Author's Note: I know, I know, it's been done a thousand times already, but I felt gutted after The Final Problem and just had to do my take on Sherlock and Molly after the phone call. This isn't beta read or Brit-picked (if anyone is interested in taking that on, I'd be forever grateful!). The rating is currently T but that may change as it goes on…

Chapter 1

Molly scrubbed at the tile, both hands on her rag, throwing her entire weight against the wall of the shower. It was night now, probably the middle of the night – Molly didn't know. It had been light when Sherlock had called. It had been light when the call had abruptly ended, leaving her gripping the phone with both hands, tears seeping from her closed eyes. She didn't know how long she had stood like that, long after her tea had gone cold. She was frozen there, hearing Sherlock's words replay over and over.

"I-I….I love you. I love you."

The number of times she had dreamt of hearing those words from those lips was countless. But it wasn't supposed to happen like that, over the phone, with her forcing them from his mouth as a bargain, an exchange. It cheapened them. She knew he didn't mean them and had only uttered them as a means to his own ends. Just like that bridesmaid from John and Mary's wedding.

It had seemed so long ago, hearing about that and what he had done to the woman and then what she had done in revenge. She had counted her lucky stars that day that as little as she meant to Sherlock, she at least felt assured that he would never do something like that to her. Not after his fall from Bart's roof. Since then, he had never once given her empty flattery to coerce her into a favor or used her.

But he had done today. For whatever reason - Molly's mind had gone round and round debating with herself whether it was one of his stupid games or truly for a case or more of his awkward exploration into sentiment and its motivators and outcomes – he had wrung those words from her lips.

"I-I…I love you. I love you"

Tears pricked Molly's eyes once again and she threw her rag where she knelt on the shower floor, head bent as her mind went over the events of the day unbidden once again. She took a shuddering breath in, leaning forward to rest her head on the arm that was currently pressed along the side of the tub. She allowed herself a moment of the grief that had been with her since that phone call before picking up her rag again and getting to her feet to scrub the tile.

After the numb period following the call, Molly had calmly poured the tea down the kitchen drain, thrown away the dregs of fruit and leaves, and rinsed out the kettle, leaving it for later. Her mind kept repeating Sherlock's words as she went to her linen closet, pulled out her mop bucket full of cleaning supplies, and proceeded to scrub every inch of her flat. She started in the kitchen, sanitizing the counter where she had stood listening to Sherlock's insistence that she say the three words that would break her heart. Then she had opened a spare toothbrush and used it to clean under all the knobs on the stove, the crevices of the backsplash, the corners of her kitchen window sills.

She had moved on to the living room, taking out all her books and movies and dusting them individually. She took down her blinds, spreading them on her kitchen table to clean the slats. She had vacuumed, dusted, and organized until she could find no more to do. Then she moved to her bedroom where she did the same. The bathroom was the last room and she didn't know what she would do when that was done. She couldn't possibly sleep. Her mind was still too occupied playing the conversation with Sherlock over in her head.

In her mind's ear, she tried to hear the tone of his voice and discern what possible reason he could have for calling her with that request. Why after all their years of friendship – he had said they were friends, after all – he would ask that of her.

She grunted in disgust that her mind couldn't tear itself from its thoughts, throwing down her rag once again. She looked around the room, searching for the next thing that needed her attention. Looking up, she noticed a few stray bugs in the light fixture. She went to her hall closet and grabbed the step stool. Putting it under the light, she climbed up the couple steps, and stretched her arms up to unscrew the first screw.

"Molly."

The baritone voice that had been in her head all evening broke into her thoughts, this time coming from outside her mind. She startled at the intrusion, floundering a moment with nothing to grab onto to steady herself.

The man the voice belonged to stepped forward, automatically raising his arms, one hand on her upper back and the other falling to her hip, steadying her as she caught her balance. Molly took a deep breath, refusing to turn around and look into the face of the man who hours earlier had thoroughly wrung her heart out.

"Sherlock."

Her voice was cold with a hint of tremble that she hated. She stepped down to the floor and felt him back away automatically toward the door, giving her room. She kept her back to him as she picked up the step stool, folded it, and turned slightly toward the door and tried to edge her way past him. He refused to move.

"Please move," she said quietly, still not looking at him.

