Hello! So... it's my first OS in english. I'm a bit exciting because it's been years I wanted to translate one of my fiction (You're not my friend ! You're so much more) because nobody here read french fiction or because I want to improve my english because I suck so much to write and speak... And it's why I choose a beta who helped me so so much, it's Beautiful Chaos, thank you!

Enjoy !

You're not my friend (You're more than that)

His mind focused on the evidence on the bench before him, Sherlock's ears altered him to the familiar sound of Molly's gait, the precise timber of her boots as she quickly climbed the old 221B Backer Street's stairs.

Pausing above his microscope, Sherlock carefully made a few notations in a small white paper regarding the case of the maintenance man whom he believed killed the little girl. Sherlock had suspected it from the first moment he met the man, the tradesman's nervous nature at all the wrong questions...Sherlock just needed a little more time to prove it.

When Sherlock heard the small and brief tap on the door, he sighed. Molly knew that she could enter without having to knock. Why was she still acting like a guest?

"Come in Molly!" His voice called out, distracted as he returned to his notations. He hadn't realized how focused on his task he had become until he heard the small sound of Molly clearing her throat, standing before him.

Seeing the detective was too focused on his task to pay her mind, she simply deposited the box she had been holding firmly against her chest on his desk and turned to leave the room. Sherlock's strong hand on her shoulder stayed her departure.

"Where are you going?" asked Sherlock with his deep voice, his eyebrows furrowed in confusion.

Averting her eyes from the detective's beautiful face, Molly blushed strongly when she realized an open housecoat was all that covered him, gifting her the most attractive view she had ever seen.

"Is that how you welcome all your clients?" Hissed Molly awkwardly, trying in vain to free herself from Sherlock's strong grip.

"What are you talking about! You're not a client!" He replied, genuinely confused by Molly's tone and agitated body language. Why she was on the defensive?

She exhaled sharply. -Bloody hell, was Sherlock was genuinely mad or did he truly take joy from complicating her?- Molly hoped that her blushing wasn't obvious. After all it was not as if the man she loved in secret for years was essentially completely naked in front of her. His lean, chiseled abdominal muscles superfine and fitting abs, since when was a scar was supposed to be sexy? His pelvis...and his... humm... little-Sherlock... which... was proudly erected toward her...how in the bloody hell he could walk properly with a penis with this size?

Jesus Christ! She wasn't going to be able to control herself if he stays naked like that.

"Dammit Sherlock! You're naked! Proper naked! Do you realize that... I... uh... you know... see all of you!?" She barked angrily, trying her damnedest to avoid looking at the detective's body.

Stare anywhere else but there Molly… don't low your gaze…

Taking note of Molly's reactions, Sherlock mentally catalogued Molly's chocolate pupils were dilated when she had laid her eyes on him, methodically studying his body, her porcelain skin had blushed rose across the skin of her chest, rising to warm her face as she bit her lip, trying desperately tried to look anywhere but at him.

Interesting

"I am in my home Molly, I dress as I like, and considering your profession, your reaction seems unwarranted." Sherlock stated, his voice crisp.

"But... Sherlock! When you invite in guests, you should… you know..." She stammered, spinning her little hands in the air.

His confused expression at her attempt to convey social niceties, Molly turned again to leave. She had delivered her package, mission accomplished.

"Anyway...In the box you will find the hand of a caucasian male, in his 60s, good health. ...And now if you would be so kind, let go of my shoulder please, Sherlock!"

Without removing his hand from her shoulder, Sherlock continued his analysis of his pathologist from head to toe. The detective's eye twitched as his gaze fell on the left hand of the young woman, a white strip of bandages covering bruised flesh.

Sherlock retreated to his mind palace, opening the large cozy and warm room where he locked every memory of Molly Hooper.

It was a week ago ago, Molly called Sherlock at midnight because her ex-fiancé, had to come in Molly's flat, drunk, assaulting her. The detective run as fast as he could to her flat. His vision had gone red at the sigh of her, collapsed int he corner of her flat, her shaking hand against her face, badly swollen from the blows.

