She was sitting on the edge of the bed looking at the palms of her hands.

Dinner was approaching, and he was in his room, getting ready. She wasn't sure what that meant.

…but she was supposed to be doing the same thing.

Instead, Molly was looking at her hands.

Her heart was beating very fast, and she was confused by it. They were not having sex that night…

…perhaps it was the prospect of going home in the morning.

And she took a deep breath.

Yes…that was it.

She held herself and leaned over a bit. She closed her eyes.

…and she wished that they were already in London and everything was fine.

Molly got up and went to the loo. She looked in the glass…her brow was furrowed as her reflection looked back at her. Somehow, she didn't recognize herself. Somehow, she was different…

It was, perhaps, nervous understanding which rendered her face strange to her. Molly had known her heart for ages, despite the fervent ignoring of it.

And now she knew his.

And it wasn't at all what she had expected.

She should be thrilled. She should be beside herself with happiness…

…but all she could think was, this could all end. It could all be fleeting. He could be…

No. She couldn't think that he wasn't being anything but truthful. For if she didn't believe him, all was lost.

Molly washed her face and ran a brush through her hair. She applied the tiniest bit of makeup and went to dress.

She had no idea where they were going, or indeed, if they were going. They may be eating there…

She took a sweater just in case and headed downstairs.

He wasn't there yet. She went into the library and sat at the fire. She was staring steadily at it…breathing deeply and trying to steady herself.

"My love is as a fever, longing still for that which longer nurseth the disease, feeding on that which doth preserve the ill, the uncertain sickly appetite to please…"

Molly turned and saw Sherlock standing in the doorway. She smiled. "Hi."

"Hi," and he went over and sat next to her. "What do you think of take away?"

"I think…" she smiled. "You want to stay in?"

"Well…yes."

She swallowed, and wondered if there wasn't a not-so-hidden meaning in his words. "Sherlock, we are waiting…"

"I know. I'm not suggesting…"

"You are," she admonished. "And I understand, but…"

"Molly. Please do not mistake me, I don't plan on doing anything untoward. I simply feel like staying in."

She nodded. "All right."

"Excellent. I'll return momentarily," and he got up and left.

Molly looked into the small fire burning in the hearth. She sighed and swallowed. Maybe she was being silly…maybe her insistence to wait until tomorrow was unfounded.

But she felt compelled to wait. Her mind was convinced that waiting would solidify their…

Her eyes went wide.

Their relationship.

She was in a relationship with him. With Sherlock. Her mouth curled a small smile.

She had to be…they loved each other…and the full impact of the realization seized her. Molly's mind relaxed a bit, and she stood, going to the window. She held herself as she looked out into the falling night. What she would have given to have this information years ago…to know his heart.

Molly sighed and closed her eyes. So much time wasted…

She turned and went back to the armchair she had been sitting in. She pinched the bridge of her nose.

"Headache?"

She looked up and saw him there, holding two brown bags. "No."

"Hm…" he said, sitting down, brow furrowed as he considered her. "Well…I got us salads and a few other things…appetizer things, the server said."

"Lovely."

Sherlock took the food from the bag, handed Molly a couple of containers, and retrieved a bottle of wine. "It's a screw top," he winked.

"Sherlock?"

"Hm?"

"Was that another sonnet you recited earlier?"

"My love is as a fever, longing still, for that which longer nurseth the disease, feeding on that which doth preserve the ill, the uncertain sickly appetite to please. The uncertain sickly appetite to please. My reason, the physician to my love, angry that his prescriptions are not kept, hath left me, and I desperate now approve desire is death, which physic did except. Past cure I am, now reason is past care, and frantic-mad with evermore unrest; My thoughts and my discourse as madmen's are, at random from the truth vainly express'd; For I have sworn thee fair and thought thee bright, who art as black as hell, as dark as night," he paused, and poured the wine. "Sonnet one hundred forty seven," and handed her a glass.

"Wow."

He smiled and sat back with his salad. "It isn't that impressive, as far as impressive things are concerned."

"I find it to be," and she took a bite. "How do you interpret it?"

"It's about longing. About the object of the writer's desire being the end of him."

She blushed and looked away. "Do you think that's true? That love is a sort of death?"

"It's both an ending and a beginning I think…"

"But it isn't about love, necessarily, is it?"

"No," he looked at her with a fixed stare. "Bit more, then."

"More?"

"As in, in addition to."

Molly nodded. "Right."

"Desire is a compliment to love. It enhances and adds to it, and there is a ferocity associated with this longing. It's only cure, together."

She looked at him, and her pulse quickened…but he was looking into the fire…"What are you thinking?" she asked.

"About Irene Adler, oddly," he paused and looked at her, a smile flashed and then disappeared. "Not odd, I suppose. She was the person I had sex with most recently. But…she…"

"You care for her?" she swallowed.

"In a way, yes. She was a captivating woman."

"Was?"

"In the sense that, I no longer am connected to her."

Molly nodded. "Is that…upsetting?"

"No," he took a bite. "No…it's just a fact."

"Was she…" Molly stopped…"Ah…good?"

Sherlock smiled as he looked at her. "Well, she was interesting. Definitely not boring."

"Oh," her gaze fell.

"What?" he sipped some wine. "She was a professional, Molly. It would have been bad business if she was dull at her trade."

