Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine. The title translates as "the call of the void," because it's French, innit? And everything sounds cooler in French…

L'APPEL DU VIDE

She tightens her fist beneath the wraps.

Sherlock checks the placement of the fingers, presses to make sure her thumb's tight enough against the knuckles. Runs the bare heel of his hand across the wraps' soft surface, seeing if he can find a break in the cover, if he's left a weak-spot in her protection.

A pathologist can't afford to damage her hands, after all.

He frowns as he does it, doesn't look her face. Focuses on her fingers, her knuckles. Adjusts her stance for better stability, more out of habit than anything else. He hasn't been able to bring himself to let her do the wrapping for herself yet and he knows that it's starting to irritate her: She thinks it a measure of his distrust in her but in that she is wrong.

If there is anyone in the world he trusts besides John, it is Dr. Molly Hooper.

Sherlock lets her think it though, would rather her be angry with him than give up this little…ritual that's formed between them. He finds it strangely comforting, ever since that whole fiasco with Meat Dagger and his purloined pictures, to spend time practicing with her. Teaching her. Helping her. Touching her in a way that's protective and respectful and safe.

So once every week he brings her to Baker Street, lets her dart and dance around him while he shows her new punches, new combinations. New ways to shield herself from the foes he's exposed her to and the foes she's already faced. He lets her near, nearer than he lets about anyone except John or his family and when he does he finds it inexhaustibly… pleasing. Soothing in a way he can't quite explain. He never talks about it with anyone else, holds the knowledge of it to himself like a dragon might hoard its secrets-

He wonders, sometimes, what that says about him but decides that for once he really doesn't want to know.

So he continues this touching-but-not-really-touching dance of theirs. Waiting for… something, though he doesn't rightly know what. For her to kiss him perhaps, or for him to find the courage to try kissing her. For some clue that the horror Meat Dagger had visited upon her has been dealt with, some proof that she's ok now, that what he wants from her isn't impudent or demanding because it's what she wants too. But nothing happens- physically at least- between them, and Sherlock is at a loss as to what this means-

He is stuck in a quandary, in limbo. In Purgatory. Wanting, but not knowing what to do with that want.

And it is driving him insane.

Bur what can he do? Ask her out? He doesn't believe she's over Meat Dagger or his betrayal yet. Snog her and see what happens? He hasn't yet the skill- or the confidence- for that. And even if he did ask Molly straight out for sex he's not certain she wouldn't be offended by his forwardness. He was brought up to believe that respect for a young woman was indicated by not trying to get into her knickers, thank you very much, and he suspects that Mary Siobhán Hooper, proud Daughter of Kilburn and only child of two very Catholic, very London Irish parents, was probably brought up to believe the same-

Which is not going to help with his current problems. At all. Any more than admitting that- deep down- what he wants from her isn't merely sex will.

Because what he wants is closeness. Companionship. Those things he has no idea how to ask for from anyone. They make him nervous in a way he can't begin to quantify and he hasn't any idea how to bring such anxiety to heel-

So he keeps his bloody trap shut about it.

He just doesn't know what else to do.

He hears her give a huff of breath then, sees from the corner of his eye the way her shoulders tighten up. Her mouth straightening a little, its small, delicate line suitably perturbed. Yes, he thinks, she's definitely annoyed. He knows her far too well by now not to recognise the signs- Not that he's going to let that stop him though. He's trying to improve her physical awareness, make sure she notices how her body reacts before that reaction can get her hurt. He tells himself that's why he drops her wrapped hands, moves his own to her shoulders.

"Do try to unclench, Molly," he says curtly, pressing his thumbs into the flesh at her deltoids, pulling back with his fingers.

She moves her head from side to side, working out any stiffness, and the edges of her ponytail flick across his knuckles.

It feels very, very soft.

"And stand up straight," he adds in irritation. He wonders what that hair would feel like, wrapped around his fingers. His fist. What it would look like spread out beneath him. "You've already got a mild scoliosis," he scolds, uncomfortable with where his thoughts are taking him-

She crosses her arms over her chest, pivoting on the balls of her feet. "Is that why you've been staring at my arse?" she asks, part playful, part irritated. "You were trying to work out whether I had a curvature to my spine?"

And she jabs lightly at his shoulder, not his upraised palms.

