I'm not going to blather about some nonsense here. Just wanted to pop by, say hello and give a big hug to everyone who liked, loved, hated this story. As a first-time writer, I appreciate it all. Thank you for your kind comments and lovely notes! And don't forget to let me know what you thought about this chapter. It's a humdinger and it literally took everything out of me. I just have one more chapter to go and I'm debating on whether or not to include an epilogue. What do you think about that? Your insights are always welcome!

xx,

Tumbleweed_professor

SHERLOCK

Sherlock wanted nothing more than to close the distance between Molly and him. His hands yearned to touch her, to hold her, and yet, a mulish part of him withheld; the part that still stubbornly believed that Molly deserved someone whole. Intact. Whatever that meant in human terms. Someone who could give her everything she desired. Someone capable of protecting her. Someone who can keep her out of harm's way. And the only way he could ever do that is if he kept her away from him. It wasn't chivalry. No. It was inherent fear. Death always followed him, the putrid stench of it chased him every time he took on a case; every time he stepped out of his flat. But that was part of his identity, his persona. He had accepted that a long time ago. His own death didn't frighten him. He'd been on that scarped edge so many times in the past that it was almost akin to an undesirable companion now. But the thought of inadvertently catapulting Molly through that terrifying unknown chilled his blood, and he knew it would become inevitable should he give in to his whims. His wants. His needs. His desires.

He had spent the better part of the last two months, taking on cases that barely even qualified a four, because he knew if he didn't keep himself busy, he would have been at her doorstep every single day. Molly. An addiction he certainly didn't know how to handle and the mocking irony of it wasn't entirely lost on him. He had relied on time and distance to give them both some perspective, and yet, he realized nothing had changed. He'd firmly thought that these confusing feelings would pass with time, but he'd grossly miscalculated once again.

Like what many believed to be true of him, emotions and feelings were not a new concept for him. He felt guilt when Mary died, scared when John was in danger, lust when he met Irene Adler, and blind rage when a CIA manhandled Mrs. Hudson. So no. Emotions and feelings were not unusual for him. He recognized them. He dealt with them. In his own discreet way; coolly and competently.

But this...

This was uncharted domain; an unsuspecting sentiment that bowled him over. An abyss of terror that made him weak. Vulnerable. A chasm that opened the possibilities of unbearable heartache and horror. The thought of losing her for good had fear gripping his insides in an ironclad fist.

But why did it also make him feel exhilarated? Why did it make him feel giddy and lightheaded? Why did the smell of roses and formaldehyde thrill him? Why did dopamine rush through his system every time he was around her? Why did he want to touch her? To tease her? To make her laugh? Why did it please him when he saw the faintest of color taint her cheeks? It riddled him. She riddled him. He didn't care for riddles. But goddammit he cared for her and he desperately wished she didn't care for him. It only made this so much more chaotic and complex.

Sherlock felt the conflict expand and twist his mind, while his eyes quietly observed Molly. Her eyes sparkled with unshed tears. Those mercurial orbs that sometimes looked more gold than brown depending on her mood, stared at him vacantly. Her slightly damp hair fell heavily behind her back, except for a few errant tendrils that framed her face. Her unpainted lips were pressed together in a valiant attempt to keep them from wobbling, and her face a canvas of utter melancholy and anguish. Sherlock numbly felt his heart fissure and burst.

How had he convinced himself that she was ordinary when he knew she was anything but? Quiet eyes, steady hands, generous heart… Dear lord, she was heartbreakingly beautiful. Beyond the social construct, beyond every fact, his mind firmly believed in. And she could never be his. He swallowed a lump in his throat.

"No it's not fair and we'll never be even Molly," he heard himself say.

When she said nothing he felt the words whooshing out of him in a hurry.

