Thanks to mckydstarlight, applejacks0808, Besilea, wonderfullymade139, and coloradoandcolorado1 for reviewing the last chapter. I honestly was planning on ending this story a long time ago, but just reading your reviews makes me want to keep it up. Any feedback is appreciated! Xoxo
Excerpt from the blog of John H. Watson:
To all of my readers who have been under the impression that Sherlock Holmes has no heart whatsoever, recent events have come to my attention that might just prove to the contrary...
Molly was absolutely exhausted when her shift had ended. Needless to say, she was greatly relieved when she was able to go home, change into her fluffy pajamas, pour herself a glass of wine, and curl up with Toby and a good book.
The words on the pages only seemed to swirl around when she tried to bring them into focus. Her mind was too full at the moment to grant her undivided attention to the drab novel.
Had she actually hurt Sherlock's feelings earlier that day? Just because she had doodled another man's-a man she had once been engaged to-name on a piece of paper?
She had to admit, when she saw the way his eyes had looked at that moment, she wanted nothing more than to throw her arms around his neck and apologize for ignoring him. But she could not do that. She had been hurt by him-used by him-once already.
All that kissing and cuddling in my flat, and what for? So he could run some sort of perverse experiment on human libido? So he could see if he could get far enough to not be called "The Virgin" anymore?
Molly almost smiled to herself when she recalled the first time Sherlock had ever told her about that.
"Sherlock?" she asked, pushing herself up from beneath his arms, "Doesn't all of this scare you, in the least?"
He crinkled his brow, "Does what scare me?"
Molly gestured helplessly between the two bodies curled up on her bed, "This. Us. You living with me."
He nuzzled his head into the crook of her collarbone, "It seems perfectly acceptable to me."
She shook her head, "That's not what I asked."
Sherlock sighed and sat up next to her, "I am not totally familiar with...human mating rituals, so yes, in a sense, I am somewhat frightened by it. I don't understand it."
Molly cocked her eyebrows, "'Human mating rituals?'" She asked, almost to herself, "Wait...you've never had sex?" The thought had not occurred to Molly before.
Sherlock's eyes widened, and his cheeks blushed faintly, "Yes, well...Umm...I...am married to my work?" He tried feebly to explain.
None of that matters anymore, she thought, shaking the memory from her head.
She could not be so easily dissuaded from her plot to eradicate her feelings for him by one sad glance brought on by her childish doodles. She was a grown woman, for goodness' sake, not some silly, lovesick high-school student, and nothing whatsoever-
She stopped her argument with herself when she heard faint knocking on her door. She cursed under her breath and nudged her portly cat off of her lap.
"Who is it?" She called out.
No response.
She sighed and walked up to the door, opening it without removing the chain off of the door. Sherlock had insisted she put a chain on her door.
"If," he stated with emphasis, "I am going to live with you, I need you to stay safe. You know they'll come after me."
Molly tilted her head and gave him a stern look.
He sighed, "I know it's not much, Molly, but I want to keep you safe however I can. I don't want you to be hurt because of me."
She shook the memory away once again.
She peered out the crack, and her eyes widened considerably when she saw the well-groomed man standing on the other side of the door.
"Sherlock?"
Sherlock rocked back and forth on his heels, his arms held in an awkward position, evidently to hide something he had behind his back.
"What on earth are you doing here?" She asked, with a note of worry in her voice.
Sherlock grimaced and replied to her through clenched teeth, "Will you please just open your door for me, Molly?"
"Y-yes, right," she murmured apologetically, while desperately trying to unlatch the chain on her door with her shaky fingers.
She opened the door fully, and gasped slightly when she got a complete view of the man waiting outside her door.
His hair was curled to perfection, all his clothes had recently been cleaned and pressed, and, Molly's personal favorite, he wore the shirt. The purple shirt. The way it hugged his lanky body always made butterflies appear in her stomach.
He made no attempt to enter her flat; he only stood with his back rigidly straight, and a serious look in his eyes.
"Are you...are you OK?" Molly asked tentatively.
"Fine, quite fine," he replied.
"Ummm...won't you come in?" she asked, gesturing to the inside of her flat.
He moved in slowly, turning his body so she still could not see whatever he was so desperately trying to conceal behind his back.
