A/N: Hello, pretties! I have missed writing for you and hope that you've missed reading this.

In case anyone has not heard, I have initiated Sherlock and Molly Fanfic Awards: the SAMFAs. You have 6 days left to nominate fics! You are allowed to nominate WIPs, fics written by judges, and fics in K-T and M ratings. Please visit www DOT youdocount DOT weebly DOT com, message me here, or look me up as sherlolly on Tumblr for all the details!

This is dedicated to all of you who read, review, rec and favorite. I'm the storyteller again!

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When Sherlock woke the second time, he was on his back in Molly's bed, Molly on her side cuddled against him. The first time he'd awakened it had been to turn his mobile back on. To his surprise, Moriarty had texted him immediately. Turn it off until you leave her flat. You were a virgin for 37 years. Get your money's worth.

He'd hardly needed encouragement there, and after making sure nothing else was amiss he turned it back off with a tight smile before molding Molly's body to his again. While he usually only slept every few days, when he did need it he recognized the need, same as with food. Moriarty's little chocolates had put him more on track with how ordinary people slept and ate. Sherlock wanted to rebel but since he knew it would be pointless he was grudgingly accepting it.

That was not to say, however, that being curled up naked with Molly and getting a bit of sleep was entirely unpleasant. In fact, somewhat to his surprise, it wasn't very unpleasant at all. It was, actually, decidedly nice. Sometimes at night he felt a chill, but the heat from Molly's soft limbs twined with his had warded that off. He'd also fallen asleep rather quickly and easily compared to normal. He'd felt relaxed, sated and….well, happy, in a sense, he supposed.

He sighed. Things he was not used to feeling. Relaxing was so difficult for him with the way his brain constantly ran like an engine. The only things he usually sated gladly were his curiosity and his need to uncover the truth. And companionship, with John and now with Molly. It was impossible for him to say aloud that he needed people: these particular people. Saying the things he'd said to Molly to get her to go out with him had been easy at the time: he'd been acting, putting on a performance. Somehow, in only a week, Molly Hooper had gotten under his skin.

Had the potential been there all along? Sherlock was starting to believe it had, which made him uneasy. It had been simpler when he could tell himself it was all Moriarty's handiwork: that he was just doing what he must in order to save lives and continue the game. That line was not so well-defined now, and this once crystal-clear quest was a blurred crusade.

Did it matter? Did it matter that it mattered? Yes. He had to keep it straight in his head. Had to separate his feeling's from Moriarty's little movie. If he didn't he'd lose a part of himself: the part that was always able to order and classify. He simply needed to slowly and patiently unravel the tangled skeins of the web, pull the edges apart and sever the seams. As he contemplated the best way to accomplish the task, a line from a poem popped into his head: "And when I've done it, what good have I done?"

He shook his head fiercely. No. No. Even if the only purpose it served right now was for his own peace of mind, he wanted to know. When the day of reckoning came, he wanted to be able to tell Molly the whole truth. How could he do that if he lumped it all together in his head?

This, however, was neither the place nor the time to begin the secret separation.

Molly sighed in her sleep, and he gently brushed her hair away from her face almost instinctively. He frowned at his hand. This hand formed a fist that fought against boxing opponents and criminals alike. It held microscope slides and case files. It was unused to smoothing hair away from a woman's face. But it had just done so, had been doing so over the past few days, just like it had reached for Molly's hand several times over the past week.

How had she done this? This quiet woman, with no razor sharp wit or extraordinary mind, had enchanted him like a siren singing to the ships.

Yet Molly was not really ordinary. Not completely. Neither was John, for that matter. They both had an underlying devotion, a fierceness, a purity of sorts that was a rare find. Sherlock felt tainted compared to them, even with John having killed in the line of fire. They were just both so… nice. Good. The things he was normally not.

Apparently, Sherlock Holmes needed nice and good in his life.

Molly snuggled even closer in her sleep, and the renewed feeling of her skin brushing against him made him decide that analysis could wait. He rested his cheek on the top of her head and let sleep take him again.

The third time Sherlock woke, he found that Molly had been studying him while he slept. Her lips curved into a sleepy smile as his eyes met hers. "Good morning, Sherlock Holmes. Someone's been sleeping in my bed. Can you deduce who it is?"

He smiled in return, moving his mouth down to hers in a good morning kiss. "Hmm. I'll have to do some detective work about that, Molly Hooper."

"Good. Let me know when you find the culprit," she deadpanned, and Sherlock chuckled softly.

Without warning or fanfare she slid on top of him, and he raised his eyebrows. "Are you trying to distract me?"

"Is it working?"

"Possibly. Perhaps if you…" he gasped as Molly's tongue gently traced the outline of his ear.

"Was that helpful?" Molly asked sweetly.

"A bit," Sherlock answered, and his uneven breath turned into a sigh as Molly's fingers slipped into the curls at the base of his neck, gently tilting his head up to give her lips and tongue easy access to the soft cool skin there. She pressed firm moist kisses all the way down, gently biting where his carotid artery was, and he gasped again. It seemed as though she knew all the right places to assault him already.

She smiled and brushed her thumbs over his cheekbones, moving up to kiss him. "Being a doctor has its advantages."

"So I'm learning," Sherlock said, taking a deep breath. He was already hard against her thigh and the blood was a roaring crescendo in his ears again, and he thought that perhaps something expedient should be done about it.

And he told Molly that. And she laughed, and they kissed again, and as she slipped him inside her and moved on top of him with long, slow strokes, Sherlock knew for certain that all the shouting about sex had turned out to be true.

There was more cuddling afterwards, more talking and laughing. Then Sherlock was more than ready to take a shower. Molly stood watching him as he gathered his toiletries. He was about to step into the bath when he realized she wasn't with him.

He poked his head out the door. "Molly, why are you just standing there?"

"Oh!" She exclaimed. "Well, I wasn't sure if…" her voice trailed off and she smacked herself mentally. How could she be so bold with him one minute and ride him like the pony she'd never got for Christmas and be so uncertain the next?

It was hard trying to guess what he wanted. She knew it was all new to him and she wasn't sure where his boundaries and need for space would be.

Apparently, it was not with showering with her, because he frowned. "Well, come along. I've waited years for a backscrubber." He disappeared back into the bath.

Molly barely managed to control her grin as she followed him in.