The room suddenly became very quiet, or at least; the room suddenly felt very quiet. It almost felt like time stopped. All she could hear, were her own dramatic heartbeat and some footsteps. His footsteps. She tried not to stare at him, but she just couldn't help herself. It almost felt like electricity. Like plus and minus. Her eyes were in some sort of way connected to him. Every time he was near, it felt like something more powerful than her, forced her lustful eyes, to look at him.
As he came closer and closer, her hands started to become more and more sweaty, the butterflies in her stomach became wilder and wilder and her knees melted. He barely even noticed her, but she didn't care. She knew, that if she was patient, the days would come, where Sherlock Holmes would notice her, maybe even realize, that the thing he had missed the most and been so desperate to find, had been starring him right in the face from the start. As she was looking at him and thinking about how their life together could be, she almost forgot the fact, that he was walking towards her and as she came back to reality, she came to see, that he was now very close to her. Actually so close, that she could now smell him. She inhaled heavily and felt how it tickled in every part of her. Every muscle became week. She closed her eyes and inhaled once more. Oh, how she wished to have that manly, heavy smell on her own skin. Her own bare skin. The poisonous smell of Sherlock Holmes. Who doesn't wanna smell of Sherlock Holmes?
As the smell became stronger and stronger, she quickly realized, that the man she was thinking about. The man she was dreaming about, was standing right in front of her.
"Molly!" he said, he almost sounded to happy, "I'm so glad that you're here!"
"Really?" a smile came to her face and her eyes, was suddenly filled with hope.
"Yeah, I was looking for you," he paused, "I wanted to hear about that test, the one from yesterday."
"Oh, yes," her smile faded, as she remembered how he asked her, to examine a corpse's blood. He was on this very special case, "I didn't find anything unusual."
"That's a shame!" he sounded a bit to unhappy about the result, "this guy is starting to seem pretty ordinary."
"Something awesome will soon show up, trust me!" she tried to cheer him up, but it wasn't working.
"I'll be upstairs," he gave her a quick smile, and walked out of the door, as fast as possible. The smell stayed in the room, and she had to stay put for just one minute and enjoy it.
"I'll get you some coffee," she said, although he couldn't hear her anymore. She looked at the door.
"Thank you, Molly," Sherlock said, as she walked up the stairs, with a cup of coffee. He was sitting at a small table and on the other site of the table, was John.
"You're welcome," she answered him, while she place the cup in front of him. She didn't look him in the eyes once. She just couldn't. It would drive her crazy and she didn't want to be crazy while John was here.
"Could you get John a cup of coffee, it's a bit rude, if you don't," he looked at her. He sounded so cold. Every time he said stuff like that, she came to wonder how she could be so in love with him. How could she love someone so unconditional?
"No, it's ok!" John said and sent her a smile, "just sit down and relax a bit." Molly did as John told her to do and sat down at the end of the table, right between Sherlock and John. She always got a tiny bit jealous, when John was with Sherlock. It was obvious, that Sherlock loved John. Maybe not like lovers love each other, but it was still a fact, that Sherlock Holmes would do anything for John Watson. And then again, maybe they did love each other, like lovers love each other. Nobody could really tell. Either way, she was jealous. She wanted Sherlock. She needed him. She wanted him to want her back. She wanted him to love her, like she loved him. Love her so much, that it would be impossible to live without her. She wanted him to hold her. Kiss her. She could almost feel his thin, white arms around her. Holding her. She could almost feel his long, thin fingers in her hair, while his soft lips were on her own lips. She could almost feel their heartbeats becoming one. She could almost hear his manly, deep voice whispering her name. She forgot all about how John and Sherlock was both sitting beside her, and she closed her eyes, just to picture it. And it suddenly felt so real. It suddenly felt like it was happening right now, in this exact moment. But it wasn't. It was just a dream. She was a victim. She felt like a real, proper victim. A sick person. The only one, who could cure her, was the only one who wasn't allowed to know about it.
She was Sherlocked.