A/N: A big thank you to NayruSapphire, MorbidlyDefault, Empress of Verace, SciFiRN, Calicar, Vermil, and Rocking the Redhead. I appreciate the kind reviews. This chapter is light on the smut, but it will return next chapter.

Chapter 3

Hours later Molly stirred slightly in her sleep from Sherlock's gentle kisses on her shoulder, the heat of his body pressed against her back, and his leg thrown over hers possessively. His hand rubbed slowly up and down the smooth skin of her stomach, memorizing the feel her, the smell of her hair, and the sound of her small whimpers as she tried to return to what must have been a very pleasant dream. She had been sighing and whispering his name, a small smile playing across her lips while she slept, and he couldn't help feeling a sense of pride in being able to so-pleasantly invade her dreams. He had never been as content as he was at that moment, he realized, holding Molly in his arms. She looked happy, relaxed, and sated. Never before had he experienced such a deep need to protect and care for a sexual partner like he did with Molly, but then again, he had never been with anyone that he gave a damn about. Yes, he could appreciate the sexual release as a means of relieving stress or simply for the heroin-like endorphins released during the act, but in the end, it had always been about money or information; always a means to an end. She was… different. It both thrilled and frightened him.

When he'd been alone, so completely alone, for those two years after he jumped, he had quite unhappily discovered that he disdained his loneliness for the first time. In the past, he had been alone for years, always careful to keep others at arm's reach his whole life, but somehow, John, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson had managed to breach his defenses. It had nearly cost them their lives. The only reason Moriarty hadn't threatened Molly was that Sherlock had been very careful to make it clear to all that she meant nothing to him. If only he could have brought himself to do the same favor for John and Mrs. Hudson. They would never have seen it for the kindness it could have been. He'd never had anyone in his life who could forgive him for, well, being himself.

He had to give Molly credit. It had only taken her a few months to realize who and what he really was. He had been forced to give up the false flattery once she saw through it, but yet her body language towards him did not alter. Her pupils still dilated, she still tucked the stray hairs near her face behind her ear when he entered the room, and she still smiled at him. Molly had been there for him at a time when no one else could, or would, and even after two years without a word from him, she welcomed him back with the same shy, innocent offer of her unconditional friendship. And now this. She so willingly gave him her body, her mind, her trust, and if he read the signals correctly, her heart. He had no idea what to do with her love; this was an area of his plan that he obviously had not thought through thoroughly. It would seem his subconscious must have played a role in that omission.

What did it feel like to love another? He'd deleted all the pop-culture references to it as unimportant. The definitions he retained focused on the irrational: motivation for violence, murder, revenge, theft, blackmail, and unreasonable self-sacrifice. The one thing he knew for certain about love was that it could become hate in the time it took to utter a single word, making it an incredibly dangerous emotion, which is why he had shunned it so thoroughly. He'd never understood why others had not simply blocked it from their minds as he had.

But now he began to understand. He had made the conscious decision to allow himself to feel something for Molly because he knew she would never voluntarily violate his trust. She had proven herself and of that fact, he was certain. He allowed himself to feel because it would make her happy and he didn't want to see her hurt anymore, and certainly not over him. What he did not count on was how happy he could feel from something as simple as holding her sleeping body in his arms or waking up to find her still in his bed. The thought of being separated from her, even when she would inevitably have to return to work, caused him actual physical pain in his chest and stomach.

Was this love? Was it this pain that drove people towards all sorts of undesirable and uncontrollable acts just to relieve themselves of it? Sherlock knew he would kill without hesitation to protect Molly, but then again, conventional societal rules had never applied to him in his own mind. He was a sociopath. However, he found himself not entire adverse to certain actions that previously only garnered his contempt when he saw them carried out by others. If it pleased her, he would buy her flowers, take her to a candlelit dinner, hold her hand in public, or allow her to cry on his shoulder. Worse yet, he wanted to be there to comfort her, to soothe away her pain, and yes, to kill any bastard who dared to lay a finger on her.

Sherlock realized he really did want her to be his completely, and not just during their sexual encounters. He wanted to demand that she abandon any attempt at dating other men. He could learn how to fulfill all of her needs, couldn't he? Molly could teach him what she needed just as he would teach her about the pleasures of the flesh.

Most of all, he didn't want to be alone anymore. He didn't want Molly to be alone anymore. With that acceptance, he began searching his mind palace for every interaction he had ever had with Molly, re-examining the nuances of her words and body language. What he planned to do required a considerable amount of data.