Molly tried to peer behind his back, but he removed one hand and held it out in front of her in a dismissive gesture, "I will get to that soon enough. Right now, I have a proposition for you."
Perhaps this is not the best idea John has ever given me. In fact, when has he ever given me an idea of value? He works perfectly well to stimulate genius in me, but honestly...Why on earth am I here?
He glanced down disapprovingly at what John had practically commanded him to wear. Apparently Molly quite favored him in purple. It must have been obvious if even John could tell-So how had Sherlock managed to miss it?
Sherlock had been pacing outside the front of Molly's building for what he had estimated to be an hour at this point. He had thrice convinced himself to do as John said, and four times convinced himself to return to 221B, and forget altogether about his thoughts on Molly and Tom.
Are they thoughts? I rather thought they were more like...feelings.
He made a face to himself, which, he noticed, caused people on the sidewalk to stop and glare at him. They were lucky he had not started retching at the mere thought of that horrid word.
Sherlock had continuosly pondered why he had continued to pursue his thoughts about Molly. What on earth could possibly prompt him to...to feel so much for that blasted woman?
It was not the way that she looked. He did grant that she was a relatively attractive woman, with a pleasing figure; but, if Sherlock Holmes wanted a woman for her body, he knew he could certainly find one elsewhere.
No, it was not that.
If there was one thing that Molly Hooper had proven to him over the past few years, it was that she had been stronger than he had ever given her credit for. She helped him fake his death, yes, but she had done so much more than that. She held up the facade that he was gone with John-something he was almost positive he could not have done if their roles had been reversed. She had kept strong when he left her. She had found someone new.
Dear God, what a horrible man she must think I am. I left her.
Sherlock had often thought, with no small degree of guilt, of the pain he must have caused Molly when he had left her. For months, he collapsed at the mere thought of her. He left her, because...because...he simply had to.
He recalled a thought he had on the first night he had kissed her.
Never before have I felt this way about another human being.
And that is exactly why he had left her. He could not allow himself to feel that way. It ruined his work, it put her in danger, it compromised the use of his mind palace...
But Lord, it had been worth it. Just to feel the woman in his arms, just to be able to kiss her at night, just to be able to have someone he could protect, someone he could...
No, that is exactly what you are avoiding.
Love. How could he allow himself to ever love someone?
Then why are you pursuing Molly?
It's an experiment. I need to see exactly how it will affect my mind. I need to see if I can balance my body with my mind.
"Are you sure that's all you want, Sherlock?" Mary's voice came rushing to his head.
"Why are you doing all of this, Sherlock?" He heard John speaking next.
"Oh, hell! Quit tormenting me, you two!" He screamed in the front of the building. Several men and woman turned to glare at him.
He entered the building.
He climbed the stairs.
He kept his delivery safely behind his back.
He found Molly's door.
He knocked.
He waited.
Perhaps this really is a terrible idea. Not to mention a humiliating one. Imagine, Sherlock Holmes bringing a woman-
"Who is it?" He heard Molly call out from inside the flat. He had made himself to flustered too attempt to answer her in a coherent statement.
He heard footsteps approach and the doorknob start to jiggle.
Is it too late to return to 221B?
"Sherlock?" He heard Molly ask in surprise. He couldn't look at her. How had John convinced him to do this again? He rocked back and forth nervously.
I don't get nervous.
"What on earth are you doing here?"
He felt his heart pound.
Are you quite sure? I do believe all the physical signs have manifested themselves at this point.
"Will you please just open your door for me, Molly?" he said with some effort.
"Y-yes, right." The door shut again for a moment, and he fervently hoped it would not open again.
Unfortunately, it did. And he froze.
"Are you...are you OK?" he heard Molly ask through his own swirling thoughts.
"Fine, quite fine," he replied curtly. At least, he believed he did. He was currently too engaged in plotting the murder of a doctor that he knew.
"Ummm...Won't you come in?" Molly gestured to the inside of her flat. He noticed a fat orange cat eyeing him suspiciously from the other side of the room.
Remind me, he argued with himself, why are you going through with this?
He entered carefully, turning to keep his delivery from prying eyes. He held a hand out to stop Molly from speaking, "I will get to that soon enough. Right now I have a proposition for you."