Sherlock is overcome with a paralyzing stillness; his mind blank and his body unmoving as he attempts to comprehend Molly's confession.

She loved him.

He'd always been aware of her infatuation on the outermost periphery of his consciousness, but clearly he'd underestimated the depth of her sentimental attachment.

How?

Why?

What did it even mean to "love" someone?!

Love was a relative term. An imaginary force which bound people together. An unquantifiable currency earned through trust and affection.

What had Sherlock Holmes done to deserve this woman's admiration?

Nothing, that's what.

It was simply too much to fathom, which causes the detective's sensory nervous system to all but shut down as he gazes into the distance blankly.

"Iuh-" He lacks the ability to even form articulate sounds, much less coherent thoughts.

Molly smiles, admittedly amused by his reaction as she recalls what John had once described as Sherlock's "buffering mode".

Clearly she had caught him off-guard as much as she'd surprised herself. It was a lot to take in, and it bad been a very long day for the both of them. Molly doesn't want to pressure him into a hollow and formulaic response. On the off chance that Sherlock Holmes ever admitted to having feelings for her, she needed him to do it on his own terms. And so Molly takes it upon herself to get his attention and redirect the conversation.

"Sherlock… Sherlock!" she calls out, shaking his arm lightly in effort to jolt him out of whatever trance he had entered.

"Wha-!" he gasps suddenly at the unexpected physical contact.

"I'm sorry," Molly apologizes, both for startling him as well as overwhelming him. "I shouldn't have said that," she admits, realizing it may have been too much too soon.

"No…" Sherlock counters absently, his breathing ragged. "It's… fine."

Fine?

Molly's heart sinks. She knew she shouldn't have gotten her hopes up, but was that really the best he could do?

If Sherlock seemed detached however, it was only because his thoughts were racing miles ahead, in search of an appropriate, or rather, genuine response.

"I know you don't feel that way about me," Molly interjects, desperate to fill the lingering silence. "I just-" she loses her train of thought as Sherlock abruptly snatches her wrist and meets her eyes with an unusual kind of hyper-attentiveness. He furrows his brow as he looks at her, fully invested in the moment in a way she had never quite seen him before.

"Have I ever said that, Molly?" he queries, unsmiling in response to her outburst.

"Well, erm, no…" she confesses awkwardly. "But-"

"-Then don't put words in my mouth," Sherlock orders firmly.

Molly is both stunned and a bit turned on by the sternness with which he addresses her. She blushes immediately, ashamed of her schoolgirlish reaction.

"Molly," Sherlock speaks her name with a newfound gentility, having finally collected his thoughts. "As you well know, relationships aren't really my… area." He pauses, swallowing his pride as he admits his lack of competence. "I don't fully appreciate or actively seek out human connection as a vital constituent of my existence. However that doesn't mean that I do not feel things," the detective continues, tentatively entwining his fingers in hers. "I care for you in a way that is different from anything in my experience, so if i seem wary or uncomprehending, it is only because I have no precedent to call upon, not because I am uninterested in the possibility of moving forward with you."

He brings her hand to face, resting it against his cheek possessively.

Molly's insides twist and contort, unable to believe her ears. She wanted to throw herself in his arms then and there, but something about the intensity of his gaze also made her want to crawl under a rock. Sherlock could see through her like no one else in the world. He probably knew exactly what she was thinking right now. Oh god. Molly feels her anxiety creeping up on her like a shadow over her shoulder. Stay calm, stay calm. Breathe.

"So, what does that mean?" she asks hesitantly. "What is it that you… want?"

"I don't know," Sherlock answers quickly and honestly.

While such a response probably should've warranted concern, Molly is overcome with a sense of warmth and reassurance.

The man who knew everything didn't have an answer. And the uncertainty of it all must be driving him mad with curiosity...

"I don't know what happens now," Sherlock reaffirms with a sigh. He releases Molly's hand and begins trailing his fingers slowly and thoughtfully up her arm. "But I've been thinking about this all day and the truth is… I can't seem to imagine a future for myself without you in it."

Molly bites her lip self-consciously, fearful that she may start grinning like a bloody fool.

"Neither can I," she confesses in a strained whisper. Sherlock strokes her hair once, analyzing its silken texture beneath his fingers.

"I'll spare us both the grief of making promises that I don't intend to keep," he continues. "I can't give you an ordinary life, Molly. You know that. But if you give me time, I can try- in my own way-" he swallows with nervous contemplation, "to show you that I love you."

Molly can stand it no longer. She throws her arms around his neck and pulls Sherlock down to her level where she meets him with a jubilant kiss. She needed him. In that moment, she needed him like she needed air. Molly felt as though if she let go of him, that she might very well disappear from existence. Her life was now inexorably intertwined with Sherlock Holmes'.

The detective may have been inexperienced with the details of human intimacy, but as was true with everything else he put his mind to, Sherlock was a quick learner.

He is deliberately coy at first- not resistant, but also not overly zealous in response to Molly's kiss. There is an unexpected serenity in their closeness however, and Sherlock notes the soft, pliable texture of Molly's lips against his own. It's only when he feels her hesitate that the detective takes it upon himself to truly reciprocate the gesture.

He slips one hand around her waist and the other behind her neck, tilting his head to deepen the kiss in the process. Molly tenses and then proceeds to dissolve willfully into his firm embrace. She whimpers involuntarily as he parts her lips with his tongue.

Sherlock smiles, ever-so-slightly against her mouth as he catalogues her physiological responses for future reference. Perhaps a relationship could be fun after all.

Gradually, Sherlock softens his hold, breaking away to catch his breath. They stare into one another's eyes for a time, perfectly content until Molly notices a subtle shift in his expression.

"What is it?" she asks, barely getting the question out before he eagerly interrupts.

"Come here," Sherlock beckons, taking hold of Molly's hand and dragging her toward the front door.

"What, why?" she panics. "I'm not leaving this house Sherlock, and not even you can change my mind about that!" she assures him confidently.

"For God's sake Molly, would you just trust me?" he replies, feigning exasperation as he swings the door open and pulls her out onto the porch.

Molly squeals in surprise, finding herself unexpectedly scooped up in Sherlock's arms. "Wh- what are you doing?!" she asks, instinctively winding an arm around his neck for security.

"I may have deprived you of the ceremony and reception, but it seems a shame not to indulge in some form of tradition on your wedding night," he replies, turning around and carrying her promptly over the threshold. Once inside, Sherlock sets her feet back on the ground delicately without ever tearing his eyes away from hers.

Molly is heart-warmed by the uncharacteristically sweet gesture. Maybe Sherlock really is capable of love after all…

"Thank you," she blurts out suddenly. "For stopping me, I mean. This day could've gone very differently..."

"It wasn't an entirely selfless act," Sherlock retorts with a knowing smile. "But you're welcome. And I should probably be going," he announces, much to Molly's dismay. "John will be wondering where I am..."

She didn't want him to leave. Not now. Not after all they'd been through to get to this moment.

"Right, of course." Molly agrees stupidly as he gathers his coat and scarf. "Well, goodnight."

Sherlock leans down and gives her one final peck on the cheek. "Goodnight Molly," he says contently before heading out the door.

"Sherlock, wait!"