Hello, this is the Queen speaking.

Fluff, fluff, ignorance, fluff, naivety, fluff, fluff and more week, new chapter. New chapter, new fluff!

Okay, so this chapter isn't as dirty as it's gonna get later on, but it does get a little steamy. Just warning you for those that are faint at heart. We don't want a collapse 'Ahhh! How could my sweet little cinnamon rolls every be tempted by such sin? '

... Enjoy

Disclaimer: I own nothing but the story plot.

...

That night was quite possibly the most awkward nights of Molly's. She had done some pretty bad things in her youth that had left her wanting to just melt into a pile of goop and dissolve into the ground, like when she was 10 and had asked her best friend Marco if he wanted to share an ice cream cone, and he had looked at her like she had just said 'hi, I know this is random, but I actually have a lizard tail growing out of my back that I use to escape from bullies! ' and then he had just walked away like she was a psychopath. Needless to say, Molly Hooper was awkward. But then through the man she has been in love with for nearly six years into her bedroom, where they had both gone fully conscious and completely sober, and well... things get a little bumpy for Hooper and Holmes.

"Could you move over a bit?"

"Yah, sorry ... can you move your hand?"

"My hand?"

"Yes it's touching my arm."

"Oh ... that's, that's not my hand ..."

"What?"

"It's my foot."

"You foo- how the hell did you manage that?"

"I don't know, I sleep weird okay"

"Okay, but stop hogging all the covers."

They slept back to back, finally stopping wriggling. Molly tugged the duvet towards her, which left Sherlock's feet out in the cold. He tucked them under himself and his toes rested on Molly's bum. They both froze.

"...You know I really am fine sleeping on the sofa-" Sherlock offered.

"That sofa would hardly fit you you're so big ... Oh! Ah, I mean, your too long, I mean the sofa is to small and uncomfortable for even me to sleep on and your alot bigger than I am so it would hardly be appropriate."

"I guess you're right."

"Plus, there is plenty of room in the bed."

"Well- '

"Stop it!"

They wriggled around again. Sherlock huffed, finally fed up. He turned himself so he was lying on his side facing Molly. The fact that the bed sharing was so uncomfortable for both of them was a mystery to him. They had shared a bed a few times before and it was fine then ...so what's different now? Sherlock reached over towards Molly and slid his hand around her waist. He could feel her tense underneath his fingertips. Sherlock shifted closer to her and then pulled her back against him.

He moved the covers so that they covered them both, even going as far as to tuck some under Molly's legs and the his own as well. Molly was stiff when he finally rested back down. Despite this, Sherlock was struck yet again by how small she was, and how perfectly her body fit against his. Her legs curved around his, her back pressed into his chest and her head resting under his chin.

He left one arm around her waist, but the other he wasn't quite sure. Possible images flashed through his mind palace. He could put it underneath her head? That way he could hold her lightly and she would still be able to move if she got uncomfortable. He could rest it in-between them but that would disconnect their bodies, even if only slightly. He could move it under her, that way he could hold her closer to him, but his arm would go numb, and lying on an arm is hardly wanted so that would be uncomfortable for both of them.

Sherlock decided to go for them former and slipped his arm underneath Molly's head. He settled himself down, both still quite tense.

"Is ... is this ... okay?" He murmured quietly into her ear.

"Yes, it's fine."

They lay their for a while. Both silently. Neither spoke in worries that they would spook the other. Every so often Sherlock would find himself fiddling with a piece of her hair. Molly world find herself tracing patterns into his arm with her fingertips.

"Sherlock?"

"Yes, Molly?"

"What is this?"

Sherlock paused for a moment. Molly felt him stiffen behind her. "It's a ... means to an end. This bed is a little too small for the both of us and I agree when you say that your sofa is to small and uncomfortable for any sane human to want to occupy. So, to help save space ... I moved closer ..."

"Oh ... okay." At least that question was answered, but neither of them relaxed. "What about earlier, when you ran off?"

Moly could hear Sherlock swallow behind her. The arm that was around her waist tightened, pulling her closer, but she wasn't sure he was conscious of that movement. Molly silently held her breath, waiting for him to speak. A few moments passed and Molly was starting to panic, what if she had asked the wrong question? Was he going to leave now?

"Molly, ..." He whispered. The brush of air over her ear released the slightest bit of tension from her body. "Usually I would want to speak with John about this first for guidance but ... you were so scared, I ... I couldn't leave you on your own for too long." Sherlock's hand started to fiddle yet again with a few strands of her hair. "Please, understand that this is hard for me, I don't understand these things, maybe because I've been suppressing them for so long ..."

"Sherlock, what are you getting at?"

