose grip. "I can't do it, please stop it, stop it, stop it-"

"Molly-"

"Jim-"

Sherlock stilled, his breath hitching. He screwed his eyes shut and suppressed a deep groan. A shudder ran up his spine and made the hairs on the back of his neck tingle. There was that feeling again, like someone had reached inside his chest and squeezed.

"Molly-" he started again, soothing her as best he could. He would have let her go had he thought her capable of standing. "Let's get you to bed. You need to sleep."

Losing her equilibrium entirely, Molly allowed Sherlock to pick her up in a wave of dizziness. With one arm he supported her back and shoulders, tucking the other beneath her bent knees and lifting her up. Her head fell back exposing her swan neck and the curve of her breasts under the strained front of her blouse. At the sight of this Sherlock's hand tightened a fraction on her bare legs, his fingers brushing the skin of her upper thigh beneath the hem of the light blue skirt.

He swallowed down the growing lump in his throat, shook his head to clear it, and carried the prone woman into her bedroom.

Don't get too excited, Sherlock Holmes is a gentleman (mostly).x