Despite everything, Molly had decided to come in to work that night. It was an odd shift since she was filling in for another fill-in who had gotten sick, but she didn't mind. If anything, she hoped working would take her mind off the incident at the Watsons' wedding reception. When she clocked in, Stamford had asked her about the wedding, and she responded in kind, but the entire thing was miserable for her. He handed her a bottle of champagne to be given to the newlyweds, but Molly wasn't sure it would make it that far.

She made her way to the lift, stepping inside when it opened up. Just before she chose her destination, a familiar baritone voice called out to her.

"Hold the lift!" Sherlock Holmes practically ran toward her. "Molly, I didn't realise you worked tonight."

Pressing the button for the morgue, she replied, "I had tonight off, but the person filling in for me got sick, so now I'm filling in for the fill-in."

"What about your fiancé?"

"What about him?" Molly scoffed.

Before Sherlock could reply, the lift lurched, tossing Molly into him. He caught her in his arms and didn't let go until it shook one more time, screeching to a halt. "Are you alright?"

Molly wriggled her way out from his arms. "No," she admitted, "but thank God this bottle of champagne survived." She struggled with the cork, muttering to herself until ultimately giving up. "Damn it!"

Sherlock moved closer, his hand outstretched. "Here," he spoke softly, "allow me." He pulled the cork from the bottle with ease, and Molly screamed from the suddenness, but ended up laughing. "See? Nothing to it…Molly?" Her laughter had turned to cries, and she had backed to the left back corner of the lift.

She was aware of how pathetic she looked in this moment, but Molly couldn't find it within herself to give a damn. Sherlock approached her cautiously, offering her the bottle. She gladly took it, taking a good long swig of it. Tears stained her reddened face and she slunk down to the floor, her knees pulled up to her chest. Sherlock joined her on the floor, his concern plain as the nose on his face. "Come to wallow in self-pity with me, then?" She offered him the bottle as a joke, surprising her when he took it.

"What happened, Molly? What did Tom do to you?" he asked.

It's funny, she thought, he remembers names with ease when his friends are hurting.

When she didn't answer, he pressed on. "Molly, I'm serious, if he laid a hand on you, I—"

"He didn't do anything, Sherlock." She looked up into his eyes, now a dark maelstrom due to the anger that had bubbled up inside him. Molly laid a hand on his arm, reassuring him. "I promise you it was nothing like that." He appeared to have visibly calmed down after that.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

Molly grabbed the bottle from him. "Maybe. Not yet. I need more champagne."

Giving a soft chuckle, Sherlock realised there could be worse things than getting drunk in a broken down lift with the woman he secretly loved.

Molly was lying on the floor, her hair splayed out beneath her. A quarter of the bottle had already disappeared. She had her hands together, resting against her nose and lips in true Sherlock fashion. "Do you think humanity is well-equipped for handling tragic situations? Some die of literal heartbreak, you know."

Sherlock turned toward her, scrunching his face at the pose she was making. "Are you mocking me?"

A short laugh escaped her. "Maybe a bit." Her hands dropped to her stomach. "Seriously, though, in your professional opinion, do you think we're meant to handle all these tragedies or are we meant to die from them whether they happen to us or someone else."

"It's a morbid topic," he remarked. "I think—and this is very cliché—that only the strong survive. Only a person with an abundance of resilience and strength of mind can truly survive. Take you for example. I admire the strength you exhibit. To deal with me, you'd have to be resilient."

This warmed her. "Plus, I dated a psychopath."

Sherlock laughed. "And broke up with him."

"He must've been so torn."

A beat of silence passed and then they laughed at the notion of a heartbroken James Moriarty.

"And Tom," Molly continued, "thinking the murder weapon was a meat dagger! Worst case of secondhand embarrassment I've ever felt in my life." Though Sherlock was laughing, Molly noticed that his smile didn't reach his eyes.

"Hey," she spoke in a quiet, gentle voice, "you look sad."

"Sad? Me? Nooo, I'm fine."

Molly took his hand in hers, squeezing it affectionately. "You're not, but that's okay. You've got me."

"Do I?" The words left his mouth before he had time to think. They tasted bitter on his tongue. He took another swig.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Molly questioned, sitting straight up.

"Well, you certainly never thought to wait for me to come back," Sherlock told her. "Instead you went off and got yourself engaged to a man who's my exact opposite."

She scoffed in disbelief. "You told me you hoped I would be happy. Did you not wish that!?"

"Of course I want you to be happy, Molly!" Sherlock's voice broke. "But I hoped you would have rather been happy with me. You broke my heart."

