Chapter Thirty-Six: Distractions

Molly shot up in bed. Blearily, she looked around the small room, not recognizing at first where she was. In a flash, it came back to her. Sherlock's flat. My bedroom. She paused, listening for sounds or any clue as to what might have awakened her. But as ever, the flat was silent. She searched her memory, trying to recall if she'd been having a nightmare. There was nothing. One minute, she'd been asleep, the next she wasn't.

She sighed. Great, and I have to work today. Yawning, she stretched, taking a mental inventory of how she felt. Exhausted, but wired at the same time. Same as yesterday. Sleep, up until this point, had been fitful at best. But she supposed that was normal considering the fallout from her chat with Mycroft as well as the resulting discussion which followed between her and Mary when the older woman returned a few hours later to claim her child. The sheer amount of danger they were all in was daunting, and every day Sherlock didn't return home brought that glaring fact more to the forefront of her mind.

Turning to the bedside clock, Molly was amazed to find that it was half four in the morning. She'd slept a full four hours, which was an hour longer than she'd averaged per night in the near week since Sherlock had left. That, at least, is something.

Knowing returning to sleep would be next to impossible, she got out of bed and dressed. In stocking-feet, she padded down the stairs in search of her morning dose of caffeine. That and worry were her main sources of energy these days. The lounge was eerily still and dark, the only waning light coming from the street lamps outside the window. The lack of noise should have made her feel peaceful, but it only reminded her that Sherlock wasn't here. Not wanting to wake the slumbering landlady below with heavy footfalls, she tip-toed into the kitchen. She winced at the sudden brightness as she turned on the overhead light and went about making coffee. Ten minutes later, the beverage was prepared, and after switching back off the light, she picked her way through the dark back to the lounge door, intent on returning to her bedroom to read for a while to keep her mind busy.

"Why are you up so early?"

Molly yelped, one hand against her heavily beating heart. "Sherlock? You're home."

"Why are you awake? It isn't even dawn yet." A strange, unmelodious sound followed this.

"I couldn't sleep anymore," she answered when she had recovered herself, frenziedly peering about the lounge to try to locate him in the shadows. The chairs by the fireplace were soon deemed empty. As her eyes better adjusted, she was able to make out a silhouetted lump on the sofa. That has to be him. It took everything she had not to dive on top of him to prove to herself he was really, truly there, but she didn't. Sherlock, after all, wasn't one for affectionate reunions.

"Why are you sitting here in the dark?" she asked, blowing on her hot coffee to try to appear blasé with his unexpected arrival.

"It helps me think." The noise came again. A sharp, plucky sound.

What is that? But, instead of inquiring about it, she said, "How long have you been home?"

"What time is it now?"

"After four."

"Two hours."

"Are you hungry?"

"No."

"When's the last time you ate something?"

"What day is it?"

"Saturday."

"I ate yesterday. I'm fine."

"When did you last sleep?"

"I'm not tired."

"It's quite late."

"Or quite early, depending on your angle of perception. Do you have any other questions or are you done playing Mummy yet?"

A heavy hush settled over the room in the wake of his burst of annoyance. Molly had many more questions, but knew better than to test Sherlock's patience with them. There was so much to wonder over, so many things to fret about. But there was nothing more important than Sherlock solving this case. His answers must come now. Her answers would come later. Molly wasn't sure when, but she knew the information would present itself sooner or later. It always did when it came to her associations with this enigmatic detective. So, with a resolute nod that she wasn't sure he could even discern, she turned to the door.

"Where are you going?"

"To my room. You like to be alone when you think. I thought it might be best if I—"

"Sit with me."

She frowned, unsure of what was happening here. She flicked on a neighboring light so she could see better and winced again as the glare flooded the room. Sherlock was stretched out on the sofa, his back slouched haphazardly against the arm and a blanket trimmed in blue ribbon tossed over the bottom half of him. Molly half thought she recognized the covering, but couldn't remember where from. Sherlock held his violin against his chest, absently tugging at the strings. That, at least, explained the sound she'd heard. His reclining position only made her want to stretch herself out next to him. She yearned to have him hold her, to kiss him and make love with him, and to lose herself in him until all of her worries were dispelled.