"Molly," he said again, his voice taking on an urgency that reminded her of the phone call.

"Please move" she repeated.

She heard him sigh before he backed slightly out the door, stopping just outside so he was facing her as she exited the bathroom. Ignoring him, she returned the stepstool to its place in the closet before grabbing the paper towels and glass cleaner. She kept her head down to avoid his gaze as she reentered the bathroom and went to the mirror and sprayed it with cleaner. In the now distorted reflection, she saw Sherlock step behind her. This had been a mistake. She wasn't ready to see him. To see this beautiful man who now had every piece of her but had nothing to give her in return.

She tore off a swath of towels and began to wipe the cleaning residue off, carefully avoiding the reflection of the man behind her.

"Molly," Sherlock repeated for a third time. He brought his hand up, resting it on her shoulder for a moment.

"No!" Molly shouted, finally looking into the mirror directly and meeting his gaze in it. She watched Sherlock remove his hand without any other outward reaction to her outburst, keeping his eyes on hers. She struggled to get her breathing under control as she watched Sherlock's expression as he took in her appearance. He looked so sad and her instincts had her wanting to turn around and grasp his hand, reach out to let him know she was here and was his friend, whether he wanted her or not.

But she was stretched too thin. She'd put too much of herself in Sherlock for too many years. Their reflections blurred a second time as her eyes filled with tears. She put her head down, not wanting him to see how utterly wrecked she was. How completely he had broken her just hours before.

The tears kept falling and her breath started coming in great gasps. Grief overwhelmed her as she dropped the paper towel that had been clutched in her hand. Her fingers gripped the sink as she put all her weight on it, her head bent as she continued sobbing. She felt herself falling apart and brought her hands to her chest trying to hold herself together before slowly dropping to the floor and curling in on herself.

"Molly!" Sherlock's voice reached her as though he was speaking from the end of a tunnel just a second before she felt his arm wrap around her shaking shoulders. "Molly…Molly!" he said urgently again, his other hand coming up to cup her cheek, trying to turn her face to him.

Molly shook her head. Through her tears, she heaved a great breath and managed, "J-just….leave me alone, Sherlock." More sobs escaped her as she whispered her final plea, "Please."

He removed his hand from her face, but a moment later she felt his arm slide under her knees. He adjusted the grip he had on her shoulders, and she felt herself being lifted in his arms. She was vaguely aware of him carrying her out of the bathroom and a few moments later found herself being gently lowered onto her settee, where she once again curled in on herself, trying to hide her face and tears from the man who had caused them.

Molly felt the cushion dip beside her as he spoke. "Molly, I need you to calm down. Breathe," he said authoritatively. His hand came once again to rest on her shoulder while she took a few deep breaths, trying to calm herself enough to convince him she was okay and he could leave. Still avoiding his eyes, she sat up a little, wiping the tears that still gathered at the corner of her eyes. "Y-you can go, Sherlock. I'm fine," she lied. She started to rise from the sofa to show him to the door, but the hand on her shoulder moved up, fingers curling forward over her shoulder to hold her in place.

"Fine or not – which, by the way, you clearly are not – there are a few things I need to take care of before I leave. The first involves letting Mycroft's men in to search your flat." Upon seeing Molly open her mouth to argue, he continued. "I can explain everything, but I need them to ensure your safety first." He looked at her expectantly, eyebrows raised as he waited her go-ahead.

She sighed, almost not even caring to ask but saying anyway, "What do you mean my safety?"

"Explaining will take too long and I am unwilling to delay guaranteeing that your flat – and thereby you – are secure. I know you have little reason to trust me, but all you need to know is that it's important that you let them in to do their search," he paused and swallowed. "Please, Molly. Trust me one more time. By the time you and I finish, you will completely understand why it's necessary."

Molly doubted that. She never completely understood anything when it came to Sherlock. But she recognized his no-nonsense tone that told her that even if she said no, somehow those men would find their way into her home.

She sighed. "Fine, but they do their work quickly and then they and you leave."

"I will insist that they vacate as soon as possible," Sherlock replied, standing and going to the door.

