So I had this great idea to write a fun little Christmas fiction. You know when's a horrible time to start a new fan fiction? The holidays! So please humor me while you read this belated *eyeroll* Christmas story. : )

Chapter 2

She wasn't here.

Sherlock stood in the middle of his own sitting room and scowled at the tiny Christmas tree on John's desk.

He didn't have to look to know that the flat was empty. The room was dark, save for the steady red and blue pulse of the Christmas lights casting eerie patterns on the wall. The fireplace had burned down to cold ashes. Stillness seemed to live in the corners of the room.

Sherlock tried not to notice the way the silence seemed to bleed into his chest cavity as he shrugged off his rumpled coat.

It was late—3:27 am to be precise. His hair smelled like cigar smoke and the taste of expensive whiskey was souring on his tongue.

The free flight home on the Ukrainian mafia's private jet had been welcomed, but he hadn't caught a minutes sleep. His hosts had insisted on a last minute poker game. It would have been foolish to refuse such an offer. Besides, it had been ages since anyone was stupid enough to challenge him to a game. So he'd hidden a smirk behind a polite cough and agreed, despite the heaviness that pressed down on his shoulders.

He had been well on his way to fleecing them when John had woken up and kicked him discreetly in the shin.

Sherlock touched the thick roll of Ukrainian money in his pocket. His blogger would never be capable of understanding the dark underbelly of such interactions. He was just too irritatingly good. Besides, Sherlock was mostly certain that he would not be seeing those gentleman ever again. He had bet on it, in fact.

He ran a hand over his face. Despite the late hour, the cab had dropped John at his own flat before heading to Baker Street. Sherlock plucked a single violin string as he moved closer to the window, listening to the way the quiet swallowed the single wavering note.

They had escaped the case fairly unscathed, but John…well, there had been all that business with him almost falling off the roof. Sherlock yawned. Almost was of no consequence, but John had insisted on seeing Rosie as soon as they landed. Tedious.

Sherlock glanced at his phone as he studied the small twinkling tree. Christmas was tomorrow. He had been so caught up in the case, he had almost forgotten about the dreadful holiday. Dodging semiautomatic gunfire in dark alleyways tended to do that.

Sherlock touched one of the tree branches. The ridiculous little spruce was decorated with test tubes and tiny magnifying glasses. He raised an eyebrow.

Clearly Molly had been here.

He glanced around the flat. The whole room smelled like pine and nutmeg. Molly's hideous orange cardigan was hanging on the back of his leather chair. A forgotten mug of hot chocolate sat on the side table next to an dogeared paperback mystery. Sherlock pursed his lips. Low brow drivel.

He rubbed the back of his neck as he wandered into the kitchen. It was practically sparkling—not a bunsen burner or experiment to be seen. Even his microscope was stowed away.

A white Christmas cake sat on the table in its place. Sherlock ran a finger through the cake icing and grumbled. He would bet Mrs Hudson had gotten rid of the petri dishes he was storing in the microwave. Waste of good data.

He licked the icing off his finger. It was delicious. He briefly considered cutting a piece and washing it down with a cup of tea, but then decided sleep was more critical and retired to his bedroom.

It was as dark and empty as the rest of the flat, but his sheets were rumpled and hanging off the edge of the bed.

She had slept here.

Lust uncurled itself in the pit of his stomach. He ignored it, emptying his pockets on the side table. Not thinking about Molly in his bed or the way her lips had felt in the hollow of his hip or the things she had whispered as she moved lower.

Sherlock sat down and toed off his shoes. Her pajamas were crumpled in a ball at the foot of the bed. He fell back on top of the covers, dragging himself up to the pillow.

She wasn't here. He hadn't expected her to be. Sherlock stared at the ceiling, his eyes burning.

That was a lie. He had expected her to be curled underneath his covers, her dark hair falling across one naked shoulder, soft and warm and waiting. He had been imagining slipping in beside her every night for months. Sherlock turned on his side and yanked one corner of the comforter up to his chin.

He closed his eyes.

The pillow smelled like her—sweet, like oranges and vanilla. He cursed and sat up. Christ, what kind of damn shampoo was she using?

