Chapter Twenty-One: Shock And Ahh

There comes a time when a body simply cannot absorb any more shock. Then, it just hits and falls away like rain off a mac. This is where Molly found herself. She wondered idly if it was an indication that she was going mad. How else could one rationalize the fact that Sherlock Holmes, the man who didn't love or date unless there was a case involved, had just asked her to be his girlfriend?

Yep, she thought. No doubts. I'm losing it.

"You have questions. Allow me to expound," Sherlock said, as if he'd heard her.

Mutely, Molly remained seated on the sofa. Oh, this should be good.

Sherlock resumed his pacing like a professor giving a lecture. "We each have things the other desires. I want a live-in companion who understands the importance of my work, accepts my various eccentricities, and who doesn't mind being a sounding board from time to time. You want a life with the man you love. A relationship between us is the most rational conclusion, a modest transaction that should prove mutually beneficial to both parties."

"You're not serious."

He had the audacity to look affronted. "Of course I am."

"It's the most preposterous thing I've ever heard."

"It makes sense."

"How so? You don't love me, Sherlock. In fact, you just got through explaining in great detail how you'll never be in love with anyone. You might get the companion you want with this foolish arrangement, but how am I getting anything I want?"

In the blink of an eye, Sherlock knelt down in front of her. Reaching out, his large hands framed her face. He pulled her closer, staring deeply into her eyes. His low-pitched tone was as smooth as velvet. "You want me, don't you?"

Her heart raced. She fought to keep her breath. Her mind became fuzzy and unfocused by his close proximity and the intensity of his concentration on her. His hands were so warm against her cheeks. Molly wanted to sink into that warmth and never come out again.

"Don't you?" he tenderly prompted.

There were silver flecks in his eyes. She'd never noticed them before. So beautiful. Why does everything about him have to be so achingly beautiful?

"Don't you?"

"Yes."

"You can have me." He leaned in as if to kiss her, his voice a bare whisper of sultry air against her lips. "Say yes, Molly."

"Y-y-y …"

"Say it now."

She never could say for sure what triggered it. Maybe it was the slight tremor of annoyance that had seeped into his voice. But like a flip switching in her brain, it suddenly became obvious what he was doing. "No," she snapped, angrily pushing him away. "Stop trying to manipulate me."

"Fine." He returned to his feet in one swift movement. "Let's try logic."

"Logic?" Molly repeated with a derisive snort. "Logic has no place in this foolhardy discussion."

"Why did you end your engagement with Tom?"

Molly frowned, startled and wary. "That's none of your business."

"You are my business, Molly. Have been for some time now. Answer the question."

She didn't respond, merely stared at him. He stood there watching her, stubbornly waiting.

He knows I'm going to give in. Molly hated that he was right. "You know why."

"Tell me anyway. Tell me why an intelligent woman like yourself who sought love, marriage, and children would turn away from a man willing to give her all those things and more."

It was at times like this that she hated Sherlock. Truly hated him. Molly glanced down at her hands in her lap. The empty place on her ring finger seemed particularly noticeable. She fisted her hand, wanting to hit something. She looked up at her tormentor. Or someone.

"Tell me, Molly."

She inhaled a harsh breath, deeply mortified. "Because he wasn't the man I wanted. At best, he was a shallow copy." A lone tear cut a path down her cheek.

The tear did nothing to deter Sherlock. "A shallow copy of whom?"

"You." She glared. "The longer I was with him, the more that became evident until one day I realized I couldn't lie to myself any longer. Neither could I be the kind of woman he wanted. So I ended it for both our sakes. I was a fool to think I could ever make it work." She swiped the tear away with her fist. "Happy?"

"No." He sighed loudly through his nose. "Molly, I'm selfish bastard. I always have been. I make no apologies for that. I'm also temperamental, childish, egocentric, and ruthless when it comes to getting what I want."

"You forgot inconsiderate, conceited, narcissistic, and vain," she retorted.

"Vain?" he asked, one dark brow rose in surprise.

Is he truly so unaware? No, more like he thinks I am. "I live here. I know how much hair product it takes for you to get that just-tousled-love-god style you go for. You also deliberately pop the collar on your coat because you know it makes you look dominating and irresistible."

One corner of his mouth quirked in a sheepish smile. "Just-tousled-love-god? Really?" He shook his head, quickly squelching the humor. "Yes, well. My point," he said, "is that you know all of these less than desirable qualities about me and more. You've known about them for years now."

"So?"

"So, you're in love with me anyway. You want me anyway. You had a kinder, milder, and decidedly more generic and boring version of me that could give you everything you wanted. But you rejected him because he wasn't me."

She shrugged defensively. "I'll find someone else."

"What makes you think you won't do the same thing with the next idiot? You will. You want me, you love me. Clearly, that isn't going to change."

"If I'm away from you—"

"I was away from London for two years, Molly. It changed nothing in terms of your feelings. So why settle for a copy when you can have the real thing?"