"I suppose you have a point."

"Of course I do."

She nodded. "Did you…?"

He looked at her. "You aren't eating much."

Molly sipped her wine. "No…but …did you enjoy it?"

"Sex with Irene Adler? Yes. I did."

She blanched and swallowed. "Oh."

"What would you have me say, Molly? I enjoy sex as much as any other person…"

"You do?" she breathed.

His eyes went wide and he nodded slowly. "Of course I do…why would you think…?"

"Because…because…you seemed either unaffected or disinterested, if not somewhat disgusted by it."

Sherlock smiled, shook his head, and ruffled his hair as he leaned his elbows on his knees, and folded his hands. "Yes. I suppose that's fair."

"So, that's why it's surprising."

He shrugged, looking at the floor. "I cannot undo how you see me. And I guess that how you view me isn't entirely undeserved. However, I hope that you will attempt to try. For," he looked at her and sat back. "I am not necessarily that person."

"I'm beginning to see that."

He smiled. "Curious how well my persona pervaded every person's perception of me. No one thought it could be a rouse."

"I knew that you weren't as cold as you seemed. You opened up to me quite frequently…but love and the like wasn't something you ever discussed. I assumed you simply didn't care, and you certainly didn't derive pleasure from either thing."

"But I do…" he said softly.

And Molly nodded. She took another bite and wiped her mouth, then poured some more wine. "It's all so strange."

"Some day, with any luck, it won't be. Strange, that is."

She shook her head…it sounded so…permanent, the way he described their relationship. Some day…as in the future, as yet un-lived, day. "Where should we sleep?" she whispered.

He smiled very slightly. "Wherever you feel most comfortable."

"My room, then," she replied, and downed her wine. "You are being very…accommodating…"

"Yes. But I wouldn't get too used to it, Molly," he smirked. "I am trying to be as gentle as possible, since you are…unconvinced? Unsure…? But don't count on it lasting."

She nodded, confused as to whether he was joking. "I'll just…I'll head up, then."

"Already?"

"I'm tired," which was half true. She was anxious to get to sleep so that the morning would arrive, they'd go back, and she could get beyond this mental block regarding the significance of being in London. And she stood and went upstairs.

Molly hurriedly changed into her light nightgown and brushed her teeth. She was feeling the wine, just a touch…and she turned the light off and crawled into bed. A moment later she heard the door open, and then click shut.

Her heart was pounding.

She listened very closely as Sherlock used the loo, then came back in. There was a pause as he got into the bed next to her…

…and she was tense. Very.

Perhaps she was feeling silly…perhaps she was thinking about the time they spent that day in the woods…

She closed her eyes tightly.

"Molly?"

"What?" her voice was tense.

"I can feel your nerves from here. Should I leave?"

"No…" she turned on her back, sighing, then fell onto her side, facing him. "No. Sorry. I suppose I am just…very…aware…"

"Of?" he was on his back, and he turned his head to look at her, then onto his side as well.

"This."

"This?"

"This…closeness…physically."

He nodded. "We could be closer."

"Is that wise?"

"Probably not…" and he took his hand, and with his finger, traced her jawline, down her neck…

She closed her eyes and swallowed. "Sherlock…"

"Hm?" his finger had stopped in her cleavage.

"We had agreed…"

"You're quite right…" and he took his finger away, and leaned over, kissing the corner of her mouth. "Goodnight, Molly…" he breathed.

…she could turn her head…she could kiss him properly…and she turned, claiming his lips…

…he deepened it with some urgency, and leaned over, putting her on her back…his left hand was in her hair, grasping…and his tongue danced in her mouth. He pulled away, kissing her cheek, her neck, his hand on her back now, pulling her closer…

"Sherlock…stop…" she said.

He ceased instantly, and pulled away, keeping his hand on her back. "Sorry. I'm sorry…" and he un-held her.

"No, I'm sorry. I was too…"

He placed a finger to her lips. "Don't apologize. I'm here. I made this request," and he went back onto his side.

Her breath was recovering, and she nodded. "Tomorrow night," she said.

"Tomorrow night," he repeated, and kissed her forehead.

She swallowed. "It is silly, I understand that."

"Well, there are things, I suppose, that every person works up in their mind, and this is part of that for you."

"What have you worked up?" she asked.

He looked at the ceiling. "The importance of logic, the abhorrence of feeling, and the fear of being wrong."

"You?" she smiled. "Wrong?"

"Doesn't happen often, but I've been humbled enough to recognize that I was wrong about this," he smiled at her, but went back to looking at the ceiling. "Someone should see to freshening up the ceiling. The paint is in a state."

Molly giggled. "You really do examine ceilings, hm?"

He shrugged. "Occasionally."

"It's nice to hear that you aren't above recognizing that you can be wrong about things."

"Well, I'd be pretty daft to insist that I'm right, when I clearly cannot. Being in love with you is an obvious counterargument to that hypothesis."

Molly's smile dropped with her gaze…it sounded so odd coming from his lips. "Yeah," she breathed. "There's so much that I still want to know and understand about this, Sherlock."

"You only need ask," he looked at her.

"Maybe tomorrow," and she turned on her back.

"Goodnight, Molly."

"Night Sherlock," and she closed her eyes.