It had been 36 hours since he had slept. He had wrestled a man with a gun just 8 hours earlier. His ribs were bruised to prove it. Sherlock shoved his feet back into his shoes and stalked to the door.

God. Damn. Molly.

It wasn't until her reached the curb that he realized he had left his coat upstairs. London was not nearly as frigid as Eastern Europe, but he shivered all the same. Slush soaked between the seams of his leather shoes as he waited for a cab to trundle by. A thin crescent moon slipped out from behind the low clouds. Sherlock pulled his collar tight and raised a hand as headlights came into view.

He must have dozed off because when he jerked awake the cab was idling in front of Molly's building. He fumbled with the bills in his pocket, managed to pay the cabbie, and stepped out into the cold night. The car pulled away through the gray slush. Sherlock hunched his shoulders against the damp.

It was so late that it was almost morning, mist rising off the wet pavement. Sherlock blinked up at the soft glow of her window. His eyelids felt like sandpaper.

This was crazy. He should be at Baker Street sleeping. Molly would still be here in the morning. He buried his hands in his suit pockets, and started up the steps, taking them two at a time.

It was her skin. That was the problem really. It had a quality to it that he couldn't quantify. It was just flesh, like everyone else's—lipids and keratin. But when he brushed her skin with the tip of his fingers it was like touching live wire, the buzz of pleasure so sharp it stole his breath.

He thought of the blush that bloomed on her neck the last time they had been together. The sounds she made when his lips had found the tender spot on the back of her knee. How warm her—

Sherlock gripped the stair railing so hard the metal cut into his palm.

Sex was a poor substitute to the ecstasy of the mind. It was an indulgence of simple men. And he was not a simple man. He just needed to get her out of his system. Sherlock stopped in front of Molly's door.

He wanted her. To say otherwise would be a imprecise. He wanted to slip his fingers into her warmth and hear his name shatter on her tongue.

But not tonight.

Tonight, all he wanted was to sleep beside her.

Sleep had always eluded him, even when he was worn to the bone from a case. Even when he was coming down from a high and his body was tingling from exhaustion, insomnia stalked him. His mind never wanting to settle for more than 4 hours. And when he did finally succumb, his dreams were always haunted.

But with Molly, he had curled around her spine as sweat cooled on their skin and tumbled effortlessly into sleep.

Of all the things he had missed, it was the thought of her, warm and pliant in his arms that had followed him to every mildewy cot and damp hovel. The feel of his hand flat against her soft belly as he slept had been a revelation. He wanted more.

Sherlock slipped Molly's door key from his pocket.

Technically she hadn't given it to him, but he was certain she wouldn't mind. It was late, and he didn't want to wake her. He'd just slip into her bed, and lean into her warmth until morning. The thought made him lightheaded. Sherlock pushed open the door.

Molly looked up from the corpse laid out on her kitchen counter, and almost fell off the chair she was standing on. She squeaked, bracing one bloody glove on the body's torso. The scalpel she was holding clattered to the tile.

Sherlock blinked. He was jet lagged and hovering somewhere between drunk and hung over, but he was fairly certain that Dr. Hooper was doing an autopsy in her kitchen.

She held a bone saw in one hand, the victim's liver and stomach contents balanced on a cookie sheet near her elbow. The bottom half of the body was discreetly covered with a red and green table cloth decorated with cheerful snowmen. The man's brain was exposed, glistening in the twinkling Christmas lights Molly had strung around her kitchen.

Sherlock closed the door quietly behind him.

"Sher—Sherlock," Molly stammered, pushing the safety glasses to the top of her head. Color swept across her cheeks, the same pink blush that spread across her chest when they…Sherlock swallowed dryly. Even covered in blood and clearly committing a crime, she was lovely.

Molly cursed softly under her breath, her dark eyes huge as she watched him move closer. Her chestnut hair was gathered into a wild bun on the top of her head, the tendrils falling into her eyes. A laboratory apron was tied over her pink dressing gown and there was a fine mist of blood spatter across her cheek. She was a mess.

