Disclaimer: Not mine!
Author's Note: ENJOY!

For the record, this is the longest chapter I've ever written...I hope you like it, and please comment and review, otherwise I waste my life checking emails and getting sadder and sadder and sadder...hahaha


Sherlock's father had advised him that if he really wanted Molly back, and if he wanted to build their relationship to something that would last, Sherlock would have to learn to crawl, then walk, before he could run.

And Molly believed in that method too, categorizing the crawling part when they agreed to at least think about working on their relationship, which they had done at their goddaughter's party. The walking would be the relationship building itself, where they reacquainted themselves with the other. And the running part, well, Molly didn't know how to define that one yet.

But walk they did.

She forced them to become friends again, to do ordinary things but in their extraordinary ways. She made him learn about trust, about what it was like to gain it and keep it, showed him its value.

They started out with the simple act of getting coffee together every morning. She would meet him there, and he would always wait for her. She knew that the old Sherlock would've become exasperated by the routine, by the fact that he could just sneak into her apartment every morning and they'd have coffee in her kitchen. But this new and progressing Sherlock…soon he learned her order, and she would get to the little surreptitious café to find him sitting there with a newspaper, at their regular table with her latte and cranberry orange scone, waiting. They would spend their hour together talking about everything under the sun, usually starting with the newspaper. He would ask about her plans for the day, she'd ask about his, then they'd share a quick kiss on the sidewalk before heading off to start their destinations.

Throughout the day, he would text her at random, telling her things. Interesting cases he had encountered, the strange people he came across, the completely insane, and of course, whatever hilarious thing he encountered, he shared with her. He'd even told her that whenever he used the cake emoji, it meant he was around his brother.

They would meet for lunch sometimes, just to see each other and be together for that brief space of time.

He'd also become an expert on dates, but Molly had a feeling that was thanks to a lot of pointers by John Watson and, somewhat surprisingly, Sherlock's parents. He took her out to dinner every Friday and Saturday night, brunch every Sunday. He even learned to take her to the movies and saving his comments for the end, making her giggle by having a notepad in his lap so he could remember everything he wanted to complain about.

One day she arrived for their coffee date to find him absolutely vibrating with energy. "You know that actor from that show you like so much? The one with the overly complicated name from Parade's End?"

"Says the man named William Sherlock Scott Holmes," she'd grinned at him over the brim of her latte.

He'd rolled his eyes at her, "his name sounds like a fart in the bath, admit it."

"It does not!" she'd protested indignantly.

"Anyway," he'd steam-rolled over any further protests, "he's doing some play at the National Theater, Mycroft pulled some strings, and we're going to see it Friday night."

One day he'd taken her to a restaurant near the beach in East Sussex, and she'd caught him staring at her when she'd closed her eyes to enjoy the warmth of the sun on her face. She was wearing a top that had covered her chest completely, even though the weather had been hotter than normal and he could tell she was yearning to wear something more breathable, tugging at the collar.

"You don't have to be ashamed of your scar you know," he'd murmured quietly, leaning across the table to lace their fingers together, too perceptive as always. "I've always thought of scars as roadmap to a person's strengths."

She'd laughed at him, rubbing the skin between his index and thumb with hers, "I feel like until you wear something other than a suit all day long to cover your scars, you can't tell me otherwise."

He'd looked surprised at that. And old Sherlock wouldn't have said anything, wouldn't have commended her perceptiveness, or said something incredibly hurtful to cover his own wounded heart. But the new Sherlock he was trying to be for her, forced himself to nod, "you're right. The scars I have on my body from years of doing my brother's 'leg work' do dictate what kinds of clothes I wear."

So the next day, he'd gone out and bought t-shirts and even jeans. He didn't necessarily walk around shirtless now, but he was spotted wearing the jeans and short sleeved t-shirts around Baker street or while running errands. He looked so much younger in the new additions to his wardrobe that Lestrade had walked by him in the street one time, and hadn't recognized Sherlock. He didn't push Molly to wear anything low cut, but he let her know in small ways that she was beautiful, no matter what marred her skin.

The day she returned to work, he had a massive bouquet of purple tulips waiting for her at her desk with a note attached that read, "remember to save me a pair of kidneys. I want to examine the effects of the botulinum toxin on them at different increments after death, I love you. -SH". She'd laughed at that, and kept the note in her phone case, rereading it throughout the day. He was a new and improved Sherlock, but he was still Sherlock.

