Several hours later, Lestrade stood in front of Molly Hooper's flat. It was raining outside. He wore a raincoat, but had completely forgotten to bring an umbrella when he left his own flat for the underground station.

He knew where Molly lived because he had dropped her off here a few times, but he had never been inside her flat. Not once, in all the years he had known her. They always seemed to gather somewhere else, like at 221B, which seemed to be the nucleus of their little group. Sherlock had been inside, though. He frowned. A fork of lightening lit up the sky, and seconds later, a crash of thunder reverberated in the air.

He had gone home after seeing Sherlock. He had showered and changed into jeans and a short-sleeved plaid shirt, taking some time while he thought about what he wanted to say. Romantically speaking, he had staggered through most of his life, not exactly planning things out and going from one moment to another without ever quite knowing how he got there. He'd married Lola without thinking about it too much. But now he had a second chance at love, later in life, and he had no intention of letting it slip by. He knew what he wanted. He was making a conscious decision. He was choosing Molly Hooper.

Gathering his resolve, he walked up the steps to the front door, and paused there. Stood there in the rain for a minute, thinking, welcoming the feel of the cool rain in stark contrast to the hot July day. His hair was still damp from the shower but now the rain was soaking it more and it ran down into his shirt as well. He wondered what to do next, then sent a text. The way they seemed to communicate best, he thought with some irony. Not always so well in person.

Are you home?

He was pretty sure she was, he could see the lights on through her windows. Droplets of water were pattering against the panes of glass and slipping down in rivulets. She was probably preparing to leave tomorrow. He waited a minute, the rain still falling, and finally the answer came.

Yes

Why?

He texted back.

Open your door

Seconds later, the door opened. She had a look of complete surprise but also something like relief on her face, and she stepped back immediately for him to enter. She was wearing an old vintage Sex Pistols t-shirt and jeans, her hair held back in a simple ponytail in her typical unassuming way, and for some reason, she had never looked more beautiful to him. He stepped in and shut the door behind him. The cat jumped off the chair and came over to twine around his legs, purring.

It was nearly dark in the living room where they were standing, the only light coming from a bedroom down the hall, illuminating things just enough to make them out. In the background he could see objects strewn about, like a suitcase open and partially full, which he quickly looked away from, not wanting to think about it.

Here, finally, they were in the privacy of her flat, where no one else was around to interrupt. He stood there a moment, water still dripping from his hair down his neck, into his damp shirt, sliding off his coat. Somewhere in the back of his mind he thought about the puddles he was probably leaving on her floor. She was about to say something, but he suddenly plunged forward, quick to speak before he lost his nerve, not holding anything back. He did not know how all this would end, but he did know he would never regret telling her what he felt.

"Molly. Don't say anything. I'm not here to talk you out of going. If that's what you need to do, then do it. I just need to tell you something. You don't have to say anything. Please, just let me say it."

She opened her mouth as if to speak, but then didn't, and simply nodded her head for him to continue.

He took a deep breath. "I just wanted to tell you what I think has been going on for the past few years. I am a sometimes bad-tempered jackass of a man. Do you really think I go out of my way to bring coffee to anyone else, just to make them happy? Do you really think I give self-defense lessons to anybody else in my free time? Do I even have free time? I make that time for you, because I like to be with you. I don't randomly stop by to visit anybody else at their job to chat. I don't text anybody else conversationally. I save all my worst jokes for you."

She was staring at him, fixated, her eyes luminous in the dark. He continued, his eyes locked with hers.

"I certainly don't let anybody else feel up my tattoo. I don't hover around anybody else like a fucking bodyguard, as has been pointed out to me. It's been a while since somebody tried to punch me because of the way I looked at a woman. Like how I look at you. I just don't get along with other people like I get along with you. So this is the thing; you are somebody special. Special to me."

He took another deep breath. It was now, or maybe never. "I'm in love with you, Molly Hooper. For a long time now, I've been in love with you."

