She woke up.
Her phone was vibrating in the living room.
Luckily it was on silent, so she rolled over ignoring it.
She rolled right into the emptiness of her bedside.
Hitching her breath as she recalled the previous night.
Waking up in the bed it was obvious that any evidence of his staying was gone.
The only evidence was the smell of him on her sheets.
Of course he didn't stay.
She sort of didn't know how she would have handled that morning if he had. She laughed at the idea of herself scampering around covered in a half a sheet trying to make breakfast. When he lived at her place, he never really touched her food to begin with, and she gave up making a plate for him. By that point he'd start stealing from her fridge and nick from her plate - apparently having his own plate was too distracting.
She would have tried to fill her own plate with too much food this morning. He would pick of it absentmindedly and in the end eat more than half of the contents. They'd have odd subtext in their conversation and he'd leave for something or the other. Now they'd just skipped breakfast.
She heard her phone vibrate into the floor of the living room with a clatter.
"Shit," she muttered, before wrenching her covers off, slipping into her robe, and cursing under her breath as she wandered to the living room.
She picked up her phone, and was surprised to find three texts from him.
Case.
She was astonished that he was actually explaining himself to begin with – even if the explanation was one-word.
Made coffee.
She became aware of the freshly made pot in her kitchen. This made her laugh, though of course there he did need to explain himself.
Despite the fact that she knew he was the only other person in her apartment – it was incredible to think he had been thoughtful.
It wasn't breakfast in bed, it wasn't dinner – it was coffee, and just simple enough to give the smallest of hopes that maybe she wasn't entirely delusional.
Later.
Oddly enough she knew what he meant.
John was trying to conceal his grin, when he caught sight of Sherlock's less than un-frayed clothes. Sherlock could have read his own appearance like an open book. The dishevelled hair, the way his shirt creased, the open upper button, the hurriedly tied bow on his shoelace was all evidence.
Of course this wasn't what John was seeing.
John was seeing the upturned corner of his mouth.
It was the flicker in the eye, the slight smile and the minor softened manner of his pronouncing them to be idiots. His speech was as usual fast, yet there was a marked difference in the deliverance. The way he gave his speech, gave the sense that he wasn't showing off to them for once. His audience was somewhere else entirely.
"Your phone's been silent," remarks John, as they sit on a cab back to Baker Street. "The case was also a 5, you said you'd only ever leave the flat for a 7, so why did you go?"
Sherlock remained silent.
"You've been glancing at your phone every few seconds, you were definitively at her place-,"
"Neither of us were home last night John," he says.
John had obviously been using someone else's toothbrush from the looks of it. He ignored Sherlock's remark, as he knew it was made to throw him off the conversation.
"Then why did you want to leave? Especially when you could have probably made a video conference on your phone or something?"
Sherlock glanced irritated at John as he instinctively picked up his phone. John raised a brow at him, before Sherlock pocketed his phone again.
"Oh, OH, I see," says John chuckling, as the cab stops.
Sherlock pays the fair and gets out.
John sees his silence as an invitation to continue his deduction.
"Oh, you know. This is the whole mysterious cheek bones thing again-,"
For a moment, Sherlock is abruptly caught off guard, as they enter Baker Street; "Sorry?" he says, looking a bit altered when they enter the apartment.
"Yes, well, you know – you're acting mysterious towards Molly because that is what you expect she likes about you. Running off being a hero, so you don't have to deal with the situation."
"There isn't a situation," says Sherlock.
"You said to me - that this wasn't your area, and you're right. It definitively isn't your area," says John chortling.
Sherlock's only reply is tending to his violin.
A distraction was needed, for her mind to be elsewhere. Despite it coming in the form of her best friend Charlotte, it did not help. They'd talk about work, about her husband, the kids and life in general. It was a nice enough disruption in the thread of thought her mind seemed to wander to. Charlotte seemed to catch on the fact that something was wrong. Probably because of the endless times Molly would go to the kitchen to make tea, despite the fact that they already had a fresh batch right in front of them.
"What's his name?" asks Charlotte knowingly.
Molly looked at her a bit apprehensively.
Charlotte knew, Charlotte had known her since forever, and she'd heard Sherlock's name crop up once in a while. Whether it was of frustration or by the fact that Molly hadn't been able to shut up about him. Charlotte was her only proper confidant. She was destined to wallow through loads of unnecessary information about the detective with the popped up collar.