Around noon that day, as she had finally fallen back into the routine of work, he'd swept into the morgue with his coat fluttering behind him like a superhero's cape; his face intense, collar turned up, cheekbones set on stun and eyes on fire. He hadn't said a word as he'd grabbed her arm, turned her around to face him, cupping her face in his large hands and kissed her so slowly, so exquisitely, his coat fluttering and settling around them. She'd wanted to grab him, to hold onto him but she had on latex gloves covered in a dead man's blood. "How's your first day going, darling?" he murmured against her mouth as she kept her hands up and away from him.

"Not bad," she told him, not resisting the temptation to flick her tongue out to taste his mouth, "just getting back into the groove of it."

"Doesn't sound too bad," he'd breathed before dipping his head down to kiss her again, just as slowly.

"Stop snogging you two! I'm about to come in!" John had hollered from down the hall, "3, 2, 1," and of course Sherlock had kissed her again just when Watson came into the room. "Get a room," he'd muttered, but hadn't been able to hide his delight in the pair when Molly had pulled back with a giggle.

The pair had taken Molly out to lunch that day, with Mike Stamford tagging along for old times' sake. She had never enjoyed a lunch hour so much before, stuffed as she was between John and Sherlock in the booth of the Turkish restaurant they'd chosen. She'd sat so close to Sherlock that she might as well have been in his lap, his arm draped across the back of the booth, and she'd luxuriated in snuggling to his side.

There was a new possessiveness to him now. When they were out in public, he used small touches to mark her as his, or to ground himself, as if to remind himself that she was there, and she was there with him. She remembered watching the couple on the tube, and how jealous she'd been that they'd been doing nothing but holding hands. And as she walked the streets of London with her arm through Sherlock's, or his arm wrapped around her shoulders or waist, or just holding hands as they strolled, she no longer felt like she had need to be jealous of them. During social gatherings, whether it was with their family and friends, or a charity event that Molly insisted they go to, he touched her in small ways there too. His hand on the small of her back, touching her arm to get her attention and just smiling into her eyes, getting her a drink without her having to ask for it, or simply taking her hand in his and kissing her hand or the inside of her palm.

Molly had asked her own therapist for books that she could read, any literature that would help her support her lover deal with sobriety and trauma. And they'd even done joint sessions with Sherlock's therapist to talk about what had happened to them, helping both Sherlock and Molly understand the fallout of her kidnapping. It was hard for both of them, and they both had resisted the joint sessions but eventually, they'd talked over it and had decided it was a step worth taking.

Another step forward, another step learned together.

Walk on through the wind, walk on through the rain…

They had even discussed the merits of her going with him to Sherrinford, to watch him and Eurus compose their newest piece together. He'd looked thoughtful as they talked about it, holding her hands in his, he'd been looking down at their intertwined fingers, "I want you to meet her, to see my sister, but there's a part of me that's terrified of her, and what will be triggered in her if she sees you."

She'd leaned forward then to kiss the top of his bowed head, "I understand. I'd love to meet her, to understand you better, but I get it."

One of the most interesting things he had told her about himself was about his mind palace, about the way he peppered it with people that held the bits of information he needed. She found herself shocked, mesmerized as he told her about the role she played in his mind. "You saved my life, and didn't even know it. You were there when I got shot," he told her, purposefully keeping his back to her as he fumbled around, making her tea, "and you told me whether I should fall forwards or backwards. My mind was in chaos…but you, you kept me sane. You were the voice of reason."

She had chuckled, nibbling at the lemon pound cake they'd just baked. "Am I still like that in your mind palace? Logical and even-minded?"

"I now have two Molly's in mind," he told her, finally turning around and bracing himself on the counter across from her, "there's the Molly that's essentially my much smarter colleague," she had laughed at his obvious flattery, "and there's my Molly, the Molly only I get to see, tucked away in your own luxurious suite, always waiting to soothe me."

She narrowed her eyes at him, "how often is this Molly dressed?"

"Not very," he had grinned at her, leaning across the kitchen island to kiss her.

They also had an unspoken rule.

Sherlock wasn't allowed to come to her apartment, and if he did, it was only in a social context or he never went inside. She could visit Baker street all she wanted, with the understanding that sex was off the table, for now. They were still finding their balance, still learning to walk together. But lately, it got harder and harder for Molly to leave him at night.

Usually the flat was full of people, clients and friends coming in and out, usually accompanied by Mrs. Hudson and Rosie. Once everyone had gone home though, she would find herself sitting in Sherlock's lap in the leather chair by the fireplace, her arms wrapped around his neck as he held her by the waist, kissing each other so tenderly that she sometimes felt as if she was giving him her heart and soul with each breath he stole from her.

