Sherlock Holmes was used to having a thousand thoughts occupying his mind. When he visited his mind palace, it was theoretically possible for him to remember anything delegated to memory from childhood through the present. Never before had any infinitesimal fraction of his thoughts been devoted to the idea of emotions-especially such emotions as love and attraction. Yet, here he was, a homicidal maniac summoning him to a midnight meeting, and the largest part of his brain was thinking about Molly Hooper. Their first kiss. His first kiss. The subsequent, more exploratory second kiss-this time initiated by himself-which was more of a ploy to convince Molly not to do what they were about to do.
"You don't need to come. He knows where I am-if he wanted me dead he would have killed me already," Sherlock called into the other room where Molly was changing her clothes.
"You're not going alone," said Molly as she walked into the living area, re-dressed in black pants and a grey jumper, hair pulled into a tight ponytail. "Do I look like I'm ready to meet a maniac?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes and rummaged in his bag, pulling out his Browning and concealing it in the waistband of his jeans.
"We've really got to get you some new clothes," Molly said as she critically eyed the very un-Sherlock football hoodie he'd been wearing for two days.
"Excuse me for not regarding the latest fashion when I could be walking to my own death."
"Stop being melodramatic-you said yourself, if he wanted you dead it would have happened already. Now buck up and let's go."
Sherlock had to stifle a smile as he watched this confident Molly stride out the door with purpose.
This could be a crime scene. We can't giggle.
XXX
The walk to Bart's was silent and quick, with Molly jumping at every street corner, convinced that someone was going to see and recognize Sherlock.
Using her key they entered the hospital through the mortuary-knowing it would be empty at this time of night-and made their way up the stairs to the rooftop entrance.
The night was quiet. Sherlock couldn't even hear the London traffic below as he stepped out onto the roof.
"Nice night isn't it? Just the kind of night you really appreciate the fact that you're not dead." The voice was pure honey mixed with acid-a sound Sherlock was happy never hearing again-rising to his ears as he rounded the corner and Jim Moriarty came into view, sitting on the roof ledge overlooking the street with which Sherlock had become too-well acquainted.
"I was just thinking-it would be a shame if I couldn't enjoy myself on a night like this-being dead and all," Moriarty hissed, still not turning to look at Sherlock, "Wouldn't you agree Sher-" Moriarty turned then, taking in the sight of Sherlock and Molly.
"Well-this is…unexpected. Sherlock, you brought a guest! Hallo, Molly Dear, long time, no see!" He wiggled his fingers at her and shrugged his shoulders, smiling a toothy smile.
"Go to hell, Jim." Molly spat.
"Oooooo, what a mouth. But then, I remember what that mouth can do." He replied smugly.
Molly looked away, sickened.
"What do you want?" Sherlock asked, determined to not let Moriarty have his way with the meeting.
"First things, first," said Moriarty, spinning and pulling a gun out of nowhere, pointed at the two before him.
Sherlock's reaction surprised everybody on the roof. He immediately grabbed hold of Molly's wrist, pulling her directly behind him, constituting a human shield.
"Put your gun on the ground, and don't try anything silly, Pookie," Moriarty said, unflinching, "and don't pretend you don't have one. I recognize that bulge," he smiled.
Sherlock removed his Browning from his waistband, never taking his eyes off Moriarty. He placed the gun on the ground and kicked it away. As he came up, he again held Molly's wrist, keeping her firmly behind him. He felt her pulse quicken, though whether it was due to his touch or the situation he wasn't certain.
"Well, well, well…Mr. Holmes-do I need to come up with a new nickname for you? And good golly Miss Molly, how long have you waited for this little fantasy to play out, eh? You've gotta tell me-they say the bigger the brain, the bigger the-"
"What do you want, Moriarty?" Sherlock cut him off shrewdly.
"Tsk, tsk, naughty boy. Why do you always assume I want something? I just wanted to see your pretty face-and for you to see mine."
"And what now? You call your dogs back on me, Mrs. Hudson, John?"
"Nah. That's been done. Boring. I'm just gonna go about my way and enjoy being dead for a little while. But I'm not done with you Sherly, you can be sure of that."
A loud bang issued from the staircase on the other side of the building as the door was slammed shut, causing Sherlock and Molly to jump in surprise and look to the sound. When they turned back, Moriarty had gone.
"Where did he go? Did he jump?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes again. "Please, Molly," he said as he pointed to a makeshift bridge set up with wooden planks between Bart's and the adjacent building, leading directly to another open door-presumably stairs to the ground floor.
