Chapter Thirty-Seven: The Shuffle

Sherlock rolled his eyes, exasperated at himself for believing Molly was on to something. His phone buzzed with an incoming text. He picked it up, noted it was from Lestrade, and tossed it aside. "The reason I'm being targeted is obvious. In the professor's mind, I'm responsible for his brother's death. In retaliation, the professor wants to kill me. Must we go through this again?"

"But if that is so, why—"

"Don't you have to get ready for work or something?" His patience spent at this dead-end conversation, he rolled to face the back of the sofa.

She didn't respond to this blunt dismissal, but then again, he hadn't expected her to. He simply needed her to go away for a bit. Having her around right now made him feel … Well, wasn't it enough that she made him feel anything? Now was not the time for this—especially when Molly smelled of lavender and the memory of the taste of her skin was like sugar on his tongue. The knowledge that holding her in his arms moments before had been more of a homecoming than usual euphoria he experienced upon entering his flat after a prolonged absence sounded mental warning bells. The temptation to lose himself in her was so overwhelming that he didn't trust himself to keep his distance.

But he must keep his distance. After all, Molly said no, hadn't she? She didn't want him. Why? What did it mean? Had he done something wrong? Of course he hadn't! It didn't matter. There were more important things to ponder. Damn.It did matter. Why did it matter? And why did her rejection leave Sherlock suffering from a supreme level of frustration he was sure all the heroin in London wouldn't dull? He'd gone years without the touch of a woman. He'd survived, hadn't he? And whatever else Molly Hooper might be, she was nothing more than a woman. Just a woman.

The blessed and repeated creak of the stairs told him Molly had fled to her room. Thank God. Most likely he'd hurt her feelings and would have to come up with some sort of apology later. Right now, he couldn't even fathom it. He wanted to yell or heft the contrary pathologist over his shoulder and carry her off to his bedroom. What would she say then? Would the answer still be no? What would he do if it was? Why did he care so blasted much? He had a case, didn't he? A definite 10. Quite possibly the most intriguing case that would ever come his way. He should be happy—or at the very least, excited as usual. Instead, he was much the opposite.

With a deep groan, Sherlock flopped onto his back. Two seconds after that, he was on his feet, intent on ridding himself of this nervous energy. Cigarettes. Cigarettes. Where are they? This was certainly a two-pack case. Perhaps three or five. It depended on how many he had left. In his current mood, he was liable to smoke through an entire carton.

Where are the blasted things? Ever since the last time he'd quit cold turkey, Mrs. Hudson had taken to throwing them out whenever she should happened to find them. She even binned a pack of nicotine patches she'd found in the skull on the mantle. If those weren't sacred, what was?

"Why can't they leave things the way I put them? It's my flat, isn't it?"

He heard his phone go off once more. Lestrade again. He checked to be sure, ignored the message, and sent a quick text of his own.

You're late.

The reply came a moment later.

Ten minutes.

With a grunt of frustration, he continued on his mission. A thorough scouring of his customary hiding spots, which included a pair of brocade Persian slippers (or at least, the one he managed to locate), inside the bejeweled watch box he'd received from a client, and the hideaway pockets lining the inside of his coat, yielded nothing more than a flat, beige box, which he sat on the table next to his chair where it was sure to be noticed. Next, he climbed his bookshelf to check the hollowed-out volume proclaiming itself to be a biography on Dr. Joseph Bell. Nope. Damn! Tossing the empty tome across the room, he growled and jumped down.

"Mrs. Hudson tossed them yesterday. It might behoove you to find new hiding places for your vices."

She's back. About time. With a scowl, Sherlock replied, "If I put them in different places, Molly, I can't find them."

"You're a consulting detective—the world's only—and you can't find your cigarettes if you don't put them in your predictable hiding spots?" Molly asked, gaping at him as though he'd lost his mind.

He ignored her immensely practical question. "You changed clothes."

Her expression tightened defensively. "I wanted to."

Molly had covered herself in that ugly jumper with the cherries crocheted on it. Sherlock despised the garment and often fantasized burning it in a large bonfire. The only thing that kept him from it was the knowledge that jumper was the last gift her father had given Molly before he died. He gritted his teeth, knowing her purpose for wearing it. She felt the need to cheer herself up. If she starts weeping, I'll never get through this. I'm on a razor-thin edge as it is. Can't she tell that?