He stumbles backwards a step- the blow was unexpected- and she grins guilelessly at him. There's something about that smile, its sweetness, that grates on his last bloody nerve. So-

"I do not stare at your arse," he snaps (with a great deal more vehemence than he intended). "I was trying to ascertain how best to train you, nothing more." He shoots her his most severe look, his upper lip hitching into a sneer. "Your arse, Molly Hooper, is nothing special, I assure you-

Rather like the rest of your drab little package."

And with those words he steps smartly away from her, withdrawing as if she were somehow poisonous.

He regrets the words the moment he says them but he regrets the expression they bring to her face more.

For there is hurt there, embarrassment. The shivering beginning of tears. A deep shame (though why she should be ashamed when he's the one being an arsehole is anyone's guess) which takes her loveliness and distorts it. Crumples it. Makes it seem even more impossible and fragile and vulnerable than before. It twists something inside Sherlock, some gentle, quiet thing he hates being reminded exists inside of him, to see it.

"Oh," she murmurs.

It is a very small murmur.

"Oh, I… Sorry."

And she turns her back in embarrassment- it's a ridiculous reaction, in Sherlock's opinion- her shoulders drooping, arms going defensively across her chest. That once-warm gaze skitters off to his right and her hands go to her fists, the wrappings, trying to open them, her difficulty with such a simple task showing her distracted she's become. Sherlock can't help it, his own hands find hers. Still them. He unravels the wrapping and her fingers feel small, delicate, beneath his own. They're shaking.

They're shaking with the hurt of what he said to her and the realisation makes him feel a little sick.

As soon as he touches her though she stills, her body going taut. Frightened. He can hear her breaths coming, tight pants of fear, of expectant hurt, and he wants to make it better. He wants to take it back but he doesn't know how. There are tricks he can draw on, things he's learned from books and movies and plain old observation that will put her at her ease, that may even get him off the hook, but such sleight of hand isn't good enough for his Molly-

So he stills her hands as best he can, wraps them both in his own.

As his grip tightens on them she looks up at him in question and, almost against his will, his gaze rises to meet hers.

Tears hang, crystalline and bright on her lashes. Her eyes are widened, hurt, her lips pulling together as if she's trying to force herself not to cry and he can't help it; as if of their own volition his hands leave hers, reach up to cup her face, the heat of her skin and the salty wetness of her tears blooming against his palms.

He steps closer and suddenly she's right bloody there, her body lovely and warm and alive and pressed right against him.

She gives a little gasp- "what is this, Sherlock?"- and in that moment he wants to kiss her so badly he can taste it. He could swear he can feel it, the desire a moving, sharp thing inside of him, a buzzing ball of need he can't expel.

All he has to do is lean in and he'll be kissing her, he thinks.

All he has to do is lean in and he'll have what he- what they both, apparently- want.

But though he knows what he wants he can see the hurt in her face, the fear, and while he may not be the kindest of men he knows he's not that sort of bastard. He won't kiss her when she's hurt, he won't make a caress into a bargain or a plea or a bribe because he said something awful and he wants to be forgiven.

His feelings for her are not just some get out of jail free card he gets to play.

So he leans down, brushes his lips across her forehead (since leaving her untouched is not an option.)

She gives the tiniest, loveliest little sigh and he feels it shudder through him… But he still pulls away.

"I'm- I'm sorry," he says and he hates the hitch in his voice, hates it so much that he lets go, steps away from her again. Turns his back on her, too afraid to let her see what he's feeling.

It's half fear of showing her his vulnerability and half fear of what her vulnerability will do to him that sets him retreating; He stumbles, clumsy (always clumsy around her) towards the door and makes to open it, the cool of the night air calling like a siren, promising clarity and safety and all sorts of freedom. But before he can get through the door she's in front of it, the door at her back.

She pushes it closed with her weight.

Sherlock reaches for the handle- it's beside her hip- but when he gets close enough her hands reach out to him. They're hesitant. Light. They stroke and caress, tracing the small of his back. The warm dip of his hip. She's frowning up at him, the familiar brown eyes curious, tears a memory now, her expression so inquisitive.

"Sherlock?" She breathes his name and he hates it, the way it makes his heartbeat quicken, the way it makes him shiver.

He's never wanted anyone to have this sort of power over him.

