Molly wasn't flustered to have Sherlock in the car with her. Of course she wasn't; it was simply a convenience, them being able to drop him at his flat. And of course it meant he got to spend more time with Wills, which was the point of their reconnection, after all. The two of them were back on the turtle discussion (being a city girl she'd had no idea how rare turtles were on the British isles) and she was trying to concentrate on the dark motorway, but her mind insisted on reliving the almost-kiss at the creek. Well, she thought it was an almost-kiss, but what if she was wrong?
Such worrisome thoughts carried her for the next twenty minutes or so, until gradually Wills' questions and comments started coming further and further apart; when Sherlock finally twisted round so he was facing fully forward in his seat next to hers, she knew it was only because her over-stimulated son had drifted off to sleep in that easy way kids could manage and adults could only envy.
Of course, no longer having Wills to interact with meant Molly would actually have to find something to say to Sherlock, which suddenly seemed an impossible task. What could she say? What if he brought up That Moment? Or worse; what if she did and he didn't want to talk about it? Should they even talk about it?
"You're nervous, why are you nervous?"
She glanced over at him, wondering what made him ask; the question must have been obvious even in the split-second before she returned her attention to the road, because he elaborated: "You're clenching the wheel much more tightly than you were while Wills and I were talking, and you're nibbling at your lower lip. Chewing on it, more like. Your breathing sped up, and you've shifted in your seat four times. It's a bit dark to tell, but I'm confident that if it were daylight I'd see your complexion gone a shade or two paler than normal. Conclusion: you're nervous, when you weren't nervous before. Why?"
Molly let out a nervous titter, then clamped her mouth shut and tried to turn it into a careless laugh instead. The result was an unflattering snort with a bit of choke behind it, and she dearly wished she could just sink into the seat and disappear. Or better yet, go back in time and tell Sherlock she couldn't possibly give him a ride home, sorry, some other time perhaps. Well aware that he was waiting for her to give an actual response, she opened her mouth, shut it, then opened it again – and blurted out the very last thing she meant to say. "Down by the creek, what was that?"
There was silence from the passenger seat; Molly stole another glance, but Sherlock's expression was impossible to read in the dark. She wished desperately for the ability to take back the words; it was on the tip of her tongue to tell him never mind, when he spoke. "I take it you don't mean the turtles my ecologically-minded ancestor imported from the American colonies sometime in my family's distant past?"
His dry tone brought a true snort of laughter from her lips and helped diffuse the tension somewhat. She relaxed her death-grip on the steering wheel and risked a third look over at him. He'd leaned closer to her, and she could see his features somewhat better in the light of the dashboard. The flashes of the occasional headlights from car driving the opposite direction made his eyes glitter, and she shivered, forcing her eyes back on the road, consciously having to remind herself that it wasn't just the two of them in the vehicle.
Remembering Wills' presence helped steady her; eyes straight ahead, she finally answered Sherlock's question. "No, not talking about turtles."
She heard him sigh, felt him withdrawing back to his own seat, heard the tap of his fingers drumming on…something. His thighs, maybe, or the handle of the door. "It was…a mistake."
Molly sucked in a breath, but before she could say anything, before she could do more than feel her heart give an unhappy lurch, he rushed on. "It's too soon for anything like that between us, isn't it? We've only just reconnected, to rush into anything just now would be foolish. Especially if it doesn't…you don't know me very well yet, Molly." There was something akin to desperation in his voice as he spoke. "You don't know how I can be; you should ask John, I'm moody and difficult and have been known to be cruel when I'm bored. My mind is like a racecar, always revving its engine, never slowing and I need stimulation or I feel like I might go mad. That's why the drugs…although I quickly learned they don't do the trick for very long. But it was…hard to stop once I started. Rehab twice and even now, when I'm bored or when I feel like my mind is about to burst out of my head, the urge is still there."
He fell silent as abruptly as he'd begun speaking, but Molly waited a few long seconds before responding. Just in case. "You're right, it's too soon," she said quietly, although it wasn't at all what she wanted to say. She wanted to say to hell with 'too soon' or going slow, but the third occupant of the car shifted and gave a soft snort in his sleep and her practical side overrode her romantic side. She had a ten-year-old son to think of, and if she and Sherlock fell back into bed or even went on a date and it went pear shaped, Wills was the one who'd be hurt the most. "We both…I think we both want something," she continued as Sherlock remained silent. "Don't we? Do we?"