Sherlock's mind was buzzing with possibilities. Things that could go wrong. Things that could go right. Things that were likely never to happen at all. He wasn't used to this type of thing, these feelings.He had always been told, on many occasions, that feelings would weaken you, that they would corrupt your thinking, blur your even and unbiased judgment. Of course he had always felt anger and envy, or gleeful and happy but he never felt - never allowed himself to feel - love. Now he thought of it, he knew he did love people:

His parents he loves, they raised him and cared for him. They put up with everything he did as a child growing up. If anyone deserves to be loved it's them.

Mrs Hudson he loves like a mother. She scolded him freely when he does something wrong, which is quite often. She fed him when he needed it, and washes his clothes. She is always there for him.

John he loves like a brother. Not the Mycroft type brother, which he assumes is some type of love, but like he imagines brothers should love each other. He has Johns back and John has his. They work together on opposite sides of the spectrum, Sherlock works the logical end while John mans the morality and feelings.

Greg is much the same as John, but like everyone on earth, of course Sherlock had a favourite. Greg was like an older brother to him, but unlike Mycroft, Greg cared more to be a partner in crime (or solving crime) instead of shifting of his work onto his younger sibling. He did love Greg, and despite common belief among his friends, he did know Greg's name, he just chose to get it wrong so he could annoy everyone else.

Molly stirred against him, pulling him from his thoughts. He was about to open his mouth and start talking again when he noticed are even breathing and steady heart beat. She'd fallen asleep.

Sherlock pulled the blanket further up her body and tucked it under her chin, then settled down himself. He hadn't been planning to go to sleep when he got into the bed, thinking only of being a comfort to Molly while she slept, but listening to her quiet breathing and feeling her warmth pressed against his front started to lull him into a slumber of his own. He pulled Molly closer to him and rested his head on the pillow, her hair tickling his nose. Dreams took him away, blissfully sweet, filled with the women in his arms.

They lay there for the night each asleep and in their own minds, wrapped in each others embrace. But while Sherlock's dreams were sweet, Molly's were anything but.

...

When I woke up my head was still spinning. Arms stretched out behind me, I felt the wetness of the mattress next to me. The light from the window showed it was well into day time - I wonder how long I've been asleep for - and was enough for me to see around the cell with ease. I glanced down at the wet patch. Blood. The wet patch was blood. My blood. The slice on my wrist must have been much bigger and deeper than I thought.

Slice on my wrist? I looked around, the place looked so familiar but I just couldn- no ... I'm back. I felt like I was going to vomit and pace out at the same time. Jim had found me. He had brought me back!

I tried to get up and find something to cover my wrist with, but was overwhelmed with a large dizzy spell that forced m back down onto the mattress. Blood loss. Slowly I tried again. I was half way through standing, my right foot in a grand straight of agony once again, when the door at the top of the stairs clicked open.

"Molly Mouse?" The voice of James Moriarty cooed from above me. "Sweetheart?" He walked slowly down the steps, as if nothing could have bothered him at all. My mind was fuzzy. Once he had reached the bottom of the stairs I was ready to pass out again, but I wasn't going to let him win that easily.

Jim kneeled down on the mattress over the top of me. He reached into his pocket and pulled out a wrap of bandages. He grabbed my wrist and started to wrap the bandage over my wound. I tried to struggle away from him but it was useless, he was to strong, and my blood loss was making me weak.

I gritted my teeth. I had to do something! I started to scream, thrashing around and wailing. He clamped his hand over my mouth.

"Quiet." He hissed.

Suddenly, he pulled his hand away from me. "YOU BIT ME!" I started to thrash under him again, trying desperately to break his hold on me and make another attempt at escape. "YOU BIT ME, AGAIN!" He stood up and got off of me. I tried to get up but found I had used all my energy fighting of Jim in vain. I watched out of the corner of my eye as he looked down at the trays, searching for something.

"Here we go!" He whispered in delight, stroking the handle of a stick like object. The look on his face suggested to me that the object brought back 'fond ' memories. He turned back round to me, holding the stick out infront of him, allowing me to get a better look. On one end was a flattish panel, and on the other was a small, sharp knife. "We're gonna have some fun with this."

...

She woke up screaming, pulling away from the body lying next to her. Arms reached out to touch her in the darkness.

"Molly! Molly, it's okay! It's me! Sherlock!" Molly let the hands hold her. Sherlock pulled her towards him, allowing her to sit on his lap. One hand steadied her, while the other stroked her hair soothingly. "It's okay. Your safe. I have you. You're okay. Shh, it's alright." He rocked her, cooing softly in her ear. Molly thought she would be crying, but she wasn't. Usually when someone woke her up from a dream, she would scream and then start crying, but now ... she didn't feel she had to.