She felt herself starting to cave. His logic was, after all, irrefutable. No, she thought. This is about more than logic. I have to resist, turn this around in a way so that he could see how retched and doomed an idea it truly is. "You don't want a romantic relationship, Sherlock. Not really. You just got through complaining about the last one you were in with Janine."

"That wasn't a relationship. Whether I did it because of the case or loneliness, I was merely playing a role. Janine had no clue of the man I really am. You do. What's more, you like who I am. Believe me, that's a rare attribute. One I prefer in my companions."

"I'm not John. I never will be."

Something like fear flashed across his face, but it was too fast for her to tell for sure or to process what it meant. He gave a cynical laugh. "Don't tell me you, like the general populace, think he was my lover?"

"Don't be ridiculous. John's as straight as an arrow. And stop trying to get me off topic. You know what I mean when I say I'm not John. The same as I know why you asked me to go solving crimes with you that day after you came back."

"That was to show my appreciation for you helping me."

"It was also so you could try out a new work partner because John wasn't speaking to you at the time, you missed him terribly, and you weren't entirely sure he'd ever come back."

The lightness returned to his expression, the one that told her she'd impressed him with her deduction. It was very close to the expression he'd been wearing after their kiss. She hated how giddy that made her.

Sherlock turned away, as if considering his words carefully. Then, turning back, he said, "I do miss John. It was foolish of me to think he wouldn't move on after I left London—especially considering he thought me dead. But he did move on. He found a good companion in Mary, and I genuinely wish him well. By asking you to stay here, Molly, I'm not expecting you to take his place. I've never wanted that."

"But if John weren't married to Mary—"

"He'd be married to someone else. It's what he was seeking anyway, a wife and family." Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I can't tell you the number of times his romantic life got in the way of the work. Having Mary there allows for the better separation of those two things. She understands the importance of our work, and he, at least, seems more content." He smiled. "It's why I think a relationship between you and I would be best. You, like Mary, understand. And, unlike John, you wouldn't feel the need to go anywhere. Ours would be a permanent arrangement."

Surely he doesn't mean … The implications were too much. Molly swallowed hastily, saliva going down the wrong pipe. She coughed, feeling strangled as she fought to clear her airway.

Sherlock stepped forward as if to offer assistance, but she waved him off. She was soon breathing normally again and wiped away the tears which had collected due to nearly choking.

He cleared his throat, looking uncomfortable as if he'd only now realized what she'd inferred from his offer. "I should probably clarify that by proposing this relationship, I don't mean it to include marriage, children, or any other such romantic tropes."

Molly shook her head in frustrated denial. "I don't even want to know what you mean by 'romantic tropes.' Sherlock, let's be frank. You're going to hate the hassle and inconvenience of having a girlfriend, and I'm going to end up disappointed and more brokenhearted than I already am. This arrangement will end badly for both of us. Isn't it better to stop to things now?"

He continued, as if she hadn't spoken. "However, I am willing to guarantee you fidelity, respect, adventure, affection, scientific experimentation, and a remarkable, two-bedroom flat with a live-in Mrs. Hudson. Who else can offer you that?"

Molly couldn't help it. She had to ask. "Affection? What does that entail precisely?"

Sherlock blushed and cleared his throat again. "Sex."

He looked boyish and vulnerable and oh, so cute. It was amazing because in all the years she'd known him, in all the times she'd thought him handsome or gorgeous or beautiful, she'd never ever thought of him as cute. Not Sherlock Holmes. But in this moment, he was. So much so that she wanted to take him in her arms again and kiss him and take his clothes off, and she could do all of that and more if she only said yes to—

Nope. Bad idea. I'm not sure why it's a bad idea right this second, but it is.

He moved closer, as if he could hear her thoughts. Oh dear Lord, I'm going to say yes. He took another step, the smirk curling his mouth leaving her no doubt that he could all but smell victory within his grasp. Fear made her blurt out the first thing to come to her. Anything to get him to stop.

"You're a virgin."

It worked. Sherlock stopped. He frowned. He blinked rapidly. He frowned some more. His mouth opened, shut, and then opened again, but no sound came out.

Molly had always wanted to leave the great detective speechless, but not like this. It was almost funny. Almost. "Look, Sherlock, I appreciate the offer, but this isn't going to work."

"Because you believe me to be a virgin?"

"Well, no. I mean, that wouldn't really be a problem because I …" Great, now I'm the one blushing.

"Because you … what?" he prodded as he studied her face.

"I mean, I could teach you … that—I mean, I … Oh, God. I don't know what I mean." She buried her head in her hands, wishing the ground would rise up to swallow her whole. His lack of response made her feel worse. Finally, the sofa dipped down beside her as he settled himself there. He reached over to gently pry one hand away from her face.

"It's my understanding that in these situations, it's usually the virgin who's embarrassed."

She looked at him, dropping her other hand in her lap. "No situation is ever usual where you're concerned."