"Oh, it's this guy," she says avoiding Charlotte's eyes pouring herself another cup of tea, pretending to be more interested in the patterns on the china.
"That's very descriptive. I asked for a name," Charlotte asks with pursed lips.
Molly takes a deep intake of breath and gets the guiltiest of expressions.
"Sherlock Holmes," she says.
"The dead-guy-not-dead-guy?" says Charlotte quirking a brow.
"I sort of helped him with that actually," she says grimacing slightly.
"You what? Why didn't you tell me?"
"He was supposed to be dead, and well – he was living here-," says Molly who knows that it doesn't sound good.
"He lived here?"
"Not all the time. He came and went you know," she adds while Charlotte looks at her gaping.
"You're saying, you're basically saying that Sherlock Holmes. The great detective you've been fancying for years has been living in your apartment?"
"He isn't now though obviously-," Molly says trying to remain cool about the subject.
"No, now you're shagging him," says Charlotte beaming. "This is amazing. You've been going on and on about him for years – and now finally result."
"Actually we didn't have sex-," says Molly, causing Charlotte to frown.
"To be honest, when he sought my help – I assumed I'd not hear from him, and then all of a sudden he was here in my apartment. Seeking refuge in between travels, not letting me in on things, then I was less mouse and became more me."
"He finally looked at you differently, then?" Charlotte enquired.
"You could say that. He stormed in here last night, and before I got to throw him out of my flat – we end up kissing," says Molly, growing crimson by the minute.
Despite what strength her voice held, her skin betrayed her, and as Sherlock often remarked – so did her pulse. Charlotte prodded for more information, but Molly just smiled gingerly winking.
The moment they'd gotten into her bedroom his hands had gone from urgent to curious.
It was as if he was looking for clues.
Like the corner of her lips would tell him a secret, as he kissed the edges of her mouth.
It was as if the nooks and cranny of her neck would reveal the source of their familiar scent.
He would pause, in between the kisses and caresses - breathing upon her face, as if he'd never laid hands on any woman before.
He unwrapped her from her clothes, every single article being dropped away, meticulously removed, but thrown aside as worthless pieces of fabric.
She was entirely naked, baring her skin, as he was still warm in his clothing.
She was the opposite of cold, as his hands gently stroked every aspect of her.
He wasn't looking for a means to an end, yet she could feel him through the fabric.
His gaze looked serious, his breathing hoarse, as she ventured on top of him.
He looked at her.
He really looked at her, observing every old scar, every freckle and tiny hair that was on her body.
She didn't remove his clothes, for he still kept holding her tight.
Not that she wasn't sure he wanted, as he'd take deep intakes when she'd kiss the bare skin she could reach.
His neck, his hands, and his face were her frequent spots of pleasure.
She had often imagined the softness of his eyelids, his mouth or his cheekbones.
They were now at her disposal.
He was at her willing hands, despite the fabric between them.
For the second she started to un-button his shirt he took hold of her, throwing her underneath him again, pinning her arms above her head.
He would torture her, teasing the inside of her thighs, grazing her nipples, as he spread kisses across her body.
She knew not what game he was playing, but she enjoyed it.
Of course it wasn't to last, when calm finally settled in, breathing became less rapid and deeper.
Her eyes reluctantly fluttered shut and goose pimples pricked upon her skin.
He covered her up, as she ventured instinctively closer to his warm chest.
She wasn't shy.
Molly was beyond shyness it seemed.
She was different from other women he'd come across previously.
Every gasp had been to impress him, every movement for his enjoyment and his ratification.
Molly had no theatricals in bed.
She enjoyed him, she wanted his skin underneath her, and it took him mental prowess to restrain himself.
He was inches away, from tearing his clothes off, and letting their bare skin touch.
Yet, he wanted it to last.
Every conquest he'd ever had gave the overwhelming feeling of emptiness when it was done.
The chase was so much better than the outcome, and he was despite his better judgement - afraid.
Already now he knew she was different, from the way she stared at him, to the manner she'd laugh when he overthrew her on the bed. There was suppressed mirth in her features, not due to the way he stole lingering kisses, but from her happiness of it being himself that touched her. In her eyes, he was a hero, despite having fallen from graze being only human. She did not worship him now, for the look, which he had meant was changed had indeed altered. He could not fix the hour as to that flicker in her eyes appeared, but he knew that from the moment she had said, "What do you need?" He'd entangled himself into something deeper, than he'd ever want to presume.
