Molly remembers moments. Sherlock is struck by the details and the sensations.

He remembers the way her dainty hands roll the condom onto him, the extra squeeze she gives the base of his cock before directing him to her entrance and making his eyes roll into the back of his head. She feels so hot and wet and tight around him, he thinks he's going to come apart from the feeling of that alone. And then her inner muscles flutter around him and he is undone.

He remembers the ferocious want in her eyes as he pushes his fingers inside of her is maddening, but the way she chews at her lip and her gaze goes unfocused when he makes a come hither gesture, his thumb circling around her clit, is mesmerizing. The way her hips buck towards his body fills him with a specific sort of masculine triumph.

He remembers how her nose crinkles slightly when she laughs too hard, and he takes it upon himself to tell her increasingly outlandish stories about the hijinks at Scotland Yard to make that crinkle appear again and again. Soon, she's flushed red and blinking away tears from laughing too hard, and something warm unfolds in Sherlock's chest.

He remembers that they reach for each other in the small hours of the morning, both of them half asleep and wanting. It feels like a dream, the slow and steady way Sherlock feels himself thrusting into her, the careful way she tilts and contorts her body so that he can reach the perfect spot and find that place inside her that makes her come apart, the way her nails dig into his shoulders, the way his lips suck on her neck. When he comes, the dreamy, hazy nature of the encounter doesn't fade, and they fall into exhausted slumber curled around one another, her head pillowed against his chest. He feels her pull him closer, and he curls his hand over her hip.

He remembers the sounds of her breathing change and stir just enough to realize she's the big spoon. He smiles to himself and drifts back to oblivion with the feeling of her hands caressing along his chest and abdomen.

She feels so good - he'll never, ever forget - her body splayed out all over his. Catching their breath, her lips dark in the low light, swollen and full, and after a long breath, she looks at him, her eyes large and catching the light in their depths.

"What are you thinking?" he asks, shifting to sit up slightly. It dislodges her, and she ends up curling into his side, those large, dark eyes of hers still watching him.

"Nothing," she says after a long beat. His skepticism must be apparent on his face, because she shifts position so that she's half on top of him, one leg wedging between his. She hesitates, just for a second. She's always so careful with her words now. "I just…" she says and pauses, and wraps herself around him tighter, every limb entwined. "Can we take this slowly? I know, that sounds ridiculous, but…"

"Whatever you need," he says.

He does not try to fake a smile, or feed her false lines of reassurance. Her words drive a knife through his ribs and leave an ache that even her groggy morning kisses cannot completely erase.

He has her body, her heart, her love. But he hasn't got her trust.

He's cautious when treading the water, careful not create too many waves and drive her away from him.

The three weeks since their agreement to take things slowly have been achingly familiar, the two of them working side-by-side to solve a puzzle, put away criminals, make the world a little bit better. Just like before, there were early morning coffee runs and aimless teasing and off beat jokes. The sex is still a new addition to their relationship, the intimacy of it, but he wants the chance to prove his need for her extends well beyond the bedroom and the lab.

All it takes is a case that started as a four and was soon promoted to a seven, an all nighter in the lab with his favourite pathologist, and a rumbling stomach.

He laughs at the noise. "I've text Lestrade and told him it was the son-in-law," he tells her. "May I take you to breakfast?"

She swallows and nods, mouth pursing slightly.

Sherlock reaches out and touches her chin, tipping it up slightly to kiss her with singular focus. Her mouth opens up to him, warm and addictive and endless, and all Sherlock can hear is the blood pounding in his veins. He pulls back, unsteady, and she blinks at him like she's forgotten her own name.

Speedy's proves perfect for a first date.

He has her tell him stories about her father and growing up as an only child between stolen bites of his scrambled eggs.

("If you wanted eggs, you should have just ordered them," he chides, even as he pushes his plate towards her.

"Hey, I like my bacon butty just fine," she protests, but her fork is already wedged deep into his dish.

"Could have fooled me," he mutters playful, tearing into the buttered toast.)

He presses her for stories, only so he can savour her voice. The frantic way she spoke about things she loved, as though she were afraid of not having enough time to get out all the words she needed. It was the most addictive thing he'd ever seen. Her eyes would light up and grow very round, and when she got to a point that particularly thrilled her, she would bite her lip as though to suppress her excitement.