The spasm of guilt mixed with fear hit him by surprise. The initial instinct he'd had upon his quick deduction of her clothing, however, would have felled him completely had he not had the forethought to brace himself against the bookshelf. Sherlock Holmes had wanted to take Molly into his arms. Not to have sex or to get access to the lab or body parts, but simply because she clearly needed comfort and he'd already been such a dunderhead to her.

Good, Lord. What's next? We'll hold hands, spout poetry to each other, and pledge to remain together forever?

As a rule, Sherlock Holmes always attempted to be a gentleman when it came to his treatment of women—Mummy demanded no less from all her sons. A weeping female was never censured. Avoided, if at all possible, and assisted when not. One never EVER ran blindly towards an overemotional woman. After all, one was not an idiot.

Experience had taught him that attempting gentlemanly behavior did not mean it always came across as such. It was one of the many reasons he shied away from relationships in general and women in particular. Women were an emotional minefield. One tiny misstep and BOOM.

He stumbled over to his chair, collapsing in defeat. What is happening to me? Is this what insanity is? Have I finally lost my senses as Mycroft has often worried I would? But what other explanation could there be? Here he was, the perfect reasoning and observing machine the world had ever seen and he was overcome with softer passions like some kind of lovesick dandy. No. Not me. Not my area.

Sherlock closed his eyes, concentrating on regulating his breathing. The case. That's all that matters. The case and nothing else.

"Are you all right?"

"I'm fine," he bit out.

"Not too fine if you're manically hunting for cigarettes."

His eyes snapped open at that. "Maniacally?" His eyebrow arched at her. "Really?"

Molly crossed her arms over her chest. "If the adjective fits ..."

"Adverb."

"Whatever. It still fits."

Sherlock fell back in the chair, grousing to himself. Nothing made sense right now. Not the way he felt or his instincts at present or Molly's sarcasm in the face of his own boorish manners. Shouldn't she have run off to work to lick her wounds? How many times had a curt word from him sent her running to sob her eyes out in the lavatory? Where was the old Molly Hooper when his sanity desperately needed her?

"Here."

A small, cellophane-wrapped packet fell into his lap. He looked down. It took a moment to register what he was seeing. He glanced back up at her. "Where did you get these?"

"The shops. Picked them up while you were gone. I figured, sooner or later, you'd be desperate."

Before he could respond, a shuffling noise came up the stairs. Wiggins appeared, carrying a large, white garment bag. "Just hang it in my bedroom," Sherlock ordered, not bothering to rise.

"All right," the younger man said. Once his chore was complete, he returned to the lounge.

"Well?" Sherlock asked.

"The alarm was raised this morning."

"Good. You can go. Keep me alerted if anything new pops up."

"All right. Do I actually get to go inside with you this time?"

"You wouldn't exactly fit in, would you?"

Wiggins colored in chagrin. "Guess not." He tipped his tattered cap at Molly. "Good to see you, Miss."

"It's Molly, remember, William?" she said.

The youth colored again—this time for an entirely different reason. "Molly," he murmured.

Sherlock sighed hard, hating the fact that the mere sight of Wiggins grinning at Molly like a buffoon made him want to toss the boy out the nearest window. "You can go now, Billy."

Wiggins quickly shuffled out.

Once they were alone, she said, "There was no need to be rude to him."

"If you knew how infatuated he is with you, you wouldn't think so."

"Infatuated?" Molly scoffed. "Please. He's just a troubled young man in need of a friend."

"And you are just a woman intent on saving every stray who comes your way."

"Which would explain why I'm here now with you."

Not willing to acknowledge exactly how fine a point she'd just had made, Sherlock growled and turned his attention to the nicotine patches in his lap.

"Do I get to know what that was all about?"

"Where's the fun then?" he replied. She eased closer to him, her ever-present scent of lavender and formaldehyde once again making him aware of his desire for her. He fumbled with the wrapper.

Taking pity on his clumsiness, she snatched the packet from him, ripped off the cellophane, and handed it back. "Just promise me you won't use more than two at once. Now is not the time for you to develop nicotine poisoning."

"Done." With a great sigh of relief, he slapped two patches in a row across his arm. Reclining against the back of his chair and closing his eyes, his body relaxed as he felt the nicotine hit his bloodstream. He inhaled fully, then exhaled, long and loud. Yes. That's it. His heartrate increased, but as that was to be expected, he paid it little mind. Calmer now, he was able to turn his attention from Molly. His mind ruminated over what he'd learned the past few days. Taking each detail up in his mind, he reviewed and categorized it carefully before filing it away and moving to the next. When he opened his eyes, he was amazed to discover the light brighter in the lounge, which indicated that it was near on midday.

