As promised a nicer chapter. Sherlock being less of an arse, really. I was really interested by the commentary on aSiB when they said how interesting they found it that Sherlock could dilute love down into something as simple as biology. I thought I'd play on that. I know I've posted this chapter quickly, but I don't know how quick the next one will be! :) I have a sort of idea where the story is going, but as ever, please give me your idea's/thoughts :)

Many thanks for your reviews etc. It means the world!

B I O L O G Y

"Where is she?" Sherlock barrelled into the house, stopping in the middle of the hallway as Molly moved quickly aside to let him pass by.

"You've missed her." Molly said quietly, "She left about ten minutes ago." Sherlock reeled back to Molly, his eyes scanning over her pretty, make-up-less face. Slowly he raised a hand to her cheek; Molly's breath tangled in her throat, but released in a disappointed rasp when his thumb traced over the small stain on her lip. He wiped off the remnants of Irene Adler's lipstick and looked with concern back to the young doctor.

"She kissed you?" He asked, rubbing his fingers together so his fingertips stained a dark red. Molly looked towards the floor and tucked her hair behind her ears.

"She warned me-"

"To stay away from me." Sherlock finished, looking about the room.

"I think you should go." Molly whispered, "If she finds out you're here, she'll kill me."

"I'm allowed to be here." The detective countered, "I am not attached, in any sense of the word, to Irene Adler."

"She seems to think you are." Molly answered, taking a seat at the foot of the stairs. She paused before continuing, "She told me all about your night last night in her bedroom."

Sherlock's eyes danced across the room, before darting back to Molly with startling speed. "What?"

"You and her, on the bed." Molly sighed dejectedly, "She told me everything. How you're hers."
"I'm nobody's." Sherlock said stiffly. He moved forward so he was facing Molly on the steps. Molly felt her heart drop a little behind her ribs; if he was nobody's, then he'd never be hers. She shooed the thought away. Yet there was some sort of bittersweet edge to the fact he'd never be Irene Adler's either.

"Shouldn't you be trying to find her?"

"No." Sherlock snapped, "Why should I?"

"I don't know." Molly swallowed, "You came here to find her I assume."

"Always assuming." Sherlock muttered, "She's really got to you, hasn't she?"

"No." Molly lied, fiddling with the fluff on her socks. Sherlock knelt down so he was on the same level as Molly.
"She makes things up." He said softly, "She is delusional. She see's what she wants to see and makes it true. Everything she thinks she sees, she makes up here." His fingertip lightly met the point on Molly's head where her hair met her forehead.

"So she's sick?" Molly asked, "She's mentally ill?"

"Put it how you want; none of what she says is true."

"So everything she said about you two—last night, it was—uh." Molly tripped over her words, cursing herself as her face flushed a violent red. Sherlock sniffed and looked towards the living room.

"She forced herself upon me." He admitted. By the subtle jolt in his voice, Molly could tell he was neither happy nor confident in saying that. For a man to admit a woman had over powered him was humiliating in the first place, but even more so for a man as proud as Sherlock Holmes. "She took advantage of a darkened room. She kissed me, probably just as she kissed you. She embellished it and made it into a story that she even she believed."

Molly found some comfort in this. Even though it was morbid that she should find solace in the fact Irene Adler was mentally deranged, she still felt rather satisfied. She wondered if it made her a bad person. Then a new, strange thought occurred to Molly Hooper. She wondered whether she had imagined everything between her and Sherlock. Whether she'd perhaps done the same thing as Irene Adler and made it all up in her head. It wouldn't be such a big step. Sherlock had never said anything about it.

"No. Molly." Sherlock piped up from nowhere, shattering Molly from her daydream.

"What?"

"You didn't imagine it." He said, standing up. He slowly walked over the wall where Molly's fingernails had scratched away some of the wallpaper the other night. His hand played with the loose bits of paper. "Us. The other night."

She went to ask him how he'd read her mind, but he interrupted before she could get the words out.

"Delusional people rarely think themselves delusional. It's obvious you just began to doubt yourself. Don't worry. It did happen; you're not mad." He squinted at the wall, "You might want to get this re-papered."

"I have been meaning to get it done." Molly stood up and joined him, their eyes not moving from the little tears of wallpaper, "Maybe this is some incentive."

"I'm guessing short, unfiled nails. Purple nail polish." He inspected the wall, "You previously dislocated the smallest finger on your right hand; it's still a little out of shape."