But she was being silly, and she knew it. There were rules now. She must keep to those—no matter what Sherlock might do to sway her. So instead of doing as she wanted, Molly perched on the sofa arm furthest from him. Setting his violin aside, Sherlock pushed himself forward until he was fully sitting up. His long legs were straight out in front of him, bare toes peeping out from beneath the blanket.

"Stop staring at my feet."

Her head shot up in alarm. "Sorry." Her eyes sought purchase elsewhere, but the irritated expression currently residing on his face did not welcome her so she focused on his shirt instead. The cotton, dark green t-shirt was too big for him, especially about the neck. The gaping hole sagged to one side, giving her an uncontested view of one, luminous collarbone arched perfectly against the pale creaminess of his shoulder. The little hollow at the base of his throat that she'd loved kissing seemed more predominant this morning, which was—

"Would you like to have sex?"

He might as well have kicked her off the sofa. The effect of his words was just as pronounced. Molly choked on her tongue, almost dropped her coffee, and fought to keep her seat. When she finally got her wits about her enough to shift her attention to Sherlock once more, she found him stretched out again, this time with his arms stacked behind his head as he studied her.

Slowly, one dark brow arched. "Do I take that as agreement?"

"N-n-n-o!" Molly hastily gulped at her coffee and ignored the fact that she burned her tongue by doing so. Instead, she straightened, stared at him head on, and said, "Definitely not." It was the height of lunacy that, after all they had experienced together, after all the conversations they'd had, and all the sex they'd had, she would feel this tongue-tied in his presence. But here she was. Sometimes, she truly hated the power he had over her, and, more than anything, she wished she had half as much power over him.

He smirked as if he could read her thoughts, almost daring her to even consider having control over the supreme Sherlock Holmes. There had been times when Molly had thought she might have some sway over him. Days like this informed her otherwise.

She frowned at him and changed the subject to one more befitting their situation.

"Sherlock, about Professor Moriarty—"

"You're clearly having trouble concentrating. Physical congress has helped you in the past."

What? Is he still on that? "And you would know that how? Any time you and I have ... indulged ... we didn't work afterwards."

"You always seemed more alert and able to focus on those mornings when you had indulged ..." He smiled as he used her word, "with Tom. I would assume the same concept holds true for me. Or, because it's with me, I presume it would have an even greater effect on you."

"And why is that?"

He shrugged. "Because you were still in love with me while you were with Tom. As much as your relations with him might have temporarily inoculated you against your feelings for me, it never held for long. It stands to reason that, by having sex with the man with whom you are in love, the affect received would last longer in terms maintaining your focus for work. In fact, I believe intercourse with me could give you enough concentration for full month."

He grinned wolfishly, giving her a saucy wink. Molly, intent on maintaining control, forced herself to look away. His arrogance knew no bounds, and she wanted him all the more for it—something he was more than aware of.

The man with whom you are in love. There was something about the carefree way he spoke about her feelings for him just now which sent a glorious happiness and warmth spreading over her. It reminded her of how he'd called himself her boyfriend and how much he seemed to have accepted this relationship between them.

She hid her smile behind her coffee cup before taking another drink. Molly then returned her gaze to Sherlock, who was looking at her like the cat who ate the canary. She wondered what he would say if she told him his expression reminded her of Mycroft. "You certainly make a rational argument."

Just as he reached forward and removed the throw from his legs in preparation to come to her, she added, "Of course, your logic is flawed."

He paused, scowling. "How so?"

"Well, considering you and I indulged five days ago, that would mean I am as inoculated as I can be—for at least the next month. Therefore, I doubt another session would do much to cure my concentration issues."

Taking to his knees, he closed the distance between them in seconds until he was nearly on top of her, the familiar feral quality ablaze in his eyes. She knew it so well now; knew it meant how desperately he wanted her. Her heart slammed in her chest. Dear Lord. Still, this time she retained both her seat and her composure. "Of course, if you needed a little something to help you work through the various issues in this latest case, I always endeavor to be of assistance." She took a nonchalant sip of her coffee as she waited for his response. "You know, if you needed it."

