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It’s a Saturday evening full of crap telly and cheap wine for Molly Hooper. She’s curled up on the couch, lost in thought, when there’s a knock at her door. Startled and not expecting company, she sets her glass down and wipes crumbs from the front of her shirt. She opens the door to find one tall and very angry-looking detective.
“Sherlock?” She questions as he stares at her. “Are you all right? Come in.” She holds the door open and steps aside. He takes her up on the offer, bringing in the cold air and smell of snow. Molly tries not to smile as he wipes his feet on the mat just inside the door.
“Thank you, Molly,” he says, standing awkwardly with his hands stuffed in the pockets of his coat. His cheeks are flushed from being outside and his hair is dotted with snowflakes.
“Yeah of course,” Molly gives him a small smile and shifts where she stands. “Um, are you okay?”
“Hm? Oh yes, fine,” He gives her a tight smile back before glancing around her living room. “I’m not interrupting anything am I?” He asks as his eyes land on her wine glass.
Molly blushes and tucks a stray strand of hair behind her ears. The wine has her feeling warm and buzzed and Sherlock only adds to it. “No, just me and my date.”
He lifts an eyebrow at her.
“I was just,” she blinks rapidly and points to her wine, “It was a joke, I meant my drink and not an actual date, just the wine and I’m sorry that wasn’t a very good joke.”
Sherlock then completely surprises her by smiling. A genuine smile that rarely graces his face. Molly finds herself blushing harder as she smiles back.
“May I join you?” He asks, eyes looking everywhere but at her.
Molly’s brow raises as she processes this question. Is Sherlock offering to have drinks with her? She clears her throat. “For wine?”
“Yes, if that’s acceptable.” He flops down on her sofa and pulls his scarf off. Molly tries not to stare as the blue material is pulled away to reveal his pale neck.
“Of course it is!” She shakes herself out of her thoughts and hurries into the kitchen to grab the bottle of wine. She returns a moment later with another glass and pours some for Sherlock and more for herself before settling on the opposite end of the couch.
“To science,” Sherlock declares, lifting his glass to the air.
“Oh! To science,” Molly agrees, repeating the act. They both take rather large sips and Sherlock frowns. “What is it?” Molly asks.
A sigh and a scowl. “John’s kicked me out of the flat because I destroyed the toaster.”
Molly giggles into her glass and ignores his glare. “How did you manage that?”
“He often complains that his toast burns so I offered to fix it for him.” Sherlock sniffs and dons an arrogant look. “It’s hardly my fault it caught on fire. He shouldn’t be so picky about the temperature and crispness of his bread.”
Molly laughs at his expression and nods in agreement. “Definitely not your fault.”
Sherlock gives her a quick smile and finishes the rest of his glass. When he gestures for more, Molly goes to hand him the bottle. Their fingers brush as it’s passed between them and the wine in her system has her every nerve alight, the touch magnified. She pulls her hand back too quickly and the bottle drops to the couch between them, spilling onto the cushion.
“Oh I’m so sorry!” Molly gushes, quickly picking the bottle up and running into the bathroom for towels. She mutters angrily under her breath, chiding herself for reacting so strongly to one simple graze of the man’s fingers against her own.
When she returns, Sherlock is standing with his eyes closed and drinking wine straight from the bottle. What is left of it, that is. Molly stops dead in her tracks, holding the towels in her arms. When Sherlock lowers the bottle, he coughs a little and wipes his mouth.
“Sorry,” he sputters, handing the bottle over to her. She takes it and sets it on the coffee table, noting how empty it is. As she hastily sets the towels down over the spill on the couch, she feels Sherlock’s eyes on her.
“I’m so sorry,” she repeats once she’s finished, glancing up at him again.
“It’s fine, Molly,” he waves a hand and shrugs. Molly can tell there’s something bothering him. Normally she would be too hesitant to ask but the alcohol in her system allows her to do so.