Her voice softened. "You never even asked me to wait for you. I would have had I known."

"I know." Sherlock looked off, diverting his eyes from her. They sat in silence for a few moments, unmoving. He finally turned toward Molly, her head leaning against the wall of the lift. Fresh tears rolled down her cheeks. He moved closer, filling in the space between them, and began wiping the drops off her face with the pad of his thumb. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to start a fight."

Molly closed her eyes, losing herself in the sound of his voice. "I fought with Tom tonight. About you, actually." She took a moment to compose herself. "I was gonna see if you were okay when I noticed you leave the reception. I just wanted to check up on you, but I let Tom convince me to leave you be." She sniffled. "I regretted it and I expressed how worried I was about you. He told me I had to choose between him and you, and that he was tired of me putting you first."

"So you…left?" he asked.

"I left," she confirmed, noticing his eyes drifting to the ring that remained on her finger. Molly twisted the offending jewelry off and threw it at the doors of the lift. "Only thing is, it appears it was all for naught."

Sherlock offered a heartfelt smile. He stood, offering his hand to her. "Take my hand."

"What are you—?"

"Just take my hand," he told her, "please."

Molly tipped the bottle back before doing as he asked. Her fingers landed delicately on his, and he pulled her up and into his arms. Sherlock placed one hand at the small of her back and laced his fingers with hers with the other. "Dance with me."

"But—"

"Shhh," he sounded. He then began humming softly a familiar tune.

Right there, in that moment, it was heaven. The warmth of his hand on her back, the comfort of his voice; her heart relaxed with him. Sure, in the beginning, your heart palpitates when you're around a crush or just someone you find attractive, but you know it's the real thing when the very presence of the person you love can calm the raging sea within you. A small gasp escaped her when she felt his lips pressed to her temple. He continued humming the final chorus of the song and dipped her at the end, pulling her back up and holding her.

"Sherlock," she whispered. "Do you still love me?"

"I could never stop," he admitted, pulling back to look in her warm brown eyes. "I have always loved you. And I still do."

"Could I turn back the clock and accept your offer of extra portions of chips?" she asked.

Sherlock chuckled. "I'm afraid there's no turning back time, Miss Hooper, but how about we go for chips tomorrow evening?"

"I'd like that," she replied. And then her hands slid into his unruly curls, pulling him down far enough to reach him. Her lips brushed his, softly, delicately. Sherlock relished the feeling, inhaling her champagne-laced breath; the warmth of her supple mouth had him sighing softly against her.

"Molly," he sighed her name as their lips met over and over. Sherlock took her waist, pulling her against him, caressing her curves.

"Mmm, love you," she spoke softly as she broke away. She was now tracing his jawline, her tongue darting out to taste him. Sherlock felt helpless as she began to explore the crevices of his neck, locating his pulse point where her lips lingered for a moment, and how the velvet of her tongue filled the hollow of his throat. She worked her way back up, her mouth hovering over the sensitive spot just below his ear. "I've missed you."

"My darling," he breathed, "I've missed you too." Sherlock took her hand in his and seated himself on the floor, guiding her to his lap. He grabbed the bottle, offering it to her. She smiled, taking it for another sip or two and Sherlock did the same when she handed it back. The bottle was just over halfway gone between the two of them.

Molly giggled happily, biting her lip as she held his face in her hands. "I love you, Sherlock." She pressed a lingering, slow kiss to his lips. Her hands slipped from his face and she took a heavy breath. "It's so warm in here."

"Maybe we shouldn't have drunk John and Mary's champagne," he laughed. "Alcohol tends to bring an excessive volume of blood to the skin's surface making—" he stopped short as he watched Molly slip her t-shirt over her head and onto the floor, leaving only a lacy purple bra as a barrier between him and her soft breasts. He swallowed hard. "—the skin warm. So warm."

"Problem?" she asked, a mischievous glint in her eyes.

His tried to catch his breath, but his erratic heartbeat had other plans. "You are so beautiful." Sherlock returned her sweet smile before he buried his head against her neck, nudging her dark waves aside to access her clavicle. He traced the hollow just above the bone with his gentle mouth. Molly carded her fingers through his curls, a rush of warmth building up within her. She gasped as he placed warm, tender kisses upon the swell of her breasts. He lifted his head, meeting her eyes. "It is…quite warm in here."