"It's not fair because you don't seem to realize the standard to which I hold you. You are precious, more than you can ever see or realize. And it bothers me. It bothers me that you don't see your value." He saw her scoff mildly. "We'll never be even because the debt I owe you is not something I can quantify. You have no idea how important you are to me, how integral you are to my life. John said that even if I did the unimaginable, you'd still choose me, over and over. And honestly? I don't know how to feel about that. I don't know how to feel about you. I will hurt you, Molly. I will hurt you more than you can ever fathom. It's just who I am. I'm not thoughtful. I'm not kind. If I were any of those things, I wouldn't have gotten in the way of your happiness, but I did. Which goes to prove that I'm the world's most entitled arsehole."

Molly gave a weary laugh and pressed her palms to her eyelids.

"If you are allowed to see how precious I am, how valuable I am, then why are you denying me of the same? Why can't I see you for who you are? What is so absurd about that?"

Sherlock gave a frustrated groan. She was being impossibly difficult. He felt as though he was winning the logical battle but losing the long-term war to her. To his heart.

"You do see me and it astounds me that you still choose me," he grounded out impatiently.

Molly shook her head looking determined.

"I see both. I see the disguise and I also see you. Do you think I can't differentiate between the two? I know how you've been helping John's sister with her AA meetings and your best friend has literally no clue about it. I know you visit Victor Trevor's grave every Tuesday and play your violin for him. You even visit his parents. No one asked you to do these things, but you do it anyway, and you still want to convince me that you are not kind or thoughtful? That you don't feel anything? And before you tell me that this all stemmed from guilt, I'll tell you why that's not true. Because I see you. I see it in your eyes. You genuinely care. You genuinely love."

Sherlock stared at her, stumped. He had absolutely no idea how she knew about his under-the-radar rendezvous. The sentiments he wanted to contain, overflowed and spilled as he took in the woman who squeezed his heart.

"How did you-" But Molly continued to speak over him.

"And for the sake of both of us, please stop putting me on a pedestal. The standard to which you seem to be holding me is unreasonable and I don't think I can live up to that," she said in a tired voice. "You talk as though I'm perfect, like I'm not messed in the head. That's just not true. When you so unnecessarily deduced me two months back, I already had my doubts about Tom and me. I think he knew it too. If our relationship had been strong, you saying or not saying something shouldn't have changed the way we felt about each other. But it did. It doesn't mean you were right to do that, it only means that we were not solid enough to face it together. You were an arse about it, but you were right. Getting engaged to Tom again was a hotheaded mistake that arose from my need to forget everything." Molly rubbed her hands over her arms as though trying to ward off a chill.

"John's not wrong, I'd choose you over and over because that's who I am. Not because I'm selfless or possess a heart of gold. It's purely for self-serving reasons. Reasons I can't even begin to theorize. I want this. I know it won't end well, but I still want this. I want you. That alone should be proof enough to see how messed up I am." Sherlock subliminally knew that, but to actually hear those words come from her mouth… His heart took a sharp dive at her blunt honesty and when she looked at him again, her eyes blazed, and the fervency behind them set him aflame. "I know what I'm worth. I know I'm entitled to be happy, but that doesn't stop me from wanting this. Wanting you. It's fucked up and I get that. But don't pity me, Sherlock. Don't think, "Oh, poor delusional Molly.", because that's an even bigger insult than you not loving me. You want us to go on being friends? That's fine with me. You think you and I don't stand a chance? That's fine as well. You want to stay away from me? I'll still live. I'll still survive. Because any truth is better than indefinite doubt. I won't sway you. I won't beg. I won't persuade you. Because you're right, I deserve better than that, and I won't do something that's beneath my dignity. And if this was the point you were struggling to make, then I've just saved you the trouble of making it to the end."

Molly didn't wait for his response. She simply swept past him towards her bedroom door. But for Sherlock, it was a split-second decision. He knew he was on the brink of losing something vital and crippling fear forced him to voice out the unsettling words that kept getting caught in his throat.

"I thought about you," he said in a hoarse whisper and saw the way her hand jerked on the doorknob. "I didn't want to. But I thought about you. Just like you said. When I was solving a case. When I was composing. When I was simply breathing. I thought about you. You were everywhere. It's not a pleasant feeling, the idea of obsessing over you, especially when I'm working. But you know what they say, once an addict. Always an addict." Sherlock sidled over to her. Molly tensed but otherwise stayed put. Her face was carefully blank as she stared straight ahead.

