Sorry for the delay in posting this chapter, I have been quite busy and my internet has been wonky lately. As always, a huge thank you to forthegenuine for her continued hard work on making this story readable, and a huge thank you to mollyhooperish for being my biggest cheerleader, and for creating some fantastic moodboards to go along with my stories. I am forever in debt to the both of you!

Firelight

Chapter 3

Sherlock Holmes wasn't sure how long he sat on Molly Hooper's sofa, letting the small woman sleep against his chest. He watched the firelight slowly burn down to mere embers, pulling a throw blanket from off the back of the sofa to drape over the pathologist.

Sherlock stared unseeing into the dying flames, retreating into his mind palace to start to clean up the damage his revelations at Sherrinford had caused. After carefully cataloguing the events of the last two days appropriately, Sherlock double-checked all of the locks and bolts on the doors in the halls of his mind, making sure their occupants behind them were secure and unable to break free and crush him with their disapproving stares. Satisfied that his memory was sorted back to its useful organized glory, he slowly came back to reality. Looking down once again at Molly resting her head on his chest, Sherlock felt his once-believed nonexistent heart give a strange lurch. He ran a thumb over her cheekbone, his action unnoticed by her in her deep sleep.

Sherlock pondered over what he was going to say to Molly in the morning. The carefully constructed speech he had put together while sitting in Mycroft's drawing room, full of cutting remarks and even sharper facts, had evaporated form his brain at the mere sight of the woman now using his chest as a pillow.

Eventually, Molly shivered in her sleep, the fading embers and thin blanket doing nothing to fight the London chill that had invaded the flat. Sherlock lifted a hand, intent on gently patting her cheek to wake her, but hesitated at how peaceful she looked while she slumbered. Sherlock let his hand drop back down to his thigh and flexed his fingers. He watched her relaxed face for a few moments longer, something tickling the back of his mind. When Molly shivered again, he gave a slight shake of his head to dislodge the brush of something from his mind, and laid his fingers on Molly's cheek.

"Molly," he murmured. "Molly, wake up."

She stirred, snuggling closer for a moment before opening her eyes. Sherlock quirked the corner of his mouth up in half a grin, which she returned.

Sherlock stood and held his hand out to her. Molly allowed herself to be helped to her feet, letting the thin blanket slide to the floor. Sherlock hovered his hand at the small of her back and guided her to her bedroom, where he handed her folded pajamas to her.

"I'll lock up while you change," he said quietly.

Heading back to the lounge, Sherlock picked up and folded the throw blanket and placed it on the back of the sofa. He then took their mugs and placed them in the sink, putting the rest of the lemon back in the fridge before shutting off the light in the kitchen. What would Mrs. Hudson say if she saw cleaning up after himself? Let alone someone else, since he often just left things wherever they landed at his own flat. Interesting how Molly Hooper could make him change his ingrained habits with just a look, he thought, frowning, slightly annoyed at the domesticity Molly was able to bring out in him. The tickle brushed against the back of his mind again, causing Sherlock to scratch the back of his head, as if that would make the nagging feeling disappear. Making sure the front door was properly bolted, Sherlock made his way back to Molly's bedroom, knocking softly before entering.

Molly was already snuggled deep under the duvet. She cracked an eye open when she heard him enter. Snaking an arm out from under the covers, Molly beckoned Sherlock to join her, scooting over to the other side of the bed to give him room. Slipping of his shoes and suit jacket, Sherlock slid under the duvet, folding his arms behind his head. Molly hovered a hand over his chest for a moment, looking at him for permission. Sherlock's stomach gave an odd lurch as he nodded the affirmative and she rested her hand on his left pectoral, just over his heart.

Sherlock internally rolled his eyes at his body's response to her touch. It wasn't like this was the first time she had touched him while they shared her bed. Far from it, actually. Most nights started on their respective sides until one or both reached for the other, sometimes with Molly pulled tight against him, her back to his chest, sometimes the opposite way around. Some nights had Molly using Sherlock's chest or shoulder as a pillow, and once, Sherlock had woken to his face resting comfortably on Molly's chest. That one had caused mortification to turn his ears pink and had him fleeing from the flat before she could wake.

So why was tonight so different? Was it because their mutual feelings were out in the open, hovering over them both; burning like a floating ball of fire, shining it's light onto every insignificant interaction? Or was it because Sherlock knew that this would be the last time he had Molly so close to him?