Eventually, Molly couldn't walk away from him.

It was at the end of a long day that had lasted way too long for both of them. There was a new serial killer in town, and it was all hands-on deck. They had spent the bulk of the day with their eyes glued to their microscopes in the lab, with Molly insisting that they at least order pizza if they weren't going to take a proper break. She knew what he was like when he was on a case, and she'd practically force fed him a slice. They'd gotten home late, and Molly was in the middle of taking a sip from her tea when she realized she had just thought of Baker street as home.

She looked down at Sherlock, his head in her lap with his eyes closed, wearing a sky-blue t-shirt and jeans, his feet bare. She wondered how he would react if he knew that she thought of Baker street as her home now, that she had realized that her home was wherever her sociopath lived. The old Sherlock would have definitely freaked out, but this new Sherlock was capable of surprising her.

As if sensing her watching him, he opened his eyes and looked directly into her eyes. Lately, there was something new in his eyes. They had always stunned her before, and not just because of the way they changed colors. His eyes held such intelligence and perceptiveness, even his mischievousness was there for everyone to see. But lately...there was something new in them that mesmerized her, that held her breath and stole it away completely. Somehow, they had become more intense, more gripping. And she had thought that to be impossible.

"What?" he asked, reaching up to tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear.

"Nothing," she smiled, her hand rubbing a circle on his chest, "Just…thinking."

"About?" he asked curiously, lifting a brow in such a posh manner that it made her laugh. "Oh Molly Hooper," he hoisted himself up to sit, facing her, "how I love you," he told her, pulling her into his arms, and she went willingly, and let him kiss her.

He leaned back against the couch, propping his legs up on the coffee table as she straddled him, gripping his hair in that way she did that usually drove him mad with lust. She moaned into his mouth, and he found himself dying to touch her soft skin…as if he didn't make the contact right now, he would wither and die. She arched against him and he couldn't help running his hands up her elegant back, her shirt having ridden up to expose that sweet spot at the base of her spine.

Touching her electrified him, and she pulled back to look down into his eyes as he ran his hands across the skin at the small of her back, urging her closer. He held his breath, knowing she was about to walk away from him, telling him good night and leaving him with an erection that would not go away without Molly. He expected her to end it like she had done for the past few months, with a softer kiss, a whispered "I love you" and she'd be out there.

But this was Molly.

This was his Molly.

His unpredictable, extraordinary Molly.

She held his gaze as she leaned down, dipping her tongue into his open mouth and never breaking eye contact.

She turned him into a beast then, a berserker, a creature that lived and died and breathed for Molly.

Neither of them knew how but they ended up in his bedroom, in the tangled sheets of his unmade bed, struggling to get closer and closer. Somehow, they ended up with him standing up, shucking the shirt over his head impatiently and Molly kneeling before him, struggling with the button and zipper of his jeans. Her fingers were trembling as her blood bumped through her body like a drum beat. "Fuck," she cursed, then burst out laughing, leaning her forehead against his thigh in exasperation, "I can't get your blood jeans off."

"I should get back to trousers then," he grinned, bending to lift her up to her feet, unable to stop himself from kissing her again even as his own hands fumbled with the damned button and fly. But finally, as he kissed her and kissed her and kissed his Molly, he got them off and was so thankful he'd decided not to wear any underwear that day. Molly's reaction drove him crazy, groaning wildly against his mouth, pressing herself against him as she gripped his bare bottom in her hands. There was a shocking intimacy now, he was stark naked and so aroused it hurt, and Molly was still dressed in her work clothes.

That had to change.

He kissed her throat, licking every inch of bare skin he could get to as he tugged at the bottom of her shirt. "Maybe," she pulled away, her voice shaking, "maybe we should leave my shirt on? You…you haven't seen the scar and it's so hideous. I don't…I don't want to put you off."

She broke his heart.

He pressed his forehead against hers, breathing like a winded horse, "Molly Hooper," he told her on a breath, "trust me," he grinned and lifted the shirt over her head. He kissed her again, distracting her from whatever doubts that filled her mind by rubbing himself against her, biting her lower lip before he kissed a trail down her throat, to her collarbone, tasting that sweet hollow at the base of her throat, his lips a whisper over the surgical scar, his fingers tracing the lace cups of her bra, thumbs passing over her nipples as he licked her skin, where the stitches had been.