But he can't help it and neither, apparently, can she: She's running her thumbs across his ribs now, the concave warmth of his belly, her fingers splayed out in matching radiuses against his flesh. He feels jittery, reckless, wherever she touches him and he hates the sensation even as he leans in more closely to her. Tries to get more of it.

"Sherlock, what are we doing?" she asks and she sounds breathless. Confused. But more together than he, less frightened.

For her this is merely a question, not some runaway path to perdition.

"I don't…" He wants to tell her he doesn't know. He wants not to know. But he understands what this thing is, it's what he's wanted all this time, expelled into hands and flesh and the need for her body against his. For her to be safe with him and him to be safe in her.

But he can't- He knows he shouldn't- He's given himself up to plenty over the years, to drugs, to puzzles, to adrenaline, even to duty, and he's afraid of giving himself up to this-

He's afraid, as he never has been before, of this particular fall.

So he shakes his head, his hands going up to cup the back of Molly's head as she tries to pull away from him. She thinks he's rejecting her and he can't let her think that. He won't. Not ever. Not even if he can't tell her how he feels. Her hair spills between his fingers, silken and soft and when his nails find her scalp she moans at the sensation. Smiling. She tilts her head back and runs her nose against his throat, his jaw. The swell of his Adam's apple. Her lips press not-quite-kisses along the skin there and they draw from him a sigh.

Its loudness embarrasses him.

At his exhalation of breath her eyes flash open- when had she closed them? - and when she looks at him now he sees understanding in her gaze. Excitement. She's very gentle, very watchful, as she steps closer.

Her weight presses him back until it's him against the door.

Her hands splay against his heart as she reaches up on tiptoe and then her mouth's on his. Wet and soft and warm, her lips trembling beneath his own and there aren't words, there just aren't word for this. It's like his every nerve ending has suddenly been electrified and now his body is alight- alive- with sensation. He's not quite sure how to handle such bliss as this.

Without his telling them to his arms go around her, lock tight, her body flush against his own. He can feel the soft warmth of her breasts pressing into his chest, feel her spine arch as she tries to move closer to him, then closer and closer again.

Restless lost, he switches places with her. Her arms tightening around his neck, his tallness forcing her to scramble onto her tiptoes, his hands impatiently taking her weight, pulling first one leg, then the other, tight around his hips. He feels the flush, luxurious heat of her belly, then her mound, against his cock and he can't help it, he sputters out some stream of idiocy he can't even let himself listen to, pleading and saying her name and even, God help him, praising her-

She soothes him though. Gets him through it. "I've got you," she says softly. "I've got you," though to all the world it seems like he's got her.

Her hands find his hair, his nape, and she tugs gently. Forces his head up, his gaze moving unerringly to hers. "There you are," she says and it's like she's discovered a secret, a clue, a mystery.

There's a wide world of fascination and curiosity and, and joy in her gaze and it's all his. It's all him. What she feels for him is literally staring him in the face.

It makes him feel small and unsure, afraid, a sea-swell of emotion that he's certain could drown him- But he doesn't drown. He doesn't go under.

He can't ever drown, not when his Molly is near.

His mouth finds hers again, his tongue slipping and sliding wetly against her own. Their hands clasp together, their body twist tightly. He swears his heart's hammering so loud it's going to force its way out of his chest.

But he doesn't feel lost. He doesn't feel frightened.

No, this dive into the abyss isn't freefall, it's… It's flight.

And he lets himself fly. He lets himself go. Her backside fills his hands as he kneads and squeezes, her breasts burn against his chest even as her kisses drag and drug and seduce, as they eat away at his fear. His hips have started moving against hers, a jagged, desperate rhythm that beats against the wood of the door and if he weren't so far gone he'd be mortified at the way this broadcasts their activities to the rest of the house- He really bloody hopes Mrs. Hudson took one of her "herbal soothers," tonight-

But it doesn't matter. None of it matters. He is gone, he is transported. And desperate and aching and breathless inside this thing he's found with Molly- This thing which she's aroused.

Her hands are raking at his shirt, determined to get it off him. The garment doesn't cooperate and ping! One-two-three of his shirt buttons fly off, his cufflinks only escaping the same treatment because he's rolled his sleeves up. She pulls the shirt from his body with eager, clever little hands only for it to be tossed aside. Forgotten.

