The second he opened his eyes, he knew he was back; the nausea and wooziness that his unconscious brain imagined he would suffer were apparently nothing to the actual reality of a chloroform hangover. His throbbing, light-sensitive eyes presented him with a view of the flat he'd never had cause to see before – mostly chair legs, dust bunnies, and the dark and foreboding void underneath his sofa. Even though he knew he was alone, he turned over as quickly as his body would allow, looking for the spot on the windowsill where she'd been sitting. For a few moments he felt a strange, intense pang of loss, but it was swiftly banished when everything suddenly switched on, and his brain assaulted him with a rapid onslaught of images that left him with one clear, abiding, urgent priority:
Molly…
But first, he had to do something about the repugnant, dull coppery tang he could taste, as though he'd woken up with a mouth full of pennies. Almost gagging on the bitterness, his instinct was to try to get up to find water. Sherlock tried to force his body to work with him. This was the one time when he needed his 'transport' to really do its job, and it was choosing this moment to be unbelievably bloody uncooperative. He willed his limbs to work as quickly as his heart was racing because, after months of determinedly trying to put as much distance as he could between himself and Molly, now she seemed unbearably far away from him. He couldn't allow this situation to continue.
Forcing himself in a sitting position, albeit not a very steady one, he spotted his phone on the kitchen floor where it had fallen…how long ago? He crawled inelegantly towards it, flailing out a hand until it made contact. When he brought the screen close to his face, and his eyes had managed to correctly focus, he had to look twice: he had been out cold for less than ten minutes.
The realization sent a thrill of hope through his cerebral cortex. He hadn't blown it. Not yet.
Of course, there was still time for that – particularly if he was going to be as violently ill as he suddenly felt.
With a knee-jerk urgency, Sherlock raced for the kitchen sink, bracing himself on the counter top when he got there. Don't be sick, do not be sick! He didn't have time to waste on this, and whatever he was about to go and do – and he still didn't quite know what that was – it was unlikely to be enhanced by his smelling of vomit.
There was a brief but fierce standoff with the roiling contents of his stomach, but once he had gulped down one glass of water and thrown a second one into his face, he emerged victorious. After that, he delayed only long enough to dry his face on a tea towel, shove his phone into his pocket and quickly tame his curls in the hallway mirror (he daren't look at his face too closely).
He clattered down the stairs and out onto Baker Street, where traffic was racing past, and where he tried in vain to summon a taxi – his 'cab-conjuring trick', as John called it, was failing him at a critical moment.
"It's Christmas Eve, Mr Holmes," a voice said. It belonged to one of the men who worked behind the counter at Speedy's, who was standing outside the café smoking a ridiculous e-cigarette. "You're gonna to be lucky to find a free cab at this time."
Where usually he would have an instant retort to this, all Sherlock could feel in response was despondency.
"Anyway, where you off to on Christmas Eve at this time?" the man continued, in a tone of curiosity. "You got a date or something?"
Sherlock gave a short laugh at the irony of it all. He gave a hopeless shrug.
"Possibly," he replied. "That is, if I'm not too late."
There was a pause, as Sherlock scanned the lines of traffic, searching for an elusive lit sign on the top of a black cab. He was wondering whether he might have more luck if he went up to Marylebone Road when someone tapped him on the shoulder.
"Got a ride for you," the man from Speedy's said with a smile, thumbing in the direction of the café. "Mate of mine's a mini-cab driver – that's his car over there. Give him five minutes to finish his kebab and he'll get you to her."
Sherlock felt his heart leap.
"Tell him if he comes right now, I'll double the fare."
The café patron's eyebrows shot up and his face took on an expression of wry amusement.
"That important?" he asked, smiling.
"I…I think the rest of my life could depend on it."
Less than two minutes later, he was speeding around the side-roads of west London, and all he could think of to help soothe his anxiety was that he was getting closer. But as that anxiety abated, his nerves began to intensify and he tried to tamp them down – no guts, no glory; no pain, no gain. No honesty, no Molly.
