WARNING: TOOTH-ROTTING FLUFF

Molly hastily returns Sherlock's kit to the safe so she can answer the knock at the front door. This is unnecessary, however, as Sherlock just lets himself in moments later anyway.

"Molly?"

"I'll be out in a minute," she shouts, before stuffing the remainder of the contents into the safe and pushing it back under her bed.

When she enters her sitting room, she finds Sherlock sitting on the sofa with an entirely apathetic air about him. "So?" he asks, initiating what Molly expects to be a very intense confrontation. "I told you not to bother me until you understood."

"And I think I do." She approaches him slowly, hesitantly, reaching out to find the discreet little chain that she suspected would be clasped around his neck. She draws it out from beneath his collar, finding a key that's identical to hers hanging around his neck like a pendant.

"Very good, Dr Hooper. I'm almost impressed." Usually, she would scoff at his condescension, but Molly knows that he's only trying to cover up any emotional vulnerability that he may have exposed in the process of this game that he now plays with her. "I'm sure you have questions."

Where to begin?

"It'd probably be best if you just start from the beginning."

"Very well," he sighs. "I couldn't let you continue on the twisted path you were travelling – not alone, at least. I've felt that before, Molly, and I wouldn't wish that upon my worst enemies. Not even Mycroft," he jests, causing her look of woe to shift to that of a reluctant smile. "I know from past experience that recovery is impossible on your own. Not only do others stand tall when your resolve begins to crumble, but they also fuel the will that you have to succeed.

"You pointed out that my vices are equally as destructive, if not more so, than yours. I realized then that I'm not your responsibility to take care of whenever I'm in too deep with the drugs. I just keep doing it," he says frustratedly, "without paying any mind to how much I'm taking from you each time I show up battered or broken or bruised. It's not fair to you, Molly. I know it's not. So when I discovered your secret, I decided that, maybe – just maybe – we could do this together. I'm willing to stop with the drugs if you're willing to stop hurting yourself."

"But maybe I don't want to," she retorts.

"I don't want to either. Do you think I care enough for my well-being to want to give up the drugs? The answer is no. No – but you want me to give up the drugs. I want you to give up the self-harm. Hopefully I haven't miscalculated – I believed your attachment to me would outweigh your attachment to your pocketknife. So basically, if you stop, I stop. And we are both responsible to see to it that the other doesn't relapse – hence the keys and the locked safes. The conditions are simple, really: either of us can take back our belongings at any point, but in doing so, we would then have to return the other person's belongings as well. So if you want your blade back, you must return my kit – which will give me access to my vices. And if I want my kit back, I have to return your pocketknife, and I'm sure you wouldn't hesitate to use it. We can give up our vices for the sake of the other person. Do you understand?"

Molly pauses for a long moment. "But why?"

"How do you mean?"

"Why the hell do you care so much?"

"Do you think I'm incapable of caring?"

"Caring for me, yes."

He gives her a sad, defeated look coupled with a deflated sigh. "I'm so sorry you think that way, Molly. I thought that I'd proven by now how much I value you as a friend."

"I thought you valued me as a convenience."

"I – I understand how one might see it that way. But I swear to you, Dr Hooper, that this is all coming straight from my cold, shrivelled-up, high-functioning sociopathic heart. Why else would this game be so elaborate?"

"I wish you'd stop calling yourself that. 'High-functioning sociopath.' You and I both know that that's far from the truth."

He gulps. "It keeps others from questioning my motives and burdening me with sentiment." Molly smiles sadly in response. "Still, not even I am impregnable." Molly finds that it's becoming harder and harder to breathe as Sherlock approaches her, situating himself just centimetres away from her. He takes her left hand and pushes up her sleeve, revealing both old and new marks of her self-destruction. He begins planting soft, feather-light kisses up her forearm. He doesn't let go of her hand. "We're all fighting wars, Molly, and we all have our battle scars to prove it. Some of us just wear them on the outside rather than on the inside. This -" he says, gesturing to her scars, "this may look to you like cowardice, but I assure you, wearing your heart on your sleeve and wearing your battle scars on the outside for the world to see is the bravest thing anyone could possibly do." He brushes stray hairs away from her face as tears begin streaming down her cheeks. "You may feel invalidated – you may feel like you've lost. I don't see it that way. I see these scars as trophies of every battle you've ever fought. And it's difficult for me to understand how someone with such a huge heart would not have enough room inside for herself as well."

