All right, before we get on with the fun bits, I need to apologize. I seem to have led many of you (most, actually) down the wrong path. I'm referring to this sentence in the previous chapter:
"My job just got infinitely more difficult," Stamford said with an exaggerated sigh as he picked up his shot and downed it.
Yeah, Mike didn't sleep with anyone that was attending Game Night. He did the shot because he was anticipating 'Molly and Sherlock Issues' in his future. If you read this as him still playing the game, it's not your fault, it's MINE! (Bad author!) And the worst part is that when Miz beta'd the chapter, she made a note saying 'whoooo?'. I have no defense, other than to say that I had some very distracting events happen that morning in my RL when I was editing and posting. I simply didn't catch her meaning and didn't realize that my wording could be misconstrued. Sigh. Now that we've established what a dingus I am...
I need to thank MrsMCrieff for 'encouraging' me to write the sex. I wasn't sure if I should include it, so I asked her after I'd finished the first thousand words or so. She said something to the effect of 'um, yes! of course! do it!' (followed by some kind of veiled threat, if I remember correctly). And of course Miz for beting and being super wonderful. Any mistakes (like making you all think that Mike slept with Mrs. Hudson or somesuch) belong to me!
I own nothing. Enjoy ~Lil~
Danger Night
Five months, two weeks, four days prior...
It was a Danger Night if he'd ever experienced one. John was far too busy with Rosamund (the terrible twos had started a bit early for young Watson) and didn't need his problems on top of everything else. He'd already annoyed Lestrade to the point of shouting and throwing brios. Pointless, really, since the DI had no cases to distract him. Mrs. Hudson was at her sister's for the weekend. The two were most likely baked at the moment, watching Outlander and making irreverent comments about young men and kilts. Even Billy Wiggins was useless at the moment; being in a rehab centre made him a bit unavailable. Sherlock had put him there, so it wasn't as if it was some kind of surprise. And Mycroft? Just… no!
Nevertheless, Sherlock needed... someone. The urge had come on suddenly and out of nowhere. As he sat alone in his flat, memories had started assailing him: his childhood, his friend, a sister he only recently remembered. Myc, Mummy, Father. Happier times. And then… utter devastation. The construction of his mind palace. Long, winding corridors and locked rooms.
Those rooms were not only unlocked now, they stood wide open and would not close. Not easily, at least. Usually, his best defense was distraction. When he was alone, however, with no outside influences, a dangerous voice would whisper that the easiest way to quell the memories was a needle to his arm.
So yes, it was a Danger Night and Sherlock Holmes needed someone.
He knew who he needed - his first choice, if he were honest - but this someone came with her own special set of complications. Unforgivable words and fumbled apologies. Old wounds and new, unexplainable… feelings that he'd yet to even begin to process. His palace was still in shambles; he had nowhere to put these strange new emotions. So they remained unsorted, shoved to the back of his mind to be dealt with when he was better, more stable.
Though he didn't want to burden her, thirty-seven minutes later, he was standing in front of her door, knocking. I should've sent a text, he thought as the door opened.
"Sherlock," she said brightly. "What's up?" Stepping back, she welcomed him into the flat, closing the door behind him.
Always so welcoming… She'd not acted a bit differently since their phone call, even the day he'd called her to Baker Street and attempted to make his explanations. Excuses.
Tossing the remote onto the coffee table, she faced him expectantly and asked, "Do you need me at Barts?"
She was dressed for an evening in front of the telly: yoga pants, an oversized jumper and warm, fuzzy socks. Her hair was down and freshly washed, he noted. "No," Sherlock answered. "No case tonight, I'm afraid."
With a flash of understanding in her eyes, Molly nodded and gave him a knowing smile. There was sadness there too, though she tried to hide it. "Tea?"
"Of course."
o0o0o0o
Two hours later found them on the settee, Toby dutifully curled up on the detective's lap, purring contentedly. The cat purred even louder when Sherlock scratched him behind his ears, not that he did on purpose, of course. They were on their second episode of something called Primeval.
He rolled his eyes as he watched portals to the distant past open randomly - of course it's not random; someone's clearly controlling them! - allowing prehistoric creatures to wreak havoc on modern-day London. Ridiculous premise for a show.
She had already threatened him into silently deducing everything that was wrong with the programme, so he sat and kept his scathing commentary to himself. It was the least he could do; she had fed him cheese toast, crisps and his favourite biscuits.