Molly tells him about the chemistry set her father gave her on her fifth birthday and the road trips to London to go to the Science Museum. She munches on toast and jam and tells him about her grandmother teaching her how to throw a punch when she got to secondary school. She sucks brown sauce off her finger and talks about watching her father and grandmother cook together while she sat at the dining table and did her homework.

And, over an after-breakfast latte, Sherlock hears the wistful note in Molly's voice as she talks about her father, his overwhelming love for her, even though she was a constant reminder of the woman who'd broken his heart. She speaks of her cousins in Suffolk, the young children she considers her nieces and nephews and how she watches them grow up through funny postcards and the occasional Christmas gathering, and it makes something in his chest ache that she has so much love, and so little family to share it with. He holds her hand on the table and signals for the bill and hears the hopeful, yearning note in her voice as she idly stirs her coffee, watching the white foam swirl in the ceramic cup, and tells him about attending family weddings and christenings.

Once they make the short walk to 221B, Sherlock leads her silently into his bedroom, gently tugs her clothes off, and kisses and licks her in earnest until that wistful, yearning note in her voice is replaced by need, sharp and raw, and then the distinct sound of her pleasure as she comes, inner muscles clenching, her hands balling into fists and her back arching off the bed. After, she pulls him into her and rests her head against his chest, breathing in time to his heartbeat.

They wake in the late afternoon, take a walk down Marylebone Road, their hands brushing. Molly catches a cab back to hers from there - she'll have a very hungry and grumpy cat to deal with when she returns - and they part with Sherlock's lips pecking Molly's cheek.

Sherlock ignores the way that the ache in his chest doesn't fade until he's in bed alone back in his flat, and she texts him her goodnight followed by a string of kisses.

He sleeps over at her flat after a night of CSI reruns and the occasional 'shhhh!' whenever he bemoaned the glaring inaccuracies of the show. She took him to bed, teasing and taunting him in retribution for his inability to keep quiet about such trivial details and just enjoy things.

Sometime around dawn Sherlock stirs. Molly is wrapped around him, her arm around his middle, fingers laced with his. He savors the feeling of her holding him for a long moment before carefully extricating himself and going to shower.

By the time Molly's eyes blink open, Sherlock is almost finished dressing. "What time is it?" she mumbles, pushing her hair out of her eyes.

"Almost seven," he replies, voice still rough from sleep. "You've got twenty minutes until your alarm goes off."

She looks him over for a long minute. "You're leaving?" she asks at last, and Sherlock can't quite pin down her tone.

"Yeah." He clears his throat, runs a gentle hand up her leg. "Lestrade texted. I'm meeting him at a crime-scene."

She nods slowly and gets out of bed, pulling on the clothes she'd stripped out of last night. Sherlock pulls on his socks and tucks in his shirt.

He feels her hands, then on his shoulders, sliding up along his neck to cup his face between her palms. He looks at her, at her expression, and feels that familiar ache in his chest pulling at him. In her face, he sees tenderness etched in every line, something warm and covetous and kind in her expression. She kisses him, chaste and sweet, and the ache in his chest expands out, breaks wide open, and Sherlock can feel himself want her, like a vast gorge in his chest, dark and unfathomable and sometimes painful.

Before he can think twice, he slides his hands around her waist and stands, changing the intent of their kiss, turning it from sweet to passionate, chaste to obscene, their mouths open and wet with tongues pressing against each other. She makes a soft, contented moan, and he walks her backwards until her back hits the wall. She gasps and he swallows the sound, his hands reaching under her t-shirt, his thumbs slotting between her ribs. She drags her nails down his back and he sucks her tongue into his mouth.

They break apart, breathing heavily, foreheads touching. Molly licks her lips. "Sherlock," she breathes into the scant space between them.

He pushes his fingers into her messy hair and presses a firm kiss to her mouth. "I have to go," he says, regret coloring his voice. Molly closes her eyes and inhales deeply, nodding as she lets out a long, slow breath.

"Okay," she says, and walks him out of her apartment.

He's halfway between floors, when he feels something tug at his Belstaff. He nearly trips and catches himself on the handrail. He turns around and sees Molly there, barefoot and in her pajamas, arms extended invitingly, pulling him into her. Sherlock lets himself be drawn into her, and they kiss with her pressed up against a wall in the stairwell of her building, too early for her nosey neighbors to intrude.