He was more than amazed to see Molly sitting on the sofa across from him, reading. Perfect. Saves me the trouble of hunting her down in the lab later.

"Why aren't you at work?"

"You needed me," she said, putting the book aside. "I stayed. Told them I was sick."

"But ... before ..."

"Before?" she repeated.

"I asked you to do that before ... when I ... when you ..."

Molly said nothing, simply waited for him to finish. As Sherlock realized finishing would only lead to mortification, he changed direction. "How did you deduce that your presence was required?" His gaze fell on the book in her lap. The one of dragons, unexpected deaths, bastards, ice zombies, and an iron throne. "How does reading that poor excuse for a novel help me?"

"Been reading it, too, have you?"

"Of course not!"

She grinned, an indication that she didn't believe him. "You were clearly stuck in the case and frustrated. I assumed once you'd had time to think things through—if you were still stuck—you might find it helpful to have someone to bounce ideas off of. I also assumed you might be hungry or thirsty at some point." She nodded to the table beside his chair, which he noted contained a cup of tea and a bowl of soup, both with steam still rising off of them in little, know-it-all plumes.

Trying to ignore how much the soup's delectable smell was turning him into one of Pavlov's dogs, he huffed, "I'm not stuck."

"Uh-huh," she murmured, her nose once more returned to her novel.

Since she wasn't watching, he dove into the soup. After all, it would be a shame to waste it since she went to all the trouble. I am a gentleman. The first spoonful was heaven. Potato with bacon. Before he knew it, the bowl was bare. He barely looked up as she reclaimed the now-empty dish and provided a new, heaping one. This new bowl, as well, was soon exhausted. At length, with a gluttonous sigh worthy of Mycroft goggling dessert, Sherlock shoved it away.

Molly, like before, collected the bowl. "You were starving."

"Yes." He nursed his tea.

"You sound surprised by that admission."

He considered it briefly before he said, "I am."

She returned the bowl to the kitchen and came back to regain her place on the sofa.

Sherlock watched her, finishing his tea and setting the cup back on the table. "Thank you."

"You're welcome."

"Did you make the soup by hand?"

"Yes," she answered, almost shyly.

"I wasn't aware you could cook like that."

She ducked her head. "I'm hardly Delia Smith. I can do eggs, a simple bolognese, a few soups, sandwiches, and an occasional fry up if need be. Anything more complicated than that and I'm all thumbs." Pulling her knees up against her chest, she added, "I made lots. We can eat on it for days. It's easy to reheat in the microwave."

Sherlock nodded, wondering when such mundane conversation had become his existence. Moreover, he wondered when such conversation had become anything but mundane. He was enchanted to know this side of Molly. Having stayed at her flat a few times and in having her here all these months, he hadn't bothered to pay attention to her culinary skills—After all, food was just food. Now, he wondered what other skills she might have that he was unaware of.

Checking his watch, he noted the time at a little after noon. Sherlock got to his feet, stretching the kinks from his body. He grabbed his phone, noticed he'd missed a few calls from Lestrade, and put it in his pocket.

"How do you do that?"

He looked around. "Do what?"

"Go without food so long you don't even recognize when you're starving."

Sherlock shrugged. "I don't think about it. I'm typically focused on the case."

"Doesn't a growling stomach interrupt your focus?" She leaned forward on the sofa, her curiosity seeming to get the better of her.

"The weaker aspects of being human—hunger, thirst, and the like—can be put aside for a time if one has been trained appropriately." He tapped his temple. "Mind over matter. The game always comes first."

"Yes, the case must come first." Molly nodded, seeming to ponder the wonder of it all. "But surely you can't put the weaker aspects aside forever?"

"No. Eventually, my humanity rears itself and I must indulge in whatever way my body demands. But only in small doses until the case is solved. Then, I resume life as I was until the next case comes along and the cycle begins again."

"That can't be healthy."

He frowned at her. "Do I appear ill to you?"

"You're too thin, and you don't get enough sleep. It's a wonder you don't have dark circles under your eyes. You won't reach forty the way you're going."

He waved her concerns off and claimed a seat beside her on the sofa. "I'll live to a ripe, old age."

Molly looked up with a smile. "And what will you be doing then? Still solving cases?"