Molly let out a sigh of relief. "Do you really think he'll leave you alone?"
"For now."
XXX
The walk back to Molly's flat was much slower and less deliberate, as the only people out at this hour were drunks and those with a place to be-both very unlikely to pay Sherlock and Molly little mind as they strolled along.
"Why do you think he called you there?"
Sherlock kept his gaze on the ground, hands in his pockets, thinking quietly to himself before responding. "He just wanted me to know he was alive. And the other way around."
"So he knew you weren't dead?"
"Obviously."
Molly shivered as a cool breeze floated through the night air.
She's cold. What is it men do when a woman is cold?
Sherlock unzipped his borrowed hoodie and slumped it off his shoulders and onto Molly's, revealing a plain navy t-shirt beneath. It occurred to Molly that she had never seen Sherlock's bare arms before, with the exception of the skin he exposed to slap several nicotine patches at once. He replaced his hands in his pockets, leaving Molly with a look of utter amazement.
"…Th-Thank you."
They walked in silence for several more minutes, Sherlock thinking and looking at the ground, Molly trying not to sputter all her questions at once. She settled on one.
"Do you know how he did it?"
Sherlock hummed in question, having been pulled from his mind palace, it would seem.
"I mean, he didn't shoot himself. So what did he do?"
"No, Molly, he definitely shot himself."
Molly looked at him, puzzled.
For what seemed like the millionth time that night, Sherlock sighed. However, this time, a gentle smile fell across his face. Molly quite thought it was an improvement.
"He still had traces of powder burns across his hand, and a small burn on his lower lip-clearly an injury resulting from firing a gun loaded with a blank directly into his face. He must have had a theatrical blood packet rigged to explode via trigger. I was distraught-it's no wonder I didn't notice at the time."
Molly nodded, though it was clear she hadn't completely accepted his theory.
"Can I ask one more question, now that we're supposedly out of danger?"
"I suppose it couldn't cause any more damage other than repetitious banter."
"Why did you kiss me?"
Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks, eyes growing wide for an instant before returning to normal. He seemed to be searching for the correct answer, but finding himself unable to find it.
"I was trying to convince you to stay home."
"No-I've been kissed before. This was different. Tell me the truth. And remember, you're the one who taught me how to tell if someone is lying," she stepped in front of him, forcing his eye contact, though he tried his best to continue studying the pavement.
I knew I shouldn't have told her that.
He flashed back to the day in the mortuary when he told her all about the body language of liars, and how with three distinct steps you could instantly know if someone was telling the truth.
"I-" he started, somewhat embarrassed.
"The Great Sherlock Holmes-at a loss for words-I should really write this on my calendar," Molly said jokingly, smiling and crossing her arms in front of him. "Oh, just say it!"
"I wanted to."
Her smile faltered a little as she comprehended what he had said. Apparently, she was expecting a different excuse-something along the lines of experimentation or boredom.
"When you kissed me last night it was…something I've never experienced before and…I find…that I can think of little else than doing it again."
This time Molly's smile faded completely.
"Sherlock-you have, well…before?"
Sherlock furrowed his brow, confused. "What?"
"You have kissed someone before, right?"
"Oh. Well," he looked down again, suddenly interested in his trainers, "Not in the conventional sense…" his words trailed off so the last few could not be heard.
"Pardon?" Molly asked, the smile slowly reforming on her lips.
"No. That was the first time I've ever, well…Right. So now you know." He looked back up, rubbing some life back into his cold arms.
Molly couldn't believe her eyes or ears. Sherlock Holmes was blushing. He was blushing because he was thinking about his first kiss. With her.
"And…what did you think about your first…experience?" she said, nearly chuckling. She felt that starting-to-become-familiar confidence sneaking its way back to the forefront of her mind.
"It was…interesting." He said, putting his hands back into his pockets.
"Interesting. Coming from anyone else, I'd be insulted. But from you…" she let the sentence go unfinished. "So, with every good experiment, a scientist should conduct multiple trials."
Sherlock looked up, surprise in his eyes. This was not going as he had expected. He had tried to repel Molly for years, and he was certain she would be infuriated at his newfound…emotions.
She stepped closer to him and wrapped her arms around his shoulders. He was very unsure about what to do with his hands until he finally decided to let them rest on her hips.
"Trial 3?" She said, looking into his eyes.
He smiled a genuine smile before leaning down and pressing his lips to hers, this time with no motive other than pure pleasure.