"You're just showing off, now." Molly smiled, looking at her hands. He'd guessed this all from the scratches she'd left on the wall. Everything he'd said was spot on. Sherlock sniffed.
"I've been bored lately." He coughed uncomfortably. Molly perched precariously on the edge of the arm of her sofa.

"Do you regret it?" She didn't actually realise she'd said that until it was too late, "Oh, God. I didn't mean to say that, like…oh."

"No." Sherlock said simply, "Do you?"

"Of course not." She said a little too quickly. "I mean I did yesterday when I saw you two-" She cut off. "Yesterday." She suddenly remembered, "I saw you two together." In the heat of the moment, Molly had almost forgotten she'd caught Sherlock and Irene at his flat when she'd returned to give him back his phone.

"I was taking her pulse." Sherlock reached over and grabbed Molly's wrist again, "Like this. Remember?"
"You did the same thing to me."
"Only things progressed a little further with you and I." Sherlock's forefinger traced the line of blue veins up Molly's arm. It wasn't sexual, neither was it flirtatious; if anything, Molly felt he was doing it absent-mindedly. Yet she still struggled to swallow the lump in her throat. Slowly he pulled his arm away.

"Why do you take pulses?"

"Because biology gives away much more than people care to." Sherlock answered crisply, "It gives away the most primitive and personal feelings. Fast pulse, flushing, dilated pupils; they tell you a lot about how a person feels inside. Simple chemistry. Human's are like books to read."

Molly observed the way he said that; as though 'humans' didn't include himself. He spoke of people as though they were something alien. He broke down the most deep topics such as love into science. Molly suddenly had an insight into how his mind worked and it gave her an idea.
"Would you like a drink?" She asked unexpectedly. "You look thirsty."

"I'm fine."

"Come on let's get you a glass of water, or something." Molly stood abruptly so she was facing his chest. Tilting her head she nodded towards the kitchen. She half-wondered whether he'd stay in the living room, but as she left she felt his presence close behind her. In the kitchen she fixed a glass of water and held it out to him. As his hands closed around the glass she took the opportunity to slip her hand up to his wrist, her fingers delicately placed on his pulse point. It was risky and she knew it. She felt his heartbeat thud against her fingertips. Suddenly the beat intensified and quickened, thumping erratically against her skin. She looked up at him; her wide, dark eyes glittering. The blue of his eyes had shrunk as his pupils widened, a shimmer sweat apparent by his collar.

"You can trust me. I'm a doctor." She whispered, hoping to soften the mood with some humour. Without a word, he placed his glass on the counter, her hand still attached to his wrist. He slowly pushed her back against the counter, her back arching against the work surface. His coat was unbuttoned, long and brushing against her bare skin. His free hand rested on the highest part of her thigh, the smooth skin of the outer part of her leg a welcoming warm against his cold hand. She let go of his wrist when he kissed her, her hands finding the edge of the counter behind her. Sherlock bent his head downwards, his teeth running along Molly Hooper's lip. With ease, his hands found the back of her legs and he hoisted her effortlessly onto the cabinet, so she was perched on the edge of the counter. Her legs fell either side of his body and he slotted like a missing piece between her bare legs. His hands ached to release himself from his trousers, perhaps tug at the small pair of pants that Molly was wearing under her t-shirt. Only because he felt like exploring that dormant part of his being once more. But, instead, he reeled back, his lips leaving Molly's with a wet click.

"We can't, Molly." He breathed, trying to shift his growing arousal into the waistband of his trousers under his coat. Molly looked somewhat disappointed, her legs crossing in frustration.

"Fine."

"We've got to find Irene Adler." Sherlock pulled her down from the counter, "Go and get some clothes on."

"Wait, what do you mean, 'we'?" Molly stumbled, confused, after him. Sherlock stopped for a moment, considering the next words he was to say.

"Molly I need your help."

"Me?" Molly paused at the threshold to the kitchen, "When do you ever need my help?"

"Because," He pulled a pair of jeans from the washing basket on top of Molly's tumble drier and threw them to her, "You're the only person I know who can stop Irene Adler."

I would like more M-rated Sherlolly before the story ends, but I didn't think it'd be appropriate in this scene. Sherlock doesn't strike me as the kind of man who'd have sex when there was a case/emergency afoot. Maybe later, though ;) Was this nicer than the last chapter? Less angst and more kissy kissy Sherlolly. Haha.

Thanks for reading, will hopefully update soonish :)