Sherlock was woken by Molly shifting in his arms, trying to extricate herself from the tangle of limbs they had apparently become in the night. She was trying to do it gently, without waking him, and as he realised what was going on, he relaxed his hold on her. The feeling of loss was immediate.
"Sorry," she whispered, so close to him that her breath tickled his cheek. "Early shift. I have to get ready."
He wasn't expecting the wave of relief that washed over him when he realised she wasn't going willingly. Nor was he expecting what came next.
Molly turned so that she was facing him, hitching herself onto her elbows in readiness for getting out of bed. Sherlock watched her eyes – warm, beautiful eyes - search his face before she dipped down to quickly kiss his cheek. The next few seconds were lost to history, and he had no real idea who initiated it, but suddenly he was kissing Molly Hooper.
Really kissing her.
Soft, slow, tender kisses, but not chaste – definitely not chaste. Open-mouthed, exploratory and wanting. Her fingers curling gently in the fabric of his t-shirt, keeping him grounded even while his core temperature soared.
It was probably all over in a few seconds, but felt like much longer, as a running commentary of competing voices played in Sherlock's head – he ordered them all to shut up, because who bloody asked their opinion anyway?
He felt Molly sigh softly into his mouth, and the sound shot a straight course to his groin; he deepened the kiss, little idea of what he was doing, but desperate to provoke the sound again.
But then she broke away – just a few inches. Blinked at him a little shyly, pressed her lips together as though biting back a smile.
"I, um…I really have to get to work," she whispered, and Sherlock saw his own frustration mirrored in her slight frown. "I'm sorry."
Sherlock then realised that his hand was tangled in her hair, had somehow made its way there as they kissed.
"Molly…"
His voice came out as a rasp, his throat thick.
"I know," she nodded quickly, bringing her hand up to cover his.
His heart was pounding out of his chest, and Sherlock shifted closer, his body apparently intent on persuading Molly to change her mind. A flicker of a smile crossed her face, and as Sherlock angled up towards her hopefully, she rewarded him with another kiss; deep and warm, and also slightly playful, nipping at his bottom lip. He closed his eyes and felt her fingers dance lightly across his jaw, a quiet moan escaping her lips.
"I have to…okay, I really have to go," she said, pulling away more decisively, but with a tell-tale blush that made Sherlock's chest swell with pride (which was now at least in keeping with other parts of his body).
"Okay," he echoed.
As a response it seemed completely inadequate, but he was all too aware of some of the shit that came out of his mouth when he was high, and this current feeling was not far off. Now was not the time to spout the first thing that came into his head, particularly as the blood from his brain was currently being re-routed elsewhere.
He worried that even if he had an hour to compose something more eloquent, he still wouldn't come up with the right words to articulate how he was feeling – what he wanted, needed, feared. What Molly was doing to him, what he was doing to himself.
"Um, stay here as long as you like," Molly told him, collecting up a pile of her clothes. "And help yourself to anything you fancy."
He saw the blush deepen.
"Anything to eat, I mean," she clarified. "From the fridge. Or cupboards."
He lay there for the next fifteen minutes, listening to the sounds of Molly getting ready; the last time he had done something like this, he was feigning sleep and silently praying for Janine to hurry up and go to work. Sherlock half-wondered whether Molly would come back before she left, but then goodbye kisses could be dangerous – they suggested habit, expectations, ritual.
And goodbye kisses would certainly do nothing to alleviate his current 'excited' state. Sherlock slid a hand under the duvet and re-adjusted himself, trying – and failing - to make his pants somehow feel less constrictive. Fuck. Apparently, a night in the deserts outside Karachi was nothing compared to a good morning kiss in Molly Hooper's bed.
And, Christ - that had really just happened.
And it had been everything he had longed for as well as everything he'd feared. Sherlock had kissed and been kissed before, but only ever as a means to an end – he had vaguely understood how this might be pleasurable, but it had basically left him unmoved, scornful that his fellow human beings would put so much stock in it.
But this was the first time the physical act had been wired up to something deeper, the first time he hadn't wanted to maintain a detachment. From the moment he felt Molly's lips move against his in response, he understood just how powerful it was as a means of communication, of connecting – and he wanted to give himself to it completely.
And there lay the danger.
Dispassion, control, was key. He relied on it entirely; it was the thing that kept him safe – alive, even – giving him the competitive edge against everyone he went up against. He had accepted the value of friendship, yes, but he'd seen what vulnerability, indulgence of deeper emotions, had done to John. He couldn't allow it – the duality of a life like that would tear him apart, render him useless in his work on top of being inadequate as a romantic prospect.
But then being kissed by Molly made him feel like a bloody king, made him feel as though he must be worthy of more.
He didn't doubt that she had to get to work, but he wondered whether Molly was allowing him a cooling-off period, too. Something about that only made him want it more.
Once he'd heard the door close, Sherlock swung his legs onto the floor and sat for a moment. He stared down for a few seconds at the frankly ridiculous bulge in his pyjamas.
Your opinion is hardly an unbiased one, he scowled. Anyway, you can stand down now.
He showered, dressed and waited for the party in his pants to calm down ('taking care' of that in Molly's home was out of the question – he accepted that he and his erection were just going to have to have a standoff until one of them capitulated). There were leftovers in the fridge at Baker Street that made for a semi-acceptable breakfast, but he ended up scraping most of it into the bin. He felt too wired to eat. He found, too, that he didn't want to linger in his flat; didn't want to be available to clients, and felt too unsettled to go through files, emails and lab reports.
He set out on foot with no destination in mind, and around 11am he received a text from Molly.
This morning was lovely. Thank you - Mx
Sherlock couldn't help the smile that came to him, although he had the strange urge to suppress it, should anyone around him guess.
A couple of minutes later, there was a follow-up.
Home by about 5 tonight – Mx
He felt a sharp, warm jolt through his body. There was a clear message behind those few simple words; she would be at home, and this was an invitation. It seemed possible that Molly was as preoccupied by thoughts of him as he was of her, and just the idea of it turned him on to an uncomfortable degree.
He had no doubt that his conduct that morning had been foolish; a storm was coming, and he knew it, and still he had decided to indulge the growing chemical defect in his system. The problem was, it was becoming unclear in his mind whether Molly Hooper was a distraction from The Work, or whether The Work was a distraction from Molly Hooper.
His fingers itching, he bought a packet of cigarettes from a newspaper stall near Hampstead Heath, and five minutes later ended up giving them to a member of his homeless network, who he spotted near Parliament Hill. Cigarettes killed smell and taste receptors, and all Sherlock could think about was how Molly's lips had tasted, the heady scent of her warm skin.
He ignored a text from Mycroft. Two from John.
She knows you, said a voice in his head. She doesn't want anything from you.
But no, that wasn't accurate. Yes, Molly wouldn't want flowers, date nights or grand romantic gestures, but the things she would want – would need, deserve – couldn't be bought or faked. And they were the very things at which he was particularly bad: constancy, consistency, emotional honesty. He would fail spectacularly, and he would break Molly in the process.
She won't let you fail, the voice spoke again. She'll be your strength.
But she shouldn't have to be his strength. All he seemed to do was take and take and take, and eventually she would be drained, spent, and resentful of him.
Five o'clock came and went, and Sherlock kept walking. Eventually, his feet took him back to Baker Street, and he collapsed, fully-dressed, on the sofa.
00000000
Sorry, sorry, sorry - I know this is short!
Originally intended it as the first half of a chapter, but was worried that the chapter would end up being reams of pages long - and it seemed like a natural point to pause.
If it's any consolation, the next chapter is well underway... ;-)
