Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Last chapter, thanks to everyone who read, reviewed or just enjoyed.


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Later,

20 Minutes Later, to be precise

By the time they get to Baker Street, Sherlock is just as soaked as Molly.

He tells himself this accounts for the slight… jitteriness in his hands.

Said jitteriness is so pronounced that he misses the lock with the key- twice- before Molly's snort of amusement makes him turn and glower at her, eyebrow cocked.

"Think you can do better?"

He is ridiculously aware of the massive raindrop sliding down his nose as he speaks.

Smiling, though cold, Molly holds out her hand, palm up, and he places the key upon it.

"Yeah, I think I can do better," she says cheekily, bouncing on her heels.

And without fanfare she turns to the door- "Need help reaching it?" He quips, causing her to stick out her tongue. She opens the lock with a flourish on her first try, giving a gleeful little, "Ha!" That makes Sherlock grin as she pushes the door open, inviting him in with exaggerated courtliness.

He answers this impudence in the only way possible: This time he sticks out his tongue at her.

Molly, giggling and wet and apparently rather pleased with herself, airily hands him back his key.

"Didn't think you knew how these worked," she says, "given your track record at mine…"

"Yes, well, you're rather less violent than Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock shrugs, taking off his soaking coat and scarf and hanging it up on the bannister. This is something the venerable Hudson has told him off about before, but as always needs must when the devil rides. He gestures impatiently for Molly to do the same and she does, though when she takes off her coat he sees that her thin jacket has let through quite a bit more rain than his.

The front of her blouse is damp and transparent, her skin prickled with goose flesh.

Immediately he averts his eyes, not wishing to be seen… ogling. Without waiting for permission he takes off his suit jacket and drapes it over her shoulders, trying to restore some circulation by chafing his hands up and down her arms-

"Sherlock!" She laughs. "I'm not some Dickensian waif: If you want to get me warm then bring me upstairs!"

She doesn't mean anything by it, he knows she doesn't mean anything by it; this entire night has been about cheering her up because the man she's not over had behaved like a git to her.

And yet

"Come along, Molly," he says, taking her still-gloved hand and towing her along behind him, her grin bemused, his pulse skittering.

After a moment of her rather smaller tread slowing him down he suddenly turns, hauling her into his arms and carrying her up the stairs.

It makes her shriek with laughter.

"Sherlock!" She giggles. "Sherlock, put me down!"

"Nope."

He grins, popping the P. Enchanted with the way she's beaming at him, enchanted with the warmth of her in his arms. He feels hyped up, excited, not himself… Or maybe more himself than usual. After all, he likes who he is around Molly far more than he likes who he is around most other people, except, perhaps, John. As he thinks this they reach the landing and, somewhat disappointingly, Sherlock realises that he will have to put her down because the front door keep is in his trouser pocket and he's certainly not asking her to go hunting around for it…

He sets her carefully onto her feet, leaning her against 221B's door and pretending he doesn't feel bereft at the loss of her closeness.

She's still smiling, eyes bright, and oh but she is beautiful...

He moves to unlock the flat but she halts him, squeezing his arm. Peering up at him, all soft gaze and gentle smile. All Mollyish and perfect and her.

"What's gotten into you?" She asks quizzically and he finds he can't answer her, he can't answer her.

Why the Hell can't he answer her?

"Let's get you inside," he says instead, trying to take the easy way out (as usual). "I'll get some towels and you can-"

"Sherlock, what's going on?"

She asks him in that tone, that tone he's heard only once before. That tone she used on the horrid day when she admitted to her (horrid) engagement. That tone she used on the horrid day when Sherlock was finally confronted with what his absence had wrought. He doesn't want it, but for a moment he's back inside the memory: the softness of her cheek against his lips. The cut of that sad little diamond Tom had bought for her, felt even through the leather of his gloves as he took her hand in his. Emotion wells, hurt and embarrassment and anger at Tom, yes anger, because he hadn't been right for her, and she's had to go through the pain of finding that out and then doing the right thing… Anger at himself, too, because he hadn't had the sense to admit how he felt before she was wearing another man's ring…

The feelings roll together, a wrecking ball of emotion and Sherlock hates it, he hates how out of control it makes him.