"Beautiful," she murmurs. "Just beautiful…"

He's bare to her for the very first time and there's something incredibly freeing in that.

So he holds her tighter. Kisses her. She pinches and scratches at his bare chest, her mouth nipping gently along his throat, his clavicle as her hips work tirelessly against his. She sucks a bruise into his skin, marking him at his pulse-point, and Sherlock hisses out roughly, grip tightening on her hair.

The pleas turning into a low, sharp whine however as her lips leave his throat and find his nipple, her tongue teasing that tightened point, her delicate little teeth coming down to bite.

In retaliation one hand finds its way beneath her t-shirt and inside her flimsy little sports bra; He palms her breast, the tight, taut nipple hard between his thumb and forefinger and when he squeezes she bucks against him. Lets loose a breathless string of curses and pleas, her thighs' grip on him cinching ever tighter, the motion of her hips becoming demanding. Impossible.

He finds that he simply cannot to resist.

She pulls back- she has to breathe, she has to look at him- but even as she opens her mouth to speak to him his lips descend on hers again- "No talking," he mumbles, "no arguing- I'll only- you know I'll only muck it up-"

And he kisses her again. His body feels like it's on fire.

She must agree with his point though because she doesn't try to speak.

Instead, without warning she pulls one leg loose from his hip, forces her foot back into the door with a sharp, staccato thud and pushes against the wood. The motion forces them both backwards and away from the door, Sherlock and she landing messily against the kitchen table, he on his backside, she in his lap.

He grips her calves tightly to keep her to him as the momentum of their impact nearly forces her away. His hiss of demand is swallowed by her mouth as she kisses him again and now that she can manoeuvre her hands go to his fly, opening the buttons deftly and then reaching inside. Cupping him through the fabric of his boxers. He thrusts against her palm unthinkingly, his hands squeezing at her legs before pushing them wider. Grabbing the waist-band of her trackies and pulling them down, taking her knickers off at the same time before tossing both away.

She nods at the action, her own hands pushing down his trousers and letting them pool at his feet. He lifts his arse and then kicks his way out of them (and his shoes, and his socks) even as he presses her eagerly onto her back, even as he climbs onto the table and on top of her.

That first flush of their bare skin against one another is… intense. Difficult to handle. He presses his hips into her and instinctively her head falls back towards the table, a moan sounding low in her throat. His hand finds the back of her skull though, cradles it. Makes sure she's not going to hurt herself by cracking bone on wood. This single, small act seems to break the tension between them, the ratcheted-up neediness of passion breaking like a wave against the shore.

It reminds him of how vulnerable she is beneath him and it seems to remind her of something similar for him.

For she stills. Pulls him down to her and kisses him gently. Tenderly. They break apart and both have to suck in air, foreheads pressed together. Their bodies still close and warm and oh, but he feels as if it's one skin they're living in, not two. Sherlock stares down at her and she nods. Now his hands find her last article of clothing, her t-shirt and sports bra. The former comes off easily, the latter taking more time as he frowns at it and tries to work out how it opens. (It turns out there's a zip.)

At her urging he slides the bra open, pulls it apart. Stares down at her small, pale breasts, lowers his head to kiss them. To suck gently at each nipple, to nuzzle and to lick. He tastes salt and woman, smells her perfume and her sweat. Hears her hitching breath- so wanted- and as he does his mind goes (quite without his permission) to Meat Dagger. To that stupid, worthless cretin.

He wonders that anyone could ever want to share such beauty, and he wonders that anyone should ever have seen it and let it go?

As he thinks this she cards her fingers gently through his hair, murmuring encouragement. It brings his mind sharply back to the matter at hand- namely her- and her former lover is dismissed with less than a word. Sherlock traces the delicate underside of each breast with his nose, his tongue, and when he fills his hands with them and squeezes gently the sharp intake of breath she takes makes him feel more like a giant than a mortal man. His name stutters from her throat, a wanting, knowing sigh and he smiles against her skin, feels her hands press his head to her heart.

This is innocence and carnality, this is gentleness and fierce want.

He shifts positions so that now they're on their side, his body not pressing down on hers and she gives a small moue of disappointment, her head flicking up from its place beneath his chin as she frowns at him questioningly.

"Don't you want to..?" she asks and her voice is faint. No accusation, merely curiosity. And something… Something so vulnerable, underneath that. Something purely Molly.