The cab tipped him out by her front door, minus most of the contents of his wallet. Now, if he completely cocked this up, he was going to have plenty of time to reflect on his failure on the long, ignominious walk home. He was exhibiting all the signs of both stress and anticipation as he walked silently up to the front door; the pounding heart, the dry mouth, the sudden spike of adrenaline, the quick, shallow breaths. There was no underestimating the importance of this moment, and his body knew it.
Sherlock rang the bell and waited. He caught a warped reflection of himself in the brass door knocker, and prayed that he didn't really look that terrible. In the hallway, he could hear Molly speaking softly to Toby, who would always wind around her ankles whenever she went to answer the door. There was a pause, and Sherlock imagined her going up on tiptoes to look through the spy-hole. Quickly, the chain was pulled across and the latch unlocked and opened.
"Sherlock?"
And there she was, dressed exactly as Anderson had shown him, complete with Christmas jumper; her hair pulled back in a ponytail as she wore it for work. She sounded – and looked - surprised. But the way she was looking at him…she was pleased to see him.
"Molly, I…" he began. "I'm sorry for not returning your text, and well, for everything, and I…are you here alone?"
He had a sudden panic, his mind flashing back to what Anderson said about a Christmas drinks invitation.
Again, Molly looked confused, her brow furrowing.
"Wh-who else would be here?" she queried. "So, have you come for a Christmas Eve drink after all? I'd just sort of assumed you weren't coming, so I was actually just about to get ready for bed…but do you want to come in?"
As soon as he was over the threshold and the door was closed, it took only a couple of seconds before his mouth started to override any rational thought process.
"Molly, please don't marry a doctor," he blurted, before he could stop himself. "I don't want you to marry him, and don't marry anyone else…wait, no, that last bit isn't right."
Now she was looking at him with an expression of deep worry, while at the same time, a pink blush had sprung up on her cheeks.
"Sherlock, what…what are you talking about?" she asked cautiously. "What doctor?"
As he tried desperately to figure out a better jumping-off point for the conversation, Molly came closer to him, held out the back of her hand to touch his forehead.
"Are you feeling okay?" she asked. "Where's your coat? It's only a couple of degrees out there. Wait…you're not...oh god, Sherlock, you're not high, are you?"
At this, he was mortified, but he shook his head vehemently.
"No! No, I…I wouldn't do that," he exclaimed, adding more quietly. "Not…anymore, not…not to you, Molly."
She still looked unconvinced. He'd given her good reason over the years, of course.
"There was a trivial incident earlier this evening with an experiment in the kitchen at Baker Street," he confessed, cagily. "Which resulted in an accidental haloform reaction. I may, ah, I may have been unconscious for a short while."
Molly's eyes suddenly widened in alarm.
"Oh God, Sherlock, are you all right?" she asked. "Why didn't you go to a doctor?"
He felt himself smiling.
"I did."
She gave him a look that said not funny, I'm worried about you, before leading him through to her living room and insisting that he sit down on the sofa.
"I can check you over," she offered, turning to leave the room, presumably in search of medical kit. But Sherlock caught her arm before she could move, drew her down to sit beside her on the sofa. He had to say this now before he completely lost every last shred of nerve he had left.
"First of all, Molly, I'm fine," he begun. "I felt slightly nauseous after it happened, but I need you to know that what I'm about to say is entirely unrelated to any chemical inhalation I may have experienced tonight."
She looked at him questioningly, those beautiful brown eyes searching his face for clues as to where this was going. Sherlock took a deep breath.
"I said I was sorry for everything, and I meant it," he continued. "You…you need to know where you stand, Molly, but I'm actually hoping you can tell me – once I've explained where I stand. Because I know where I stand, and I know that nothing is going to change that. I love you."
At this, he heard Molly give a sharp gasp, but he needed to see this through.
