Sherlolly One Shots

But They Almost Did

Sherlock straightened his jacket as he gave himself a quick once over in the mirror. He had the aubergine shirt on, her favourite, and it worked well with his dark, tailored suit. He had lost some weight in his time away. But he'd gained muscle, so he still cut a good figure (if not a better one). His curls were as unruly as ever, but hopefully, she'd still like them like that. He didn't know why he was so nervous; it was just a small gig in the city. He was just attending a small gig in the city ... with Molly Hooper.

His stomach felt as though it was doing its best impression of the turbulent flight he'd had back to England some days before. He shouldn't have been so nervous, but the feelings that had been tingling beneath his skin while he was away were suddenly surfacing. He had realised in some dark, dingy foreign city, that Molly Hooper was more than just a colleague, more than a crucial part of his plan to fake his death. She was his friend. And the more he thought about her, the more he realised he wanted more than that. God, he wanted more of her. She had plagued his thoughts in the best way as he ripped apart Moriarty's network. His darkest moments were filled with the light the thought of Molly Hooper brings. He survived because of her; she had saved him.

Her face had lit up in the Barts locker room, and he had held her so tightly it would have been painful if she hadn't been holding him just as tight. Mycroft had pulled some strings to grant him access to the lab again upon his return, and pretty much immediately they were back to working together, moving together like a well-oiled machine. He made her laugh, and she made him coffee, quipping that it wasn't exactly a hard order to remember when he raised his eyebrow. It had been a week, and they had worked together every day. She always had something new for him. Oh, he knew what she was doing. She was occupying him until he was able to take cases again, giving him the run of experiments and multiple tissue samples and body parts to play with. It warmed his heart and he made sure to thank her at the end of every day, pressing a kiss to her cheek. He knew that cheek better than he knew his own.

On the fifth day, she had invited him to come to a gig with her. It was to see a small-time band; one he had discovered she liked while he stayed with her almost two years ago. She played their music constantly – while she cleaned, while she showered, while she cooked. She sang along too. That's how Sherlock discovered Molly Hooper had a wonderful voice. On his final night with her, she held him in her bed as soft tears rolled down his cheeks. He asked her to sing to him, her favourite song, and she did so while running her fingers through his hair, his head pressed against her chest. When he finally looked up at her, he noticed the tear tracks down her own face and smiled a sad smile. He held her face in his hands and pressed a kiss to her forehead.

"Come back." She whispered. "I don't care what you have to do, but come home, Sherlock. You have to come home."

He couldn't answer. Her breath was hot and wet against his face. The pull he felt between them became impossible to ignore.

Then, for a moment, the world went still.

Then, for a moment, their lips almost touched.

He felt her eyelashes flutter against his skin, he felt her head tilt in his hands. He felt his pulse quicken and his nerves tingle. He felt his heart burst through the carefully built walls around it.

Then, he stopped. He pulled back. He rebuilt.

"I have to go."

He kissed her cheek, then he crawled from her arms and left her bedroom, catching a glimpse of her crying form before closing the door, wiping his wet cheeks, and disappearing into the night.

He had regretted that night for the last two years. How they didn't, but they almost did. It was one of the only things he could think about. But tonight, tonight he would make things better. Tonight, he wouldn't pull away.