When it was over, Molly looked at him and smiled. "Not your thing?" He gave her his 'I'm not dignifying that with an answer' look, causing her to snicker. "Noted. We'll try Fringe next time. I think you'll like that one."
She stood, picking up their dishes, and walked into the kitchen. Sherlock followed, watching as she ran the sink half-full of soapy water.
"As long as there are no portals or time travel, I'll give it a chance."
"Umm, no. No portals. No time travel." She set the dishes in the sink.
"Why do I feel like you're talking in technicalities, Miss Hooper?"
She didn't respond, just laughed as she started cleaning the dishes.
"Are you staying?" she asked as she rinsed the cup she'd just washed.
He shouldn't. Shouldn't need to, that is. He should be able to go home - like the grown man that he was - and sleep in his own damn bed. But that wasn't what he wanted. Nodding, he picked up a dish towel and absently dried a plate.
"I just washed the bedding in the spare," she said as she finished the last dish, turning and drying her hands on the towel he'd been using.
Sherlock nodded again, suddenly unable to speak. Hs silence didn't seem to bother Molly; she just smiled and motioned for him to follow. Once they were in the room, she turned down the bed - like some doting aunt - patted his arm and left.
He sat on the edge of the bed for all of five minutes before he realised that he needed his sleep clothes. Molly kept some of his clothes in her room. The spare was more of a study with a writing desk, Toby's cat tree and, of course, his bed. There was no room for a dresser or chest of drawers.
Walking out of the room, he made his way towards Molly's, only to find her door ajar. She was... changing. Her back was turned and she was down to her pants, nothing more.
Molly Hooper stood in front of him in naught but a pair of lavender coloured knickers. Her skin soft, smooth and pale, though that didn't surprise him - she never got much sun - but she fairly glowed in the soft light of her bedroom. The curve of her buttocks, however, did surprise him. She filled out those knickers in ways which he wasn't prepared.
Her legs seemed longer, somehow. Probably the lack of clothing. And her back… God, he wanted to touch it. He wanted to lay a series of kisses up her vertebrae and mark the base of her neck.
His cock seemed to like that idea.
He started to move away, and to scold his member for an inappropriate response to his friend's body (conveniently, ignoring his own salacious thoughts for the time being). Then she turned, ever so slightly, and he saw the outer edge of her right breast.
Oh, it was a beautiful sight. Small, firm, pert. Slightly upturned at the tip. He felt his mouth water and licked his lips without conscious thought.
His mind was divided. Half was focused on Molly's lovely form, the other half was trying to remember when he'd last time seen a woman so scantily clad… Oh, right, The Woman. He scoffed at the side beside image. There was no comparison. Irene's unabashed sexuality - which she wore like an armor, as if she were always ready to do battle - as opposed to Molly's unassuming curves - soft, feminine, inviting.
Unfortunately, his scoff was audible and caused her to turn. "Sherlock! Wh-what are you doing?" She brought a single arm up to cover her breasts. The movement almost seemed casual. Later he would recognise it as carefully controlled.
"Ah, sorry," he said quickly. "I need… clothes?"
Her eyes scanned him, head to toe and back again, stopping at his groin.
Damn. There was no hiding his excitement. He was only wearing trousers and an oxford. The bulge was likely unmistakable.
Molly turned away from him and said, "Can… Would you look away, please?"
As he did, it occurred to him that she was already dressed for bed when he came over. What exactly was she doing just now? "Molly?"
"Yes?"
"Why were you changing?"
"You can turn back now."
He did, but he wasn't prepared for her to be dressed in a tee shirt that barely covered her pants.
"I was changing, Sherlock," she answered haughtily as she sat on the edge of the bed and plugged her mobile up to the charger. "You know where your clothes are."
Her eyes were now focused on her phone, possibly setting an alarm. No, she's off tomorrow. She was sat there in nothing but a tee shirt, fiddling with her mobile. Curious.
Sherlock slowly made his way to her dresser and squatted down to open the bottom drawer. "You were already dressed for bed, Molly," he commented as he moved a pair of jeans (Tom's - why does she still have these?) to find his second favourite lounge pants and a tee shirt.
Molly huffed out a laugh. "You really think I sleep in yoga pants and jumpers?" She set down her mobile and swung her legs up onto the bed, covering up her naked lower half in the process. A small (okay, not so small) part of him lamented the loss of the view. "What do you sleep in?"
Turning to face her, he held up his clothes.
"Umm, no, I don't think so." She looked at him appraisingly then said, "You sleep in the nude, normally. At home, that is, and who could blame you? Those sheets..."
"What do you know of my sheets?"
