Chapter 5

"Good night, Molly, sleep tight" Sherlock bent and pressed a kiss on her cheek. He had straighten himself back up and then stopped in front of his bedroom, right next to hers, and with a quick smile, before disappearing inside, he added "See you in the morning".

Molly leant against her bedroom's door for a while after she had closed it. She couldn't make herself capable of how Sherlock could act like nothing had happened, as if that kiss had been a normal kiss between friends. Unless…unless he was acting.

Molly knew how good he was at acting when he wanted to get out of situations that were uncomfortable for him! However the feeling that there was something different about him was becoming increasingly intense.

But she was exhausted and decided it wasn't the time to bother about it. All she wanted was to go to bed and sleep for at least eight hours straight and not think about Sherlock and the kiss. Which was definitely tough to do.

Despite what she had thought, Molly quickly fell into a deep sleep. The whirl of emotions combined with the weariness of her shift and the journey to Bath got the better of her as soon as she rested her head on the pillow.

Yet it was not a dreamless sleep, quite the opposite! And, dear God, her dreams went far beyond the mere replay of the kiss they shared under the mistletoe! Sex. She and Sherlock, after kissing, had sex. Multiple times, in multiple positions. So Molly wasn't surprised she was still horny when she opened her eyes the next morning.

It must have been very early because the daylight was barely noticeable and she would have liked to stay snuggled under the covers for a while longer. But she knew that if she did, she couldn't ignore the ache between her legs for long. It would get worse and she would have to do something to ease the frustration.

Which was why Molly got out of bed. She had to find something to channel all her energies to and stop thinking about Sherlock's hands, or worse, his mouth on the most sensitive part of her body.

Breakfast. She agreed to herself that taking care of breakfast was a great idea. She liked to cook. She had started using cooking as a way to relax and distract herself when her father was in an advanced stage of his disease, and since then whenever she felt overwhelmed by something she took refuge among pots and stoves.

Molly dressed quickly as she wanted everything ready before Sherlock got up. She knew him well enough to know he wasn't much of a sleeper, unless he needed to recharge after a particularly demanding case, and she expected him to come downstairs shortly after.

She was halfway up the staircase when the front door suddenly opened and a moustached man in his sixties, having shaken the snow off his boots onto the porch boards, came in holding a wooden box with all sorts of good things inside. "Morning. It's Tony Bailey. Agatha's Mansion's handyman" he introduced himself with a broad friendly smile as he heeled the door shut, "And you must be Molly, our Sherlock's fiancé".

Her cheeks instantly flushed, "Well, I'm not…I mean, yes I'm Molly, but I'm not Sherlock's fiancé" she stammered walking slowly down the steps. The man smiled at her again "That's not what Violet says. And she's far-sighted…so you won't be his fiancé now, but you will soon".

Molly didn't have time to reply that he took a few steps towards the kitchen and called out loud to another person, "Bessie! Come here a moment…I want to introduce you to Molly, Sherlock's sweetheart!". As he winked at Molly and whispered, "She's my wife", a petite woman with silver-blonde hair pulled back into a bun, came out of the kitchen.

The woman was drying her hands in a Christmas apron with prints of reindeer, snowflakes and Santa, "Whose sweetheart, darling?" she asked looking down the hall, "Sherlock's, my love" he replied using the wooden box to point to Molly's shape at the foot of the staircase.

"Oh!" was Mrs Bailey only comment as she folded her hands in her lap and cocked her head. Molly felt like she was being x-rayed so long the woman looked her up and down. Not even when she met Sherlock's mum had she felt so nervous. The silence was becoming truly unbearable when her face lit up with a radiant smile, "Nice to meet you, Molly. I'm about to bake gingerbread cookies. They're Sherlock's favourites, I hope you like them too".

Molly nodded and offered to help her but the woman shook her head resolutely, "Kitchen is my kingdom. Absolutely forbidden to enter if I'm there. Not even Tony can" she ruled with a chuckle taking the wooden box from her husband's hands, "Full English breakfast ready in an hour" she finally proclaimed disappearing from their sight.

So, given Mrs Bailey's strict ban on entering the kitchen, Molly thought well to go outside. She wrapped herself up and following the handyman on the snowy cobblestone, she had to bite her lip to stop herself from insanely grinning at the idea she had come to keep herself busy until breakfast was served.

—

Sleep…something Sherlock had always considered boring and dispensable had suddenly become absolutely essential. He tried to sleep, he really did. But sleep was impossible for him that night.

He snorted and once again shifted his position. Impossible to say how many times he had tossed and turned, and his bed had become a tangle of sheets. As he looked up at the ceiling his mind was again flooded with memories from the previous evening.

He had kissed Molly. He still couldn't believe it, but he had. Two times. Well, the second was a simple goodnight kiss on the cheek. The first however…Holding up was getting harder and harder.

It had already been difficult to keep from taking her in his arms and holding her tightly when he had seen her face lit up with happiness in front of all those Christmas decorations. And certainly the initials of their names sewn on the stockings by the fireplace had been a real master's touch from his mother. Sherlock had to acknowledge that she had been very good at creating the most intimate and romantic of settings.

Then Molly had taken off her parka. Her short, mid-thigh green tartan tweed skirt had lifted up a bit flashing the top of her stockings and a very thin patch of her skin. And Sherlock had felt the first intense pulse of blood rushing down there.