"I love you, and I want to spend this and every future Christmas with you, and all of the other days in between. I want marriage and babies and dogs, and stupid Christmas decorations and traditions. I want to have all of that with you. I…I know that I've wasted so much time, that I haven't been completely honest, but I'm changing that now. Molly, I do love you. Is…is it possible that you still feel the same way?"
She looked at him, slightly open-mouthed. But it only lasted a moment before her lips started to uptick into a cautious, questioning smile.
"Sherlock…was…was that a marriage proposal?"
She was watchful, but there was a wonderful light in her eyes, and Sherlock felt a rush of elation as he realised that Molly probably wasn't about to have him committed.
"It's…I suppose it's sort of a life proposal," he replied, swallowing, trying not to pin too much on that spark of hope. "But, yes, I would like it to include marriage, providing that's what you want, too…?"
He saw Molly's breath stutter silently, but then she swallowed, frowned, seemed to draw herself up in her seat. Sherlock's heart seemed to drop several feet when she appeared to shuffle away from him slightly. She was guarding herself against him, as she'd done so many times before.
"Sherlock, I…I need to know that this is real," she said, fixing him with her gaze. "I need to know whether this is serious…that you mean it, b-because you can't just say something like that and then take it back later. You know that, right?"
He ached with the need to touch her, to reassure her through his actions, but she had every right to an answer to those questions, every justification for asking them. So instead, he nodded, clasping his hands together in his lap. Her eyes were still searching his, and though it terrified him to be so exposed, he held that eye contact – he wanted Molly to see everything.
"Molly, I mean it," he began. "Every word. I have loved you for a long time, longer than even I fully realised, long before my sister's intercedence. I know that my recent behaviour towards you must have been confusing, and it was certainly unfair, and I have no real defence for it, except that I was frightened."
He saw Molly's brow crease slightly, briefly, in sympathy for him it seemed. Now it seemed faintly ridiculous that he could ever be frightened of this beautiful, kind woman, who knew him so completely and cared for him despite it.
"But the past couple of months have been some of the worst of my life," he continued. "Which, considering the repressed childhood trauma and the events of earlier this year, I think you'll agree is not an insignificant thing."
They both managed a small smile at that, and Sherlock felt Molly's hand reach out to his, immediately twining their fingers together. Sherlock looked at their joined hands, observed how her much smaller one seemed to nevertheless enfold his. Such a simple gesture, but her touch seemed to send a pulse of electricity up his arm and straight to his heart; despite seven years of friendship – and despite the nature of what he was now asking of Molly - this was the most tactile they had ever been with each other. The possibilities for the future were staggering.
"Trying to hide from it, to fight it, has only made me miserable," he told her. "And continuing to do so will only result in a life of further misery. I have to confess that I had a little help in coming to my senses, but it means the only thing that frightens me now, Molly, is a life, a future, without you in it."
Molly looked up at him, frowning slightly again.
"Sherlock…you know you were never going to lose me, don't you?" she replied. "You didn't…you don't need to…you will always have my friendship."
At this, Sherlock felt his face pull into a smile.
"I know," he said. "And I hope we'll continue to be friends. But given that I'm in love with you, Molly Hooper, I was rather hoping for something more as well. For one thing, I'm led to believe that the baby thing might prove rather tricky if not."
And finally, finally, he saw the most beguilingly beautiful smile begin to spread across her face, heard her release a huff of breath. A few moments passed, while Molly seemed to be working out what had just happened, how, after months of near-estrangement, they had so suddenly arrived at this point.
"So, we're…we're really doing this?" she said, eyebrows raised, biting down on her lip.
Sherlock recognised that combination of nervousness and excitement, and at the same time he couldn't help his attention being drawn to Molly's lips. It was becoming absolutely imperative that he kiss her very soon. He lifted their joined hands to his mouth, watching her the whole time as he pressed a soft kiss to her knuckles.
"I want it more than anything," he confirmed. "And it would vastly improve my view of Christmas."
Molly grinned.