She draws back this time, patting his shoulders and smirking at him. "See you tonight?" she says, and it's more a statement than a question. "If you solve your case, of course."

He knows a challenge when he sees one. "You'll see me tonight," he replies, fingering the hem of her oversized sleep shirt idly. "I'll bring Chinese."

She nods and presses one last, firm kiss to his mouth before letting him go.

He gets down to street level, the entry door of her building slamming shut behind him, before he lets out a deep sigh. That ache is still there; but it's warmed, it's more of a sweet pang. Sherlock isn't sure if he remembers what it's like to not want someone this much.

The grin he has on his face when bids goodnight to John and Greg, and instructs the cabbie to take him to best Chinese takeaway in central London, has the doctor and detective inspector sharing a puzzled look.

Molly is surprised when he suggests a holiday to Sussex to visit his parents.

It should scare her, and it does. She splits the journey there in two halves, one chewing her fingernails to shreds and the other with her knees jangling.

The Holmes' greet her with such open and enthusiastic manner that her nervousness hadn't even lasted from the walk from the car to the small, homely cottage Sherlock's parents resided in. And with her uneasiness removed, Molly's chattiness had had a free reign due to relief. Sherlock's mother seems to be eager to natter away the afternoon with her, recounting some of Sherlock's childhood, much to his chagrin.

Mrs Holmes told her about when he'd made half the children in his class cry after being forced to watch My Little Mermaid by talking about overfishing and how all of Ariel's family would have died painful, horrible deaths from pollution from the oil industry, and she herself had nearly wept with laughter.

"He hasn't changed much then?" she says as her giggles die down.

"Oh, I don't know about that," Mrs Holmes replies, her lips tilting into a mysterious smile. "He's better. In so many ways."

Molly chest suddenly feels like it's held in a vise, tightening around her ribs. She thinks about all the nights spent curled around one another, laughing at her stupid jokes and kissing in the dark. She thinks about holding his hand while they walked across the Westminster Bridge, keeping an eye out for pickpockets. She thinks about the way she fits into his side, the two of them sitting in a corner of a dark pub, their colleagues and friends riotous and too drunk to notice how Sherlock's hand rests comfortably around her shoulders. She thinks about dinners at hole-in-the-wall restaurants by his flat, about the way his darkened eyes would look back at her over the rim of his wine glass. She thinks about waking up underneath him, that first morning after, at the sense of disbelief she'd felt at knowing that Sherlock was the figure sprawled out over her, and that his breath was tickling the ends of her hair, his heartbeat slow and real against her skin. She thinks about the last five months, and how much he's changed and yet stayed the same.

He is better, and because of that, so is she.

Mrs Holmes is hesitant to break her from her deep thoughts, recognizing the glazed over look. "Molly?" she says softly as not to startle her.

Molly looks up and smiles. "Yes?"

Sherlock's mother has the same sharp eyes as her son, that soften so easily. Her hand is gentle too as it clings to hers. "Please don't break his heart," Mrs Holmes pleads.

"I won't," she vows.

A part of her still doubts she ever could. This is Sherlock Holmes after all - the only person who'll be on the receiving end of heartbreak would be her, wouldn't it?

"I told Mary about us today," she says.

"What did she say?"

Molly smirks. "About time."

The difficulty of taking things slowly begins to set in for Sherlock.

The days start to bleed into one another. He and Molly alternate whose flat they stay at. Hers means they watch telly or spread out on her couch and read, Molly with her laptop resting on her thighs while Sherlock flips through folder after folder of cases, the stack on the ground beside Molly as tall as her coffee table.

Molly is there for him when his own cases go sideways. Sometimes, when the words (or lack of) create more anguish than calm, she takes his hand and pulls him into the bedroom, and they work out his frustration through a different outlet. He's rougher, those nights, and her orgasms are more intense, leave her out of it for longer. She calls out his name with each hard, single-minded stroke, her voice breaking into sobs and cries of pleasure even as she pulls him closer. Their sessions end with both of them sweaty and exhausted and limp-limbed in the aftermath. On those nights, they hold hands in the dark and Sherlock listens to her breathe until his mind quiets.