It was his turn to ponder. "Possibly, if my mind is still sharp and I'm interested enough to care. I could also see myself retired. I'll buy a cottage in the countryside somewhere."

A shadow fell over her face for the barest of moments. But she quickly recovered with a smile to cover it. "And what will you do at this countryside cottage?"

"Apiculture."

"Beekeeping?"

Sherlock stared at her in wonder. "You know what apiculture is?"

"Of course. I studied medicine, which includes a lot of Latin. Apiculture is from the Latin word apis, which means 'bee.' Plus, bees are kept in an apiary."

Unbridled lust hit him from nowhere. Brainy is the new sexy, indeed, he thought. This made him think of the woman, which was startling when he realized he hadn't thought of her in a long, long time. Odd.

"Why beekeeping?"

That turned his attention. "Bees are fascinating. Solitary creatures with a complex culture. There are over 20,000 species of wild bees. Did you know that?" He didn't wait for her reply. "So much to learn. I've written a few blogs on their nesting habits, but I've never truly had the time to delve deeper in my understanding of them. I'm most interested in inter-breeding and hybridizing." He nodded to himself. "Yes, I believe I could be quite content as a beekeeper."

Molly gave a merry little laugh, rocking backwards a bit before coming forward.

"That is amusing to you?" he asked, half insulted and half intrigued.

Her eyes got a faraway, bemused look about them. "Not amusing per se. I more enjoy your passion on the subject. I didn't think I'd ever see you proclaim that level of interest in something which doesn't involve a crime scene. At the same time, I love the idea of you as a gray-haired, old man puttering around your hives for hours in one of those large hats with all the netting. Somehow, I imagine you'll still manage to be handsome." Glancing down at her drawn-up knees, her voice turned husky. "You'll always be handsome." She shrugged. "To me, anyway."

Her words sent a warm, unfamiliar feeling in the general vicinity of his heart. Moreover, the persistent lust heightened, overcoming a body part situated much lower. How much more could he take? What would happen if I just leaned over and kissed her? Would she reject me then?

He exhaled, trying to push the temptation away by changing the subject. "And what will you be doing while I'm out back tending the bees? Will you be inside the cottage reading one of your ridiculous novels?"

With a gasp, her eyes darted upward to him. Their gazes held. Unadulterated bliss flooded her expression. The source of this newfound happiness he didn't know. Sherlock only knew something he had done had put it there and he never wanted it to go away.

No words were exchanged. Barely a breath was exhaled. Looking away from Molly now was something Sherlock could not do. He was captivated, ensnared by the way her eyes sparkled as if barely able to contain her elation, enthralled by the unique scent that followed in her wake like a cape, and beguiled by her ... Wait. Beguiled? His rational mind could barely fathom the word or the ramifications of it. Alarm bells sounded in his head. Cold fear raced through his veins like cocaine. Pull back. Now. Cynicism reared its ugly head, giving him a solid list of reasons why he should look away right now. Run. This path will lead to your ruin. He'd heard this warning before. He'd heeded this warning before with The Woman. But something else—something intense, heavy, and loud—overruled all of it this time. She's not The Woman. She's Molly. Your Molly. And as simple as that, his mind quieted until he saw nothing but her, felt nothing but her, thought of nothing but her.

Molly smiled, so sweet and soft and winsome. He smiled back. He couldn't help it. Beguiled. Yes. Unrepentantly. That's what I am. He leaned forward, intent on kissing her. She leaned forward as well, but just seconds before their lips were to meet, she pulled back. "I should go clean the kitchen."

"What? Why?"

"It's dirty." She liberated her knees and prepared to rise.

"Do it later." Sherlock captured her wrist before she could get away. "Or better still," he said as he gave her wrist a swift pull, which catapulted her into his lap. "Don't do it at all. I have something far more interesting to occupy you." Her supple body in his arms was everything he remembered and so much more. He reached up to kiss her, but again, she jerked away.

"Release me."

He did so, more because of surprise than anything else. Molly stumbled a bit, but soon had her footing. Without another word, she marched to the kitchen. Sherlock followed.

"What's wrong?" he demanded once they'd rounded the corner.

Molly immediately went to the sink, filling it with soapy water and dirty dishes. She kept her back to him. "Nothing."

"Have I done something to offend you?"

She turned off the tap. "No."

"Do you wish to end our relationship?"

That made her turn to look at him. "No."