"Well, seeing as it's for such a good cause…"
Sherlock felt himself holding his breath as Molly inched along the sofa towards him. Slowly, she brought her hand up and slid it along his jaw until she was cradling it, the pad of her thumb resting perfectly on his cheekbone. His instinct was to close his eyes, to lose himself in her touch, and another time he would, but he wouldn't miss this moment for the world. Achingly slowly, Molly leaned in closer, her steady gaze encouraging him to do the same. Sherlock felt for her other hand, taking it a fraction of a second before Molly's lips made contact with his, and everything else around him ceased to exist. And then he did close his eyes, lost in the sensation of his bottom lip catching between hers, the taste of it, the perfect, perfect application of just the right amount of pressure. Everything now was a stimulant; the soft puff of her breath between kisses, the scent of her skin, the gentle movements of her fingertips through the hair above his ear.
Apparently, they were going to be good at this.
At least he hoped so.
"Molly, is it…," Sherlock whispered, when there was a moment of brief separation. "Am I doing it…right?"
Molly leaned back for a moment, looking at him with fond amusement. Clearly it wasn't something she'd been asked before – or at least not since she was about twelve. But she seemed to quickly realise that he was asking it in all earnestness, and she nodded vigorously in response. He wanted to assure her that while has not a complete novice, he had never before had reason to care whether the other person was enjoying being kissed – and Molly deserved the very best he could give.
Sherlock felt his whole body relax again, Molly's assurance giving him the confidence to mirror her actions, moving his hand to cradle the back of her head and pulling her closer to deepen the kiss. He heard a lovely little hum and giggle of appreciation, which resulted in a very sudden rush of blood southwards. There would be plenty of time for that, he reminded himself, trying to force the bicycle metaphor – and Mary's gleeful grin – from his mind.
Keeping hold of his hand, Molly got to her feet. Slowly, giving him enough time to object if he wanted to, she came to stand over him, eventually bringing her knees down to rest on either side of his thighs. Gently, she settled into his lap, her eyes never leaving his as she wound her arms loosely around his neck. Sherlock wrapped his own arms tightly around Molly's middle, hugging her close to his body, and when he looked up at her, he almost felt drunk on dopamine. He knew, too, that he was probably wearing the most ridiculous, half-witted expression at that moment – but someone could have plastered it across the front of The Daily Mail, and he wouldn't have cared.
His thumbs traced slow circles on Molly's hips, caressing her through her ridiculous Christmas jumper. He couldn't help himself.
"I love you," he said again, marvelling at how easy it now seemed.
Molly smiled, reaching up to gently move a rogue curl away from his forehead. She pressed soft, deliberate kisses to one cheek, then the other, before looking at him once more.
"I love you, too," she whispered, before bringing her lips down to meet his again.
This went on for several more minutes, with Sherlock's thumbs eventually finding their way under the ridiculous Christmas jumper, and Molly's nimble fingers first playing with and then dipping inside his shirt collar. There was no sense of urgency, and that was just what they both seemed to need.
"It's, um, getting late," Molly said eventually. "Are you staying?"
She asked the question a little shyly, as though fearing she might be pushing him too far, too quickly.
"If the offer of Christmas treats is still on the table…?" he replied, with a raised eyebrow.
Molly narrowed her eyes at him; the possibilities for dual meaning not escaping her for a second.
"Well, bearing in mind your little lab accident earlier on, I think we should probably skip the alcohol," she replied. "But ginger is supposed to be good for nausea, and I've got just the thing for that."
A few minutes later, Molly's little coffee table was arranged with a spread of Christmas snacks, alongside two mugs of hot chocolate. The rest of the evening was passed with a lot of talking and a good deal more kissing – in fact, Sherlock came to the conclusion that the one thing that could possibly improve the experience of kissing Molly was kissing her when she tasted of gingernut biscuits and marshmallows. He was looking forward to testing that theory, though, when other seasonal specialities came around.