His trousers were too tight to cover his body's obvious reaction to that sight and so he had hurried to remove the parka and the scarf from her hands pulling them across his lap as he went the sofa.

It had taken every ounce of his will power not to throw them all on the floor and put his hands on her hips and finally kiss her! Sherlock had forced himself to breathe deeply before slowly retracing his steps, happy at least to have managed to keep his treacherous body under control.

But the desire to kiss Molly and sink his face into her long hair and getting drunk on her perfume still remained, pressing and compelling. But how could he do that without Molly thinking he had suddenly flipped out?

As he told her their dinner had been kept warm, he'd wondered why on earth he was faltering. Why didn't he kiss her and that's it? Hadn't he already decided before leaving London it was time for a heart-to-heart talk with Molly about his feelings for her? What happened to his resolve? What better opportunity than that? They were alone in that big house and there was no risk anyone would interrupt them.

"No, no, all in good time" his logical part had made itself heard, "First you have to be sure. Make sure Molly's heart doesn't belong to someone else".

For example to that Edwin Jones his mother had mentioned and whom she had just spent a weekend with, without mentioning it to anyone, not even him. Sherlock was acutely and painfully aware that if in the months following Sherrinford Molly had opened her heart to another man, he was the only one to blame.

Therefore, before openly confessing to Molly that he'd been a fool to once again confine her to the friend-zone and beg her, on his knees if necessary, to give him a chance to love her properly, to share his life with her, to protect her, Sherlock had to find a way to figure out if Molly was still attracted to him and more importantly if she was still in love with him.

All because he was scared. In this his mother was right. The reasons for Sherlock's fear, however, were not what she thought they were.

Ever since the clarifying conversation he had with Molly after Sherrinford, he had concocted a thousand tall tales for not acting on his feelings for her. To anyone who had the courage to ask him why he wasn't with her despite having admitted to loving her, Sherlock had given a different explanation. None of it valid or truthful.

The cold hard truth was that Sherlock was terrified of Molly getting tired of him sooner or later. He was nowhere near Molly, neither strong nor resilient as she was. And now that he was determined to overcome this fear, that of her eventual rejection took over. It would have hurt him deeply and he wasn't sure he would be able to cope with it.

As he pondered over all this, the dangling mistletoe from the archway caught his eyes. What better excuse than to respect the ancient Christmas practice of kissing under it? "A simple, innocent kiss on her cheek would do the trick" he told himself.

And with that purpose Sherlock had stood in front of her and, with deliberate slowness, leaned his head towards hers and had caught a certain bewilderment in her eyes as well as a slight blush on her cheek. It hadn't been necessary to take her pulse, a gimmick Sherlock used years back with The Woman, because it was enough for him to see her neck's pulsing point to know it was elevated.

That, and her moving back and her lips parting unconsciously as her breathing become laboured, gave Sherlock the proof that Molly was still attracted to him. And on the spur of the moment he had enjoyed teasing her a bit before knowingly setting his eyes on the mistletoe.

Her reaction had caught him off guard. Molly had let out a little giggle. A bit nervous one. Something halfway between the relieved and the disappointed. This was followed by a rapid exchange of lines. Sherlock wanted to know why she giggled and Molly didn't want to tell him, branding the reason as stupid.

In the end he had won. But hearing her say that it was a stupid thought to speculate he was going to kiss her properly made his stomach twist. Sherlock had only realized in that moment how much he had hurt Molly in declaring his love for her and then acting as if that confession had never been made.

A lump had formed in his throat that kept him from speaking. So when Molly had held onto the collar of his shirt telling him to cut it out and have dinner, Sherlock had switched off his brain and acted on instinct.

It hadn't been the best of kisses, at least not at first. As he pressed his lips to hers Sherlock was aware of his clumsiness. It had been so long since he'd truly kissed anyone that he was definitely out of practice.

His concern that Molly would notice and pulled back from him was gone in a matter of seconds. By the time his arms had come up her back, Molly's mouth had already opened, urging him into a deeper, more passionate kiss. And the moan she let out as his tongue swirled around hers...oh God!

Sherlock buried his face into the pillow smothering a groan. The kiss had been so much more than he had expected…it had ravaged him. And in the semi-darkness of his room, in the middle of the night, the feeling of holding Molly in his arms and kissing her played over and over again in his mind, until he was no longer aware of himself.

Voices coming from the front yard led Sherlock to awake from the brief sleep he had slipped into after hours of wakefulness. He opened his eyes and listlessly extricated himself from the sheets and blankets. Yawning and ruffling his hair he shuffled his feet to the window to look down and find out who, besides Molly whose voice he would recognize anywhere, was brave enough to go out so early in the morning.

It had stopped snowing and there were good reason to believe that the day would be, if not warm, then at least bright and slightly sunny. His sleepy gaze settled not far from where he parked the car the previous evening. Standing in front of Molly, heavily bundled in her parka, scarf, gloves and bobble hat, was Tony Bailey, the handyman.

He was laughing in amusement at a grimace from Molly, who was pointing at a pile of snow that she had tried to shape into a snowman. Sherlock couldn't help but chuckle at the sight of it. The poor thingy was a bit out of proportion and needed a fix.

Without further ado, he slipped off his pyjamas and dressed to join Molly downstairs.