"Did your laundry when you had the flu and Mrs. Hudson was in Brighton with her sister. I know things."
"Fine. But what do…?"
"What do your sheets tell me about your sleep clothes?" Sherlock opened his mouth to speak - to say something about John being a gossip - but she continued, "Elementary, my friend." Leaning forward, Molly gave him a saucy little grin. "They're just another piece of the puzzle."
"There's no puzzle!" he protested.
"You're not the only one who likes to figure things out, you know."
Oh, he was very much intrigued now. Moving forward, he tossed his clothes to the foot of the bed and sat on the edge next to her. Molly didn't seem to mind, just scooted over a bit, making room for him. "And what is it that you think you've figured out?"
"You, Sherlock Holmes, are a closet sensualist."
He snorted. Again, he was just about to protest when she spoke.
"Yes, I know, I know. You're about to tell me how wrong I am, but I disagree." Sitting back against her headboard, she let her eyes roam over his body, it caused an odd tingling sensation to follow in their wake. "Take your clothes, for instance. Only the best for you, no?"
"I like… nice things," he admitted.
Molly laughed, fully and beautifully. "Nice?" she said once she'd composed herself. "Sherlock, your shoes cost more than my computer!"
"I can't help it if you buy shoddy electronics, Molly."
She giggled. But he wasn't kidding; her laptop was a piece of shit. He'd spent two hours the week before, reinstalling the operating system because 'I just bought it three years ago, Sherlock, it's fine. Just make it work!'.
"Let's not forget the silk dressing gowns."
Wonderful, she's not done.
"And cashmere scarf."
A gift from Mummy!
"Oh! The Belstaff! How did I forget the Belstaff!" she exclaimed.
"Why are you attacking my coat?"
"It's not a coat, Sherlock, it's got its own personality. I considered adding it to my guest list when I was planning my wedding."
The mention of her failed relationship caused a spike of pain to surge through his chest. He glared at her as he stood, walking back toward her dresser, he said, "Fine, you've made your point."
"I'm not sure I have."
He was being deduced and he didn't like it one bit. Spinning around, he planted his hands on his hips. "As if you don't enjoy the occasional extravagance from time to time!"
"I didn't say…"
"How about the plethora of bath products that currently reside in your lavatory?" He pointed towards the room in question.
"I suppose I do…"
"And then there's your coffee! Or, perhaps you need Jamaican Blue Mountain Estate at fifty pounds a bag?"
Her eyes danced with mirth. "You don't complain about soaking in my bath salts whilst sipping on a big mug after a grueling case, Mr. Sensuality!" She laughed.
Damn, she's right. The first time he'd had a cup Molly's coffee, he'd taken a photo of the bag and immediately (once he was alone, of course) ordered himself some. That stuff's otherworldly good! And who doesn't like a nice soak?
"Now, let's get back to your bed," she said with a cheeky grin.
He couldn't help it, his mind went somewhere altogether inappropriate once again. "Fine, why does my bed make me a sensualist?"
"Egyptian cotton, 1800 thread count."
"Fifteen hundred and there's a very good reason I prefer luxury when I sleep!"
"And that is…?" she taunted as she picked up a bottle of lotion from her bedside table, squirted a dollop onto her palm, put the bottle back then started to rub her hands together.
He was momentarily distracted by her actions for some reason, but pulled his eyes away from her hands and said, "Because I tend to go without sleep for days on end, Molly, it's important to have optimal conditions…"
"Oh no! I'm gonna stop you right there." She held up one moisturised hand before going back to rubbing the lotion in. "I've seen you sleep standing up, Sherlock. You can sleep anywhere when you've been awake for several days." Finally finished with her distracting… rubbing, she eyed him for a minute then leant forward a few inches. "I think you have trouble sleeping if you haven't been out on a case. You're an insomniac."
"Oh, now I'm an insomniac too? Any more baseless accusations you want to throw at me, Molly?"
She giggled and shook her head. "No, that pretty much ends my deductions for the evening."
What he couldn't figure out was why Molly was being so antagonistic. It was very unlike her. Yes, she was just teasing him, which she did from time to time, but this was… His mind raced as he tried to figure out what she was doing. This was different...
She's trying to distract me, he thought as it slowly came together.
