Chapter 4: Blushing
Whatever small amount of calm Molly had regained vanished immediately. It was replaced by an anger that spread through her like a wildfire.
"I was with John," she kept her voice tight, attempting to control her emotions. It was Sherlock's turn to tense up.
"With…?"
"Yes, with John." She stood up from the sofa and stalked to her bedroom, trying to put space between them before she strangled him.
"Molly," his voice was a warning, but she didn't care what Sherlock Holmes wanted. She just wanted away from him. She had never thought she could get enough of him a few days ago, but now...
"Sherlock," she said in exasperation, spinning around. He was standing framed in her bedroom doorway. "He needed a friend. I just sat with him, alright?"
Sherlock stood there, brooding. With a sigh, Molly grabbed a change of clothes. She would just change in the bathroom then, if he wasn't planning on moving. Once in the bathroom, Molly stared at her reflection for a moment. A face with pale skin and brown eyes, framed by long brown hair, looked back at her. Not plain…but not beautiful. She was pretty. Why didn't Sherlock seem to notice? Proceeding to change into loose shorts and an old favorite t-shirt, Molly contemplated Sherlock Holmes' sexuality. Was he gay? That would explain why he seemed so utterly disinterested in Molly. If he wasn't gay, maybe he already had a girlfriend that he was hiding from everyone. Shaking her head at her own speculation, she headed back into the bedroom, glancing at the door. He was gone. She turned to her bed. And screamed.
"Molly," Sherlock's voice was muffled by the blankets. "Stop screaming. I assure you that I am not that intimidating."
"Sherlock! What are you-?"
"Sleeping, obviously. Your bed is large enough for both of us, I should think."
Molly gaped at him. She could just barely see the top of his head, his brown curls sticking up in every direction. Taking a deep breath, she padded over to the unoccupied side of the bed and pulled the covers back. It was then that she noticed the suit jacket hung up on the back of her chair and Sherlock's button down shirt folded neatly beneath it on the seat. His socks and shoes were on the floor a few feet away.
Swallowing painfully at the thought of Sherlock being shirtless in her bed, Molly slipped between the covers and resisted the urge to reach out and touch him. It would not do to go exploring what muscles he had hidden underneath all his layers. But Molly couldn't help but wonder.
"I can hear you thinking. Stop."
Molly blushed. "S-sorry. Goodnight, Sherlock."
"Goodnight, Molly Hooper."