While he lay on his back, his fingers steepled under his chin, Molly watched him. He was lost in his mind palace, looking more handsome than ever. His chest was smooth and pale, but with a slight golden hue from the afternoon sunlight filtering through his drapes, and he was every bit as elegant and intelligent in his appearance as she expected. She had tried to whisper to him once, but she knew he didn't like to be disturbed while he was thinking. Long ago she had stopped taking this behavior personally; it was just part of who he was. And she loved all of him.

She carefully climbed off the bed, grabbing Sherlock's discarded shirt from the floor and buttoned it around her for a quick trip to the loo. Mrs. Hudson would surely have a stroke if she saw Molly naked in Sherlock's flat, and Molly was fond of the woman.

Molly eyed the oversized claw-foot tub with longing, but she opted for a quick shower as she feared Sherlock would come to his senses when he reemerged, and it was too presumptuous of her to assume he would approve of her lounging in his tub. Efficient and practical. That's what Sherlock would expect from her.

What Molly didn't expect was to see her brand of shampoo, conditioner, and soap, all obviously new, waiting for her in the shower as if Sherlock knew she would be staying over. She supposed he did. He was apparently brilliant at far more things than she'd ever dreamed, she thought with a blush as she stepped into the steaming water. She ached all over, but not unpleasantly so. Her body had been well-used and in quite an enjoyable way, though she was a bit tender between her legs. No one had ever made love to her as thoroughly or as often as Sherlock, and she feared she would be ruined for all other men forever. The more she thought of it, she already was, from the first day she laid eyes on him in the lab.

She knew she should be deliriously happy at the moment, but it was bittersweet. He would eventually tire of her, or she would fail to meet his high expectations… or he would find a case to occupy himself and he would entirely forget about her. It was inevitable, she knew, so she decided to make the most out of her time with him while it lasted. She enjoyed the feeling of the hot water against her skin, resting her forehead on the cooler tile, while she steadied her nerves and her heart.

Wrapping the towel around her hair, she paused at the mirror to admire the deep purple mark he had left on her neck, just above her collarbone. It was tender, but not unpleasant, and she found she strangely liked the memento. She brushed her teeth with the new toothbrush (her brand, of course) that he had left for her, then combed out her wet hair before putting Sherlock's shirt back on, pressing her nose to the inside of the soft fabric. It smelled like him, which made her shoulders shudder slightly and a tingling spread down her spine and into her pelvis. No human being should ever smell that good. It was a wonder he wasn't attacked by hordes of screaming women on the street on a regular basis, she thought with a smile as she headed out to the kitchen to make some coffee. At least for a time, she was his, and she was determined to enjoy every last moment.

Feeling somewhat like she was trespassing, Molly rummaged around in the kitchen cabinets for the coffee and sugar, ignoring the various body parts and experiments. She might be the only woman in London who wasn't bothered by such items occupying her lover's refrigerator, she thought with a smile, but she still couldn't find the coffee. Surely he drank coffee outside of Bart's? With relief, she heard the click of a door behind her, meaning Sherlock was no longer lost in his mind palace.

"Where do you keep your coffee? I found the sugar, but…"

She heard something heavy being set down. "Third cabinet on the left? And you are?" That wasn't Sherlock's voice.

Molly hesitated for a second before turning around, smoothing down Sherlock's shirt, grateful that it reached nearly to her knees. "Um, hello, John."

"Molly? What are you doing here?" His eyes raked over her before she could answer. "And why are you wearing Sherlock's shirt?" His eyes lingered on her neck before looking away. He'd seen the mark there, but his expression said he was thoroughly confused as he hung up his overcoat, then an idea crossed his face. Molly was still too stunned to speak. "Everything alright at home?" He retrieved the coffee and added it to the machine. "Bad breakup? I didn't realize you were seeing anyone."

"I… I… ah…" Sherlock wouldn't want anyone to know about them. She quickly tried to formulate the details of the breakup that John had suggested.

"It's okay. I don't mind Mrs. Hudson letting you in. She and I have told you before, Molly, you're always welcome here," John said, smiling kindly at her. "After I have a cup I'll go round your place and get you some clothes. I think it would mess with Sherlock's delicate sense of order if he knew you were wearing his shirt." John set the milk and sugar down on the table and poured them each a cup. "Where is Sherlock anyway? Off on a case? He wasn't answering my texts this morning."

"I was occupied with more pressing matters, John," Sherlock said from the doorway, wearing only dark blue silk pajama bottoms, his chest bare, with a slight smile playing at the corners of his mouth. He was really enjoying this, Molly thought. Too bad she wasn't. Well, at least not until Sherlock came over to her and put his hand around her waist and pulled her gently to his side. "The sight of Molly in my shirt very much conforms to my 'delicate sense of order'. It suits her, don't you think?" He kissed her right over the mark he'd left before, making her close her eyes as she unconsciously offered him her bared neck.

