A/N: Thank you all for your lovely reviews! You're all so kind! :)
Disclaimer: BBC owns Sherlock.
Nothing was working. It had been two weeks since the kiss, and Sherlock could hardly focus his full attention onto more pressing matters. Not that there were many important things for him to tend to right now. Mycroft was doing all he could with the information Sherlock had provided, but there was nothing new for him to investigate as of yet. His brother had given him a thumb drive which contained random snippets of intelligence for him to piece together, but he wasn't gaining much progress.
Every time he tried concentrating on something, his mind would flitter back to that memory that he'd desperately tried to delete, only to be reminded that he didn't want it disappearing from his mind palace. His stupid body had decided that it wanted to remember the pressure and taste of her (not so thin) lips.
He was behaving just like he was during his infatuation with Irene, except that this seemed far worse. He had only been intrigued by Irene, but he was actually fond of Molly. And being so close to her wasn't helping his attempts to suppress the odd fluttery sensations he was experiencing in his stomach. He found his eyes straying to her lips whenever she came too close, or even when she did something simple like talk. She would notice sometimes, and her cheeks would flush crimson before she'd excuse herself, going into the kitchen to make more tea or hide in her bedroom. If they'd discussed about the incident, maybe it wouldn't be as awkward as it was.
Instead, they chose to live amidst this new tension, and it was making him wildly suffocated. He chose to deal with it by pushing her away, refusing to talk to her for hours on end. She couldn't understand why, probably thinking that he blamed her for the kiss. He was aware that he was hurting her, but understanding his new emotions took precedence right now.
Her bedroom door opened and he mentally prepared himself, grabbing his violin as he started on a series of boring diatonic scales while lying on her couch, looking unconcerned. He saw her stiffen as she walked pass the living room.
"Morning," she mumbled.
He nodded curtly before diverting his attention back to his scales. He heard her preparing some tea for the both of them, and for a short moment, he felt guilty. How could she still treat him nicely when he was, as John always said, being a git?
She placed his teacup on the coffee table and sat on the far end of the sofa, knees tucked under her chin as she occasionally blew across her tea to cool it. He drank his quietly, grateful for the distraction.
She went into the bathroom to prepare for work after, and he spent the next half hour contemplating about saying something to her, anything that might ease the tension between them.
"I'm off now, be back around eight," she said, giving him a tentative wave by the door.
He wanted to tell her that he didn't blame her at all, that it was ridiculous for her to think this way. Instead, the only word that resolved itself out of his mouth was a sharp, "Bye".
The brief lowering of her dark eyes resulted in another stab of guilt through his chest.
Molly stared at the newspaper in disgust. She was having a little coffee break in her office, and was unlucky enough to have decided to flip through this morning's news.
An article about her supposed past relationship with Sherlock Holmes, and the horrible fact that she'd moved on so quickly with another man – a heartthrob, no less – was in the gossip columns. Her lips were set into a thin line as she read the news.
No wonder her colleagues had been giving her weird looks today. Another titbit for their lunchtime gossip about her love life then.
She wondered how in the world Kitty Riley came to the conclusion that Sherlock was her boyfriend, and how people at Bart's actually believed this rubbish. She was about to toss the newspaper aside when a young intern entered her office.
"Doctor Hooper? Doctor Stamford asked me to…" she shrank back slightly at the look on Molly's face. "I'm sorry. Is this a bad time?"
Molly suppressed a sigh. She was definitely feeling stressed lately, and more short-tempered.
"No, it's ok," she said, attempting to give the young woman a smile, which probably came out like a grimace. The intern came forward and handed her a few files. More paperwork. Fantastic.
"He said to finish them by six today."
"Right, thank you." Her tone was sharper than usual, and she felt like a complete arse for behaving this way.
The intern scurried out of her office, and Molly closed her eyes tightly. This wouldn't do. She'd have to talk to Sherlock tonight, and solve the strain in their relationship before she went insane.
Sherlock sat up straighter when he heard the turn of the key. He would have to proceed with his plan. It was the only rational course of action. He was a man of science, and he needed more data to make a conclusion.
