"So...you and John..." Molly broached, feeling her stomach flutter with trepidation.
Sherlock gave his wrist a tiny, delicate twist, unloosing the bead of solution clinging to the pipette in his hand. He watched the sample on the slide bubble and fizz for a moment, then lifted his gaze, turning his head toward Molly. "I assure you that John and I are engaging in a prodigious amount of sexual intercourse," he declared.
"Oh," Molly managed to say in response. Her palms suddenly seemed slicked in a layer of nervous sweat. She stuffed her hands into the pockets of her long, white lab coat, acutely aware of how much Sherlock saw.
"He is surprisingly virile for a man of forty-three and I find the dimensions of his genitals quite satisfactory."
"Oh," Molly said again, a little higher this time.
Sherlock's brow crumpled. "That's what people talk about, isn't it? Sex?"
"Sometimes," Molly answered. She'd fallen for the strange, singular genius, the dark brooding, the mystery, but this was the Sherlock Holmes she had loved – and loved still, in a different way – this naïve creature. This man who saw so much, yet knew so little, who positively thrummed with childlike wonder and curiosity.
She knew what it was like. God, did she know. Molly Hooper, the shy, friendless girl who excitedly carved into specimens in biology, not knowing she was supposed to squeal or retch or bear the task with grim solemnity.
Molly's heart clenched. She couldn't ask. Had no right to question the happiness which Sherlock had found. And yet it still gnawed at her, the sense of unresolved possibility, compelled her to strain her ear against this forever-closed door.
"Molly?" Sherlock said, halting and soft, the glass pipette making a little snowflake plink as he set it on the worktop.
Once, Molly would have believed Sherlock incapable of uttering her name in such a gentle voice, would have only dared to dream of it on a lonely Friday evening after a long day poking about dead strangers' insides and a glass of Merlot.
"It's just a bit...unexpected," Molly confessed. "You and John, I mean. As a couple. I didn't think you did that."
"Nor did I," replied Sherlock.
"I convinced myself you didn't do that."
Sherlock's gaze, as it held hers, was pale and open. So impossibly open. "I know," he said.
"It's just..." Molly's throat felt like it was squeezing shut. "If I'd known, well, maybe things would've gone differently." She paused, drawing a slow, steadying breath, willing herself to free all the feelings she'd chained up long ago. "We could've tried. It would've been good, I think. Us. Difficult, definitely, but good."
"Things that are easy are seldom good," Sherlock said, his lips curving into a small, fragile smile.
"I think I could've given you what you wanted," Molly added, her voice sounding tiny to her own ears. "What you needed."
"You did." Sherlock's smile widened fractionally. "What I have now would not have been possible without your help." Stripping off his nitrile gloves, he closed the distance between himself and Molly, cupped her face with his hands. "You were the first to see precisely what John Watson means to me. Do not underestimate the depth of my gratitude."
Molly allowed her eyes to fall closed as Sherlock dipped his head and pressed a soft kiss to her temple. She clung to the feeling of his lips against her skin for a moment, then let out a long breath, releasing the weight in her chest.
"I promise the next man you fall for will not be another gay sociopath, Molly Hooper," Sherlock whispered.
Fill: If You Love It (1/1)
Sherlock gave his wrist a tiny, delicate twist, unloosing the bead of solution clinging to the pipette in his hand. He watched the sample on the slide bubble and fizz for a moment, then lifted his gaze, turning his head toward Molly. "I assure you that John and I are engaging in a prodigious amount of sexual intercourse," he declared.
"Oh," Molly managed to say in response. Her palms suddenly seemed slicked in a layer of nervous sweat. She stuffed her hands into the pockets of her long, white lab coat, acutely aware of how much Sherlock saw.
"He is surprisingly virile for a man of forty-three and I find the dimensions of his genitals quite satisfactory."
"Oh," Molly said again, a little higher this time.
Sherlock's brow crumpled. "That's what people talk about, isn't it? Sex?"
"Sometimes," Molly answered. She'd fallen for the strange, singular genius, the dark brooding, the mystery, but this was the Sherlock Holmes she had loved – and loved still, in a different way – this naïve creature. This man who saw so much, yet knew so little, who positively thrummed with childlike wonder and curiosity.
She knew what it was like. God, did she know. Molly Hooper, the shy, friendless girl who excitedly carved into specimens in biology, not knowing she was supposed to squeal or retch or bear the task with grim solemnity.
Molly's heart clenched. She couldn't ask. Had no right to question the happiness which Sherlock had found. And yet it still gnawed at her, the sense of unresolved possibility, compelled her to strain her ear against this forever-closed door.
"Molly?" Sherlock said, halting and soft, the glass pipette making a little snowflake plink as he set it on the worktop.
Once, Molly would have believed Sherlock incapable of uttering her name in such a gentle voice, would have only dared to dream of it on a lonely Friday evening after a long day poking about dead strangers' insides and a glass of Merlot.
"It's just a bit...unexpected," Molly confessed. "You and John, I mean. As a couple. I didn't think you did that."
"Nor did I," replied Sherlock.
"I convinced myself you didn't do that."
Sherlock's gaze, as it held hers, was pale and open. So impossibly open. "I know," he said.
"It's just..." Molly's throat felt like it was squeezing shut. "If I'd known, well, maybe things would've gone differently." She paused, drawing a slow, steadying breath, willing herself to free all the feelings she'd chained up long ago. "We could've tried. It would've been good, I think. Us. Difficult, definitely, but good."
"Things that are easy are seldom good," Sherlock said, his lips curving into a small, fragile smile.
"I think I could've given you what you wanted," Molly added, her voice sounding tiny to her own ears. "What you needed."
"You did." Sherlock's smile widened fractionally. "What I have now would not have been possible without your help." Stripping off his nitrile gloves, he closed the distance between himself and Molly, cupped her face with his hands. "You were the first to see precisely what John Watson means to me. Do not underestimate the depth of my gratitude."
Molly allowed her eyes to fall closed as Sherlock dipped his head and pressed a soft kiss to her temple. She clung to the feeling of his lips against her skin for a moment, then let out a long breath, releasing the weight in her chest.
"I promise the next man you fall for will not be another gay sociopath, Molly Hooper," Sherlock whispered.