"I…yes," he said. "I think we do. But you're right; we can't do anything that might spoil things for Wills. For our son."
"So if we do decide to, to see each other um, socially," Molly started, then hesitated. She risked a glance at Sherlock, to find that he was tapping his fingers on his knees and staring down at the movements as if fascinated by them. "If we wanted to…to date or something, it wouldn't be right away."
"No, of course not," Sherlock agreed quickly, but Molly could have sworn there was a flash of something like disappointment in his eyes, briefly revealed by the oncoming headlights of a car driving in the opposite direction to them. "But if we did decide to do anything like that, just remember: I don't have a lot of, erm, experience. I mean sex, yes, of course, but not recently. But dating, relationships…never actually was very successful at that. Gave it up when I gave up drugs."
That was a heartbreaking confession to hear from a man in his thirties. "No one in your life since then at all?" she asked.
She glanced over again, saw his silhouette briefly as he turned toward his window. "Nope." He popped the p but it didn't cover the flat finality of the word.
"I only had one serious boyfriend," Molly found herself confessing. "The one I broke up with right before we…before you and I…" She gave a small, self-conscious laugh. "And after Wills,, well you know I never dated once he came along. So we're rather in the same boat, aren't we? Not a lot of experience with all…this."
"No, I suppose not – here, take the next exit, it'll get us into London quicker," he instructed. "Closer to Baker Street."
Molly did as he…well, 'asked' wasn't the right word, since it was more like a command, but she took the next exit, trusting his directions even though she'd programmed their destination into her satnav. When the computer voice didn't chime in, she realized Sherlock must have turned it off at some point. Seeing no point in scolding him about it, she kept silent, but heard him give a chuckle at her slightly exasperated huff of breath.
The conversation remained impersonal from then on, until she came to a stop in front of the building housing his flat. "221B Baker Street," she said lightly, deciding to risk a joke. "That'll be £15, and don't forget to tip the driver!"
Oh, she wasn't imagining the wince he gave as he undid his seatbelt. "Molly, don't make jokes; Wills said you were terrible at them and I see he wasn't exaggerating."
"Yes, well, seeing that he gets his lack of a sense of humor from you, I'm not surprised," she snarked, startling another chuckle out of him. "Should I wake him so you can say good-bye?"
Sherlock glanced into the backseat, where Wills was huddled over the central armrest, then shook his head. "No, let him sleep. Tell him I'll text him tomorrow." Then he turned to face her, smiling at her. "Thanks for the lift, and the conversation. It was…exactly what we needed to tell each other."
"Yeah, it was," Molly agreed, looking back at him. "It's the smart thing, not rushing into any kind of a…"
She never finished the sentence because suddenly she and Sherlock had lunged across the central console, his hands cradling the sides of her face as their lips crashed together. The fury of the kiss took her by surprise, but only for the split second it took for her brain to entirely shut down as she lost herself in the pleasure of finally kissing him again. Ten years might have passed but she would later swear it felt exactly the same; the way he sucked her bottom lip into his mouth, the way his tongue slid along hers, the feel of his hands on her face, his fingers threading her hair, everything exactly the same.
Well, not exactly the same; no smell or taste of marijuana, no alcohol fuzzing her brain, everything in sharp, glorious relief as her eyes fluttered closed and she groped for his shoulders, pulling him closer to her.
A sound from the backseat snapped them out of the spell under which they'd fallen; Wills mumbling something in his sleep, bringing them back to reality. Molly's breathing was uneven as she pulled her hands and face away from Sherlock's body, but she was rather pleased to note that his wasn't any too steady, either. "Um, I think you should" she started to say, just as Sherlock blurted out, "I should go, you need to get Wills home to his own bed."
"Yeah," Molly replied, nodding nervously. She watched as Sherlock left, neither of them saying another word as he carefully shut the door and crossed the small stretch of pavement to his front door. He paused on the doorstep, turned back as if to say something – or wave, maybe? – but turned back almost immediately and unlocked the door. He disappeared inside without looking back, and Molly drove off, her mind reeling as she wondered how they would handle their next meeting.