“You said you’re fine, I know, but you don’t look fine. Is it about John? You know he’ll forgive you. He probably already has. There are only so many appliances you can break. You know…” she prattles on and on about an event from her childhood. By the time she reaches the end of the story, she notices that Sherlock is just staring at her. “What?” she asks.
He runs a hand through his curls and shakes his head. “Nothing.”
Molly feels a sliver of anger creep up her spine. The man may not be interested in everything people have to say but he could at least be polite about it, especially when she speaks of personal things such as her childhood. “No what is it?”
Sherlock looks at her for a moment before stepping forward and taking her face in his hands. Stunned, Molly freezes and stares up at him. “You talk far too much,” he murmurs before closing the space between them.
Molly’s eyes flutter shut as his lips meet hers, soft and warm. His hands are still slightly cool on her face and she melts into the touch, relishing the feel of his thumb stroking her cheek. He smells of winter, wool, and smoke and she finds herself gripping the lapels of his coat as the scent dizzies her.
They kiss languidly, pulling back only to press forward again. When his tongue meets her bottom lip, she opens her mouth and sighs happily. She feels his hands leave her face and while she feels slightly disappointed, it doesn’t last long because his arms are wrapping around her back and pulling her closer. Molly stands on the tips of her toes and wraps her arms around his neck.
She feels him laugh softly into the kiss and he pulls her onto the couch where height no long matters. Small, tentative kisses mold into deep and heated ones. His hand grips the back of her head, fingers thread through her silky hair and Molly finds herself moaning.
It surprises her as much as it surprises him and they break apart. Molly can feel the heat spreading in her cheeks and she opens her mouth to say something but he puts a finger to her lips, quieting her. She nods and swallows hard, noticing how heavy they’re both breathing.
When Sherlock pulls his finger away, he leans forward to press his lips to one corner of her mouth and then the other. Molly hums contentedly and shuts her eyes. Sherlock trails kisses along her cheek and down her neck. When his tongue dips into the hollow of her throat, she moans again. Before she can feel embarrassed, his mouth is on hers with a greedy groan that has her gasping.
Hands stroke along backs and chests, legs tangle, and feet rub together. Within minutes, the air in Molly’s home seems to have risen several degrees. She feels intoxicated with Sherlock’s very presence, wrapped up and surrounded by him. She finds she’s delighted in the way she can make his breath stutter and hips jerk. With a brief flood of bravery, she unbuttons his shirt a bit and places kisses along his chest.
Sherlock’s reactions spur her along, all breathy moans and sharp inhales. Molly isn’t sure how much time has passed when he speaks her name. She pulls back and glances up at him, biting her lip as she notices how swollen and red his are.
The expression on his face changes the moment she looks at him and he reaches a hand out to grasp her chin lightly. His thumb grazes her bottom lip and she sighs. “You look beautiful,” he states, voice deep and rough.
Molly swallows thickly and feels overwhelmed by everything. His smell, his touch, his look. “Thank you,” she whispers.
Sherlock doesn’t miss a thing. “Do you want to stop?”
Molly doesn’t. She wants to stay forever within this moment. Everything is bright and alive, color filling her world. Every nerve in her body is singing, craving more. Yet she nods in response, feeling slightly sick with the beat of her heart so fast.
“I’m sorry,” she says, ashamed. How many times has she wanted this to happen? More than she can count. She feels horrible that she’s backing out as it's finally becoming a reality but everything is happening so fast and she can’t keep up.
“Nonsense,” Sherlock smiles reassuringly and pulls her close. She rests her head on his chest and his arm wraps around her shoulder.
“Are we going to forget this happened?” She asks hesitantly, preparing for the worst.
Sherlock immediately shakes his head no and Molly feels relief flood her body. “Will this happen again?” She asks while she’s able to.
A small kiss is pressed to her forehead. “Maybe tomorrow, without wine,” he murmurs.
Molly smiles into his skin and wraps her arm around his waist. “Without wine,” she agrees and they fall asleep, pressed against each other in the dim light of Molly’s living room.