Sherlock's fingers closed around the cup until she had no choice but to relinquish it to him. He took a long swallow of the beverage. Then, with a grimace that displayed his disapproval over the lack of sugar, he plonked the mug on the floor and pulled her into his arms.

With a soft gasp, she fell with him until they were both lengthwise across the sofa. She was in his embrace. Trying to get comfortable in this somewhat awkward state of events, she wrapped her arms around his neck. He leaned down to nuzzle her, kissing her neck and along the line of her shoulder.

"So, is that a yes?" Molly said, trying to stay coherent. As much as she wanted to sink into Sherlock like a warm bath after a cold, blustery day, she knew answers were paramount right now. Her apprehension about the danger facing them had robbed her of sleep and she couldn't help but feel that by kissing her as he was, Sherlock was wasting time when he should have been figuring out solutions.

He pulled away, turning them both so she was below him. He scanned her. Finally, when he found whatever he was seeking, he sighed and, sagging against her in defeat, his face dropped into the crook of her neck.

"Molly, you're driving me crazy."

His words were muffled, but she understood him. "How am I driving you crazy? Because I'd rather you concentrate on Moriarty than have sex with me?"

His head popped back up. "You think it possible for me to concentrate with you as desperately worried as you are?"

She looked up at him in surprise. It was such an unconventional thing for him to say. Quite un-Sherlockian. "You can't think because I'm worried?"

Surprise registered on his face for the barest of seconds, as if he couldn't believe what he'd just admitted or that she would take such heavy meaning from what he'd said—the meaning anyone would have taken—before being replaced with his usual haughty veneer. "Don't make more of this than it is." He softened his rebuke by tucking a loose wisp of hair behind her ear. "I often found my concentration compromised when John was upset."

"I'm not John."

The words hung between them for an impossible length of time. Molly didn't look away from him. She knew better. No, he needed to know she meant what she said as well as everything that could be implied or inferred from it. At least one of them should in this relationship.

His body was as tight as a taut string. Then, just as she was sure he would flounce away in one of his huffs, he relaxed again. Then, urging her thighs apart so he could settle his hips against hers, he said, "No, Molly Hooper, you are decidedly not John."

He didn't attempt to kiss or caress her further. Instead, he laid his head on her chest, resting on top of her with a somnolent sigh. He was heavy, but it was an oddly reassuring burden. She was unsure of what to do at first. After all, she'd never had Sherlock this close before without having sex with him. It felt luxurious, being able to hold and feel him thus. Molly used the tips of her fingers to lightly scratch his back through the thin shirt, tracing little patterns as she went. He shuddered gently, arching his back ever so slightly like a cat enjoying a good petting. He felt cool to her, so she wrapped her legs around his hips and pulled him in closer so they could share body heat and kept on tracing his back. He said nothing, just lay there as a willing recipient of her ministrations.

They stayed like that for the longest time, until the light from the windows came from a more natural source. Still, she didn't want to leave. Being like this with him made her feel comforted, even with all that was weighing heavily on her mind. She could fall asleep just like this, slumber peacefully for hours and hours in the warmth and comfort of his embrace.

Finally, when warnings in the back of her mind were reminding her that she had work soon as well as all the new rules now in existence, she removed her legs from his hips and squirmed to be let up. He snuggled closer in protest and grumbled, "No."

"I need to get ready for work."

"It's barely dawn. You don't go in for another two hours." He pulled himself up, balancing on one elbow to stare down at her. "Or better yet, ring Mike Stamford to tell him you're not coming at all."

Molly shook her head. As she was about to argue, her attention caught on the wall behind the sofa. From her position, it looked to be covered in an array of papers, a few of which fluttered in the wake of Sherlock's movement. "What's that?"

"The case," he muttered, burrowing into her neck. He kissed her softly there a few times, reaching up to cup her breast. "Now, I believe we were just about here—"

She struggled, shoving his hand away. "Let me up," she said.

