A/N :: Consider this short chapter my apology for being away for so long. I realize this spiel is old hat, but I have been one busy lady. Working 60+ hours a week at a very demanding job takes a physical and emotional toll on a person. I'd like to say that I have been able to kick myself into gear and start on the rest of Part IV, but that just isn't true. I'm not done with this story–rest assured that it WILL be finished. After all, what's a journey without a destination? This story is already over a year old … and what a tumultuous year it's been. I am sorry it's taken me so long to finish. I never meant to drag it out.

Stick with me. I promise this won't be one of those fics you get invested in and then they're never finished. It's just … kind of like Sherlock and Molly. It's got a bit of a slow burn.

I really appreciate everyone's kind reviews and words of encouragement. I hope you enjoy this chapter. I'm not saying it happened within the story. I'm not saying it didn't. Is it a dream? A fantasy? Who knows. Take from it what you will. And, as always, enjoy.

Part IV: Falling

Chapter 13.5: Interlude

Molly fell easily into the familiar routine of preparing Sherlock for a shave. She'd done this enough to be considered an expert geologist, specializing in carving out the strong planes of Sherlock's jaw. They dragged in a chair from the dining table and got to work.

They worked in tandem. Sherlock swung a towel around his shoulders and tipped his head back just as Molly leaned over him with the cream. She lathered his jaw with ease and precision, then reached blindly into his medicine cabinet to grab his razor from its usual spot.

Sherlock's mouth twitched into a little smile, amused by her familiarity with his belongings and where he kept them, even after all this time.

"What are you grinning about?" Molly demanded, a playful smile tugging at the corner of her mouth. The razor was steady in her hand where it was paused above his neck.

"Nothing. Nothing at all," her murmured, closing his eyes.

They fell into a contented silence; the soft snick of the blade as Molly deftly worked it around the facets of his face was the only sound in the tiny bathroom until she started humming. Sherlock recognized it instantly as a tune he used to play on his violin. He was grateful for the cream remaining on his face–it masked the flush creeping up his skin.

He was usually so impressed with his own clever mind that sometimes he forgot other people were also capable of noticing and remembering trivial things. He felt almost touched that Molly would remember and remain familiar with a melody that he'd picked out idly and forgotten as soon as he'd bored of it.

The hem of her dress brushed his hand, and reflexively his long fingers grasped the cloth. Molly stopped her humming, lifted the razor from his skin, and peered down at him.

"Something wrong? I haven't cut you, have I?"

"No," Sherlock murmured. "Just keep humming."

Molly's lips quirked up into a smile as they fell back into their routine. Molly continued her quiet humming while she finished his shave. Sherlock rubbed the fabric of her dress tenderly between two fingers. When she was was done, she turned away to rinse his razor at the sink, pulling her dress out of his grasp. He leaned up and patted his face with the towel around his shoulders, wiping away the few traces of shaving cream.

He didn't take his eyes off her.

She could see him in the mirror. His bright eyes traveled down her back, her legs; then they roamed back up her body to her arms, where they blazed a trail along her bare skin.

Feeling the heat rising in her cheeks, she returned her focus back to her hands. She dried the razor meticulously with a hand towel before replacing it carefully back on its perch in the cabinet. She rinsed the lathering brush and placed it on top of the container of cream. She dried her hands as well, and when she turned back to him she was met with the embrace of his knees.

His hands snaked up her sides to settle on her hips. Molly swallowed past the nervous lump that formed in her throat. "Sherlock?" she said uncertainly.

Without looking up at her, he let out a weary sigh and pulled her forward until he could rest his forehead against her stomach.

"Are–are you in pain?"

He shook his head slowly and mumbled something incoherent into the fabric of her dress. She lifted her hands to his hair, stroking her fingers through his dark curls.

And then his hands reached up to hers, pulling them down and intertwining their fingers. He stood and pulled her forward so that her front was flush with his. He was so much taller than her, but that was alright; she was used to this–Tom had been good for something, at least. As if it were the most natural thing in the world, she lifted her hand to the back of his neck and pulled his face down so that she could crush her lips to his. Her thumb stroked the corner of his now-smooth jaw as he opened his mouth hungrily against hers. He didn't pull away from her, and they were pressed so firmly together she didn't know where her body ended and his began, but they still weren't close enough.

Sherlock growled low in his throat and his free hand bunched her dress in his grasp as he pressed her against the sink. He devoured her lips like a starving man, gripping her to him like she was anchoring him to the floor. He pulled his other hand free of hers so that he could lift her to the countertop, pressing himself between her legs. She tangled her hands once more in his hair and hooked her ankles around the backs of his thighs.

If it were possible for the two of them to be pressed any closer together, they'd be occupying the same space.

Sherlock's lips moved away from hers and down her neck, nipping lightly. He was out of breath with the ferocity of their kissing, but he couldn't bring himself to break their contact.

Molly flushed at his kisses; they were deliciously slow, in contrast with their initial kisses. She leaned her head back in contentment, allowing him further access to that ticklish spot underneath her ear–

And cracked her head solidly against the medicine cabinet behind her.

She yelped in pain, her hands flying up as though her touch would help the pain. Sherlock leaned away from her, confused, and she dropped her forehead to his shoulder. She was shaking against him, and it took him one long moment to realize she wasn't crying-she was laughing.

"Molly? Are you alright?" A smile teased the corners of his mouth as he rested his hands on her shaking shoulders and leaned her back so he could look at her.

"I'm fine, I'm fine," she giggled, batting away his hands as he tried to get a look at the back of her scalp. "Such an idiot. Can't believe I–"

He silenced her with another kiss, gentle this time. She broke away with a smile and rested her forehead against his.

"Thanks for that," she teased.

"My pleasure," Sherlock responded with a smirk. "Thanks for the shave."

Molly shook her head and pulled him in for more. This had been a long time coming–she wasn't going to let anything slow her down now.