Sherlock didn't forget about Molly's little adventure, though. He wrapped up the case the next day, and spent most of that evenings sorting out his feelings about her actions. Did pleasuring herself in his bed add to her pleasure? He wasn't there, what difference would the surface make? Self-pleasure was something that Sherlock occasionally allowed himself, mostly when the urge to do so had become so overwhelming he mostly did it so that he wouldn't want to do it anymore. Base. Primal. Something for lesser people. He always felt ashamed afterwards, as if he had been weak.

Clearly, Molly enjoyed it. She had enjoyed it in his room. On his bed. He found himself very curious about that. Would he enjoy it more on Molly's bed? He didn't fancy Molly, not like she fancied him. He didn't fancy anyone. It would distract him from his work.

He had to admit, however, that this little mystery was distracting him. From his work. He hadn't even checked his email for a new case once he wrapped up the other, he had been focused on understanding Molly's actions.

As he laid in bed that night (case closed, he could sleep. He'd even eaten the dinner Mrs. Hudson had brought up to him) he found his hand drifting down to the waistband of his pajama pants. Scolding himself, he'd stopped before he did anything, but the idea was planted in his head and he knew it was just a matter of time before he gave in to it again. Wanting to touch himself was annoying at the best of times, but now Molly Hooper was all tangled up in it and this was very discomforting. He did not fancy Molly Hooper. He did not think about Molly Hooper Like That.

And yet.

The next morning he found himself out walking. He had no case (because you haven't looked for one, Sherlock) he reminded himself. Suddenly he realized where he'd ended up. Outside Molly Hooper's flat.

He paced around outside it for a while. He knew she was at work, he knew her work schedule almost better than she did - how else would he know when he could go beg body parts from her - and he knew her flat was empty.

Up the three steps to the landing, the outer door lock gave in to his lockpicking skills fast enough that anyone walking by would have assumed he'd used a key. Molly Hooper, your building security is abysmal, he thought.

Up the stairs to her flat, and he was in that door even faster. He really must find a way to talk to Molly about her security. Anyone could wander in.

Which is what he did, quickly closing the door behind him. Her flat was tidy, and rather plain for a pathologist who preferred garish clothing and clashing colors. Toby, her cat, stuck his head out of the bedroom and hissed once, before retreating.

He made his way into the bedroom and looked at the bed. It was unmade, and rumpled. A stack of romance novels were piled on the bedside table. He sat down on the edge, smelling the room. It smelled like Molly, and he noted that this was a pleasurable sensation. Comforting.

He slipped off his shoes and laid down on the bed. The scent of Molly was all around him, and it was dizzying. He'd been around Molly before. He'd kissed her cheek, twice. She slapped him. He was not sure why her scent was having such an effect on him this time.

He didn't even notice he'd unbuttoned his trousers until he felt his cool fingers on his warm cock. He snatched his hand back out of his trousers, but then let it go back again. It would be an experiment, he decided. Would pleasuring himself in Molly's bed change how he felt about it? Would it be better? He suspected Molly had no shame about pleasuring herself, so what did she gain from doing it alone in his bed?

An experiment. That's all. That made it okay to grip his cock and slowly start sliding his hand along it, sliding back his foreskin and rubbing a thumb over the already-wet tip. His other hand found it's way up under his shirt, grazing his nipples. His breath caught, and he let himself tip over into that place he rarely let himself go.

The scent of Molly and Molly's room filled his nostrils, as his mind filled with images of Molly. It was as if his mind palace had put on a slideshow for him. He idly wondered why this had never happened before, and filed that away as data for his experiment. Molly in her dress at the Christmas party - no, that was unpleasant, he had hurt her feelings. Molly in the morgue, strong, confident Molly talking about autopsy results. Smart, beautiful..

Beautiful? He paused for a moment, filing THAT bit of data away, and went back to concentrating on the matter at hand, as it were. But within moments, all he could see in his mind's eye was Molly again. Molly helping him solve a crime, all that time ago. Molly's eyes crinkling up as she laughed when he'd tagged along at the pub with John and Molly and Mike Stamford. Molly, Molly, Molly…

And then it was done, and he glanced down at the puddle on his abdomen. Well. Interesting. He grabbed a few tissues from her nightstand and cleaned himself up as best he could, shoving the used tissues into his pocket, buttoning his trousers back up, gathering his shoes, his coat, making sure her door was locked on the way out.

Upon returning to 221B he immediately sat in his chair and went into his mind palace, sorting out all of this new confusing information. He hadn't felt shame while he was masturbating. He'd thought only of Molly. He didn't even feel shame now, afterward. He could only think of Molly.

This was very confusing, indeed.