***Author's Note: So it's seeming like it takes me about a week to get these chapters where I like them, so that's kind of the update schedule you can expect in the future. Also, I'd once again just like to thank everyone for their feedback and reviews, it really does help me keep going when I'm struggling with these two.

Two hugs in one day surely had to be a record for Sherlock Holmes. He was beginning to understand the fondness people had for this seemingly illogical gesture. The pressure was comforting somehow, seeming to quiet his mind briefly, grounding him. He wrapped his arms around Molly in reciprocation, the difference if their height allowing his chin to rest on the top of her head.

"Is this…alright?" Molly asked quietly, her voice further muffled by being partially pressed into his chest.

"Quite," Sherlock replied, equally quiet, not wanted to disturb whatever fragile balance existed between them.

Molly spoke quietly into his shirtfront, "Thank you for answering before. I mean, really answering."

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably, the open acknowledgment exceeding his comfort level. Molly noticed, and started to pull away slightly to look up at him. They quickly both realized her hair was tangled around one of his shirt buttons.

"Oh, goodness, sorry, hold on-"

"Allow me-"

Their fingers tangled briefly around her wayward stands, but she was free a fraction of a second later. She took a step back and pulled the elastic from her hair, clearly intending to replace the now ruffled strands back onto her ever-present ponytail.

Sherlock took half a step towards her. He had the urge to touch her hair, tuck a strand behind her ear. This was not something he could attribute to hormones or basic human needs. This was the kind of thing that only came from…fondness. Before, he would have counteracted this impulse with a cruel comment or stinging deduction. Now, he just felt a lingering sadness. As much as he wanted to, he couldn't bring himself to be that vulnerable, to do something he couldn't easily dismiss later if he felt rejected.

Molly could feel his eyes on her while she pretended to concentrate on fixing her ponytail. She had the feeling that, if she allowed it, there could be a repeat of some of the more positive events of last night. Her heart clenched. She wanted to lie to herself, to pretend she could just have a physical relationship with the man she had tried so many times to forget, but not even she was that naïve. She knew if she went down that road she would, once again, be the one getting hurt.

But Molly Hooper was no coward. She had faced a world without him in it, alive only in her knowledge, and had survived. She had felt so guilty about her part in the plan that she couldn't meet John's eyes any longer, and survived. She had let her damages chase away her fiancee, and survived. No, Molly Hooper was no coward. And that's why, consequences be damned, she closed the space between them and pulled his mouth down to hers.

It felt so good to have her fingers in his hair. She had been transfixed by his unruly curls for years, to finally touch them this way was satisfying in a way she couldn't have imagined. She gripped his hair tightly now, not wanting him to pull away or protest. For once, she felt like the power in their strange relationship rested more heavily on her than him. And it gave her the confidence to take his hand and place it on her chest, a clear message that she would not be stopping things this time.

Sherlock's head was spinning. Her bold placement of his hand on her breast had made him harden to the point of pain. He moved his thumb over the swell of her breast, causing her to arch into him. Her response triggered something in him, and he wanted nothing more than to elicit more pleasure from her, feel her body's reactions and hear her moans. File away each action and reaction away to be used, again and again. He moved down to kiss her neck, edging the collar of her sensible blouse aside. He was rewarded by a gasp, and her fingers tightening in his hair.

"Sherlock, I-" Molly tried to form a coherent thought. "Bedroom?"

In response Sherlock pulled her off the ground, wrapping her legs around his waist. Molly brought her lips to his once more as he made his way back to his bedroom. Before she even realized they had arrived she found herself on an unmade bed, his weight pressing into her as he returned his lips to her neck. She worked her hands between them, going for the buttons of his shirt, needing to feel his skin under her hands.

She had only gotten a few buttons undone when she saw the scar from his gunshot wound. She touched it tentatively with the tip of her finger, thinking of how close he had come to death. Sherlock stilled.

"It was you, you know," he said, resting his forehead on hers and closing his eyes. "You saved me that day."

"What- I wasn't even there."

"You were the voice in my head. You told me how to survive. How to live."

"Me? Why me? John's the military doctor, he's the-"

"Yes, he's the logical choice, I agree. But it was you, Molly."

Molly tried not to let herself read too much into it, to remain aloof. She lifted her head to once again capture his mouth, distracting herself with the part of him she knew she could have. She made quick work of the rest of his buttons, and he quickly shrugged out of his shirt. His skin felt smooth and warm under her hands, and she splayed her fingers across his back, feeling the muscles there working as he lowered his mouth back down to hers.