He hates how ridiculous he knows it must make him seem to her.

"What is it?"

Warm breath, her eyes on his. Her little hand tightens on his forearm and he can't help it, he reaches down and kisses her. It's warmth and pleasure, her mouth against his, her breath in his space, and it. Is. Perfect. Perfect.

It lasts a moment, maybe two, and then he pulls back. Delighted. Mortified.

"I'm not high!" He blurts out, and Christ in heaven, what the bloody Hell made him say that?

Judging by the look on her face, Molly's wondering the same thing.

Before she can say anything, though, he wraps his arms around her and pulls her close. Tight to him. Near to him. She comes easily, clearly confused but neither wary, nor unwilling.

It's hardly the oddest thing she's ever seen him do, after all.

After a moment her arms come around him, a gentle circle. She feels small and strong and steady. He can feel her heartbeat against his skin. For a moment it's just the two of them, the only living beings in the universe that is 221Bs landing and its environs…

He can't look at her, he can't look at her- Until she pulls back, hand at his cheek, and now she's looking at him.

Those brown eyes see him very, very clearly, he thinks, but then they always have.

"Sherlock..?" She says and her voice is so soft. So soothing. "Sherlock, what do you-"

"I hate Tom." He doesn't mean them to but the words come out sounding petulant. Childish. They do not convey the depth of his loathing. "He- He had you, and he hurt you, and he's still hurting you, and that just makes him a git-"

Molly cocks her head, frowning. Stiffening in his arms. "Is that why you kissed me?"

He shakes his head. "No." She cocks an eyebrow, unconvinced, and he pulls back. Crosses his arms, pouting. "No, it's not," he reiterates, puffing out air, hating that he has to say this, but- "I kissed you because I wanted to," he says. "I've wanted to for ages."

If he had admitted to a prurient interest in the mating habits of badgers she couldn't have looked more shocked than she did at this pronouncement.

It is rather less than pleasing, to his ego or his heart.

"You wanted to kiss me?" She asks. "You've wanted to for ages?"

He nods mulishly. Tries to ignore her scepticism.

She stares at him, exasperated and disbelieving and really, rather cross-looking…

And then suddenly, without any warning, she pushes up onto her toes and kisses him again, kisses him properly. Soundly. She kisses him the way a person should be kissed, when they're lucky enough to be kissed by Molly Hooper, and he feels it to his toes. Her arms go around his neck and her lips press to his; she warms him through with her affection, and her willingness, and her sweet, (soaked, cold) perfect little body…

"You're an idiot," she says eventually, when they pull apart.

She's nudging her nose to his as she says it, hands tangling in the fabric of his Belstaff.

It makes him shiver.

He opens his mouth, about to argue, and then (perhaps wisely) allows that she's probably right. She usually is.

"Do you want to come inside, Molly?" He asks instead. "Do you- no funny business, but more, more… kissing… and, and, being warm and such, but no… I mean, we don't have to…"

A wry, crooked smile.

She matches it, and just like that he knows what he is to her. What this means for her.

He has the oddest feeling that this calls for a vow.

"I know I'm an idiot," he whispers, "and I'll probably be shite at everything, but I promise I'll be better for you than Meat Dagger ever was."

He kisses her hand and presses it to his heart. She snorts.

"That's a low bar, Sherlock." But as she says it she smiles at him, and his heart warms. Because if she can joke about him then she's not as hurt as he had thought she was. She's not as hung up on Tom, still, as he'd let himself assume.

He feels the most wonderful huff of relief was through him as he realises it.

So he holds his hand out, and she takes it. Kisses it. He squeezes her fingers, revelling in the lack of a ring on her finger, in the lack of uncertainty in her touch. Inside, the flat is warm and dry. Welcoming. It feels like a homecoming, having her there, and he tells her in a shy, quiet voice that makes her smile at him, starry-eyed.

It's quite the best thing in the world.

They dry off, and fall asleep. Together and together. Together in breath and space and time. Together in mutual kindness.


Mrs. Hudson finds them the next morning and covers them with a blanket, smiling and delighted in the early morning light.