He thought for a bit and nodded. "This is true."

"Usual or not, this won't work, Sherlock. Me and you. It won't. No matter how much lust or logic you use to try to gain my agreement, it won't work."

He squeezed her hand, making her remember he was still holding it. "You say lust and logic won't work. How about we try the blunt truth?"

"And what is that?"

"Molly, I spent two years of my life dismantling Moriarty's web, two years where I suppressed every emotion I had and focused on nothing but the work. I did it because it had to be done, because it was the surest way to keep those I care for safe, and because it was fun. I completed the job, and I came home."

"Because you didn't have distractions. That's all I'll ever be to you."

He ignored her words. "I came home to find the people I'd been protecting had moved on without me. The world had moved on without me."

"They believed you were dead."

"Some knew otherwise." He stared hard at her when he said it. "It was quite a shock to me how easily people could move on, how quickly I could become irrelevant—"

"You were never irrelevant."

"—and I realized my life had become shallow, cold, and—frankly—a lonely existence. It was fine when I was taking down Moriarty because I always knew what I was coming back to. But to be alone in London …" His eyes darted downward, like he was ashamed. "I don't do well alone. I just … don't. I've tried to convince myself otherwise, but when you were leaving tonight, I realized …"

Whatever this was, it wasn't a manipulation. She knew it. He was telling the truth, and it was costing him dearly. It almost scared her to see him like this. "Sherlock, I …" She broke off, unsure of what to say. He was her Sherlock now, but so much more … vulnerable. Yes, that's what he was. Like one wrong word from her could irrevocably break him. No, not me. I'll never have that kind of power over him. "Don't you understand? I can't be what you—"

Without warning, his gaze shot up to catch hers. "You saved my life, Molly."

"I just helped you by finding a body in the morgue, Sherlock. Anyone in my place would have—"

"No, I'm not talking about when I faked my death. I'm talking about when I was shot."

"What? I wasn't even there."

"You were. You know about my mind palace. You remember what I've told you about it?"

She did. She also remembered how fascinated she'd been when he'd described it in detail, how it worked and how it he was so careful with what information he filled it with. "Yes."

"When I was shot, I went to my mind palace, desperate for a way to survive until help could arrive. I knew I didn't have much time, and that only someone truly brilliant could help me." He squeezed her hand again. "It was you, Molly. It was you who was there. You told me—step by step—what was happening to me and how to survive it."

She shook her head, so overwhelmed tears poured down her cheeks, but she could do nothing to stop them.

He nodded. "Yes, it was you. Only you. I wouldn't have trusted anyone else."

"But John—"

"John wasn't there. I swear. Whenever I'm at the end of my rope … when I'm at the bottom of the barrel and there's appears to be no other solution but to give up …" He stopped talking and frowned, as if he were irritated at himself for not being able to adequately explain what he meant. Then, in a flash, his whole demeanor changed like the answer had come to him. He shifted to sit nearer to her, staring her down. "Ask me, Molly."

Bewildered, she said, "Ask you what?"

"Ask me the question you always ask."

"What question?"

"The one you ask whenever you see me at the end of my rope, when I'm at the bottom of the barrel and there's no other solution but for me to give up. Ask me, Molly."

She knew then what he wanted. No. Don't do it. If she gave in, there would be no stopping him. "Sherlock, no—"

"Yes. Ask me."

"It's not—"

"I beg you."

His voice was full of desperation. He gripped her hand like it was the only thing saving him from drowning, and she couldn't have denied him right then if her life had depended upon it. She never could when he was like this. Echoing the strength of his hand on hers, heart squeezed painfully, and she felt an unwelcome pleasure of being needed. By him, of all people. She sighed.

"Ask me, Molly."

Then, she did. "What do you need?"

His answer was swift and sure. "You. Just you."

"OK." Her voice was low and whisper soft, but she knew he'd heard her.

Sherlock raised her hand, bringing it to his lips to press a gentle, but ardent kiss across her knuckles. He'd closed his eyes, and she saw a tremor of some deep emotion pass over his face. To be treated with such care and such affection, it was too much. It was the single most romantic moment in Molly's life. Maybe this can work, after all.

Finally, he opened his eyes and looked at her. A slow, endearing smile stretched over his face. She smiled back, hit with an unexpected bout of euphoria. It was unbelievable. She, mousy Molly Hooper, was in a romantic relationship with Sherlock Holmes. Sure, a small voice in the back of her head interjected, but not the one you wanted.

It's Sherlock. I'll make do. She felt drunk in the knowledge that she could have him—or at least more of him than he'd ever offered anyone else. I'll take it. She knew she should berate herself for settling like this, but she could summon the energy or care to do so. He needs me. He needs me.

"Excellent. Now," he said, releasing her hand as he scooted back a bit on the sofa. Then, steepling his fingers under his chin, he said, "One more last thing to handle, and we can consider this whole matter settled."

"And what thing is that?"

"My virgin status."