"But you deduced one thing incorrectly. You've always been in my head, Molly. Always. It's just that I see a lot more of you these days. So if I was able to solve that many cases, it was only because I used you to propel me further. I didn't want to see you as a distraction, because you never were. How could you be? You've always been a source of strength to me, so how could I discount you as a mere distraction?" He paused and kept his eyes trained on Molly's side profile. When she didn't so much move or breathe, he let the maelstrom of emotions continue to pour out of him.

"And just like you predicted, I suffered. But not in the sense you wanted me to. It wasn't because you were an obstacle or you got in my way, but simply because I missed you. I missed you even when I shouldn't. Unlike the assumption people already have of me, I do feel things. I do feel emotions. But this. This scares me because I know the stakes are higher. But that doesn't stop me from feeling it. And no matter how hard I tried to deny it, there's nothing more deceptive than an obvious fact. And when I thought about it, it was rather elementary. Quite simple actually. Because the truth of the matter is that I have strong feelings for you. Feelings that transcend our friendship and I honestly don't know what to do about it. And I know I'm not qualified to deal with it," Sherlock took a deep breath and finally disclosed his most heaviest and terrifying secret. "I guess what I'm trying to say is, if this is how love feels, then I think I'm hopelessly in love with you, Dr. Hooper."

Molly's hand slid off the doorknob. Her rich honey-colored hair fell like a curtain over her face as she rested her forehead on the door. A distant buzz roared in Sherlock's head and he tasted the bitter tension that rippled around them. Time stood still as he waited. His hands turned clammy and a line of sweat ran down his spine, nonetheless, he waited.

"Oh, you bastard."

Molly whirled around, her eyes clear and bright, and for one wild second Sherlock one hundred percent believed that she was capable of hurting him. Wrecking him. Destroying him. With blinding clarity, he acknowledged the power she exerted over him and he truly understood that he was the one who was defenseless around her. He had once again underestimated the sheer force that was Molly. She charged at him and Sherlock braced himself for the worst, but when she only threw her arms around his neck in a fierce embrace, his heart stuttered. And then stopped. Her scent battered him, and the weight of her, warm and real and willing, pressed against him sent his mind into a dizzying spin. His arms stayed at his sides as he went stiff as a board, and his brain ineptly tried to analyze the situation.

Slowly, as though trying to test the waters, he brought his arms around her, and with a touch of hesitancy, he splayed his fingers over the small of her back. But when he heard her breath hitch, his teetering obstinacy untethered. The little catch in her throat rocketed straight through his system, awakening the monster that he had kept locked away in a dark vault in his head. Desire, vivid and intense, steamrolled over every piece of logic his mind trained him to remember. He pulled her close as his fingers dug firmly into her hips. Molly strained. Her flesh, only a flimsy article away, burned in his arms, stoking a fire in the pit of his stomach that had been dormant for years. Every cell, every nerve, every atom in him pulsed with a ferocious urge to mate. To take. To demand. Molly squeezed his shoulders as she pulled back a fraction to lock eyes with him and when Sherlock saw wanton need swirling in them, his stomach clenched. There was a suspended moment, where they simply looked at each other, and before he could process, before his brain could catch up with his action, his lips sought hers.

And what should have just been an innocent brush of lips rapidly surged into something else… and his brain flashed "MISTAKE" in large bold letters, even as he took her through the battering hurricane.

Lips, teeth, and tongue battled for dominance as their kiss deepened and spun out. Hands tugged and scraped over their fevered bodies. Moans and gasps were discovered and devoured greedily. The unrhythmic staccato of their heartbeats melded and bled into one until Sherlock could hardly distinguish between them.

