First of all, I want to say Thank You for all the awesome feedback I've gotten with this story so far. This is truly a labor of love, and I appreciate the support. Secondly, I want to give a shout out to the story "Choices" by swimmingfox. If any of you are GOT fans, specifically SanSan fans, this story is AMAZING. It evokes the kind of emotions I would be honored to garner with my writing. Enjoy!
Molly leaned into Sherlock's kiss, his hands tangled in her hair causing her to let out a pleading groan. Sherlock adjusted his position, wedging his hips between her knees. She slid toward the edge of her seat, reciprocating his need to be closer.
Sherlock found himself wanting to go further, but unsure how to proceed. When he had dated out of curiosity or for a case, he had always let the women take the lead, not really caring what happened or where things went. But now, here, with Molly, he felt…desperate. He wanted to proceed, but was terrified he might do the wrong thing and cause this moment to come to a screeching halt.
He settled for deepening the kiss, gingerly sliding his tongue into her mouth. Molly encouraged him by touching her tongue to his, and this time it was Sherlock's turn to let out a soft groan.
Upon hearing Sherlock moan, Molly finally moved her hands from her own knees up to wrap around Sherlock's wiry frame. She pressed her palms into his back, wanting him closer than their current positions would allow.
Sherlock began to shift his weight forward, while pivoting Molly to the side, so that, finally, she was lying with her head resting on the arm on the couch. He slowly shifted to lie over her, trying to take most of his weight on his elbows, his hands still entangled in her hair. He moved one of those hands now, grabbing her hip and pushing himself against her once, twice.
Molly arched against him, craving more contact. She should have been shocked this was happening, but she was too lost in the sensations, too caught up in the lust of it all for her brain, or her heart for that matter, to really register what was happening.
He could feel the outline of her breasts pressed up against him through the thin t-shirt she had been sleeping in. The thought that she was not wearing a bra inspired him to move his hand upwards from her hip, barely brushing the underside of her breast with his thumb.
Molly stilled. Suddenly, she heard a taunting, cruel voice from the past in her head ranting about her clothes and make-up, finally ending with the cutting phrase "…obviously trying to compensate for her mouth and breasts."
"Oh God, what am I doing?!" she thought to herself, Sherlock's words from that past Christmas looping through her head. All of the pain of his coolness, his rejections, stabbed her full-force. "He thinks my breasts are too small, and my mouth, this is probably all out of pity, he'll never respect me again now, if he ever did…" Molly broke the kiss.
"Stop," she said, almost in tears, AGAIN. "Please, please stop." The tears came now, despite her efforts to fight them back. Damn, would she ever be able to NOT cry around Sherlock Holmes?
"Molly, I –" Sherlock started, looking down at the now crying girl beneath him. Even he in his limited experience knew this was a very, very bad thing to happen in this context. He quickly retreated to the other side of the couch, careful to break every point of contact between her body and his.
"Did I –" he trailed off again, unsure of himself, something he was not familiar with. "Was that… wrong?"
Despite her embarrassment and shame, Molly looked at the man sitting on her couch. Did he just ask her if he did something wrong? Sherlock Holmes rarely admitted he was wrong and NEVER asked the opinions of others on the subject. And he ESPECIALLY never used a tone of voice that sounded so…unsure? Frightened?
Molly had a sudden thought that maybe, just maybe, a small boy with a mop of curls and bright eyes had once asked questions in that same voice, before he learned to face the world with pride and disdain as his weapons if choice. Despite herself, she felt the vice-grip of emotions strangling her loosen just a little, just enough to take a deep, shuddering breath.
"No, I –" now it was Molly's turn to falter. "You didn't do anything wrong. I just…I can't…" She huffed out a breath, trying to gather her thoughts. This had been a really long, strange day. A part of her wanted to just tell him to get out, to not have this awful, embarrassing, scary conversation. How did they even get here? To a place where the subject of her fantasies for the past several years was snogging her on her couch at two in the morning. And not just snogging her. Kissing her and touching her and pressing himself…
Molly blushed deeply and looked away. "What are we even doing, Sherlock?"
"Well," Sherlock smirked now in that way that had given Molly butterflies for years, whether she wanted it to or not. "I would have thought that was quite obvious. As a pathologist, you must be familiar what happens when mammals of the opposing gender are attracted to each other."
Despite herself, Molly laughed. "I'm quite aware of the consequences of sexual attraction, Mr. Holmes," she said in her most professional pathologist voice. "I'm just not sure what that has to do with…us."
Sherlock looked at Molly as one looks at a small child when explaining something. "Human beings are included in the mammalian genus, Molly."
"No, I…I know that. But you…you don't feel…that is, you don't see me as…" Molly trailed off, unsure what else to say and confident Sherlock could pick up her train of thought.
She was wrong.
He continued to stare at her expectantly, obviously waiting for her to finish her thought. But she didn't want to admit to him that the words he had spoken some time ago were still with her. That for all her torch-carrying and unrequited feelings, there might be too much history between them for this to really happen. That he might have made one too many scathing remarks, one too many stinging deductions, for her to actually be vulnerable around anyone, least of all him.
