He woke up with a start. It had been years since he'd slept as much as he had the past month. This woman was making him lose his edge.
You're nothing BUT edges, you daft prickly ponce. You need someone to smooth your roughness.
Shut up, John.
Her still-sleeping form was curled into a ball next to him, her head resting on his good arm. He could feel her breathe slowly in and out, no stress in the sound. She hadn't any night terrors; he was relieved. She was trusting him so much, and he didn't like the idea that she didn't feel safe.
He would keep her safe.
The morning sun embraced her, setting her hair aglow, pronouncing each freckle on her skin. He stared at her face; for a fleeting moment, he considered kissing her cheek. He imagined how her soft skin would feel against his lips, imagined how amusing it would be to have her wake up blushing. But he hesitated, and Molly's eyes opened.
She stretched suddenly, yawning in a large way before twisting herself around to face him. "Good morning, Mr. Holmes," she murmured, still partly asleep. He sucked in a surprised breath as she draped her arm lazily around his middle. "Did you sleep well?"
"Unfortunately, yes."
"Everyone needs rest, even The Great Sherlock Holmes," she chuckled in a bewitchingly sleepy voice, angling her face to look at him. "Why, Sherlock, I do believe you're blushing!"
"I am not blushing."
"Are too."
"Doctor Hooper, please do not blurt out every foolish thought which enters your mind. I do not blush. I have never blushed. Nor will I ever do so."
His haughty retort made her smirk instead of stutter. "Studies show that liars have a tendency to deny things with perfect enunciation/grammar, and without contractions."
The detective stared at his pathologist, a strange look on his face as if she'd flummoxed him. Molly scoffed and reached a hand up to play with his mussed hair. "You aren't the only one who can deduce, Holmes." She propped herself up on one elbow and kissed his arched eyebrow. "Blushing looks good on you."
Sassy Morning Molly pushed herself up and off the bed, her limbs adjusting to reacquaint themselves with walking. She stumbled out of the room, humming a tune Sherlock recognized as a composition of his own. He lay perfectly still, replaying what had just happened in his head. She'd woken up. He'd been not blushing. She had said clever things, she had kissed his face, she had pet his hair, and he had....
At that moment, with shock in his eyes and heat in his cheeks, Sherlock realized he had fallen in love.