They go out for long walks in the park on weekends, along the embankment after work if the light holds, one time to a salsa club that Sherlock hears about from Mary. Molly isn't the best dancer, but that means he gets to hold her close and lead her more deliberately. He walks her through a simple turn, and when she's facing him while still on beat, the brilliance of her smile leaves him dazzled.

Still he wants more, and still, he is afraid to ask for too much.

One night, in the lab, Greg turns to him with a smirk as he watches Sherlock observe her with adoring eyes.

"So, when are you planning on making an honest women out of our Molly?" he asks bluntly, a wolfish grin on his face.

Sherlock chokes on his reply, because the answer is he can't and it's killing him.

Molly hesitates outside Sherlock's door, wrestling with a bag of food shopping and her conscience. There's no reason for her not to be there – Sherlock is (she refuses to think was) her…. significant other , and it's totally normal for her to come check on him after his run in with one of The Yard's police cars.

Except she's not sure she'll be welcome.

It seems like such a stupid fight now, given the circumstances.

The jolt of fear she feels when John tells her that Sherlock is en route to the hospital leaves her feeling hollow and shaken. Also, angry. After all, what the hell was he thinking, chasing down a suspected killer alone and injured? He could have gotten himself killed. Again.

It's that flare of anger that makes her rap on his door rather more sharply than she intended. Anger is so much easier to handle that that other, complex emotion she's ignoring, and she embraces it right up until the moment Sherlock opens the door. Then it disappears like mist.

It's not the smile or his surprise that blows her anger away. It's his pallor, it's the bruise on his cheekbone and the hunched way he moves. He's genuinely hurt and the reality of that cuts through everything else. "Oh my God," she says, "you look terrible."

She smiles, despite the way her emotions are trying to slip out of her control, and follows him inside. "Sherlock," she says, horrified, "are you alright?"

"Yes," he says in a gruff voice. He makes his way cautiously to the sofa.

Molly hesitates on the outskirts of the chaos, watching as Sherlock lowers himself, wincing, onto the sofa. He's unshaven, his hair is in a wreck of curls, and he's dressed in faded Reebok trackies. A precarious heap of plates, mugs, and take-away cartons sits next to the sofa and it doesn't take a detective to figure out how he's been living since his discharge from hospital.

"Sherlock," she sighs, "are you actually living on your sofa?"

He gestures towards his bedroom and says, "I can't get up."

Awkwardly, Molly frowns down into her Tesco bag and heads across the room. "I'm going to put this in the kitchen," she says.

"Don't—" He tries to get up but stops, grimacing, and hisses pain through his teeth. "Don't … open the fridge."

She doesn't dare imagine why, and doesn't risk finding out.

The kitchen is a total disaster zone, so she abandons the food and other essentials on the cluttered counter and turns back to the living area. But she stops in the doorway because Sherlock's leaning back on the sofa now, blowing out controlled pain-filled breaths, his eyes closed and a sheen of sweat on his forehead. He looks exposed, fragile, and a sudden swell of affection blooms in her chest. For a moment all she wants to do is hug him.

Instead, she tightens her grip on the door knob and clears her throat. Sherlock opens his eyes, watching her as she picks her way back through the mess toward him. "Have you been taking your pain medications?" she says, because clearly he needs meds way more than he needs a hug.

"No," Sherlock says. "I'll always be vulnerable to addiction. Not worth the risk, wouldn't you say?"

"I know they gave you non-addictive meds, Sherlock."

Sherlock frowns, glaring out at the London streets. "They can't be very effective if they're non-addictive."

She sits down next to him on the sofa, keeping a careful distance. "Where are they?" Sherlock continues to pretend to watch the cars passing. "I'll find them, Sherlock."

He sighs, defeated. "Fine. Somewhere in my coat."

His Belstaff lays strewn across John's chair. Gingerly, she rifles through his coat pockets and searches for the medication. Inside, she finds a slim packet of his prescribed medication and then goes to fetch a glass of water from the kitchen.

"Hold out your hand," she says when she joins him on the sofa again.

He does, without comment, but he's looking at her in that questioning way he sometimes does and she feels her skin flush. Taking the glass from her he knocks back the pills and washes them down with a grimace.

Resisting the urge to roll her eyes, she says, "You should lie down. The packet says sleepiness is one of the side effects and you need to rest."

"You're not leaving already?" He keeps it light, but there's something in his voice that tugs at her. It's not exactly need, but something very much like it, and she finds it difficult to resist.