When he finally slipped inside her, they both shouted in pleasure and for a moment, Molly wondered how thin the walls of Baker street were. But she didn't care as he thrust inside her, as he dropped his head against her throat, pumping his hips as she clawed at his back, screaming. He was unhinged, wild as he took her harder, faster, setting a wild, punishing tempo. She clung to him, biting his throat, flicking her tongue in his ear, dragging her teeth across his jaw as he surged so deep inside her that she swore she could feel him in her womb.

"Fuck me," she was shocked to hear herself groan in his ear, wrapping her legs around his waist and locking her legs, "oh Sherlock, fuck me," she had urged, and he had.

They ended up breathless on the bed, their bodies wrung full of ecstasy and months of pent up want, slick with perspiration and revived and reveling in their love. He was on his back, a white sheet draped over him in such a way that it made Molly wish she was a painter or could sketch or something. He looked like a work of art, his hair all mussed, his lips swollen from kisses, his eyes mellow from his orgasm, the sheet just hiding his loins from view, leaving one long leg and sinewy thigh bare. She propped herself up on her elbow over him, her fingers tracing the scars on his chest now, his shoulder, the jagged one right beneath his rib that had clearly been made with a serrated knife.

"Spend the night with me," he murmured, cupping her face in his palm.

She nodded, putting her head on his chest, and falling asleep.

A part of her woke up a little later, expecting him to have disappeared again. And she found herself alone in his bed, she wanted to throw up. But then she heard the toilet flush, and he walked back into the bedroom, naked as the day he was born, running a hand through his hair as he yawned so wide his jaw cracked. "Go back to sleep," he murmured, climbing back in beside her, and pulling her back over his chest.

The next morning, he woke her up in the best way possible, with his head buried between her legs and the most deliciously evil smile on his lips and a brightness in his eyes as he wrung orgasm after orgasm from her prone body using his lips, teeth and an all too knowing tongue.

Later that day, Watson asked him when he was in such a bloody good mood as they tried to track down the serial killer for Lestrade and the Yard. Sherlock had barely glanced up from the file he was reviewing, answering rather haughtily that he'd had a good breakfast. Watson frowned, asking what it had been to make him so deliriously happy, and became even more perplexed when Sherlock answered, "peaches and cream."

Molly squeaked and ducked behind her microscope to hide her reddening cheeks.

Of course, the more nights they spent together, the more they learned about the other one, and the nightmares that woke them up in the middle of the night. Molly's nightmares usually ended with her gasping for air, and opening in her eyes without much fuss, reaching for Sherlock in bed beside her, just to know that she was there. He would usually wake up and tuck her against him, murmuring to her until they both fell asleep again.

Sherlock's nightmares on the other hand, scared the life out of her. He usually woke up screaming his lungs out, flailing and tossing the sheets aside, sometimes even jumping out of bed as if he were about to run for the door. Sometimes he would be gasping John's name, sometimes Mycroft, sometimes Molly. The first time it had happened, she had been paralyzed by fear until she figured out he was still asleep. Now she woke up just as the nightmare started gathering steam in his subconscious, and she'd dive between his flailing arms, holding him and kissing his cheek and ear, whispering to him until he woke up. He'd be so relieved he would stare straight at the ceiling for a few moments, then bury himself so deep in Molly that they forgot where Molly began and Sherlock ended.

Walk on, walk on, with hope in your heart…

Step by step, inch by inch, they progressed.

Of course, along the way, as they supported each other, finding their legs like newborn giraffes unfamiliar with their legs, there were fights.

Mostly Sherlock's fault, to no one's surprise. Not even his.

Their biggest shouting matches happened on the days when stress overwhelmed Sherlock, and he became manic, a whirling, Tasmanian devil in the apartment looking for cigarettes. He lashed out, he became impossible. But he had learned to stop and take a deep breath, counting to ten through gritted teeth.

Whoever happened to be in the room with him during those moments usually received an apology, and a cup of tea. If it was Molly, he would take her to her favorite restaurant and a quiet walk around the river. If it was John, Sherlock's life was easy because he could just get away with an apology. If it was Mrs. Hudson, she usually got a hug from Sherlock.

Molly had learned to keep emergency nicotine patches stashed around his flat, and had taught him to chew gum whenever the urge to smoke came on. She'd caught him smoking a few times, and hadn't let him kiss her or come near her for the rest of the day. He fought the urge to smoke harder after that.

