--->>>NOW AVAILABLE AS A PRINT
following story is written by DA artist ComicalClare
He couldn't pinpoint the moment it happened. He would spend months-- years-- going through his mind palace, trying to locate the exact time his feelings had changed. Perhaps it was not just some switch that flipped in his brain.
When Molly moved in with him following his return, there was quite a bit of talk. As he had once commented, people did little else. It was just a matter of having a spare room at Baker Street. John was living with his wife and Sherlock needed the company.
But it was more than that.
It was Molly.
The situation was not as it was with John. He did not regard the rumours of their relationship with indifference. He felt pride. He enjoyed that no man would go after Molly Hooper because she was his.
But she still wasn't his. Not really.
Molly was constantly frustrated by her inability to get a date. No man would go after her, because of Sherlock. He played it cool. As long as Molly was effectively off the market, what did it matter if he stated how he felt?
Then, he found it. The dating profile she had put up. She'd left it where anyone could see it, in her password protected email. She had made a date with some podiatrist from Ealing.
He'd remained quiet as she dashed about the flat, getting ready. She was dressed conservatively, but with an innocent allure that only Molly Hooper seemed capable of possessing, in a yellow cardigan with barrettes in her hair. He knew that podiatrist would be wondering how long it would take him to unbutton that knit top.
Molly had stopped her rushing to glance out the window. It was raining. She grabbed her pink umbrella and took a step towards the door.
"Are you really going?" Sherlock questioned.
"What?" Molly paused. Her brows rose and she looked at him in surprise. "What are you...?"
"Are you really going out on a date?" Sherlock's fingers were steepled beneath his chin. "With some divorced, boring podiatrist with two children and an addiction to online poker?"
"You read--" Molly's jaw dropped.
"Why are you going out with him?" Sherlock demanded.
Sherlock could see Molly's chest rise as she took a deep breath, trying to steel herself. She was angry at him for reading her email, but she was pushing it down. "Can you give me a very compelling reason I shouldn't?"
Sherlock opened his mouth to speak. He wanted to say it. He wanted to say all of the things that were in his heart, but his mouth wouldn't let him. His tongue felt heavy. He closed his mouth again, shaking his head.
"That's what I thought."
Molly left the flat. Sherlock remained still in his seat for a long moment, closing his eyes. He took deep breaths, trying to quell the waves of emotion threatening to roll over him.
Finally, he could take no more. He rose to his feet and peered through the curtains down at the street. Molly was struggling to open her umbrella while she hailed a cab.
She would be gone. She would leave him. She would go off into another life. Leave him behind.
Sherlock raced to the door. He thundered down the stairs, nearly tripping in his haste. He couldn't let her go. He couldn't have her slip through his fingers.
The cab had just come to a stop when Sherlock reached Molly. He put his hand on her shoulder, whirling her around.
Molly looked up at him, her eyes wide in shock.
There were so many words. There were too many words. There so many things Sherlock wanted to say, they all wanted to rush out together in a jumble of silly sentiment.
He went with his second instinct. He hooked his arms around her and bowed his head, his mouth meeting hers. He poured all of those words of affection into the crush of his lips. Molly mewled softly against his mouth. Her umbrella slipped from her fingers as they found purchase in the dampening fabric of Sherlock's jacket.
This was where he was meant to be. He had been running through London for years. He realized now he was always running to this one moment, to this one place. To the rain-soaked street outside of 221 Baker Street, with Molly Hooper in his arms.