It didn't escape Molly's notice that Sherlock hadn't guaranteed his own eviction from her flat and mulled over how she'd deal with that problem because she knew it would inevitably be an issue. Before she got very far in her thoughts, Sherlock reentered her flat, followed by four men in black issued uniforms. Sherlock led them to the kitchen, pointing to three areas. "The cameras were located there, there, and there, but I want to check the entire flat for additional cameras or recording devices and explosives."

"Sherlock, what do you mean….", the question died on Molly's tongue as she watched the men pull three small cameras from where Sherlock had indicated. "How long have those been there?"

Sherlock ignored her and instead went to one of the men, taking the camera from him and inspecting it more closely. He murmured to himself and Molly only just caught bits and pieces, "….equipped for sound…how she must have known…" before he went silent, handed the device back to the man in black, and instructed them to continue their search.

One man continued his inspection of her kitchen, while another one came to the living room, and the third began sweeping the entry area and hall for devices. Sherlock turned and made his way down the hall with the fourth man, directing him to the bathroom and saying over his shoulder to no one in particular, "I will inspect the bedroom."

Molly was temporarily mortified at the idea of Sherlock rifling through her private things, but at that moment their earlier conversation once again made its way into her head.

"Why are you making fun of me?"

"I'm not an experiment, Sherlock."

"I can't say those words to you."

"Because it's true, Sherlock. It's always been true."

"You say it. Say it like you mean it."

She closed her eyes and she felt her mouth tighten in an attempt to quell the threat of tears that came with remembering the words she had said.

"I love you," her own whispered confession echoed in her head.

On balance, Sherlock finding her rather boring collection of pants was less embarrassing than the soul-bearing words she had said just hours before. She shook her head slightly, trying to dispel the mortification. When she opened her eyes, she looked up to find that Sherlock had returned from her room and was now standing at the end of the hallway looking at her, eyes narrowed, deducing her.

She looked away quickly and tried to wipe the emotion from her face before he could glean too much from her expression, though she couldn't help the slight shiver that went through her at his penetrating look. Sherlock rarely turned that gaze on her and it had always made her feel a bit disheartened that he apparently saw no mystery about her, nothing to focus his attention on. The closest he'd come was when he had been after Moriarty, just before his fall off Bart's roof. It was the one time she had felt like he didn't immediately understand every single bit of her. That she wasn't just laid out, all her secrets bare for him to deduce and then quickly toss away with disinterest.

She didn't feel that way now, and while his observation made her heart beat a bit faster, she was tired and unprepared to have a lengthy, difficult conversation with him about whatever he thought he'd uncovered in his perusal.

Before either of them could speak, one of the men came from behind Sherlock and spoke.

"There were no other recording devices or explosives found, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock nodded, his eyes not leaving Molly, "Not entirely unexpected. To install additional devices would have been careless and unnecessary to achieve her ends. Please also do a thorough check of the area surrounding the building as a precaution. Thank you." He took the few steps to her front door and held it open, a clear invitation for the men to leave.

Her? Molly thought, as the men filed out of her flat. There were a limited number of women in Sherlock's life – she and Mrs. Hudson were the only ones she knew of that had regular contact with Sherlock. But there were the randoms she had found out about, like that bridesmaid from John's wedding and Irene Adler, the women he'd recognized from not-her-face. Was there a new woman in his life that she was unaware of? But then why target Molly? Or perhaps it was the person behind the Moriarty video. Sherlock had assured her that Moriarty was dead and that whatever that video was, it was without a doubt not the Jim Moriarty she had invited into her flat. She could still recall the disgust with which Sherlock had said that particular sentence.

She was pulled out of her thoughts by the sound of Sherlock shutting her front door. She looked up from her position on the couch to find him watching her, that same analyzing look in his eyes as before. Once again she looked away, eyes flitting over various items in her flat before focusing on the window in the kitchen. She was surprised to see the first gray streaks of dawn already in the sky.

"You can go now, Sherlock. I'm honestly too tired to care what that was all about." He didn't respond, but she heard him take a step forward into the room, away from the door. She couldn't do this with him. As she felt him take another step closer, panic started to well up again and she started to fidget.

"Molly."