Sherlock would have likely beaten Tom to death if it had not been for Lestrade and his clique of incompetents showing up.

Injured, Tom had screamed some nonsense about calling lawyers who would ruin Sherlock Holmes and his reputation.

The small and soft voice of Molly pulled Sherlock from his memories. He had taken Molly's small hand into his own. Her warm eyes watched him, always curious at where he went when his mind wandered so.

Sherlock bristled, oddly discomforted by her sudden kind gaze.

"You shouldn't have to bothered to deliver this yourself." He declared sharply, still keeping his grip on her hand.

Your face is unnaturally pale, cheeks hollow, dark circles below your eyes ...you're still hurting aren't you...your medication...you want to forget everything from that night, don't you?

Sherlock kept his observations to himself. He knew enough about Molly that she would not appreciate being "deduced" by the great Sherlock Holmes.

"It wasn't a problem." She offered with a joyless smile. "After all, it is not as if I'm overwhelmed by a ton of work." She responded, looking down at her bandaged hand trapped Sherlock's grip.

Slowly and sadly, Molly takes back her injured hand before turning to leave 221B. As she neared the door, she paused, turing to meet Sherlock's gaze.

"I'm glad to have a friend like you in my life Sherlock."

As if it was coming out of a trance, the detective closed the distance between them in two long steps.

"Molly. You're not my friend." The words slipped out of Sherlock before he had the sense to edit them.

It was too late. Immediately her expression changed, a deep and hurt sadness crossed her features. Molly opened the mouth to respond, but only tears welled in her eyes.

Why... Why he was still nasty with her? After these years to helping each other? After helping him to fake his own death? Why... She swallowed hard, tamping down her anger and embarrassment.

"I... I should go." She uttered with a broken voice. She wanted to leave and put some serious distance between herself and this infuriating man she wished she didn't love.

Sherlock's voice faltered, stumbling to make clear his meaning.

"You see, but you do not understand." He whispered, his eyes still on Molly.

"Excuse-me?" Molly replied, agitated and restless to escape.

"You are not just my friend... I want you to be more than that Molly. Oh yes, so much more than just a friend! I want you to be the person whom I trust the most, the one who can outsmart all of MI6. The one who will not be disgusted to see corpses in the kitchen. The one who understands even the worst of me. You are so much more than a friend to me Molly Hooper! You are the one who knows me best. You and no one else." He paused, some of his restricted manner returning as he lost momentum. "However, I would understand you if you decide to not want to be that person. You are a good person Molly, and I'm... You deserve so much better than me.

After Sherlock's speech, a heavy silence settled between them. Neither dared speak nor make the slightest gesture. The detective was emotionally open for the first time and even if she did not return his feelings, he knew that he would never want to loose her friendship.

Molly's embarrassment fled, replaced by a swelling of joy deep in her chest. She could feel it flow through her veins and her whole body, back to her throbbing heart beating too fast and too hard against her chest.

Deciding to make the first step, hesitant as if she was going to touch a wounded animal, Molly approached Sherlock, closing the space between them her good hand reached up to gently touch the detective's cheek.

Sherlock turned his head to rest against the small warm palm, closing his eyes and appreciating the sensation of her touching him, being so close, and warm as he gripped her waist.

"You are a good person Sherlock. You save the world from bad people every day. You saved us from Moriarty, you saved me from Tom. You are great friend and a wonderful godfather with Natalia. You have friends who love you Sherlock...I...love you Sherlock Holmes."

An angel passed between them after Molly's declaration, slowly filling the 221 B of a light silence. Molly absentmindedly stroking the cheek of the detective with her thumb, enjoying the view he offered to her without the slightest remorse, embarrassment at his continued state of undress gone.

However, a question remained unsolved that Molly couldn't keep to herself any longer.

"Tell me Sherlock. What WAS you plan for that dead man hand?"

END

P.S : I love review!

P.S 2 : Should I translate one of my other fic? If yes, which one? Thank you!