Suddenly the silence he had asked for from her seemed deafening, now that he had put it all out there. The next few silent seconds that passed seemed endless. He looked down, breaking their gaze, feeling vulnerable and exposed. "I'll leave, if you want."

He didn't even know who moved towards whom first, but suddenly her arms were sliding up and around his neck, pulling him down to her. Responding immediately he put his arms around her so tight that her feet nearly lifted off the floor, she was so light, as he turned around and pushed her into the wall by the door and he ground his lips into hers without even thinking. He leaned over to run his lips down the side of her neck to her collarbone and back up the other side, over her jaw line, back to her lips, roaming over everything exposed and available to him. He could taste the tang of salt on her skin, could smell the perfume from her hair each time she moved. His hands held her at the hips, pulling her into his own, feeling the exquisite pleasure of the pressure of her body against his and he knew she could not mistake his arousal. He could not have said how much time had passed while they explored, urged, answered, gave to each other, their actions saying everything that had been left unspoken.

He trailed his lips down below her ear again, to that spot he loved to taste and which he knew could undo her, and she softly moaned his name. This was technically saying something but it so deeply satisfied him he would let that one word slide, that simple sound of his name coming from her waking something fierce in him. "I want you," he said, against her neck, almost a growl. "So much I can't think straight around you. I think about it all the time, how good we could be together."

He felt her tremble at his words. He could feel her heart pounding, hard and fast. There was a roaring in his head, a pounding in his own chest to match hers, urging him to pick her up and carry her into the bedroom. He wanted that. He wanted that, strongly, urgently, and at just that very moment he thought she would have welcomed that, too. Under his touch he could feel her shirt and jeans were wet from where his own damp clothes were soaking into her. How much better it would be to simply strip them all away and be done with all the unnecessary barriers that separated them from each other. But there it was. Would it really be better. He wanted her to be absolutely certain. Not just now but tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after that. And if he was honest with himself, he didn't think she was.

To gain control, he pulled his hands away, placed them on either side of her against the wall. He was still leaning into her, droplets of water from his hair dripping onto the pale, smooth skin exposed by the v-neck of her shirt, sliding down between the cleft of her breasts now so visibly outlined under her damp shirt. He could not tear his eyes away from watching those droplets slide downwards, mesmerized, bewitched by this woman who was everything good and real and right in his world. Finally, he spoke again. "I want to make love to you, Molls, when the time is right. I want that more than anything. I've always loved everything about you, but surely you have to know by now, I want all of you."

He used all his will to defy the gravity pulling them together. With extreme difficulty he pulled away to leave some space between them. He hadn't meant for this to happen, to stir things up again so much, but he did a lot of things around Molly Hooper he didn't intend to do. He could see her suck in her breath, her lips moving slightly, and it looked like she was starting to say something again.

"No, don't say anything." His hands came away from the wall to frame her face which tilted up to look at him. "Take time to think. Be sure. Because if this happens, I want you to choose me. Choose me. Not default to me because you think you should."

Their gaze held for a long moment, he felt like he was drowning in her eyes, and he was the first to look away. He released his light hold on her and ran a now free hand over his wet hair, slicking it back, then down his face to rasp against his five o'clock shadow.

"After you go, tell me how you're doing, ok? Chat about the weather. The news. The cat. Anything. But don't say anything about how you feel until you're sure. And if you don't want…if you don't feel…" he said, but his voice faltered, unable to continue that train of thought.

He went to the door and put his hand on the door knob, saw Molly still leaning against the wall, bracing herself now with her own hands at either side or her, her hair mussed, her lips red and swollen and slightly parted, still looking at him with her big brown eyes. He steeled himself from turning back to her, to keep himself from following every urge that was screaming in his veins, knowing tomorrow she would leave.

He squared his shoulders. "But if you do, feel something…and if you feel sure, please, let me know," he said again, this time more firmly. "But, Christ, I hope it's sooner than later." And then he opened the door, and exited back into the rain again, his heart breaking, maybe just a little.