The not understanding was driving him crazy. Sherlock crept closer, his eyes running over her. "Your breathing has increased, as has your heartbeat from the way the pulse point at the base of your neck is jumping at me." He closed in on her until she was backed against the sink and his shirt was touching that God awful jumper. He reached up, running two fingers along the side of her neck. Her heart was hammering so violently that he was sure he could have heard it if he took the time to listen. Glancing down, he murmured, "Your eyes are dilated. Your skin is flushed. Do you know what deduction I must make based on all these facts, Molly?"

"Sherlock, we can't do this now."

"Can't we?" He dropped the timber of his voice, knowing from past experience that women—Molly in particular—seemed to become flustered and off center whenever he did that.

"You need to focus. Nothing is more important than the game, remember?"

He cupped her chin, pulling her closer to him. "The game, indeed." His lips ran delicately over her cheek, down her chin, and scored her neck before he placed a light kiss at the base. She shivered and he grinned to himself. Got you.

"Th-th-the c-c-case." She paused, swallowing hard before she continued. "I know you're stuck."

That gave him pause. He pulled back. "I'm not stuck."

"You are. There's no shame in admitting it."

"There's no shame because I'm not stuck."

"But you were gone for almost a week. Five days to be exact. You didn't ring or text me, which leads me to believe you were on to something."

"I was. Is that a problem?" Sherlock's mind raced. Had he done something wrong? Was he supposed to ring or text her? He hadn't needed her. Why else would he contact her? Of course, now they were in a relationship. Did that change things? If so, how? He would have texted her to alert her of his return as he had done before, but as it was way past midnight, he had thought it better to not disturb her rest. Had he been wrong in that?

"Then," Molly said, "out of the blue, you show up here, all anxious and moody and desperate for cigarettes. You only act like that when you're stuck."

"That wasn't about being stuck. It was …" He broke off when he realized what he was about to admit.

When he didn't finish, she looked down in defeat. "Don't lie to me."

Now he was livid. "I'm not lying to you, Molly. I promised not to, and I've kept that promise. Just as I have vowed to solve this case and deal with Moriarty, and I will." He closed in, capturing her jaw so he could make her look at him. He was astonished to find tears in her eyes, more astonished to realize those tears felt like a punch to the gut. "Do you doubt me?"

Her expression softened as she stared back at him. "No. Never. You and only you are the one who can solve this case. I know that, and I trust you." She bit her lip. "I love you. I know that's a weakness in your eyes, but I do."

It was a weakness—not to mention foolhardy by half—but not enough that he wanted her to stop. In fact, he rather liked how much she loved him. His mind buzzed with this realization, he didn't have time to concentrate on that because she was still talking.

"—and I'm trying my best to follow those rules. I truly am."

Rules? What rules?

Molly's lower lip wobbled. Not a good sign. "I will not let our relationship get in the way of your work. I won't. Someone could die. That's bad enough. But if it's you, I …" She scrunched her eyes closed as if she couldn't bear to finish, causing a tear to roll down her cheek. Then, as if she'd gotten better control of herself, she opened her eyes to look at him. "Don't you understand? I want to help."

Sherlock's mind raced in confusion. There was more going on here than he could adequately understand. "You want to go with me on cases? Why didn't you say so?"

"No, that's not what I'm talking about!"

When she didn't expound on what exactly she was talking about, he said, "Molly, you have always helped me. I've always appreciated it."

"In the lab, yes. But now that I'm living here and we are … in a relationship, I'm causing you to lose focus."

He wanted to argue with her, but she wouldn't let him get in a word edgewise.

"Right this second," she continued, "I want nothing more than to drag you into the bedroom and have my wicked way with you. Even with all that's on the line, I don't care. I still want you. I could barely concentrate on my book while you were in your mind palace. All I could do was sit there staring at you and your beautiful neck and think about how much I love how your hair curls lightly around your ears when it's in need of a cut and how much I've missed you. How selfish and stupid is that? Right now, when you should be focused on your work, I'm a distraction!" And with that, she fell against his chest, sobbing and muttering incoherent recriminations to herself.

Sherlock caught her crumpled form, held her against him, and clumsily patted her back. As his shirt was soaked with the tears of his weeping girlfriend, three things became quite clear.

One, from now on, he was evidently going to have to keep Molly more in the loop concerning his cases and activities. She worried too much otherwise.

Two, she desired him as much as he wanted her. Thank God for that.

Three, he was going to have to kill Mycroft.