Although those initial, chronic withdrawal symptoms passed within a few days, Sherlock knew he wasn't out of the woods. His physical and mental energy started to return, but it made him restless and anxious, and he knew that idleness and solitude were the enemy at this crucial stage.
During that time, he and Molly walked around the streets of London for hours – he had to walk himself to the point of exhaustion to be sure he wasn't a danger to himself. Whenever she had taken the arm he offered, Sherlock had felt an overwhelming gratitude – and disbelief - that this kind, lovely woman wasn't ashamed to be seen with a dishevelled, slightly shaky drug addict. Not only was she not ashamed to be seen, but she seemed happy in his company. She made bad jokes, distracted him with stories from the morgue, bought chips and insisted they share them (even when – especially when – he claimed had no appetite) and generally acted as though there was nothing bizarre about them trudging the streets together at three in the morning.
By the time his birthday came around, the worst had passed, but he and Molly seemed to have started something that both of them were reluctant to finish. Every subsequent night she stayed over at Baker Street to keep watch over him, she slept in his bed with him. Since that first night, they had tended to stick their respective sides of the bed, which was probably for the best; just the thought now of Molly pulled flush against him, her hands on his body, was enough to send him into buffering mode - or worse.
Lying awake on more than one occasion, Molly curled up under the duvet, breathing softly beside him, he thought about John's words on his birthday – his assumptions about The Woman, and what was missing from Sherlock's life. John had no idea what was or wasn't missing from his life; as always, he saw what he wanted to see.
That said, he didn't exactly know what he had either.
The night after their trip to the cake place with John and Rosie was due to be the last – both John and Molly felt that he would be alright on his own from that point, and it was hard to argue with two doctors (even if one of them hadn't seen a live patient in nearly fifteen years). On the one hand, Sherlock was anxious to redress the balance in his relationship with Molly, for them to regain that sense of equality again, but with it would go any excuse for physical closeness.
Or so he assumed.
Over the next week or so, it showed no sign of letting up. Circumstances meant that he didn't see Molly for work purposes, but their shared godparenting duties put them in each other's paths with increasing regularity. Spending time with Rosie was good for the soul, and Sherlock felt a sense of peace and lightness settle into his life. Although he was careful not to do it too often when John was around, he found himself drawing Molly into playing, teasing conversation.
It's called flirting, you tit, he heard Mind Palace John tell him. You used to do it all the time when you wanted something.
He couldn't deny it, and he was ashamed of it, but the two things seemed worlds apart. Before his 'death' and exile, before he and Molly even really had a friendship, flirtation – or a facsimile of it – was a tool for getting from point A to point B: I want lab access, therefore I compliment your hair. But now his only motivation was provoking a smile, prolonging their time together, making himself a desirable companion.
Sherlock found that flirting was particularly easy to do with a baby around as a distraction and a prop – and going by Molly's reactions, Sherlock was left in no doubt that it was welcomed, and was almost certain that she was flirting back.
In the end, he only had to wait a few days before he was back in bed with Molly. She had agreed to babysit Rosie on her day off, and he had gone around to her house to get a second opinion on some lab results, which had showed up sky-high levels of serotonin in his current murder victim. Molly had answered his question in less than two minutes, but it seemed rude to leave immediately (since when did that bother you? queried Mind Palace John). Somehow, he ended up staying there for several hours. Sherlock had long since accepted that seeing Molly Hooper with a baby did peculiar, unsettling things to him, but it was easy to explain those things away with basic evolutionary biological theory. Or should have been.
When John collected Rosie after work, Molly had offered them all dinner, and Sherlock was slightly ashamed at how glad he was when John declined. Instead, it was dinner for two, eaten side-by-side on their laps in front of some crap telly. At one point, Toby leapt up onto the sofa, batting Sherlock in the face with his tail as he clambered over him in search of Molly's lap.
Eventually, Molly swung her legs down from the sofa and stretched them in front of her.
"Mmm, I'm going to bed," she said. "'Night, Sherlock."
She leant over and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek before standing up and heading for the living room door. Sherlock sat there from a moment, mildly stunned – were cheek kisses a thing they did now? Did she expect one back from him?