He vaguely realized that he had her caged against the bedroom door and she was on her toes to keep up with him. Her fingers combed through his hair and her nails grazed his scalp sinfully. He shivered and the guttural groan he made went unnoticed against her lips. His blood pumped thickly beneath his skin as he tried to gentle their deranged pace. He broke away from her lips and buried his face in her neck. Her delicate skin was perfumed by the sweet smell of roses as he placed open-mouth kisses on her tender column. He nudged her dressing gown to the side and allowed his tongue to trace the small mole on her clavicle. The floral notes that flavored her shoulder sent another bolt of lightning through him. She inhaled sharply as she tried to find purchase on his shoulders, and Sherlock heard the monster in his chest purr smugly. His fingers traveled over the planes of her ribs before they came to lay teasingly under the swell of her breasts. Molly whimpered. She hooked one leg over his hips and in a move that caught him unawares, switched their positions fluidly. It was now Sherlock's back that dug firmly into the door as Molly took charge and he lost himself in a sea of warring emotions.

Her teeth nipped and soothed his bottom lip, and a strangled sound ripped free from his throat. He felt her lips curve into a ghost of a smile against his as she deliberately slid her tongue inside his mouth. The taste of her, coffee and mint and something daringly spicy, stirred up a brutal need to simply take her right then and there. His fingers tugged and wrapped around the silken strands of her hair to match her frantic tempo. The inexorable heat that clawed at him, raged and stormed as Molly tormented him with bold kisses and clever hands. They thrashed and writhed in an unfamiliar erotic dance, both unwilling to relinquish or break free. Molly's hand jangled behind his back and they both went tumbling into her bedroom— and that's when Sherlock abruptly came back to his senses. He tore his mouth away from hers, and when she blindly reached from him again, he placed his hands on her waist to keep her at arm's length. His breath came out in harsh gasps and his heart rate bordered on the perilous level. The back of his legs bumped the bedpost unsteadily as his lust-addled brain fought to bring back some semblance of control.

Molly watched him through hooded eyes, her face flushed and glowing, her breath labored. The thin swath of cotton was rumpled and parted down her center provocatively, and the sight did unbelievably suggestive things to his mind. Sherlock bit back an expletive. When he had walked in here today, all he had hoped was to tentatively restore their friendship and see if Molly was willing to forgive him. He simply wanted to make her see that he was not capable of showing her the love she deserved. He by no means had come in prepared for the onslaught of emotions and sentiments. He certainly didn't factor in the throbbing need for her to coil and strike. What was even the point of taking this winding and tedious path if it only led him to this? Hadn't he just, not too long ago, told her that he had feelings for her, but the idea of them was ludicrous? So what the hell was he doing?

"Molly, I.." he started but Molly cut him to the chase.

"Shut up." Sherlock detected no malice in her mild voice. If anything it was laced with affection and love. He tensed. "Just shut up." She all but slithered back into his arms and placed her hands over his chest.

"Molly..." he began warningly, but she simply rubbed her mouth over his faint stubble. The muscles in his belly tightened.

"I can practically hear the cogs turning in your head. Stop thinking. Stop analyzing. Just this once."

"But we-"

"No. We can talk later," she murmured as her fingers worked nimbly over his shirt buttons. Sherlock quivered when her hands fluttered over his newly exposed skin and if his brain hadn't just leaked out of his ears, he would have been horrified by the sound he just made. He gave her one long searching look, and when he only saw warmth and trust shining remarkably in her eyes, he let his heart do a slow cartwheel in his chest. He knew it was beyond selfish on his part, but he'd be damned if he let her go now. He caved.

"Later," he agreed gruffly as he yanked on her dressing gown belt.

I don't even know what to say... LOL. I think my brain just fizzled out. This is my first time writing a story, especially writing something that has sexual undercurrents to it. It was HARD you guys. For reasons I really couldn't comprehend, I felt like I was intruding in on them. As in the characters that I'm writing about. As in Molly and Sherlock. It made me giggle. It made me blush. It almost made me give up. Because it was so challenging. And now I have the utmost respect for people who can write about intimacy. I truly hope I didn't suck at it.

Anywho... thank you for your lovely comments. Your kudos. Your theories and your blatant desire to beat Sherlock with a bat made me feel all warm and gooey. I hope our boy gave you some insight into his head. And I hope he made you understand why he kept pushing Molly away.

Well... I'm wrung out. Until next time.

xx