Chapter 11
Disclaimer: Obviously, I don't own Sherlock, John, Molly or anyone you recognise.
Authors note: Hello again :) A pretty rough chapter, but I hope you like it anyway. Thanks for reading and reviewing :D
For Sherlock Holmes, the best feeling in the world was the excitement of a new case; the adrenaline that came with the chase, and the triumph that spawned when the case was solved. Ever since his childhood, when the dreams of pirates faded and his talent was realised, the detective had never considered the fact that there may be a feeling he was missing out on.
This all changed when he was kissed by Molly Hooper.
It was gentle at first, though the pressure was firm. After a second, he started to respond, his arms winding around the pathologist's waist. Their lips connected perfectly similar to their bodies, fitting together like pieces of broken glass. The kiss went on, the gentleness turning to passion, and the passion sending shivers down Sherlock's spine and shooting sparks through the rooms of his mind palace. After what seemed an eternity, the pair separated reluctantly, a need for air pulling them apart. Staring into the other's dilated eyes, a smile grew on both their faces.
"Well, that was quite unexpected," The detective whispered.
"Don't pretend like you didn't see it coming," She replied.
He grinned and Molly yawned, leading Sherlock to notice how tired she actually was.
"You've had an extremely long night, follow me."
He led her to his bedroom, Molly eyes widening as he opened the door. I'm actually stepping over the threshold of Sherlock Holmes' bedroom. Of all the things that happened tonight, this was the most unexpected, she thought.
"You can sleep in my bed tonight, I'm fine on the sofa. I assume you wouldn't want to sleep in a dress, so feel free to borrow my pyjamas; they're in the bottom drawer. Goodnight, Molly."
"Goodnight, Sherlock."
He grabbed his own pyjamas and left. Ten minutes later, A pyjama-clad Molly sat up in the king-sized bed, her eyes on the window. A knock on the door startled her, but she managed to invite them in with a quiet voice.
"I just came in for a blanket," Sherlock paused as he entered the room, noticing Molly's worried gaze at the window, "What's wrong?"
"I'm fine."
"Obviously not."
"It's silly."
"Molly…"
She took a deep breath.
"I'm just a bit…scared. I'm being pathetic, I know I am; but I feel like he can still find me,"
Sherlock's expression softened. Closing the door behind him, the detective got into the bed beside the confused woman and switched off the beside lamp.
"What are you doing?" Molly asked.
"I told you I wasn't going to let you out of my sight. I meant it."
He pulled her down and held her against his chest, his body heat and slow breathing relaxing the pathologist. She felt safe in his arms, as he'd intended. After a while, the events of the night caught up with Molly and she started to drift off, though not before the sound of Sherlock's baritone voice whispered in her ear.
"Your hair smells like cherries."
"Good night, Sherlock," She laughed, and they both fell deeply asleep, content in each other's arms.
John opened his eyes slowly, the sound of a boiling kettle pulling him from his Naomi-themed dream. His eyebrows furrowed in confusion.
If I'm the one who makes tea in the morning, then why is the kettle boiling when I'm still in bed?
Then he remembered.
Molly.
He trudged down the stairs in his bare feet and stepped into the kitchen, freezing at the sight before him. Sherlock stood by a frying pan, glaring at the eggs within it, whilst Molly was pouring hot water into three cups of tea. Neither one noticed the doctor was there.
"Why haven't they cooked yet?" Sherlock whined impatiently, resembling a child.
"Because we only started frying them about thirty seconds ago, Sherlock. You've seriously never fried eggs before?"
"John always does it."
"And don't you forget it," The army doctor spoke up, making the pair turn to him in surprise. Molly smiled in greeting, and Sherlock rolled his eyes.
They soon sat at the table with their breakfast. John couldn't help but notice the lack of distance between the detective and pathologist. They sat close together, their shoulders touching.
"So, what are your plans for today, John?" Molly asked politely.
"Visit Naomi probably, you?"
"St Barts. I've got so much paperwork to-"
"No," Sherlock interrupted.
Molly turned to him, a frown placed on her features.
"What?"
"You can't go to work, Molly," He stated, "You were kidnapped last night, and though you're handling it extremely well, I don't think you should go straight back to work."
"I'm fine," She insisted.
"You might be, but I just don't feel comfortable with you being so far away."
John's eyes widened at the detective's statement. This was just so…unlike Sherlock. The self-proclaimed sociopath was admitting to caring about someone. This made the army doctor smile.
Sentiment isn't so bad after all.