"I'll stay for a while," she decides, glancing around the lonely chaos of his apartment. It's only been three days since their fight, but the state of the flat makes it seems so much longer.

He gives her a grateful smile, the kind of smile that makes her stomach flip, and somehow it traps her so that they're gazing at each other for a couple heartbeats longer than comfortable. Then his expression changes and he looks away with a slight shake of his head. "Lestrade's not happy with me," he confesses. "I shouldn't have gone after the suspect like that. It was stupid."

He looks at her again and she knows he wants something from her. Approval, maybe? If so, she wont't - she can't - give it to him. "It was silly of you," she says. "Don't do it again."

"Chase criminals?"

"Get yourself hurt."

He lets an awkward beat fall. "I'm fine."

"Maybe you are this time," she says. "But what about next time …?" And suddenly she has to look away, down at the old take away containers on the floor, at the random socks and clutter of an apartment too small for its occupant. She wonders if anywhere is really large enough to contain Sherlock Holmes. "You're not invincible, you know," she says quietly. "And I'd hate –" She stops it right there, because it's getting too close to what's real and she can't let that out of the box.

He's silent, they both are. After a while he shifts so that his leg brushes against hers, even though she thought she was sitting a safe distance away. Somehow, she's gotten closer than she intended.

"I've always taken risks."

"I know."

He grimaces. "Is that not your type?"

He's silent again and she risks a quick glance. His head has lolled back, eyes closed. She'd have assumed he was asleep if it hadn't been for the slight frown creasing his forehead. She thinks the painkillers starting to work, and she's just wondering whether to make him lay down when he says, "What was so good about Tom anyways?"

That had been how the last argument had started, the lingering resentment that Sherlock feels about her ex-fiance. She had been willing to move in with and get engaged to that bumbling, lanky fool, so why was she so reluctant to do the same with him?

"Sherlock…"

"I'm a good detective," he says.

She stares, not sure whether he's serious. "You're a great detective, Sherlock. But it's not about being a good detective."

"It's not?" His eyes open and she can see that his pupils are a little blown. "But that's all I've really got."

"What do you mean?"

He sweeps an arm out, gesturing around them. It's a sloppy, slightly drunken gesture. "I have nothing else to offer."

"I don't think that." She wants to say more than that, but she thinks this is a conversation for another time. "You should get some sleep," she says instead. "Lay down."

He shakes his head. "Hurts more, lying down." But his words are slurring now and he can't seem to keep his eyes open. "Need you. Need you…"

There's a blanket in a heap at the end of the couch and she shakes it out, dislodging the TV remote which clatters into the ground. His eyes flicker open when she lays the blanket over him and there's nothing but honesty in them, "Molly…" he says and lifts a hand toward her, but if there was more to come it's lost and his hand falls into his lap. His eyes close, his breathing slows, and he's asleep.

She sits watching him for some time, tracing the lines of his face with her eyes.

For so many reasons she has held herself back, but right then she can't seem to recall any that matter. Even the horrible mess that is his flat feels unimportant. She thinks that, if he'd died in the accident, the state of his finances or his flat would never have crossed her mind. And the risk of workplace awkwardness or heartbreak if they were to split up would have seemed like banal reasons for never telling him how important he is to her out loud. She thinks that what she'd have remembered was the way he put himself out there, laying his feelings for her on the line, and how she left him dangling there alone because she was too scared to jump.

It's a sobering thought and she's not sure what to do with it, sitting there next to him while he sleeps. But then her eyes fix on his coat slung over the back of the chair, on the mess and disorder, and she knows what she can do for him. Molly Hooper is nothing if not a bringer of order.

Sherlock sleeps for hours and Molly spends the time tidying, cleaning, sorting. By midnight the kitchen is clean, the refrigerator – and, God, it was vile – is scrubbed and stocked with the groceries she brought over. The living room floor is visible, the sea of files organised at his desk, the rubbish bagged and ready to go, and she sits back down on the sofa, exhausted.

She thinks she should leave now, let him sleep and maybe ring Mrs Hudson in the morning to check in on him. But it's late, she's tired, and – most importantly – she doesn't want to leave him alone tonight. She's done that too often recently. So she dims the lights, slips off her shoes, and curls up on the sofa next to him. Carefully, she adjusts the blanket so she can steal a little warmth.