She hadn't even let her embarrassment about being caught nearly naked show outwardly, but rather moved right past it to deducing him. And it no doubt had embarrassed her, of that he was certain. Even with the changes in their relationship - the closeness they now enjoyed, the… dare he say, companionship? - she still could get flustered on occasion. Surely him seeing her in the altogether would be high on her list of 'things that turned Molly Hooper into a stuttering mess'. She hadn't let it though. And not for her sake, but for his. She hadn't let an awkward moment suck him into his cluttered mind, but rather…
Oh, you brilliant, wonderful woman!
With no more awful science fiction shows, no more Toby, no more tea, Molly was trying to fill his head with a new puzzle to solve: himself. He couldn't help but smile. God, I love her…
What the…?
Oh!
I love her.
I do love her.
Epiphanies were quite common in Sherlock's line of work. He had a great deal of experience with them though he would never acknowledge or give credence to the term. Far too fanciful for his liking. A coalescing of facts worked better for the scientist in him. However, in this case, an intuitive perception into the essential meaning of something was an apt way of describing what he was experiencing.
Well, how do you like that?
It was why everything with Molly was always more complicated and why he suddenly felt like a first class moron for not realising it sooner. He'd said it at Sherrinford - and meant it - but now he realised just how he'd meant it. He didn't love Molly Hooper the same way he loved John or Mrs. Hudson; he loved her like a man loves a woman.
"Sherlock? You okay?" she asked, rising from the bed. She slowly walked towards him. "You've been standing there for like ten minutes… just sort of staring."
He waved her off. "Working something out."
She smiled, seemingly satisfied with herself. "Good." Picking up his clothes from the end of her bed, she held them out to him. "Why don't you go change and try to get some rest."
"I, ah…" He took them from her and studied them for a moment. An idea was forming. Tossing the garments to the bench at the foot of her bed, he stepped closer. "I think I'd rather sleep as I do at home, if you don't mind."
One side of Molly's mouth quirked up in a half smile. "O...kay. Whatever does the trick, Sherlock, so long as you get some sleep."
As she started to move away, he reached out, grabbing her by the hips and pulling her closer until their bodies almost touched. "I'd also like to sleep in here."
Molly put her hands on his chest, not pushing exactly, but holding him at bay. Her face looked apprehensive. "Why?" she asked, drawing out the word. "Why would you want to be nude… in my bed?"
"I'm sure you know the answer to that, Molly. You claim that I'm a sensualist, after all." Lowering his head slowly, giving her a chance to object, he gently kissed her lips. He kept the contact chaste, a mere press of his lips to hers. Oh God, how did I ever criticise this mouth?
Firm pressure on his chest alerted him that she wanted him to stop. He pulled back.
"Why?" she asked again. Her eyes were dilated, but still wary.
Why indeed? It was all too new, his realisation. He couldn't tell her - couldn't express what he'd just discovered - not with words, at least. Not giving himself time to doubt his decision, he went with his first instinct: express his feelings physically. He'd never touched Molly sexually. Surely she'd understand what he was trying to tell her?
Lowering his head once again, he didn't hesitate nor did he give her some gentle kiss. He poured all his feelings and skill - which was far more than anyone would have believed - into showing Molly exactly why he didn't want to leave her bedroom anytime soon.
She resisted for a nanosecond before her hands moved from his chest to his shoulders then higher, to tangle in his hair. By the time his tongue was teasing her lips open, Molly's fingers were digging into his scalp, affirming that he had indeed made the right decision.
Things moved rapidly after that. One minute they were standing upright, kissing passionately, and the next they were on her bed, side by side, grasping at clothing. Molly popped two buttons off Sherlock's shirt trying to get it off him. They paused their mindless groping momentarily to laugh at the flying buttons then got right back to the business of making each other moan.
After many more kisses, several position changes and an awkward moment when Sherlock accidentally pulled Molly's hair, they were both bare.
Thankfully, the room was still brightly lit. Sherlock moved over her, taking in every detail that he'd missed when caught her unawares earlier. "Beautiful," he whispered as his eyes wandered over her body. He wanted to say more but was afraid he'd make a complete fool of himself - say the wrong thing. So instead, he bent down and took her pink-tipped nipple between his lips. Pressing the bud against the roof of his mouth caused Molly to buck up and grip his head tightly.
"Ooo…" she sighed. "Oh - God - Oh!"
He switched sides, needing to taste more of her but Molly was impatient. She was also, as he was finding out, very vocal when aroused.
"I'm… I'm ready!" She tugged roughly on his hair. "Now!"
She might have been, but he wasn't. Oh, he was, of course, but this night was special and he intended to make sure she understood just what it meant to him.
