Chapter 11: Melting

Three days later, Molly was able to leave the confines of her bedroom. The doctor who had been making house calls told her she still wasn't cleared for work, but she could move around her flat, slowly and carefully, if she wanted to. This came as a relief to Molly, who could now only see her bedroom at the site of Sherlock's biggest crime against her. She was fairly certain she would have to move. She spent most of her time sleeping. If she wasn't sleeping, she was trying to block out her emotions. Having a broken heart was worse than getting shot. The amount of focus that it took to block out everything meant that she mostly spent time like this staring off into space. It only became a problem when her visitors started noticing it.

They all seemed concerned, as if they knew that something had happened. For all intents and purposes, Molly was shutting down. None of her visitors could get her to speak except for one. John Hamish Watson was all that was keeping Molly from completely losing her mind. He sat next to her on the sofa and forced a steady stream of tea and biscuits into her, talking the whole time and trying to get her to engage in conversation. So far he hadn't had any luck, but he seemed to have a different tactic every day.

"Molly. Drink." The tea that was shoved into her hand was a bland milky brown color. She took a sip just to make John feel happy. That was the only reason she did anything anymore, was to make John happy. She understood now why he had seemed so devastated at Sherlock's fake death. Sherlock Holmes was a master of heartbreaking. She suspected that John had loved John just as much as she did, and would be the only one who understood her pain, if she could tell him. But she couldn't.

"Here, come over here." He sat back against the sofa, arms held out to her. She stared at him blankly until she saw his face start to fall. She moved closer and leaned back, still tense and silent. John's hand came up to stroke her hair while the other traced patterns on her back. Unwillingly, Molly felt herself start to relax against him. She was almost asleep when his hand brushed against her side, bumping the bandages over the wound there. Molly gasped and flinched away from him. Immediately, John let her go, eyes tight with concern and full of apologies. His face became even more strained than before when he saw the tears that were in her eyes.

"Molly," he whispered. "Molly, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to…"

She nodded and whipped her eyes.

"I shouldn't have…" He sighed in frustration. "Molly, I know it hurts. I've been shot too, remember?"

Her eyes grew wide as she remembered. She hadn't quite thought about the fact that John might understand more than just her emotional pain. She moved closer.

"Where." Her voice was barely a whisper, with no inflection, but still John heard and she saw that he was both surprised and happy that she had chosen to speak.

"Right here," he replied, and his hands were suddenly pulling his shirt up, over his head, leaving his torso bare. He twisted so that Molly could see the scar on his shoulder where the bullet had hit him. She raised her hand and lightly touched the scar, carefully and tenderly. It was then that she got distracted.

John's skin was golden and smooth, warm to the touch. Molly looked in fascination at the muscles that slid and bulged under the skin of his shoulders and arms. She hadn't realized that John was so beautiful. Looking up at his face, she saw that John had noticed her distraction and was staring in a similar way at the features of her face, her shape beneath her clothes, and the closeness of their bodies. He let out a sigh as she let her fingers trail up the back of his neck and Molly could feel his breath on her face. Molly was tempted, so tempted, to just lean forward and meet his lips with hers. She didn't get a chance to decide, however, before John's hands suddenly clasped the sides of her face and pulled her forward.

This kiss wasn't gentle like the last one. It was full of passion, want, and a little bit of danger. It was the kind of kiss that belonged on movies or in books, the kind of kiss that Molly had always dreamed of Sherlock giving her.

No, don't you dare think about Sherlock right now, Molly Hooper.

Her hands slipped up his arms, across his shoulders and rested around his neck, holding his in place. The kiss deepened and Molly felt him pull her on top of him so that she was sitting in his lap. She gasped slightly at the pain in her side, but didn't tell him to stop. She was here, on her sofa, kissing john Watson.

John, John, John…

She could barely think and was quickly losing herself in his touch. His hands smoothed up and down her sides, careful of her injury, then travelled to her back to trace more spirals and circles there. One hand was in her hair, then on her neck, the other on her waist and hip. He was gentle with his hands, unlike hi kisses, and almost cautious. It all felt good, until suddenly one of his hands was up under her shirt, caressing her bare skin.