It's only when Sherlock loops his arm over her shoulder and pulls her close that she realizes he's awake. Automatically she draws back, afraid of what she's doing. "Sherlock—"

"Stay," he murmurs, fixing her with a drowsy look.

"Sherlock…"

"Please? I want to wake up with you."

She knows that his unfiltered honesty is the painkillers talking, but the warmth in his eyes is all him and his words almost break her. The safe thing to do would be to leave, but tonight she's tired of being safe. It's been a long few days and she can't shake the ghost of 'what if?' What if the car had been going that bit faster? What if he'd rolled under it? What if he'd died?

She wonders what that other, grieving, Molly would tell her to do right now, and, for once, the answer is clear.

She moves closer, slips her arm around his waist, taking care not to jostle his ribs and kisses his bruised cheek. "Go to sleep," she says, and rests her head against his shoulder. He's warm and comforting and she smiles as his arm tightens around her.

"I'm going to get hit by police cars more often," he murmurs, his breath stirring the hair on the crown of her head.

She smiles. "One time only deal."

"Sorry," he slurs out, and she knows it is a wide ranging apology.

She kisses the spot right over his heart. "Me too," she says in return.

His injuries heal.

He gets better, and so does she.

Sherlock is burning thumbs over a bunsen burner when Molly says it.

"I love you," she says, the words coming out all in a rush.

Sherlock feels his heart stop, and he goes totally still, looking up at her and her terrified, surprised expression. He drops the metal clamp and the charred thumbs onto the table.

Her mouth opens and closes soundlessly a couple of times before more words come out. "I mean, this is weird timing -"

"Hey," he chides, but there's no heat in it. That vast gorge of want in his chest is collapsing in on itself, is filling itself in, and that warm feeling is everywhere, spreading to every part of his being. He can't help the smile that is spreading across his features.

She keeps talking. "And I know, I should have told you before, but -"

He kisses her then, pushing her knees apart and tilting his head up to press his mouth against hers. She leans into the kiss, her knees around his waist and her fingers sliding through his hair. Sherlock runs his hands up her thighs, and then lifts her off the counter, walking them both to the bedroom. She wraps her legs around him, locking her ankles at the small of his back.

When he drops her onto the mattress, she scrambles to reorient herself. "Sherlock!"

He ignores her and proceeds to strip off his clothes. "How did I end up with such an incredible, intelligent, beautiful, wonderful -"

"You forgot hilarious," she interrupts, grinning at him. Sherlock's fingers are curled into the waistband of her leggings, which are halfway down her legs.

"I was going to get to it eventually." He presses his lips to the inside of Molly's leg and he hears her whimper. "Say it again," he demands, half-rising so that he can look at her.

"What?" She shoots him a too-innocent look.

He levels a flat look at her and her grin widens. "I love you," she says again, more measured than the first time, but it feels just the same, the warm glow of those same words flaring up inside of him, the way the light is flaring in the depths of her eyes, and when Sherlock kisses her, it's like the Earth hasn't just moved, but it's exploded around them.

He kisses her all the way through her first orgasm, his fingers working her over until she's reduced to incoherent half-sobs of pleasure and tension. He kisses every plea and cry of his name out of her mouth when he thrusts into her, kisses her through the second orgasm, which tears through her like lightning. He kisses her through every tingly aftershock, thumb lazily caressing around her clit as she trembles and takes gasping breaths until she comes back to herself. He kisses her through the afterglow, every muscle in her body shuddering from expended effort. He doesn't stop kissing her until her pulse and her breathing are even and steady once more.

"I love you," she says when their lips finally part. "I've loved you as long as I can remember, Sherlock."

"I love you too," he says. He lays a hand on her cheek, feels her warm breath mingling with his. "I've been an idiot, a fool… but I won't ever betray your love again. I swear it. It means too much to me."

"I know," she assures. Then, the three little magic words, "I trust you."

He proposes to her at the Science Museum, amongst the satellites and rockets of the Exploring Space exhibit, with a bus full of tourists and a whole class of school children as witnesses.

It is unplanned, utterly ill-timed, completely ridiculous and his breath catches when she looks to sky with tears in her eyes.

Then, he thanks the stars, because her eyes find his, and she laughs and says yes.