"You don't find me…appealing, Sherlock. You've made that abundantly clear in the past. The only times you've ever said anything nice about my appearance were when you needed something from me." The words just tumbled forth, almost of their own free will, coming out much harsher than she would have liked. But it was out now, maybe now he would just go home and they could go on with their lives pretending this never happened.
"What ever gave you that idea?" Sherlock asked softly, completely serious. Was he…? Indeed, he was completely serious. Molly felt anger start to bubble inside her chest.
"You make fun of my make-up, my clothes. And you say I use them to try and…to try to – " she stopped, feeling tears threatening once again. "I won't do this." She practically ran into the kitchen then, scrambling for the bottle of wine she kept in the cupboard like a drowning man goes after a life raft.
Sherlock remained where he was, stunned to inaction. Upon hearing the sound of breaking glass from the kitchen, he stood and made his way to where he knew a very uncomfortable situation awaited him. Had this been before his fake death, he simply would have left. But since his return, something had changed for the detective. Not only did he find himself wanting relationships, friendships, contact, but he also wanted the same for Mycroft, for everyone, really. He had begun to realize that maybe being alone didn't have as many advantages as he'd previously thought. His love for Mrs. Hudson, John and even Mary had been easier to accept, to categorize and put away in his mind palace. But these feelings for Molly were…different somehow…they had an undertone of…pain? Fear? Sherlock couldn't decide where to put them, if they belonged.
Molly was cleaning up the remnants of a wineglass, a second glass filled nearly to the top in her hand as she did so.
"Molly, I never meant to…hurt you." Sherlock said, knowing even as he did it was a lie. He used his deductions to slice at people, push them away when he felt they were getting to close, or when he started feeling more than he could handle. Obviously Molly knew this as well.
"Yes, you did," she replied in a matter-of-fact way, without looking up from the shards or glass she was gathering into a small pile. "And it worked, Sherlock. Every time. Sometimes more than others, but every time."
Sherlock tried another tactic. "Molly, do you remember, before…when you told me you could see that I was sad when I thought no one was looking?" Molly nodded in assent, and he continued, "That's what this is." There was a pause, as if he was struggling with what to say next, "And, for the record, I do find you quite attractive Dr. Hooper."
After several seconds of awkward silence, Molly quietly completed the motions of cleaning up the broken glass, taking several long sips of wine as she did so. She kept her eyes carefully averted, not able to stand the sincerity shining out of the detective's impossible eyes. She realized she didn't know how to handle this Sherlock. Arrogant Sherlock, sure. Brilliant Sherlock, that was her bread and butter. Even junkie Sherlock, she knew what to do. But every time he was like this, every time he was kind and thoughtful…she worked so hard to move on, to not have feelings for this impossible man. Yet every time he did this, made her feel like she mattered, she realized just how fruitless those efforts were.
"So, are you saying you want to be my friend, or that you think I'm sad when no one is looking?" Molly asked, leaning her hip against the counter top, resigned to finish this confusing night once and for all.
"I'm saying, to quote someone I already consider a friend, if there's anything I can do, anything you need, anything at all…you can have me." Sherlock finished parroting her own words back at her slowly, his gaze never faltering. Had this been before the fall, hearing those words, from this man, would have made Molly's romantic heart flutter. Now, after Moriarty, after the fall, after Tom…she just met his gaze, and nodded.
"And the…on the couch? That was?" Molly had to ask, tonight was entirely too confusing and she needed some semblance of the normal order to be restored.
For the first time since she'd known him, Sherlock Holmes blushed.
"As I said, I do find you attractive. The rest is easily explained by the resulting hormones and biochemistry."
Molly nodded in response, the answer enough for now. She then braced herself to ask her last question.
"You say you find me attractive…but, you've said so many things to the contrary. Which is it?" There was no inflection to her voice now. She had retreated to her professionalism, just a scientist, gathering the facts.
He had the look on his face that he often had when he finally put the last piece of some puzzle into place, spoke in the voice he used when explaining it as if it should have been obvious: "Your mouth."
"Excuse me?"
"I've made several comments about its size, proportions, even lipsticks. Honestly, have you ever heard someone talk about another being's mouth so much? It fascinates me, which defies logic, because, by society's standards, it is too small for your face, doesn't adhere to the golden ratio at all…so I say things. Cruel things. Does that answer your question?"
For the second time that night, Molly was struck by the image of Sherlock as a child. Struggling to cope with a world in which he felt he was always set just outside the rest, never quite belonging. Was it possible that it really was that simple? Was that good enough to make her let the rest go?
Molly cleared her throat. "Right then. Well, sorry for all the…crying. Glad we got that all sorted."
Sherlock nodded, moving towards the door, finally allowing the night to come to an end. Molly followed to refasten the locks behind him, sure that she would not sleep again tonight. He opened the door, a strange tension settling between two people who had just spoken so intimately moments before.
Sherlock paused just short of closing the door behind him. She couldn't see him, but she heard his voice clearly, "You're still who matters most, Molly Hooper."