Before he'd really thought about it, he took off after her. She was halfway up the stairs, but turned at the sound of his approach.
"Molly…I…er…"
"Do you want to stay?"
She said it so matter-of-factly, and he didn't expect it, but it gave him the confidence to be direct in return.
"Yes," he replied.
Molly smiled.
"Okay. I think I've still got a pair of your pyjamas here – you know, from a couple of years back," she said.
So she hadn't thrown everything out as he'd directed.
"I'll, um, I'll just go and get ready, and I'll see you in the bedroom," she added.
Sherlock nodded dumbly, allowing a few seconds to pass before he followed her up the stairs. There had apparently been no question that he would be sleeping in her bed, and not in the spare room. By the time he got there, Molly had disappeared into the en suite and a pair of striped pyjama trousers and a t-shirt lay folded on the bed, along with a toothbrush still in its packet.
As Sherlock changed out of his suit, Toby meandered into the bedroom and wound around his feet. He scooped up the cat with a half-sincere apology and deposited him in the hallway, closing the door behind him. He had no idea what his hopes and expectations were of the next few hours, but he was fairly certain they didn't include a cat trying to sleep on his head. He also wouldn't put it past Toby to try to suffocate him in his sleep.
When Molly emerged from the bathroom, she was wearing a loose t-shirt and the same pyjama shorts she'd worn at Baker Street that first night. He wondered whether she'd considered the vest top too much. Given the speed at which his heart was currently operating, she was probably right.
In the privacy of the en suite, Sherlock brushed his teeth, pausing afterwards to stare at himself in the mirror. It's only Molly; you've done this before. But…not really, not like this. He was no longer in the aftermath of a relapse – he was fit and well, and he'd practically invited himself into her bed.
She was reading when he came back into the bedroom, but almost immediately put down her book. The corner of the duvet on the other side was turned down – a clear invitation - and Sherlock climbed in beside her, only letting out a breath once he was lying on his back. He realised that he couldn't remember the last time he hadn't brought his phone to bed, intent on checking through emails and the blog one last time. At that moment, he couldn't even pinpoint exactly where he'd left it.
"G'night, Sherlock," Molly said, her voice breathier than normal.
"Mm, goodnight, Molly," he replied, as she turned off the lamp.
But it wasn't good enough – not nearly. And Molly clearly felt the same way, because as Sherlock tentatively shifted his body across the mattress, he realised that she was moving towards him, too. Her back met his chest, and it felt as though a rocket had been let off. He felt Molly settle into him, wriggling slightly to get comfortable – and God, that wriggling was dangerous. He could already feel himself growing hard. What would she think of that? Sherlock ached to touch her, but he didn't trust himself, didn't even know where to begin.
Licking his dry lips first, he dipped his head to press his lips to Molly's shoulder where the wide neck of her t-shirt exposed bare skin. Slowly, she reached her arm up behind her, cradling the back of his head and threading her fingers through his hair, keeping him close. Her quick, soft sigh was the most sensual sound Sherlock had ever heard, and as she arched her back against him, he knew that she couldn't fail to notice the physical effect she was having on him.
But he wanted too much and too quickly, and although his body was urging him forward, fear and panic started to flash across his brain. She felt so perfect, and Molly was making clear that his touch was wanted, welcomed – but it was him, he was defective somehow.
And if he gave in to this, he was crossing a line that couldn't be redrawn, both with Molly and with himself. He couldn't make the promises that Molly deserved, and he couldn't be effective in the one thing he was good at if emotions were able to cloud his judgement.
But just as he was hurriedly trying to compose some sort of apology in his head, Molly withdrew her hand from his hair and instead brought it down to find his. She brought his hand to her lips for a quick kiss, before lacing their fingers together and pulling his arm around her middle. Sherlock immediately felt his pulse rate start to drop as he relaxed into the embrace; Molly had sensed his fear, his unreadiness, and she was making it right for him. This, he could manage. It was warmth and comfort and closeness, and it didn't frighten him, even though he knew that friends didn't hold each other this way.
Still musing on the nature and scope of friendship, and still cataloguing the wonderful sensations borne of having Molly Hooper in his arms, Sherlock slowly, gradually surrendered to sleep.