She also started calling him her puppy, because sometimes all he needed was to be taken outside for a walk around the neighborhood, to shake off the excess energy that clung to him. When he was in those moods, sex was usually too intense for him to handle, so they walked silently until he could contain himself. And it was interesting for her to watch, to learn about the way his brain worked. He was too much even for himself sometimes, too cerebral, his body too human to contain his massive intellect. But she learned to help him handle it, to deal with it all.

Another epic fight had been the fact that he didn't take care of his body when he was on a case. He didn't eat, didn't sleep, hardly drank anything except black tea. "Look!" she'd shouted, just to get his attention because he was literally rambling around the flat, climbing over furniture and muttering to himself, occasionally climbing over Molly, "you're a 35-year-old man. I shouldn't have to remind you to eat and drink and sleep. For God's sake Sherlock, what do you do when you're out working outside London and I'm not there to be all 'hey, Sherlock, did you friggin' remember to eat today?'"

"John does it," he told her, standing with one leg on the armrest of the sofa and the other on the coffee table, looking down at her with narrowed eyes and arms crossed.

John had laughed from his armchair, "right, like you ever listen to me."

"See!" Molly had rolled her eyes, swatting at his leg with the book she'd been reading when he climbed over her.

"Ow!" he said, sounding more offended than actually injured by the swat.

"You need to eat. And sleep. You need to take care of your body," she narrowed her eyes back at him, "if you don't, I'll keep your diet too. You don't eat, I don't eat. You don't sleep, I don't sleep."

"Don't be silly," he'd laughed then realized she was serious, "this is blackmail."

"This is us," she had told him, "blackmail is the only way I can get anything done around here," she'd then glanced at John, "thanks for fixing my bike by the way."

"Glad I could be of help!" he very carefully avoided her eyes.

"Wait! What's she got on you?!" Sherlock had hopped off the coffee table.

"Nothing!" John practically shouted, then cleared his throat, composing himself, "nothing," he said in a softer tone, and Molly had dissolved into laughter.

But Sherlock did start taking care of himself after that, and found that starvation hadn't really been helping him solve cases faster. It had just made him more prone to lashing out at the people around him.

"You know," John had very casually suggested a few weeks later, when Sherlock had mentioned how eating didn't really hinder or enhance his powers of deduction, "you should try doing yoga, a regular exercise routine would help you loads more."

"Shut up," was all that Sherlock had had to say on the matter.

Sherlock and Molly settled into a normalcy that they both flourished in.

Whether their work brought them together or not, whether they had a day from hell or a pleasant one, they ended it together in Baker street. Cuddling on the couch, or sitting in Sherlock's armchair with Molly in his lap, or even working from home on their computers, their legs in each other's lap, not talking as they worked, kissing every now and then amidst whatever they were doing.

He was capable of moments of unyielding sweetness.

They usually had music playing in the apartment, never agreeing to anything except the station on Spotify that only played Frank Sinatra songs. But Molly needed music to think and function, so they compromised on Sinatra. One time, she found herself pulled up to her feet, swept into his arms as "I've Got the World On A String" started playing, dancing with Sherlock in the middle of the living room. He was such a lithe dancer, and even her two left feet were graceful when they danced together.

On another occasion, he'd come to Baker street to find her already there, sitting in her corner of the sofa when Nick Cave's "Come Into My Sleep" had come on. He'd listened to it for a moment, frowning at Molly, "this is good, isn't it?" But Molly was floating away to the music, unable to hear Sherlock. Just looking at her expression, he'd known the song swept her off her feet. So, he'd literally swept her off feet and into his arms, holding her as they swayed to the words, to the music, and ended up tangled and half-naked together on the floor.

"Just move in!" Sherlock finally yelled one day as she ran through the flat with wet hair, running late for work as she tried to find her bra.

"What?" she asked, finally finding the scrap of black lace where Sherlock had flung it the night before in a haze of lust in the kitchen.

"Move in," he told her, watching as she put her bra on hurriedly while he languished naked in bed, a pagan king. "It's such a hassle for you to have to go to your flat, grab your clothes, then come and spend the night here. Your place is just your storage space right now," he shrugged, crawling across the bed and pulling her towards him by grabbing her belt loops, "move in with me."

She kissed him on the cheek, "let me think about it."

"What's there to think about?" he'd nearly shouted,

"I just need to think about it, ok?" she'd pushed away from him, pulling on her top, "I'll have an answer for you tonight after work, promise."

Of course, her answer had been yes. And she had delighted in watching John, Lestrade and Sherlock help her pack everything up in boxes and carry them 221B Baker street, her new home, with her love.