0000000000
When Sherlock awoke the next morning, it was to the sound of a short, angry buzz from his phone, a muted text alert. He ignored it, but now that he was semi-awake, he took the opportunity to appreciate the current situation. The last thing he could remember before falling asleep was being spooned around Molly, all of his senses entirely consumed by her. She was still in his arms, but more loosely so, which wouldn't do. Sherlock edged his way across the mattress and gathered Molly to him more closely, aware that certain parts of his anatomy were substantially more 'glorious' than they were on most mornings.
His phone buzzed again.
Sherlock felt Molly stir, stretching a little in his arms before peering over her shoulder at him.
"Good morning, Molly," he said, his voice still deep and thick with sleep.
"Morning," she replied, shifting slightly as he leaned far enough to place a kiss on her cheek. There was some very definite friction going on south of the equator, and Sherlock heard Molly giggle. "Is that my Christmas present, Sherlock?"
"Not if you keep wriggling like that, no," he replied, gently nudging the part of anatomy in question against her backside for emphasis.
They hadn't, yet. He supposed they could have last night, but neither of them seemed in a particular hurry – there was more than enough new territory to explore for one evening. Sherlock was happy to surrender control to Molly, and was more than content with the slow, sleepy kisses and touches that were shaping the beginning of their Christmas Day.
Sherlock was just taking time to appreciate the fact that Molly had chosen to sleep only in her Christmas jumper and pants when his phone buzzed yet again. He fired a look of contempt over his shoulder at the device, which suddenly seemed a lot less vital to his existence than it did a few hours ago.
"Maybe it's urgent," Molly suggested, sliding her bare leg away from where it had been hooked around his waist. Sherlock caught her leg and put it back in place.
"Impossible," he muttered, nuzzling into the warmth of her neck.
But there it was again, only thirty seconds later.
With a frustrated grunt, Sherlock threw his arm behind him and grabbed for the phone. When he unlocked it, a series of text messages popped up - all from John.
The first was sent the previous evening:
How's the festive experiment going? – JW
The rest were from that morning, beginning an hour ago.
Sherlock, are you at home? Mrs H worried - JW
Then:
Mrs H says you're not answering your door. Are you OK? – JW
Followed by:
Sherlock, please, it's Christmas Day - stop being a dick and answer the door. She thinks you're dead on the floor – JW
And then:
Sherlock, unless you're *actually* dead on the floor, you need to answer this text and speak to Mrs H – JW
The next one made Sherlock's eyebrows rise a little.
Five minutes, Sherlock. Then the boys from Speedy's are breaking down the door – JW
He tilted the phone so that Molly could see it. She swatted him on the arm.
"For God's sake, tell them!"
"Tell them what?" Sherlock asked, amused. Then he was struck by the idea that telling might not be the most effective way. Shifting up in the bed, he pulled Molly against his chest and quickly snapped a photograph.
"Sherlock, are you…did you just take a selfie?!" she asked, bemused.
"Actually, we took a selfie. It's the modern way," Sherlock replied with an arched eyebrow, as he quickly attached the photo and thumbed out a message.
Festive experiment a resounding success. Might be a little later than planned for Christmas Dinner. Give Rosie a kiss from us both - SH
John's response came through less than a minute later, but by that time Sherlock was already squarely focused on other things. In the middle of it all, Molly asked him what he had meant the previous evening about 'having some help' in coming to his senses; he said it wasn't important, that he would tell her later. But as they shared tea and toast in bed a short while later - not long before Molly decided to divest him of his t-shirt and herself of her Christmas jumper - Sherlock made some silent promises. He would be civil to his brother on Boxing Day, and he would say something nice(ish) to Philip Anderson the next time he saw him. He would take special notice of John when he saw him later, and he would try to ensure that Lestrade had other things to think about on Christmas Day (although that now seemed fairly likely anyway, given John's propensity to gossip).
And later, when he and Molly were having some tea and toast in bed to restore their energy, his head full of all that he'd promised her, Sherlock hoped that Mary would now agree that he was well and truly getting on with it.
