Sherlock couldn't sleep, not when he knew that Molly was probably beside herself with heartbreak. Against his better judgment, he had taken John's advice to give her some space, but a voice in his head—her voice—told him she needed him. But, here he was in the Watsons' guest room, unable to think of anyone or anything other than the woman who held his heart in her hands. And she didn't even know it. Sherlock wasn't altogether blind to his feelings, but despite having been aware there was something more than friendship between them, it still threw him for a loop to find out that Molly truly loved him. Hell, it surprised him to hear the words come out of his own mouth.
What does love mean to me? He asked himself. Closing his eyes, he delved into his mind palace to work it out. He thought of his parents' marriage, and how despite all of the hardships they faced, they made it through together, not an ounce of love lost between them. He and Molly had definitely had their fair share of hardships, mostly caused by him, but what of the good times? Nights spent in her flat—his favourite bolthole—where they'd stay up watching murder documentaries or she'd be watching one of her programs, and he'd listen to it as she carded her fingers through his curls. They'd order takeaway, and on the nights they had Chinese, they had a ritual of swapping fortune cookies before cracking them open.
He reminisced staying his last night in London with her before he left to dismantle Moriarty's network. Sherlock had been in the guest bedroom to start off with, but he had crept down the stairs and into her bedroom, slipping beneath the covers beside her. She had woken from the added weight jostling her out of sleep. When he had wrapped her up in his arms, his face pressed into her hair, Molly had snuggled closer into him.
Sherlock continued this tradition when he returned two years later. It only happened when he was feeling particularly dreadful, and it was what ultimately broke her and Tom up. Though she had never invited him into her bed, she never kicked him out, either. Tom had then started spending the night more often, leaving Sherlock to his own devices. He had missed holding her, and she obviously didn't object to it, which is most likely why her engagement failed. But it wasn't her fault, or even Tom's—it had been his for wedging himself between them.
These weren't things that friends did. You're my friend. We're friends. Friends most definitely didn't casually kiss one another on the cheek, and he had a habit of doing so. He remembered the first time Molly kissed his cheek, taking him by surprise. After Culverton had been arrested, she had come to visit him in the hospital. She had been crying, expressing to him how relieved she was that he was alive—that he'd be okay. Before she had left, Molly leaned down and pressed her lips to his cheek, lingering for just a couple moments. Sherlock wished she would've stayed.
It was decided then. He had to go see her. She was probably angry with him, and he'd deal with her verbal blows if it came to it. Sherlock wasn't going to give up that easily, and he refused to let her give up, because despite her anger, she still loved him, and she needed him. He needed her. They could move past this. Granted, this wasn't the way he wanted her to find out how he felt, but there was no point in dwelling on what couldn't be changed.
Fate, if he believed in such a thing, had a funny way of sneaking up on him. When he left his mind palace, he became aware of a familiar weight on his chest. Looking down, he saw Molly wrapped around his side, her head on his chest. "Thought I'd be the one to crawl into bed with you this time," she laughed softly. "Mycroft told me where to find you. I nearly lost it when I went to Baker Street and found it blown to pieces."
Sherlock wrapped his arms around her, wanting to hold her as closely and as tightly as possible. "Molly." His voice trembled. "My Molly." He kissed the top of her head. "I'm so sorry for what happened earlier. That isn't how I wanted to tell you. Well, not that I knew before then that I had something to confess." He watched as she adjusted herself, her eyes meeting his. "I love you—" he let out a shaky breath—"so much."
A delicate smile tugged at the corners of her lips. One of her hands slid up into his curls, brushing them back with a gentle touch. "Oh, Sherlock," she spoke softly with a yearning he had never heard in her voice before. Instead of returning the three words he expected to hear, Molly's lips were on his, properly snogging him. If he believed in heaven, this is exactly how he would picture it. Her nose nuzzled his affectionately, and in between breaths, the words he longed to hear tumbled from her lips. "I love you."
Tentatively, he slipped his tongue into her mouth, a delicious electric feeling coursing through him. She moaned softly at the contact, encouraging him to explore. He had one hand at the small of her back and the other in her hair, pulling her closer to him. It was with much regret that Sherlock had to pull away for air. He hadn't a clue what would've happened when he saw her again, but never did he think it would've been this. Perhaps in his mind palace or his dreams, but…
"I'm dreaming aren't I?" he asked aloud, nearly out of breath.
Molly giggled in amusement, settling herself comfortably beside him. "Not dreaming, I'm afraid."
"Then why aren't you angry with me?" Sherlock was bewildered by her behaviour. After such a heart-wrenching phone call, why was she so calm about everything?
She looked at him incredulously. "Did you want me to be angry?"
"Well, no—I just—I mean, I can't imagine why you'd be so…affectionate," he told her.
She tucked her head in the crook of his neck and pressed a tender kiss to his pulse point. "Well, I've had time to think between then and now," she explained. "After replaying it in my head for the hundredth time, I realised something was off. You would never be so cruel—at least, not on purpose. The only possibility was a life-threatening situation, which admittedly, calmed me down for a moment until I began to worry about you. And then I found out your flat had been blown up, and God, I thought I lost you.
"At that point, I wasn't angry, but I was terrified for your life. I did some investigating, and found out that there had been no casualties, but nobody knew where any of you went off to. I called Anthea and the last she knew was that there had been a security breach at a facility called Sherrinford. Naturally, I demanded to be taken there, but she wouldn't budge, talking about how dangerous it would be for me. Greg had been called out there, so I tried to convince him to let me come along, and obviously that attempt failed. I waited 'round for you to come by, but you never showed, so I phoned your brother, and here I am."
Sherlock smiled at the thought of Molly going into detective mode. "I'm sorry I didn't show. John had me convinced you needed the space."
"That's alright," she yawned. "We should get some sleep. I know you've had a rough night, Sherlock. Tell me about it in the morning?"
There was nobody else he wanted to share this with more than Molly. "In the morning," he agreed.
And when the sun rose, John and Rosie went to wake up her godfather, stumbling upon a snapshot worthy sight. "Well look at that," he told his daughter. "Uncle Sherlock and Aunt Molly are okay, after all." He snuck a photo of the two of them sleeping soundly in each other's arms. Mary appeared to him, tossing him a wink that meant 'I told you so.'
Author's Note: This plot bunny came into my head of what if Sherlock didn't go to Molly after the phone call? What if she went to him? And thus, a oneshot was born!