Christ, why did he have to say her name like that? She couldn't stay here with him in this silence, waiting for him to once again crush her with her own unrequited feelings. She stood and made to walk past him, but he quickly stepped in her path, his hands on her upper arms, holding her in place. She noticed belatedly that he still wore his Belstaff and her eyes moved over the dark fabric to his light shirt, usually impeccably pressed by Mrs. Hudson but now noticeably wrinkled and looking as though it had been wet at one point but had since dried. Her eyes continued their perusal without conscious thought and she took in the suit jacket that also looked worse for wear before her gaze moved to his neck and then his face. He had the beginnings of stubble, his jaw carrying a slightly shadowed look.

Her eyes continued upward, taking in his hair that was more untamed than usual. Then, without her permission, her eyes met his and she was startled at what she saw there. Sherlock, who was always so in control and had a carefully schooled expression almost all the time, looked raw. He looked the way she felt. It reminded her very much of the expression he'd had when asking for her help with Jim, only the slightly desperate expression he'd had then was replaced by exhaustion now – exhaustion she suspected went beyond how long it may have been since he last slept.

"Well, Dr. Hooper, what deductions do you have?" Sherlock interrupted her reverie, and she focused once again on his eyes, which were now slightly crinkled at the corners. One side of his mouth quirked up in a smirk.

Her defensiveness rose once again briefly before she realized he wasn't teasing – he was asking her to "see" him, as she had so many years ago in the lab at Bart's.

"You look tired – physically, but it's more than that," she paused and had a sudden realization. She blinked and looked back up into his face. "Something's happened." Her eyes shifted back and forth as she struggled to make sense of the thoughts in her head. "Or something did happen…tonight. You've taken care of it, at least for the time being, but it's not completely finished." She watched Sherlock hesitantly, waiting to see if he would reject her thoughts or confirm them.

He straightened slightly and gave her the same look he had in Bart's after she had talked about him looking sad, like he didn't know quite what to make of Molly Hooper. For the first time since that night, she felt like she once again had his full attention.

"Very good, Molly. Yes, something happened. The immediate danger is contained at the moment but there are still issues to be dealt with, which is why I am here." Sherlock paused, his eyes narrowing and head tilting to one side as he took a moment to study her. "But I see that neither of us is very well equipped to deal with those issues at the present. Am I correct?"

Leave it to Sherlock to put it so formally that they both were emotionally drained. "Yes, Sherlock," she replied. "Can we do this in the morning?" With a quick look outside at the ever-lightening sky she continued, "Or just some other time." She nearly winced at her lie - she had no intention of ever talking with Sherlock about the words she had said and made him say in return. They would be lucky to save their friendship at this point and have it ever return to the comfortable place it had been before the phone call, and she was fairly certain that him reiterating that he didn't care for her in the way she did him would ruin any friendship they might otherwise salvage.

Sherlock gave her a shrewd look, as if he knew exactly what she had been thinking. "Yes, well, if you have no objections, I will just kip here on the couch."

It took Molly a moment to respond as she wondered if she'd heard him correctly. "W-what? Sherlock, no."

"We both are in need of sleep and you are in need of an explanation of the events that have taken place. This is I believe what they call a 'win-win'".

"I don't think that's a good idea. Just go back to Baker Street and I-"

Molly was cut off by Sherlock's low, "Molly, please." Hearing him say the same words he had just said just hours ago made her feel like all the air in the room had suddenly been sucked out. She inhaled sharply, watching Sherlock to see if this was a manipulation on his part. Upon hearing her sudden breath, his eyes flickered, almost as if he was fighting a wince, before his expression settled once again into the blank look it held previously. They stood for a moment in silence before she sighed.

"Okay. I'll get you some blankets. Just a moment." She walked past him to her linen closet, grabbed a sheet, thicker blanket, and pillow, before returning to the living room.

This wasn't the first time Sherlock had stayed at her flat. He'd used it intermittently in the years they'd known each other and from the get-go it had been established that if he needed to stay, he needed the bed. Previously she had been the one using the spare sheets and blankets, so setting up the settee under Sherlock's gaze felt strange.

She finished, then turned to him and gestured to the makeshift bed, "Well, there you are. If you need tea or anything else, you know where to find it."

