It's been a long time since I've written anything, so I apologize if ya'll don't like this chapter. I tried my best :)

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Sherlock sat silently in his favorite chair, hands piqued beneath his chin, as always

He had a case to solve. In his own opinion, it should have been solved by now. The only thing standing in the way were his unorthodox thoughts about Molly; they seemed to be the only thing he could focus on without becoming bored.

The way his mind was clouded over now, he surely was not going to get work done.

It was a favorite game of his when he got in this state to see how many of the facts from his cases he could bring up by memory without consulting John's blog, or the occasional notes that he himself would take down.

There was one case in particular he insisted on replaying in his mind, over and over.

No, he thought, that case certainly does nothing to improve your mental acuity...

The case of the Mousy Pathologist:

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Sherlock had just arrived at the door of the flat he currently shared with Molly Hooper. Getting the keys out his pocket was easy enough, but seeing where exactly the key-hole was happened to be quite a different story.

As it turns out, dismantling the underground network of the most dangerous man in Britain was certainly not the easiest (or safest) task that Sherlock had ever undertaken. He had learned just that tonight, when a little digging for facts landed him with a nasty gash across the side of his face, which was currently dripping blood down over his closed eyelid.

In this confused and half-blind state, Sherlock entered into the flat, and promptly tripped over Molly's rotund cat, Toby.

"Cursed feline!" He muttered while lifting himself off of the cold, tile entrance. Falling certainly did wonders to exacerbate the pain of blunt-force trauma wounds.

Once he'd managed to set himself aright, Sherlock straightened out his coat, trying to ignore the throbbing pain in his head. Holding his head in his hands, he was only vaguely aware of Molly entering the room, berating him for his unceremonious entry, turning on the light, muttering something about first-aid, and leaving again.

Sherlock could narrowly make out the shape of what come to be his chair in the corner of the sitting room. As carefully as he could (and, admittedly, as watchful of felines as could be possible in his present state) he made his way over, and gently seated himself.

He had recovered his senses enough to look up when Molly entered the room

I've never seen her wearing that before, he thought, ignoring the tingling sensation in his stomach that arrived promptly at the sight of Molly in nothing but a night shirt. In fact, it looked like it was one of his shirts. One that he was sure he'd put in the laundry bin earlier that day.

"Sherlock?" He heard her call, as she had not spotted slumped over in his chair quite yet.

"I'm right here," he grumbled out, still cupping his face in his hands. The pain had now reduced to a dull, throbbing sensation, which was lessened every time he looked at the pathologist's legs.

Sherlock was unprepared for her running over to him and placing her elbows gingerly on his knees.

This is not entirely unpleasant...

Yes. That was definitely his shirt. His favorite purple shirt. The one that Molly was always fawning over. It did not do much to cover her, especially seeing as how she left the majority of the top unbuttoned.

It is not my fault for noticing, not when she is the one placing herself in front of me like this.

"Move your hands, please," She said in a steady, commanding voice. Sherlock looked up, too surprised by her tone (and the current dilation of her pupils) to acquiesce to her wishes.

She took his hand in hers and removed it from his face forcibly, while dabbing at the wound on his face.

I like this Molly Hooper, he thought, momentarily, before being sure to alter his thoughts to, I am rather pleased to see that she has finally gotten over being overtly flustered at the sight of me.

"What did you do now?" She asked in that same stern voice she had been using since he arrived.

"Just a mundane fight. The other man left in an ambulance," He answered, desperately trying to keep his eyes on her face.

He thought he detected disapproval in her eyes.

As if I could keep out of the fight, he thought, How could I have helped doing something so natural as that?

Sherlock moved his gaze down the doctor's body.

Perhaps there are other natural things I can't keep myself from doing...

Sherlock grazed her delicate wrist with his long fingers. Her eyes opened wide.

And Perhaps I should see if there are any adverse affects accompanying such natural desires...

With this thought in mind, he gently transitioned to holding her hand, watching for her response.

It was just as he had expected. She was shocked by his actions.

Sherlock leaned into Molly until their lips met.

Sherlock Holmes did not know how to kiss; he had no practical experience...but when his lips met with Molly's, even the most illogical expressions of human affections became perfectly natural to him.

That was most definitely not an unpleasant sensation, he thought, while backing away to see her face.

She did still look shocked, but most definitely not pleased. He dropped her hand

"Was that not good?"

Molly exhaled, trying to hide a smile, "It was perfectly acceptable," she answered in a distinctly Sherlockian voice.

In spite of himself, Sherlock smiled.

It is only a test, there is no need to be so pleased. It is not logical.

...

Forget logic.

Sherlock leaned against her again, kissing her harder this time. He kissed her fiercely. Never before had he felt this way towards another human being.

He leaned forward again, until he was out of his chair and on the floor with Molly. He put his arms around her, trying to be even closer to her than was possible. She started to run her thin fingers through his curly hair, prompting a moan from Sherlock. Molly pulled away and smiled at him.

How could this possibly be wrong?

He moved his hands across the curves of her body, memorizing every facet. He gently kissed the skin below her ear, down to her neck, across her collar bone, and into the crevice of the shirt she had left haphazardly unbuttoned.

The pain in his head had ceased a long time ago.

"Couch," He whispered with his mouth against her lips, "your floor is rather uncomfortable."

Molly backed away and started to push herself off the floor when Sherlock whispered to her again, "Wait."

Sherlock cradled her in his arms, easily lifting her and setting her down onto her soft couch. She chuckled softly at his chivalry.

With her lying on the couch, Sherlock crawled up next to her as close as possible, and wrapped her up in his arms, kissing whatever part of her body was most accessible.

That's the way he fell asleep.

He woke up before Molly, and spent an hour trying to remind himself that he was only testing things.

It was definitely not the last test he wanted to make though.

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Certainly a case like that could never help him improve his wits.