Suddenly, Molly was back in the alley, remembering the laughter of the men feeling their restraining grips on her arms, tearing her clothing. Her terror was sudden and made her strong. She gasped and pushed off of John, two hands on his chest. She went flying backwards, landing on the carpet on her back. The move had taken effort and she felt the stitches in her wound pull and tear. John was still on the sofa, a look of confusion and shock on his face. When his eyes focused on her on the floor, concern made him frown. He moved to help her up, but Molly couldn't think straight, couldn't see anything but her attacker descending upon her. She flinched away from him again, making him pause.

"Molly," he said slowly, like he was speaking to a skittish animal. "I won't hurt you. I'm just trying to help."

He leaned towards her again, but Molly scrambled back. He let out a sigh of frustration and stood up to take a few steps closer. His hands had closed on her arms when Molly screamed. He froze, still holding on to her, looking shocked. Her struggles were futile as her strength waned. Realizing she wouldn't be able to fight much longer, he prepared to pick her up. Her screams grew wilder and more desperate.

At that moment, the door to the flat burst open, banging against to wall behind it. In the doorway stood a furious looking, tall, thin woman. Her chest was heaving as she took in the scene, which was obviously not what she had expected. Her face went pale at the sight of John. She stomped over to him and, with a move that was obviously some form of martial arts, removed his hands from Molly's arms.

"What do you think you're doing?" Her voice was high and pretty. At the moment, she was indignant too. "Leave her alone!"

John tried to defend himself. "I'm a doctor; I was trying to help her when she started screaming all of a sudden."

"I highly doubt that." Her eyes took in Molly on the floor and the disheveled state of her hair and clothing, and then moved to the shirtless John. He blushed.

"We were…I didn't-"

"I think you should leave." Within moments, the woman had john and his shirt out the door despite his protests. She then returned to Molly and offered her a hand. Molly took it tentatively. The woman pulled her to her feet and let go of her so that she could it down on the sofa. Molly sighed. The woman sat down on the sofa next to her, careful to keep a few feet of distance between them.

Molly turned to look at her. She was pretty, that was for sure, with long blond hair, blue eyes and pale, flawless skin. She was wearing dark slacks; her shirt was covered up by a long trench coat. She looked kind and caring in a very familiar way. Realizing that she was staring, Molly looked down, flushing lightly at her rudeness.

"Thank you." Her voice was quiet and weak, but loud enough for the stranger beside her to hear.

"You're welcome." There was a small pause. "Why isn't there anyone here looking out for you?"

Molly thought for a moment. "There was, but he's gone now."

"Gone? Why?"

"I sent him away."

Another pause.

"Why would you do that?"

"He hurt me. He…broke my heart." Molly heard the woman's breath catch.

"You loved him." It was a statement.

"Yes," Moly whispered. "And he knew it."

"Then why is he gone?"

Molly just shook her head, not wanting to open up to emotional suicide quite so soon in their conversation.

"He loves you."

Molly quickly looked up, seeing the woman's eyes intent upon her face.

"How could you possibly know that?"

The woman stared at Molly for another moment with speculation for a moment before pulling a cloth out of her pocket. She used it to remove all of her make up. Molly started getting a bad feeling. And suspicious. Her suspicions were confirmed when one pale hand reached up and pulled off all the beautiful golden hair that had been cascading down the woman's shoulders revealing short brown curls. Sherlock sat in front of her, having just transformed from a woman into a man, looking very calm. Molly buried her face in a pillow.

"Oh my God, you're so weird. So, so weird." Her voice was muffled but she knew he heard her because she could feel his chuckle through the sofa.

"Molly." His voice was back to normal, thank God. She didn't even know how he learned to sound so thoroughly like a woman. "How is this any stranger than any of my other disguises?"

"Oh, I don't know, maybe because this one is a woman?" She looked at him incredulously, trying to figure out how he was so okay with being a woman. On the other hand, maybe she didn't want to know.

He smirked as if guessing her thoughts, but then his face became more serious. His eyes were focused on her and Molly found herself getting lost in them.

"Molly," he whispered. And then he leaned in to kiss her.

Within seconds, Molly felt herself melting into him like she couldn't remember doing with anyone else in her entire life.

Author's Note:

Thanks for sticking with the story for so long! Only four more chapters…

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