I am so sorry but this just had to be done, it's not even in question as far as I'm concerned. This, even though the whole freaking scene never even happened, is from Molly's point of view of one of the most sexiest kisses I have ever witnessed on TV.
Molly Hooper's heart was in her throat.
Never had she felt such dread upon watching Sherlock Holmes falling, despite the harness presumably safely latched onto the back of his grand coat. She felt the fear like a horrid knot in her chest and gut, twisting painfully, black ink poisoning all the hope she longed to possess. Anything could go wrong. She envisioned the cord that held his life in check snapping, followed by the sudden thrash of panic as he fell, the ground climbing at impossible speeds to meet him, his whole world crashing around him as well as her own.
She closed her eyes, and opened them a mere second later.
Before she could let the panic envelope her, Molly watched at the cord tremor, signifying the weight that was Sherlock. Then it loosened, twisting and bending, and suddenly everything slowed down. Molly listened to the racing of her heart, the simmering of her blood, the catching of her breath. In the motion of slowed reality, she watched as Sherlock rose again, his body flailing hectically as he angled himself towards the window she watched from. She gasped and felt the strain of her body, fighting with the option of reaching for him or not (not that it was possible), her lungs holding onto a shriek of surprise as his body came swinging in her direction. The next thing she knew she had her arms flying to shield her face, recoiling away from the window.
The sound of shattering glass surrounded her in a single, beautiful symphony, shards of glass hitting her clothes and sprinkling in her hair. In the time it took Molly to shake the shards free, she heard the confident landing of his feet, as clean and perfect as the landing of a cat. She stared in disbelief, eyes wide, her heart thick in her throat. She searched for the right thing to say, but no matter what she thought, she knew full well that her voice would avoid her entirely.
Oh my God, are you okay?
Are you hurt?
My God, let me help!
But she did nothing. Molly watched him like a witness witnessing something amazing but impossible. She stared at the brilliance of the man before her, all dark attire, all confidence and agility. Effortlessly, his capable hands unlatched the hook attached to his coat, freeing him. He straightened, half spinning while adjusting his infamous coat as he did so, and came to face her. His coat flipped behind him before falling to settle around his legs, never far behind his quick movements. She noted stupidly how his eyes had been latched onto her from the moment he came crashing through the window, the peculiar shift between the shades blue and green making her stomach boil with something she couldn't even name. Still watching her, he reached for the dark coils of his hair and ruffled it, small remains of the glass flinging free.
Molly forgot to breathe. She was paralysed from simply looking at him, a dark angel she had watched for many years but had never really seen. He had a determination in his eyes that burned into her like molten lava despite the iciness of his irises, and the set of his strong jaw made her heart flip in ways that she thought she should be worried. She felt that she should have been afraid, what with his darkness and his intimidating height, yet she felt only relief for his safety. She expected him to leave her without a word, but oh how wrong she was.
Things slowed down to the point she thought she was trapped in a blissful dream. He came towards her, raising his hands towards her face. She noted the delicateness of his fingers, as curious as when he analysed a piece of evidence, the care held within unmistakably controlled. She watched, unable to move, as he came to straddle her face in his unbelievably large, skilled hands, the touch cold yet igniting every nerve in her body like a raging fever. His eyes were glass, sheeted with nothing but want and dominance, seeing right into her soul. She opened her mouth, about so say God knows what, when suddenly she felt his body shift as he lined himself directly against her. Any form of word died when he lowered his face, and suddenly everything around her snapped into something beyond her wildest dreams.
He kissed her. His mouth came down on hers in a firm, hot, controlled manner, sealing her lips with his and withholding any form of sound escaping her. She felt him through the haze as he melded towards her, sinking against her mouth during his assault. She revelled in the taste of him, both sour and sweet, as well as scent. He smelt of something indescribable, something that could only be defined as Sherlock, and it made her mouth water. He pushed against her lips, urgent, yet he did not add movement to the kiss. He didn't need to. The desperation and want was all there, solid against her mouth, warm and cold and oh so searing.
Molly reached to touch Sherlock's neck, feeling the smoothness of his skin and the tension that resided there. She felt the jump in his jaw upon the contact, and even heard the slight sound of a moan in his throat, rumbling lusciously through her own body. Her fingers inched up, cupping his face, holding him against her mouth just a little longer. He shuddered, as if something had clicked in his mind, and ever so slightly his lips worked against hers in a slow, graceful movement. She gasped, falling into him, needing him, and then she felt the sudden push against her. His lips departed from hers swiftly, and Molly stumbled as Sherlock released her. Molly gawped, dazed, and Sherlock only smirked and winked while the fingers of his right hand slid free from her cheek. He held her eyes for a few more precious seconds, still smirking, before swivelling easily away and striding towards the doors.
He swung them open with purpose, and Molly gazed after him as the sensation of his kiss died away with blissful slowness. When he vanished, she felt her lips form into something of a grin, and a moment later found herself licking her lips and gathering the remainder of his flavour. Sweet like sugar, sour like lemons.
Molly Hooper was sure that that was just an appetizer of what Sherlock Holmes had to offer, and she suddenly felt famished with desire, forcing her to grin idiotically at the glass coated ground below her. For once, she no longer cared about her stupidity, only her hunger for a very, very dark angel.
Was anyone else famished after that stunt Mr Cumberbatch pulled?