The crash of shattering coffee cups brought them out of their private moment, and Molly giggled at the look on John's face.

Sherlock raised an eyebrow at his friend. "Is there a problem, John?"

"I leave for one day. One day, Sherlock! When I left you were married to your work and now you two are shagging?"

"That's a rather vulgar term for what we've been doing, but I suppose if it adequately fits your mental representation of…"

John interrupted Sherlock before he could launch into a further linguistic analysis. "Can I talk to you in private, Sherlock?" He picked up the broken cups and put them in the trash.

Molly seized the moment to evacuate before their argument began in earnest. "I was just going to go get dressed anyway," she said, but before she could step out of his embrace, Sherlock leaned down and whispered into her ear so only she could hear, "wait for me in my bed, on your back with your legs spread wide, and wearing nothing but that shirt. I won't be long." Too embarrassed to even answer, she tiptoed out of the room and left the two men alone.

They both watched her go, then turned to face each other again. John picked up the broken cups and put them in the trash, then mopped up the spilled coffee. Sherlock merely got out another cup and poured himself coffee, not bothering to look back at John until he settled himself at the table and stirred in his sugar. John had several false starts, trying to find the correct words, but his disbelief kept getting in the way. "So how long has this been going on?"

"Twelve hours and fifty-three minutes," Sherlock answered, trying to keep the amusement out of his voice.

John sat down at the table and smoothed his hands over the surface. "Sherlock. Molly is a kind, gentle woman, and you are using her for whatever physical needs you've finally discovered, but you have no idea what you are doing to her."

"On the contrary, I know exactly what I am doing to her."

"I'm not talking about sexually, Sherlock… wait, but you… you…I thought you were virgin?"

Sherlock smiled at John's obvious discomfort. "It would seem that rumors of my purity have been greatly exaggerated, though I had feared my skills would be rusty from years of disuse. I think Molly would disagree, if the five orgasms I've given her in the last twelve hours are any indication."

"Oh my God, now my ears are bleeding." John held up his hands in mock surrender. "You know that's not what I meant."

"Please go ahead and say what you do mean, then. I suspect Molly is waiting anxiously for me to return to the bedroom."

John's face became very serious. "She loves you, Sherlock. She really loves you. You can't just use her like this then toss her aside when you're bored."

"I have no intention of ever 'tossing her aside'." He was equally serious.

"So, what then? You intend to marry her? Settle down and have a family?" John was certain that for once, his friend had not thought through the implications of his actions.

"If that makes her happy, yes."

"Exactly, which is why you… wait, what?"

"I will do whatever it takes. I want her to stay with me. I admit that I have considerable trepidation regarding fatherhood, but my understanding is that it is inappropriate to discuss such things barely thirteen hours into our relationship. However, given Molly's age, it's likely that if she does desire to be a mother, that she will wish to begin that process within the next year or two. She is no doubt aware that advancing maternal age increases the risk to her as well as a fetus, and…"

"You can't be serious, Sherlock. Until tonight, you led me to believe that you were completely asexual. And Molly has made it very clear that she has been attracted to you for years, yet you barely acknowledged her existence as a human being. You didn't see her, after you died, or 'left'. Apparently she always knew you were alive, thank you very much for not telling me, by the way, but she was absolutely devastated. You can't put her through that again, ever."

"I love her."

"Do you even know what that means?" John asked quietly.

"I'm trying, John." He meant it.

John's voice gentled. "Just talk to her. Be honest with her. Okay? I'm your friend as well as hers. I just want you both to be happy."

"Thank you. May I seek your advice periodically on this matter? As you are engaged to be married, it would seem your experience has outpaced mine."

"You're on your own with the sex, Sherlock, but I'll do my best with matters of the heart. Women may be the ultimate mystery for us both, though." John smiled at his best friend. Maybe he really could become a great man, as Lestrade had once suggested.

John stood and patted his friend once on the shoulder, before picking his suitcase up from where he'd left it by the door. "Since I don't think my delicate ears can tolerate being in the same flat with both of you shagging all night, I'm going to Mary's. I'll be home around eight, since I need to get ready for work. Do try to make sure both of you are dressed this time."

"That shouldn't be a problem. Molly has to be at work at seven. We will both be dressed by six thirty-five, though keeping her dressed through her shift may be difficult."

John opened the door and walked through, not bothering to look back. "Ears bleeding, Sherlock," he said, closing the door behind him.

Sherlock smiled and headed to the bedroom.