When Molly's breathing had evened out again, Sherlock tentively placed an arm around her shoulders, ignoring the warm twitch his heart gave at the extra contact.

Sherlock laid awake, listening to Molly's slow even breathing and thinking about the next day. Emotions were such an inconvenient thing, he thought sourly. The mind was the only thing that mattered, everything else was merely transport. But if that were true, then why did he feel so content to have Molly sleeping soundly by his side? He could feel every point her body touched his like a searing flame, and when the pads of his fingers brushed along the skin of her arm, he felt as if electricity was running its way up the veins of his arm, straight to his heart.

Molly shifted in her sleep, unconsciously moving closer to him, her fingers lightly gripping at the gap between the buttons on his dress shirt, and the bubbling warm feeling that started in his stomach and made its way up his chest suddenly set off alarm bells in his brain. When all emotions were hidden and unquestioned, Sherlock could be content taking every bit of comfort Molly Hooper silently offered him, soaking it all up like a dry sponge. But the second those feelings became common knowledge, panic started to set in.

What was he thinking, coming to Molly's flat all these times? It wasn't like him to initiate physical contact of any kind, and here he was, snuggling Molly Hooper on a regular basis, like some soppy teenager in their first relationship. He felt his breathing quicken, his heart started to beat faster. Not only would these feelings and emotions slow his brain power, but they would cause messy situations to arise. Molly had already been targeted once because of their somewhat intimate interactions. Mundane as they were, to an outsider it would look intimate. These thoughts came pouring into the halls of his mind palace, the bolted doors he had been trying to keep locked hanging off their hinges. He felt as if ice water was flooding his veins as each new terrible thought came flying through the open doors in his brain.

Sherlock, as quickly and stealthily as he could without waking Molly up, extracted himself from her and planted himself onto the old beat up armchair that sat beside the bedroom window. At this now safer distance from the small pathologist, his panicked breathing began to slow, the blaring alarms in his mind palace started to fade, but the strange tickling sensation that had been bothering him was now sharp in his head.

He knew what had happened. He had let his carefully constructed walls slowly fade in Molly's presence, and had let his sharp sense for danger become lax; all because of the feeling of home he got when he was in her arms. He was stupid. Stupid to think that any form of happiness outside of "the work" he might find would ever amount to anything. Sure, he had some form of happiness in his friendship with John Watson, but look how that turned out. He had gotten his best friends wife murdered. Sure, John had forgiven him, but things weren't exactly the same. The death of Mary still hung over the two like a cloud of heavy smoke, her love for both men even more obvious in its absence. Mary was his friend too, her constant smile and witty comments always challenging him out of a bad mood, and he had lost his friend because of his need to be the smartest man in the room. Because of his need to show off, John had suddenly became a single parent, and now most of his time was taken up by little Rosie.

The thought of his goddaughter sent a pang of shame and guilt swirling through the detective's tall frame. He was the reason that caused his goddaughter to have to grow up without a mother. Some great protector of the people he cares for he was, Sherlock thought bitterly, pressing his mouth into a thin line and clenching his fists against the arms of the chair.

This is where caring got you, Sherlock thought angrily. Mycroft was right: caring wasn't an advantage. All caring had gotten him lately was his friends wife murdered and the woman who would do anything for him a broken heart. Just an hour ago Sherlock had thought to himself how he had wanted to be human; to indulge in his newly surfaced feelings. How wrong he was. Alone was what he had. Alone was what protected him.

Alone was what protected those he cared for.

Sherlock pulled his shoes towards him from under Molly's vanity and laced them on his feet. He stood and pulled on his suit jacket. With one last longing, regretful look at the slumbering pathologist, Sherlock buttoned his jacket and slipped out of her bedroom.

Scribbling a note onto the pad of paper on Molly's counter, Sherlock let himself out of her flat and into the cold London night. Flipping up the collar of his Belstaff and shoving his hands into the pockets, Sherlock thought back to the words Mycroft had uttered ages ago, as he stood outside of Bart's morgue.

Thinking his older brother was right twice in one night was new for Sherlock, but he couldn't help but agree with Mycroft just this once; all lives end, and all hearts are broken.

Please don't hate me...I promise there will be a happy ending.