Molly helped him out of his coat and jacket, and Sherlock shoved the sleeves of his button-up to his elbows. He watched, completely besotted by this woman—his best friend and now lover—as she threw her hair up into a messy bun. "Ahh, that's better," she remarked with a smile. Sherlock considered taking another drink, but Molly beat him to the bottle now pressed to her lips as she drank from it, never taking her eyes off his. "I've always loved your eyes—sectoral heterochromia suits you well."

"Only you would flirt with science whilst tipsy," Sherlock laughed, his eyes crinkling.

"You look about ten years younger when you genuinely smile," she told him. "Do I make you happy?"

"Oh, very much so," he answered, unable to keep the smile off his face. "I've never felt happier." Sherlock locked his arms around her, hugging her tight. He drew circles on the small of her back with the pad of his thumb. Molly laid her head in the crook of his neck, resting on his shoulder. He could feel the warmth of her breath on his skin, even and relaxed. "Thank you, Molly."

"For what?" she mumbled sleepily.

"For loving me." He could feel her lips turn up into a smile, and soon, she was dead to the world. "Goodnight, Molly." Sherlock pressed his lips into her hair before resting his own head atop of hers. He continued to rub circles against her skin until he, too, fell asleep.

"…both here last night…must have gotten stuck…"

Sherlock cracked open his eyes, his vision blurry. Molly was still in his arms, sleeping like a rock. She was absolutely exhausted.

"What the hell happened here?" Greg asked in amusement taking in Molly's state of undress and the nearly empty bottle of champagne. "Looks like you two have had a long night."

"Mm, Scotland Yard, why're you here?" Sherlock mumbled.

"I came lookin' for ya, and Stamford here just now got the guys to fix the lift. You're free to go," Greg explained. "So…your flat or hers?"

"Mine—it's closer," Sherlock replied. Then to Molly, he spoke softly, nudging her awake. "Molly, I need you to help me, darling." She stirred in his arms, lifting her head from his shoulder, confusion written on her face. "The lift's been fixed. We need to get your t-shirt back on." He grabbed it from the pile that held his coat and jacket, and slipped it back over her head as she put her arms through.

"M'so tired," she yawned. "My head is—Oh!" Sherlock had lifted her up into his arms, carrying her out of the lift.

"Graham, could you grab our things?" Sherlock asked.

The detective-inspector sighed. "It's Greg."

She opened her eyes slowly, woken by the sound of bow meeting violin. The tune was familiar, a favourite of hers. Molly slipped out of bed—his bed—and padded her way softly through the sitting room. Sherlock, adorned in his blue dressing gown, faced the window as he played. She approached him, wrapping her arms around his waist, hugging him from behind.

Her head rested against his shoulder blade. "Bach, Suite Number Three," she noted. "You play it beautifully." Molly reluctantly let him go, allowing him to store his violin and bow away.

"Thank you," he replied with a quick smile. "How's your head?"

"Much better," she told him. "Look, I just—what happened in the lift—I'm giving you an out, you know, if you want it."

He frowned, his worried eyes boring into hers. "Why do you think I'd want an out?"

"Because it was late, and we were exhausted…and tipsy," she replied. "Don't get me wrong, Sherlock, I want this. I want you, but I don't want you to resent me. If I became a distraction from the work you love to do, you'd hate me for it, and I couldn't bear knowing how you'd look at me if it came to that."

Sherlock's face fell. He could hear the tremble of her voice, worried that he would one day hate her. It damn near broke his heart. "Molly," he uttered softly, knowing that the next words out of his mouth were going to be very important. "I was wrong before."

These four words caught her attention and she encouraged him with her eyes to go on. Sherlock moved closer, taking her hands in his.

"I once refused to believe that the work took precedence over everything, and for a time, it did. It had been the most important part of my life until it introduced me to what was really important, or rather who," Sherlock explained. "My work brought me to you, and that has been the most rewarding part of it. I was falling in love with you before I was fully aware of it, and I only knew for a fact how I felt when I approached you in my darkest hour. Molly Hooper, it is a privilege to love and be loved by you. If I were to ever resent anyone, it would be myself for not having told you sooner. You are the most important part of my life, Molly, and I am so deeply in love with you."

Molly gave a watery smile, her eyes shining from the tears building up, threatening to spill. "Oh, Sherlock," she cried, throwing her arms around him. The dam broke, and her tears spilled over, overcome with joy. "I'm so happy we got drunk in the lift," she laughed. Sherlock pressed a fervent kiss to her lips, promising himself he would never let her go again.

Author's Note: So, more like tipsy, but 'Drunk in an Elevator' has a better ring to it lol!