Molly's hands rose up to clutch at his shirt. The cotton of his sleeping shirt was soft under he fingers. Sherlock continued to rock her until he was sure she wouldn't cry or start screaming again. He stopped and pulled back to look at her. In the dim light of her room he could hardly see her, only an out line. He could feel her breath on his face, her hands still buried in his tee shirt. Sherlock was overcome with the simplest desire to kiss her, let her know that he was there, comfort her in every sense of the term. But when he started to lean forward she pulled back.

"He took me again." Her voice was so small, so quiet. "I was in the basement, I was bleeding, and ... he was ... he was going to torture me again!"

"He will never hurt you ever again. Not if I can help it. As long as you have me I will do what ever it takes to keep you safe. Understand?"

She leaned forward and hugged him. His arms wrapped around her waist and he buried his nose in her hair, inhaling slowly.

"Molly, what I was trying to say earlier ... you were asleep before I got the chance to finish."

"I'm sorry."

"No, don't be, I'm the one that slipped into my mind palace mid conversation."

Molly giggle. "So, what were you trying to say?"

Sherlock paused for a second, taking his time to heave in a deep breath. "That I care about you."

Molly's heart stopped. He cared about her? She pulled back from hugging him to look at his face, not that she could see much in the dim light. "I ... I don't know what to say ... "

"Don't say anything."

Sherlock looked at her outline, willing his pupils to adjust to the dark so he could see her properly. Her hot breath was on his face again. He was extremely aware of her presence on his lap, her hands on his shoulders.

"I-I ... I" Sherlock breathed in deeply, giving himself a moment. "Molly, I want to ... kiss you. Right now. Can ... Can I kiss you?"

He couldn't see it, but Molly's face burst into a bright smile.

"You don't have to ask, Sherlock." She whispered.

And with that Sherlock finally leaned forward, capturing her lips with his own. His arms automatically pulled her closer. Molly's hands slid from his shoulders up into his hair, reveling at the fact she could now finally curl her hands in his soft locks, after so many years of vividly wet dreams about doing so. Sherlock growled into her mouth when she scraped her nails along his scalp, the sound running shivers through her body, electrical currents that all ended up in the area in-between her legs.

Sherlock couldn't think. Well he could think but it was so quiet. His mind, that was never silent for a second, that never had less then six ideas whizzing around his skull at a time, was blissfully hushed. The only thought in his head was 'Molly '. Every sense was taken up by the pathologist pressed deliciously against is chest. Her smell, her voice, her warmth ... her taste, and Oh Good God, what a taste! He had to get more.

He trailed kisses down her neck. He passed her jaw, behind her ear, the point where her neck met her shoulder and down to her collarbone. Molly shuddered under his hands when he scrapped his teeth across her shoulder. She pulled at his hair, silently (and not so silently) begging him to meet her lips again. As he rose from her neck and moved to her lips, letting her hands in his locks guide him ... he saw it ...

Fires burnt trails along his skin, following Molly's fingers like ghosts. She felt so light in his arms but surprisingly heavy while seated in his lap. With every move of her lips, with every scratch of her nails over his scalp and back, increased her weight on his groin. Every soft gasp and moan sucked him further into her, but with great, great, extraodinary reluctance, Sherlock pulled back.

"Molly ..." He groaned. He lent forward and rested his forehead against her's. "We ... We have to stop."

Molly pulled back, hurt flashing across her face (Invisible in the dark but Sherlock could almost feel it there.) "What ... Why? Did ... did you change your mind?"

Sherlock jumped and grasped her face in his hands. "NO! No, no, God no! I want this more than you realise, Molly. But you don't understand, we need to stop." He said, gesturing over her shoulder.

Molly tryed to follow his line of sight, but in the dark it was a difficult task. "What is it? If you ... if you want it, why ... why stop?"

Sherlock raised his gaze to the corner of her room, hidden behind a vase of flowers. His heart had almost stopped when he'd seen it, but with this vixen in his lap it was nearly impossible for him to think of anything else, but once he had pieced the points together ...

The small red light flashed only just, the LED extremely dim but still recognizable to Sherlock's keen eye.

"Because we have an audience."

...

DunDunDuuuuuuun

I'm sorry, I hate myself too. Now, I know what your thinking "You said this was gonna be fluff! You promised me fluff! I demand a refund! Why must you do this to me? " and I know, I SORRY! but the question you really should be asking isn't 'Why do I even bother reading this littler lier's story? ' but should really be 'How did the camara get in their without anyone noticing? Moriarty had to get it in there somehow ... so how ... or who ...

Thank you for reading and reviewing.