Releasing her nipple with a wet plop, he looked up and smiled. "Soon," was all he said as he kissed a trail down her soft belly. He was pleased to find that Molly Hooper wasn't quite as thin as he had once believed. Her bulky clothing covered her well. She did a good job of hiding all these luscious curves and deliciously smooth skin. He planned on devouring it all.
Once nestled between her thighs, he kissed first the left then the right before spreading her folds.
"You don't have to. I - I said I was ready." Her was voice no longer lust-filled but clear and controlled, tinged with a hint of apprehension.
"I don't have to," he explained softly. "But I want to."
With a gentle kiss to her clitoris, he began. She offered no more protestations as he worked her to a frenzy alternating between lapping and sucking at the sensitive little bud. Molly moaned as he tongued her. She got louder when he stayed on her clit, so he focused his attention there before introducing a finger, then two, looking for the spongy bit of flesh that he knew would help send her over the edge. When he found it, she cursed and buried her hands in his hair, holding him close.
"How… God… Fuck…"
Shortly thereafter she fell apart, her hips bucking up, meeting his face almost painfully as she rode out her climax. Once again, she was quite vocal, calling upon any deity she could think of and cursing like the proverbial sailor.
When she'd finally relaxed with a contented sigh, Sherlock wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and moved over her, bracing himself on his forearms. "Condom?" he asked.
"Drawer," she said with a lazy flick of her hand.
Finding it quickly, he managed it with only a minor fumble - how many years has it been since I used one of these? - then he was ready and by the looks of it, so was she.
Entering another person after so many years of abstinence should have been overwhelming, especially for someone like Sherlock, but it wasn't. It was bliss. His mind blanked then centered and focused on nothing but Molly. Molly's body. Molly's heat. Molly's pleasure. He couldn't close his eyes, far too enraptured by the look on her face as he drove into her over and over again.
She gripped his shoulders, her nails scoring his flesh. Her eyes were closed tightly and her teeth were caught her bottom lip, biting down as if to stifle herself. He couldn't have that. Her vocalisations had been bloody hot!
He leant down, sealing his mouth over hers and pulling her lip out of her teeth. As he released her he said, "Let me hear you, Molly. Talk to me." Then he kissed her again for good measure and because her swollen lips looked so incredibly inviting.
She had opened her eyes when he started speaking, panting as she rocked against him. "Feels… so… good."
Sherlock could only nod in agreement before burying his head in the crook on her neck and inhaling her fragrant skin.
"Harder! Please!" she begged and he was happy to oblige. "I don't think…"
"What, Molly?" he whispered in her ear before kissing it.
"I won't…"
He still didn't know what she was trying to tell him, but she seemed too lost in her passion to express herself, so he just kissed her again and kept thrusting. As he picked up his pace, twisting his hips on the downstroke, Molly became incoherent. Her words slurring together almost as if she were intoxicated.
"Ohfuck! Thatssit!" Her hands moved down to cup his arse cheeks. "Goddamnit! Soooogood! Beddder than jam!"
Sherlock pulled his head from her neck and looked at the babbling woman underneath him. Jam? What's jam?
She dug her nails into the sensitive flesh of his buttocks, causing him to thrust even harder. Molly's internal muscles started contracting, undulating around his shaft and he no longer cared that she was comparing him to breakfast condiments.
"Fuckin'fuck! I'msoclose! How? Never! OhmyGod!" Her hands moved frantically to his neck, pulling back down. She kissed his neck, his shoulder, his ear all the while telling him how close she was.
Though he appreciated the updates, they were unnecessary. He could actually feel her oncoming orgasm. She seemed to be fighting for it, for some reason.
"Oh… please don't stop!" she begged her hips surging up to meet his.
As if I could, he thought as he drove into her again and again. Fuck! Well, that wasn't entirely true... His end was approaching; he needed her to come… soon!
"Please! Please! Please!" her words came out in a desperate sob.
Dragging his mouth across her jaw, he found her lips and kissed her deeply, if for no other reason than to stop the desperate sounds coming from them. He didn't like that she had suddenly become… almost sad.
He slowed then adjusted his hips and moved his head to her chest, drawing a deep gasping breath. The action was supposed to slow things down, but inhaling a lung-full of Molly's sex-smell did nothing to stifle his excitement.
It may have been a while, but Sherlock did remember a thing or two about pleasing a partner. Some women needed direct clitoral stimulation to achieve an orgasm. Shifting his weight to his left arm, he slid his right between them. When his hand finally found the spot where they were connected, he focused his attention on the bundle of nerves. He quickly picked back up where he left off: driving both Molly and himself to their ends.