"No. You'll only worry some more, which will affect your concentration at work. Allow me help you with that," he replied, continuing with his plan of seduction as he yanked up her shirt and began to kiss the tops of her breasts. He thrust his pelvis against her a few times, letting her know his attentions were not just for her benefit. He wanted her as well. She opened her mouth to protest, but he swooped up and captured her lips in a passionate kiss.

Part of her wanted to yield. No, truth be told, more than two-thirds of her wanted to yield, to give herself over to this mindless joining, to the emotional, physical, and mental release which came with the pleasure sex with Sherlock always brought. But she couldn't. He needed to focus, and this—she—was getting in the way.

"No," she said, breaking away from him. Her arms were bracketed against his chest, forcing him to look at her. "Let me up. Now."

Sherlock squinted at her, confused. "What?"

"I'm declining your kind offer. Remove yourself from my person so I can get to my feet."

He blinked and stared at her, once more reminding her of Mycroft. "You're denying me?" He frowned. "You're denying me? You want me. I know you want me. I can tell. You always want me. You always want me." It was like he felt if he repeated it, it would make sense.

"Consider it a postponement then. Just let me up."

He gracefully rose up and away, resting on his haunches as she scrambled awkwardly to get to her feet. Once she managed that, she smoothed her hair down and gazed up at the papers lining the wall. They were a mix of maps, photos, hastily scribbled notes, and what looked to be a schedule of some kind.

"What is all this?"

"Work, obviously," Sherlock growled, plopping back down on the sofa in a sulk. He straightened until he had once more commandeered the entire sofa, crossing his arms over his chest. He looked adorable, but Molly wisely kept this opinion to herself.

"Can you catch me up? Start at the beginning with this Professor Moriarty."

He glared petulantly at her. "Are you saying Mary didn't catch you up during the discussion you two had when she came to retrieve Abby?"

"You know about that?"

"I know about everything," he announced matter-of-factly.

You don't know about Mycroft, she thought. If you did, you'd be the one demanding answers. Then again, it's probably better this way. "How long have you known the professor existed? Since you went to dismantle Jim's network?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Before that. After he came to tea."

"Jim came to tea? Here? With you?" Molly couldn't even imagine that.

"Of course."

He spoke as if it were natural to have tea in his home with one of the most notorious criminals in British history. Then again, for Sherlock it probably is. "When?"

"After his trial but before my fall."

"Did he tell you about the professor then?"

"No," Sherlock replied. "He came to show off and to warn me of his plans through wordplay, but that's the problem with toying with your victims before you do them in. You run the risk of giving away more than you intended."

Fascinated, Molly asked, "And he gave away his brother?"

"No, he showed me who he was—a man seeking attention. Not just attention at large, but credit for his brilliance. He showed me his frustration, frustration that comes only from spending your life second best and the knowledge that, no matter what you do, you will never be quite good enough. He didn't want money or power. He wanted to be recognized as the best. He needed it like water, food, or air."

"But how does that translate into a brother?"

"As someone who has spent his life in the specter of a brilliant elder sibling, I know firsthand what that kind of frustration feels like. It's unique and easily recognizable if one knows what to look for. I suspected this meant an older brother. When I went to dismantle Jim's network, I heard whispers about the professor. That's when I knew I'd been right."

"But why would Jim target you? Why wouldn't he go up against his brother if he wanted to show off? How does besting you prove anything?"

"I'm brilliant."

"Yes, I know that. So is Mycroft, so is this professor, and so is Earl Denton. Why go after you specifically? How would besting you prove anything to this brother of Jim's?"

Sherlock closed his eyes, slowly shaking his head. "That is the one thing I still don't know. Perhaps it's as John said—my international reputation made me a target. Or maybe it was something else. Honestly, it doesn't matter now. Jim's dead."

"It does matter," Molly insisted.

Sherlock opened one eye to look at her. "And why is that?"

"Because if you uncover the reason Jim targeted you then, you'll have a better understanding of why his older brother is targeting you now."