He nodded with a small smile, "Thank you, Molly." He began to take off his coat and she took that as her cue to leave. She padded down the hall but stopped short at the bathroom door. She'd forgotten that Sherlock's unannounced visit had interrupted her cleaning. The crumpled paper towel on the floor looked about how she felt. She grabbed it and the mop bucket of cleaning supplies to put them away. Once they had been stowed in the hall closet, she couldn't help but look back at the living room. Sherlock was standing in the living room in just his button-down, trousers, and socks watching her. She nodded slightly to him, glad that in the dim light of the hall he hopefully couldn't see the blush that rose on her cheeks, before turning to go to her bedroom.

She got dressed for bed in her comfiest and most comforting pajamas - what did it matter if Sherlock saw her in her dad's faded, oversized t-shirt and large fleece pajama pants? The true embarrassment had occurred hours ago. Plus, Sherlock had probably already deduced or confirmed by way of snooping that she owned these very pajamas. She already missed the days when her one of her bigger worries was whether Sherlock would think her silly for owning such horrid clothes. When he would roll his eyes at her awful jokes and chastise her for continuing to tell them. Those concerns seemed so petty compared to the monstrous one now ahead of her. How could she and Sherlock go on being friends? They had finally fallen into an easy friendship. Molly had gotten over her incessant stuttering and eager-to-please attitude when it came to Sherlock, finding instead a nice balance of still catering to his whims when it was important while finding her own footing with him to where he knew she wasn't the giggling schoolgirl she had been in the first years of acquaintance. He had stopped using flattery and empty words to attempt to manipulate her and seemed to actually value her as a colleague and as a friend. He was still cantankerous at times and she was still happy-go-lucky, but they had found a good rhythm that was comfortable. Even though she loved him romantically, she was able to put that aside and appreciate her love of him as a friend, and he in turn actually made her feel like she did count to him. It worked well because there was a careful avoidance of the larger issue that had weighed on their early friendship.

She was still contemplating this when she heard her door creak open. She opened her eyes and in the wan light peeking along the sides of her blackout curtains, she saw Sherlock.

"I can hear you thinking from the living room. Move over."

"What?" she asked stupidly.

"Neither of us can sleep with you in here ruminating. I said move over," he waved his hand, gesturing to the side of the bed furthest from the door.

Even in the midst of such an awkward request and uncomfortable evening, Molly almost smiled at Sherlock's imperious tone. And just as she had been doing for years, she yielded to him and slid across her sheets. He wasted no time in lifting the covers and climbing into them, facing Molly.

She knew she should close her eyes and at least try to go to sleep, but they remained stubbornly open, staring at the man who had never once in all his times staying at her flat shared her bed.

"Turn around," Sherlock said gently, though his tone left little room for argument, and he gestured for her to turn onto her left side, away from him. This time she didn't question it and just turned, her back now facing him. It would be easier to sleep without his eyes on her.

She felt very aware of his presence behind her, however, and found that despite her exhaustion, sleep still felt very far away.

"Molly, what do you need?' Sherlock's voice was soft behind her.

Did she dare? Could she give the same response to him now that he had given years ago when she had asked him that very question? She knew it was a mistake, letting him give her comfort when he was the reason she was so very raw right now. But maybe before the whole thing was complete and their relationship did change, she could take solace in this one comfort he was offering. One night of being able to pretend that everything was going to be okay before they inevitably talked and it all got blown to bits.

She let out a shaky breath. "You."

His response was immediate, and she felt one arm snake under her neck and come up to wrap around the front of her shoulders while the other wrapped itself around her waist. There was a moment of tension at the unfamiliar territory into which they had tread, but she felt his chest press up against her back and his breath stir her hair. She closed her eyes, taking a deep breath in for the first time all night and letting it out slowly. It felt like her body was sinking into the mattress and all the tension that had been wracking her body all night was slowly pouring out of her. Hell, not even just the tension from this night, but the stress that had been plaguing her for the last several months. Between Mary's death, helping with Rosie as much as possible in between shifts at Bart's, and worrying about Sherlock's latest foray into drugs, Molly felt like a sponge that had been thoroughly used, wrung out, and left useless on the counter. With the tension leaving, exhaustion now made its way in and it wasn't long before Molly was drifting off to sleep.

To be continued. I love getting feedback, so please leave a review (especially if you like the story well enough to follow or favorite – it's great to hear actual feedback in addition to that!)