Molly came into the flat holding a bag of takeaways. Chinese, her favourite restaurant near Bart's, rice, a chicken dish, some stir-fry vegetables -
Irrelevant. Stop, he chided himself, forcing his mind to shut up. He went into the kitchen and advanced towards her.
"I got Chinese for dinner today, do you -" she turned around and jumped in fright – he was mere centimetres away from her.
"Sherlock?" Nervous, confused, her eyes widened. "Sherlock, what are y -"
He didn't let her finish; he couldn't.
He pressed his lips to hers, and she stiffened. But only for a split-second. He'd anticipated it, it was all too obvious.
Their lips started to move together, surprisingly in sync. He tried to forget the softness of her lips (how can they be this soft? It isn't possible, they certainly don't look this – stop, focus), and the gentle pressure on his lips that was so pleasant. He needed to concentrate on the myriad of sensations and catalogue them for reference later, but there were simply too many.
Instead, all he could think about was how much he liked this. Warmth blossomed in his chest, and it was radiating to the tips of his being. He could feel every one of her fingertips brushing across his cheeks, his jaw, his neck. They moved to his hair; he let his arms settled on her waist. He actually moaned (what the hell) when she ran her tongue across his lips, teasing them open. He had just decided to grant her access when she suddenly made a small high-pitched noise, pulling away.
"What are you doing?" she whispered.
He was breathing heavily, and it was difficult to form a coherent thought – his emotions were more jumbled than before. And it made him nervous that he was feeling this way.
"Experiment," he finally said.
"What?" He knew he'd said something terribly wrong from the flash of anger in her normally kind eyes. He looked away.
"Do you think this is a game?" she asked, her voice unnervingly soft. The hurt was blatantly reflected in her eyes – she'd never been able to mask her emotions well. It should make him dislike her, but he was seemingly incapable of that.
"You don't just kiss someone for an experiment!" her voice was rising with every word. "Especially not someone who loves you!"
Both of them flinched. He was utterly shocked. No one had ever told him that before, and he felt something hot prickle through his body. Meanwhile, Molly's entire face had flushed red, and she was chewing on her lower lip.
Silence descended upon them, and he didn't know how to handle this – he wasn't equipped to face such situations. He was just about to say something when the front door opened.
"Sherlock?" his brother's voice called. He walked to the kitchen and frowned at the sight of them.
"Having a cold war?"
"Shut up, Mycroft," Sherlock snapped.
His brother merely smirked, "I'll take that as a yes."
"How did you get in without the keys?" Molly asked after she'd calmed herself enough.
"I procured a set during one of my visits here. I hope you don't mind," he gave her a reptilian smile, clearly showing that there was nothing she could do even if she did mind.
"In the event that something unforeseen happens here, I would rather not have to break down your door, Miss Hooper. I'm sure you share the same sentiment," he continued.
Molly sighed and closed her eyes, pinching the bridge of her nose. "Do what you want, I've had enough of the Holmes family for today," she said, before walking into her bedroom and closing the door loudly. Mycroft seemed mildly surprised, his eyes flickering over to Sherlock.
"What are you here for?" Sherlock asked rudely.
Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "New lead," he said, handing him another file. "And a new identity."
"Another one?"
"Yes," his brother smiled thinly. "It's called taking precautions."
Sherlock opened the file and skimmed through the first page. "Jeremy Baker?" he scoffed. "Baker?"
"It's a common name that will help you blend in. You'd be surprised how little things like that can add up."
"You need more creativity," Sherlock muttered.
"I'll be off now. Behave yourself," Mycroft fixed him with a stern look, which only made him roll his eyes. His brother was just about to step out of the door when he turned back.
"And Sherlock? The next time you want to kiss a woman, at least try to tell her first."
The tips of Sherlock's ears turned red, and Mycroft had enough sense to quickly close the door behind him.
Sherlock ruffled his hair in frustration. His curls were growing back, and his dark roots were showing – he'd have to dye his hair again. At least there was another assignment. It'd keep him from thinking too much about Molly for now.
He wondered when it was exactly that she had started to permeate his thoughts every single day.
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