"Christ!" was her immediate response to their new position and Sherlock's fingers on her clit but soon the babbling started once again. Molly held his head to her chest as she mumbled incoherently.
Sherlock was hardly paying attention now, so very close to letting loose in her tight sheath. He only caught every few words.
"Couldn't… So hard… Good… Didn't know… He… He… Never..."
Finally, he couldn't take it anymore. His body simply decided that the time had come… that he would come. His balls drew up and he shook with the force of his orgasm. Though it was amazing, better than he could ever remember it being, he did manage Molly's last word as her climax took her…
"Tom!"
… and the scorching hot blood running through his veins instantly turned to ice. "Wh-what?" he asked. Looking down, he saw her lying beneath him, eyes shut tight, head thrown back. Her body was bowed up against his, still in the midst of her orgasm, even as he was quickly coming down.
Tom… she said Tom.
Tears threatened but he would not allow them. Never!
Finally, she relaxed, sighing contentedly and smiled. Thankfully, her eyes were still closed. "Amazing," she said with a sigh.
Sherlock rolled off to the side and took care of the condom.
"She said… Tom?" John asked. "Are you sure?"
Sherlock glared at his friend. "It's hardly something I'd make up, now is it?"
"No, that's not what I'm saying, it's just…"
"I've replayed that night in my head a hundred times." Sherlock finished his drink and sat back, looking across the room. "She never said my name. I didn't notice it at the time, but not once that evening did she say 'Sherlock'. Never."
"Never?"
"No."
John thought about what his friend had just told him and tried to make sense of it all. He knew a few things; he wasn't completely useless. Number one: Molly Hooper loved Sherlock Holmes, of that there was no doubt. Secondly: Sherlock was in love? (Okay, that was new, but nevertheless…) Hear that, Mare? In… Love! And finally: Tom? No, just no! John had a feeling this whole thing had something to do with Molly's 'sex babbling'.
"All right," John said. "I hate to tell you this, mate, but you missed something. You always do."
"What are you talking about?"
"You said she babbled… during, ah, thanks for leaving out the details, by the way. And if you were… finishing…" God, he never thought he'd be having this conversation with the man across from him. He felt completely unprepared. "... maybe you missed what she said before 'Tom'."
"What difference does that make?" Sherlock stood and strode across the room. "She said his name, not mine. And she never said my name… ever!"
"Yeah, that is weird, but not unforgivable. So, what happened next?"
Sherlock turned, shoving his hands in his pockets. "I waited until she fell asleep and I left." The last words were almost whispered.
"Like the true grown-up that you are."
"What would you have had me do? Make her breakfast and ask her about it? 'Morning, Molly. About last night, when you called out to another man during our first time making love, what exactly did that mean? Because my theory is that you were having such a hard time achieving orgasm that you had to imagine someone else to do so.'" He paced away.
John stood and followed his best friend. He knew that Sherlock had been in a very fragile place since Sherrinford. To find out that he'd gone through this as well… It was a wonder - a miracle, really - that they hadn't found him high off his arse yet. "How long did it take you to forgive her?" he asked.
Sherlock didn't turn as he spoke. "I couldn't even look at her for two weeks. Ashamed. I was actually ashamed that I had gotten it all so wrong." Facing him, though not making eye contact, his friend continued, "It was… awkward at first. She… She seemed angry. I'm not sure if she even remembers what she said. Blames me, no doubt, for leaving without speaking to her." He looked up and drew a deep breath. "But eventually things went back to normal. Like nothing had ever happened. We were fine until… I shouldn't have taken that shot. I was… I'm sure if I was just drunk or something..."
Or it was a very deliberate act meant to force this out into the open, John thought. "Is that so? You're completely over the whole thing, then?"
Sherlock just stared, frozen, for more than a minute.
"Listen, I don't know why she said what she said. Though I have my theories. But you'll never know unless you talk to her. Ignoring it hasn't done either of you much good."
The other man didn't acknowledge his words so John reached out and grasped Sherlock's shoulder. "Stay here tonight. I have to get up early to go pick up Rosie from Harry's. I'll wake you before I leave. Think about what I've said and consider talking to Molly."
Sherlock just nodded, and made his way back towards the sitting area. John started for the stairs, then paused.
"But for the love of God, remember this isn't your bedroom! I better not wake up to your naked arse on my new sofa!
So, now we know. Poor Sherlock! Please drop me a line and tell me what you think. I'd love to hear from you on this. Thanks for reading ~Lil~