Molly looks down as she sobs, not wanting to show Sherlock her shattered composure. She doesn't expect to be engulfed by his embrace as he holds her tightly against his chest. When her sobs eventually let up, she smiles up at him, and with a soft, humbled countenance, he leans in, closes his eyes, and kisses her.

Molly gasps in surprise but quickly reciprocates, taking Sherlock's face in her hands as they kiss tenderly. The kiss deepens, drawing moans from both parties, and Molly can't help but cry even harder. Sherlock pulls away just so, keeping their foreheads pressed together as he mumbles, "Am I really that bad?"

They laugh synchronously, Molly's tears only worsening. "I'm... these are happy tears, I suppose. I don't know, really. I've never felt this way before."

"Nor have I. I've never worried so much about someone else in my entire life." He smiles, deflecting the unease behind his statement. Molly can tell that it's genuine, though – after all, only his most genuine smiles cause wrinkles in the outside corners of his eyes.

"You do realize that – if this is all just for a bloody case or an experiment or something – I won't hesitate to rip your heart clean out of your chest, throw it on the ground, and stomp all over it?"

He clears his throat uncomfortably. "I – god... Why, Molly? Why do you refuse to believe me?"

Molly doesn't hesitate. "Because you are selfish, Sherlock. You're not getting anything out of this 'game' at all."

He's not angry like she'd expect him to be. "I get peace of mind, Molly. I get to know that you are safe – that you're not harming yourself, causing more suffering – when I can't be there to hold you and make sure that you're all right."

"Since when have you wanted to hold anybody?"

"Not anybody. Just you."

She shakes her head. "Then hold me, you clot." He smiles and presses his lips to the top of her head, drawing her in closer, tightening his embrace. After a moment, Molly pulls back and says, "No, wait – I take it back. Kiss me again. I liked that."

Sherlock chuckles as he surprises Molly by sweeping her up into his arms. He gives her a quick peck before carrying her down the hallway, into her bedroom, laying her down safely on the bed. His eyes are intense as he crawls onto the bed, looming over her. His breathing is ragged and his pupils are blown.

"Sherlock," Molly says breathlessly. She's not sure why.

Hearing his voice causes Sherlock's mind to go into a frenzy, torn between desperate arousal, emotional exhaustion, and something quite resembling love. He shudders. "Molly," he breathes in reply. She pulls him down to kiss him deeply, tenderly, and he lowers his body until they're pressed together, chest to chest. He pulls out of the kiss with something like regret on his features. "I – I'm sorry, Molly. I'm not very good at this. I mean, I've, you know, done this before, but this level of actual intimacy is far beyond my level of expertise."

She smiles softly. "You're doing fine so far. You can't disappoint me, Sherlock." She caresses his cheek.

"But you'll tell me if I do something wrong?"

"But I know you won't. Don't think about it too much – just follow your heart and do what feels right."

"My heart is telling me to get as close to you as physically possible," he mumbles, drawing himself in even closer than before, "and to snog you senseless."

Molly giggles. They kiss playfully until Molly's tongue sneaks out to graze Sherlock's bottom lip, tacitly asking for entrance. With slight hesitance, Sherlock grants her request, unsure of exactly what he's supposed to be doing. His tongue quickly learns how to dance with Molly's, exploring out of its own curiosity. When Molly's grip finds the prominent bulge in the front of Sherlock's trousers, adding slight pressure, Sherlock groans into the kiss. "Mmm... Mmmmmm." They both pant in unison as Molly's hand teases Sherlock's erection. He pulls away slightly, clenching his eyes shut, "Molly. God, I didn't mean -"

"No, I – Sherlock, I want to. Please."

"Are you sure?"

"I am. Are you?"

"You are going to be the death of me."

"Now, wouldn't that be ironic?"

He smirks in response as he begins trailing kissing down Molly's jaw and neck, eliciting the most delectable whimpers from her mouth. "Quite so." Things become heated as Molly grips Sherlock's sides, repeatedly pulling his hips to hers. He moans over and over, so unfamiliar with this type of sensation. It's different from regular masturbation when every nerve in one's body is alight with arousal. There's a certain need that Sherlock has never felt before – and the feeling he gets from doing this with Molly feels an awful lot like being high. Maybe he is high – high on ecstasy. High on Molly.

A/N:

I had the opportunity, and by god, I took it.
Puns are my weakness.