He clasped his hands behind his back to stop himself from going to her. To stop himself from dragging her off that chair and away from whatever stupid, idiotic, dangerous thing she had gotten herself into.

He cleared his throat. He should be deducing the crime scene, not his…pathologist.

Molly licked her lip. "I wasn't—I mean, you said you were going to be home later in the week and…" she waved a bloody hand. "We weren't expecting you," she finished lamely.

"Clearly," he responded wryly. Molly pulled off her gloves, muttering something indistinguishable under her breath.

"What have you gotten yourself into?" he asked, putting a hand on the back of her dining room chair.

The table was set for two, Christmas crackers arranged neatly above each plate. Molly opened her mouth and then snapped it closed. She patted the corpse on the shoulder nervously.

"I—well…" she stammered, pushing hair out of her face as she searched for words. Sherlock scanned the flat.

There were two glasses on the counter behind her. Wine. Red. A 2011 Chateau Cos d'Estournel, to be precise. Rare and expensive. One half empty glass with lipstick across the fine rim. Molly's gaze darted past his shoulder before settling back on his forehead.

Sherlock stilled. "Is someone else here?"

Molly made a small sound of denial, but her face told a different story.

There was someone else in her flat. At 4 am.

Cold logic disappeared under a tsunami of jealous possession so strong that Sherlock felt his vision blur. His grip on the dining room chair became a strangle hold. Underneath the wave of emotion, his mind calculated the slim possibility that Molly was engaging in some sort of sexual relationship while carving up a dead body on her kitchen counter. The chance was nearly nil, but facts seemed to have loosened their hold on his exhausted mind

Rage sunk it's claws into his sanity, and he found himself crossing the room in two jerky strides. Sherlock yanked Molly roughly off the chair. She felling against him, his name a breath on her tongue. Her fingers curled around the lapel of his suit. He leaned down close, their noses brushing. "What the hell is this Molly," he snarled.

Her breath feathered against his lips. "I can explain," she panted, her golden eyes wide. He wanted to shake her, but she smelled like hot chocolate and embalming fluid, and suddenly he was kissing her.

She tasted like home. Molly held on, gasping as his icy fingers pressed into the dip of her spine. He swallowing her whimper like a man dying of thirst, tilting her jaw to deepen the kiss. Adrenaline roaring into his veins as her tongue found his. His fingernails bit into her skin but she just slipped a hand inside his collar, her palm settling against his pounding pulse. He groaned, ashamed of the need flooding through him. Ashamed of his body's violent response. But Molly pressed closer as if his lips were tender and not a bruising assault.

He wanted to fall into her—to drag her into the bedroom, mysterious guest and corpse be damned.

Sherlock pushed her away before he couldn't anymore, holding her at arms length. His fingers dug into her shoulder. She didn't complain. Her hair had come loose, and her lab coat was smeared with blood. He had never seen anything more beautiful. Sherlock let out a breath through clenched teeth.

"Who is here?" he asked, grateful to find that his voice was steady despite the riot in his heart.

Molly started to shake her head, but Sherlock knew the answer before the lie had formed on her tongue. It came to him like shadowy figure out of thick fog. His fingers spasmed on her arm.

He should have seen it when he came into the kitchen—should have noticed the familiar scent of the pretentious cologne in the air and the umbrella propped in the corner, still dripping snow slowly onto her linoleum floor.

But all he had seen was her.

She reduced him from the worlds most famous detective to just a man, flesh and blood and blinding need.

Sherlock released her, pushing a little so that she stumbled back against the counter. He was always pushing her away. Sherlock wondered it it would ever work-if one day he would push and look up to find that Molly had finally given up on him.

Sherlock straightened, shoving the thought away as he rearranged his features into bland distaste. His pulse thundered in his ears.

Molly's face was pale now, a direct contrast to the flush of her wet lips. She spread her hands helplessly. "I can explain Sherlock," she said, her voice a low benediction that seemed to slice deep into his soul.

But Sherlock had already turned away, pressing his shoulders back and tucking his trembling hands into his pocket just as Mycroft stepped into Molly's kitchen.