Her hands are tracing patterns on his bare skin, his belly, and when he looks down at her those clever little fingers of hers skate lower, her smile somehow innocent as they move towards his hardened, aching cock. He takes her wandering hand in his though, squeezes it between his fingers. The pressure on his prick is wonderful but although she pouts he shakes his head.

Acting on impulse he kisses her forehead.

It makes him feel like a clot but despite that he knows now what he wants to say.

"I want a bed," he says quietly. "No- That's not right: I want you in my bed."

She raises her eyebrows to him in surprise and he sits up. The motion forces her to the same or risk falling off the kitchen table which he feels rather makes his point for him.

"There isn't enough room here," he points out. "We might fall off and you'll get hurt-"

She snorts. "It'll hardly kill me."

He shakes his head. He wants to make her see but he's so bloody bad at this.

"I don't care if it will only hurt you a little," he says quietly. He hates to hear his own hesitance, there and glaringly obvious for her to see. "Only a little hurt is too much for you. And besides, I'll want- I'll need room and time and I don't want to worry that you-"

"That I'll what?"

"That you won't enjoy it. That I'll fuck it up some way and hurt you…"

The words sounds ridiculous to him, a schoolboy worry, and he knows that if anyone ever asks him he'll claim he never said them aloud. But they're the truth, whether he wants to allow it or not: He's seen her so badly injured this last year, has in his own way been the cause of it.

Her heart's been broken by more than one man and that's not a pattern he wishes to repeat.

Molly stares at him, nonplussed, for a moment and then he sees understanding move through her expression.

Her eyes drop down to his hands and she reaches out, presses her palms onto his fingers.

"Is that what you've been doing all this time?" she asks. "Protecting me? Teaching me to protect myself- Even if it's from you?"

He nods numbly, tongue thick in his mouth. Remembering her boxing lessons, remembering her hands, taped up and ready to pounce. "I wanted you to- I had to make sure you would be alright," he says. "After Meat Dagger, after losing you, after Magnusson and my drugs scare and the fall and Jim From Bloody IT, I had to make sure you could, that you'd be ok-"

"But I am ok," she says. The words are faint. "I'm so unbelievably, wonderfully ok."

Sherlock doesn't know what to make of that.

For a moment there's nothing but silence between them and then he hears her move, hears the whispering slide of her feet landing on the floor. When he looks up in askance she's standing and she's holding out her hands to him. He takes them both and as he does she brings first one then the other to her lips. Turns them over, kisses each palm in turn.

And then she takes his left hand and pulls him to his feet.

She easily threads her way through the flat- she's familiar with it now- to tow him to his bedroom door.

She stands on the threshold and lets him push the door open. Watches him walk in ahead of her, allows him to take her hands and pull her towards his bed.

They're both already naked and they're both already aroused; When he pulls her to him she comes willingly. They kiss and their bodies wind together, her small, warm form fitting easily beneath his own.

There's a harsh hiss of breath, the welcome, becoming-familiar sensation of her legs coming up around his waist again. The push inside her body is easy; they fit together with grace.

And then they're moving, they're straining. It's breath and hands and voice twining together, racing towards climax. Tension and pleasure winding tight, then tighter, within Sherlock, her calls and pants pressing him onwards to some end he can't see. There's a few seconds of helplessness, recklessness, his body finally slipping the bonds of control he's always carefully placed on it-

And then he's coming apart, Molly with him. He feels it in his every breath, in her every sigh.

He knows it's taken him apart from the inside out and he can't bring himself to mind.

They pull apart, still panting, slightly slick with sweat now and Sherlock stares at her, not at all comfortable or familiar with this new place he's found himself. These new emotions within him. But before he can say something foolish- his mouth, it's always running away with him- Molly reaches over and kisses him. Hushes him. She pulls him back to her and he fits his form over hers, lets her wind him in her arms and hold him close.

They fall asleep like that, a brave new world held in the stretch of some bed sheets and Sherlock Holmes realises as he slips from consciousness that he wouldn't have it any other way-

When he wakes the sun's high but she's still with him and in the afternoon light he smiles.

For those of you wondering, "L'appel du vide," apparently refers to humans' instinctive desire to jump from high places- In other words, to fall. Seems fitting for the detective...