She re-reads "Later" several times, every time it rolled out and became a new hidden message.
A later meaning never, a later meaning tonight, a later meaning later, and in the end it became a sequence of letters strung into a word pasted into a text message.
For who was she, ever to suppose anything less.
It was her intolerable imagination that bore the assumption he meant later.
Of course she knew she was being unreasonable and irrational.
This was how she had been, whom she was skulking in her mind, and she saw it from a clear-cut distance.
Despite her pre-knowledge, it did not make her thoughts wander any closer to thinking about the endless images that flickered past on her television screen.
"Hello, er, excuse me, but – er - who are you?" she asked timidly, observing the curly dark haired man, who'd positioned himself in her lab.
"I'm Graham," he says flashing a badge quite quickly putting up a swift charming smile. A smile she saw didn't catch the eyes, despite its broadness.
She stands there with furrowed brows, Graham was a 60-year-old man, and well – this man did not fit the description of any hunched old grey haired man.
Especially when Graham had just recently retired.
"Er, I know Graham," she says politely, almost feeling like she's badgering him. He was wearing a white lab-coat and had the air of owning the place.
She'd almost believed he worked there, hadn't it been for it being her lab.
He looks at her, stares at her from head to toe.
"You are Molly Hooper, then, the new pathologist?" he says searching her eyes.
"Y-y-yes," she says, stammering a bit, despite herself, as he stands in front of her. Close proximity too, as if he's evaluating her.
"I'm Sherlock Holmes, Graham usually let's me use his facilities," he says shaking her hand abruptly, before going back to the microscope.
His head entirely focused on the blood samples lying about, and the mess he's obviously made with her things.
She stands there, shifting weight on her feet, being absolutely flustered.
He finally looks up at her standing there fidgeting, as she has obviously not left.
"I'll call for you, when I need you," he just says, and that was the first time they met.
She hadn't had the understanding of that sort of brutal form of instant affection before.
She fancied him instantly.
For whatever reason her attraction for him hit her keenly. Forming sentences had been a struggle in front of Sherlock, and he knew how to play advantage on her absolute lack of speech.
She could sense he'd made an effort flattering her, though of course never for it to lead anywhere.
Every pleasing sentence had a backhanded idea behind them.
She sensed that, but she let him.
How could she let this dark haired man out of her sight?
She adored the idea of being his aid, despite the fact that it took her ages, before she mucked up the courage to even suggest making him a cup of coffee.
Their relationship was basic.
She'd run around cleaning up after him, helping him with fresh corpses, and answer his texts about various subjects.
She was never at ease - always constantly squirming and stammering before him.
It wasn't before the disaster with Jim happened that she knew she had to change how she acted around him.
She had already tried with asking him out on a coffee, but she had to be realistic.
Sherlock Holmes on a date?
The fact that she had encouraged the idea was incredible.
She'd give he'd take, that was the basis of their relationship.
When she finally opened her mouth during Christmas, she celebrated to herself in secret – she had spoken.
Finally she had said what she felt, and she was rewarded to her surprise with a kiss on the cheek.
He was otherwise mentally occupied anyway, with a woman, Irene Adler, from the entry on John's blog.
Of course she'd been on the woman's website, of course she'd spied and hated herself for a couple of days, before getting to grips with reality.
Needless to say, she'd pulled herself together, and then he shows up with packets of crisps.
Then he needed her and she is for the first time not fearful – she's there to help entirely.
No strings attached, he is her friend.
Now however she was mindlessly confusing to him, as he was usually to her.
She saw herself plainly obvious, but then again maybe Sherlock wasn't the man for that sort of thing.
He had been playing idly on his violin for an hour, his phone lying quietly on the table, while John would eye him occasionally between reading his newspaper.
"You could call her, you know," John says sheepishly folding away the paper.
Sherlock has his back to him silently by the window.
"Sherlock, she's probably been waiting for you to text her all day."
Sherlock's phone vibrates. A message.
John peers at it, as Sherlock hastens to pick it up.
Not true.
His eyes flicker to John for a second, before a smile appears on his face.
Another text appears seconds later.
It is quite cold in your bedroom you know.