His fingers went to her buttons, but he seemed to struggle ever so slightly. Molly had a sudden thought.

"Have you, you know, done this…"

"Of course, Molly, don't be dense." His quick, defensive reply stung, and Molly blinked up at him for a second, stunned. Before she could react, he let out an exasperated sigh and rolled off of her, to the other side of the bed, and stared at the ceiling.

"My curiosity wouldn't allow me to not…know. So when I was younger, I hired a professional to enlighten me."

"A professional?" Molly's voice rose in pitch ever so slightly. "As in a prostitute?"

"Yes. Only logical to consult an expert."

Molly was struck by how sad that was. No one's first time was great, but to have it be an experiment, a lesson, with someone you paid… It was so typically Sherlock, oh-so-logical and yet sad in a way he couldn't grasp, she couldn't even be outraged.

She turned towards him, angling her body so that she could kiss his bare chest. He looked down at her, and she met his gaze.

"It's okay," she stated simply, wanting him to know she accepted him, that she didn't think any less of him, or think he was strange. Misguided maybe, but that was for another day. She swung her leg over to straddle his hips, and leaned down to kiss him, her fingers undoing her buttons herself as she did so. "It's okay."

Sherlock felt something inside his chest loosen ever so slightly at her declaration. Everyone was always raging at him, telling him how he shouldn't have said this, shouldn't have acted that way. And here was Molly, freeing him wither her simple words.

He sat up slowly. He helped her out of her blouse, stopping to place kisses over her neck and chest, making impressively quick work of the catch on her bra. And then she was before him, bare from the waist up. She made a move as if to cover herself, but he quickly grabbed her hands.

"Don't." He looked her in the eyes, willing her to feel what he felt. They held each other's gaze for a few charged seconds, and Molly gave an almost imperceptible nod.

He reached out to touch her skin, and Molly closed her eyes, the moment too intense. She slowly ran his hands over her, watching her reactions carefully. He filed away the places that made her shiver, the places that made her let out little whimpers. Her nipples were hardened into taught peaks now, and he leaned forward to capture one in his mouth.

Molly let out a strangled exclamation, almost sounding pained. She pressed herself into his lap, the need for friction there overcoming the vulnerability she was feeling. Suddenly it was all happening too slow, and she reached for his belt, eager to hurry things along.

As she fumbled with his belt and unzipping his trousers, her fingers brushing him there, Sherlock found himself struggling for control. He slid his hands up her thighs to grasp her bum, trying to ground himself.

She slid away, clearly intending of taking his trousers with her. He lay back and lifted his lower half, making it easier. She stood next to the side of the bed, and dropped his trousers on the floor. She then reached for the fly of her own trousers.

"No." Sherlock covered her hands with one of his to still her movements. "Allow me. Please," his voice broke on the last word, and Molly knew she could deny him nothing.

Molly sucked in a breath as Sherlock Holmes knelt on the ground before her. He pressed a kiss to her abdomen just above her waistband, and slowly began unfastening her trousers. Agonizingly slow, he ran his hands down the length of her legs, taking the sensible garment with him. His hands grazed the backs of her knees, and they buckled slightly. She put a hand on his shoulder to steady herself. Finally, he lifted her feet, one at a time, guiding her to step out.

Molly Hooper stood before him in only her knickers, plain black cotton that somehow represented the pathologist perfectly. Sensible, understated, but alluring in a way that was somehow even more attractive because it was certainly unintentional. They contrasted strongly with her pale skin, compelling him to touch her. He ran his hands up the length of her legs, continuing until he was standing once again, pressed together, skin to skin.

Their breathing was loud in the quiet room. The moment was charged not only with physical attraction, but with the ghosts of things unsaid. They both were still holding back pieces of themselves, and they both knew it of the other. It burned inside them just as much as their attraction.

Sherlock turned Molly to face away from him, not done with his study of her. He placed a kiss where her neck met her shoulder, and she squirmed against him. He reached his hands around to cup her breasts, feeling the weight of them in his palms.

His deliberate exploration was overwhelming Molly. She felt like he was taking her apart, one piece at a time.

"Sherlock…" she said his name like a plea.

"What do you need?" he whispered in her ear, pressing her against him.

"You."