Title: Get The Hell On With It

Rating: Prologue: T. Chapters: M.

Synopsis: A prologue of sorts to a longer story, this fic gives us a glimpse into Molly Hooper's shift as she watches over a recovering Sherlock Holmes. What happens in the following six hours will change the nature of their relationship, as Sherlock realizes he wants to pursue a 'romantic entanglement' with his favourite pathologist. Prologue can be read as a one-off and is rated T. The following chapters will be rated M for adult situations and strong language.

A/N: I haven't written a multi chapter fic in a long time - I'm a big bundle of nerves! This story takes place at the end of Season 4, episode 2 with one significant change - Sherlock does not receive a text from Irene, and it's not revealed to be his birthday. And, of course, a great big thanks to Cordelia Rose for her awesome beta skills - she has a magical way with words!

Disclaimer: As much as I'd like all these lovely characters to belong to me, alas it isn't so. I am making no profit other than the joy of sharing this story.

Once upon a time, Molly Hooper would have been over the moon at the prospect of spending one-on-one time with Sherlock Holmes in his flat. It had, after all, been the setting for many of her fantasies: she'd been caught in the rain and found shelter in his home (and his arms); they were working on a project side-by-side in his kitchen; he was sick and she needed to care for him; and, her favourite, they were madly in love and living together.

But reality had a cruel way of quashing fantasies and she found that, as the car she was riding in approached Baker Street, 'he was sick and she needed to care for him' was the farthest thing from a romantic fantasy - in this case, at least.

She, John, Greg and Mrs. Hudson had agreed to split their available time to watch over the recovering detective and, for the most part, the first week had gone smoothly. He'd spent much of that time in and out of consciousness, convalescing and fighting the aftereffects of all the drugs he'd taken.

When he was finally up and about, Sherlock had been irascible. "He gets like this when he's bored," John had pointed out as he'd dropped Rosie off with Molly the previous Saturday morning before heading off to work. "Just watch that he doesn't have a gun handy, though."

Her last shift with the detective, that past Tuesday, had been six of the most difficult hours of her entire life. Three days had passed since then but it hadn't been long enough to work past the anxiety and despair she'd felt. Sherlock had refused to even speak to her for the first two hours, skillfully ignoring her presence like a petulant child. Molly had eventually coaxed him into a game of Scrabble which had gone well until she'd won; he'd toppled the board over in a fit of pique, sending letter tiles flying everywhere. After that, he'd cut her down with verbal abuse, reducing her to tears before locking himself in his room.

After a night like that the old Molly Hooper would have given up - Greg had even tried to talk her out of returning after seeing how miserable she was - but the new Molly Hooper had done her homework, resolute that the following shift would go better. She had a cooler with dinner, a bag of goodies from her local bakery and an extra special surprise. And, now that she knew what to expect, she wore a thicker skin, too.

When the car pulled up to the curb in front of 221B Baker Street, she thanked the driver - Mycroft's contribution had been to provide everyone with travel arrangements - and got out, pushing aside the urge to tell him to keep driving. She turned and faced the door with a great deal of trepidation still, but straightened her spine and stood tall. "Molly Hooper," she muttered to herself, "you are going to go in there and show him that he cannot bully you around."

She opened the door and let herself in, surprised to catch John on his own way out. John never stayed to the end of his shift; he always left early. And by the look of him, she thought she understood why: he looked like she'd felt on Tuesday. His eyes were rimmed red but he managed a weak smile. "Molly," he greeted, nodding at her.

"Hello John," she answered. She looked up the stairs and back at him, laying a hand on his shoulder. "You alright?"

"Actually, yeah." He seemed surprised at his own answer, and his smile became a little less forced and a little more genuine. "I am going to be alright, thanks. You have a nice evening, Molly."

Curious, Molly watched him leave and shut the door behind him. Bathed in the dreariness of the foyer, she turned around and took a deep breath, climbing the stairs that would lead her to Sherlock Holmes.

Once upstairs she found the man in question standing at the window watching John leave, a weary look on his face. He'd changed his clothes since Monday - small miracles, she thought - but was still wearing his dressing gown. His shoulders were slumped as if he were carrying a great weight and she supposed he was, in a sense, with everything that had transpired in the past few weeks.

Sherlock's arrogance had grown to ridiculous proportions since he'd gotten away with Magnussen's murder - yes, she'd been let in on the truth of what had really taken place, as unbelievable as it was - but the shock of Mary's sacrifice had knocked him down a few pegs. Her death had left behind a widower and a motherless child, not to mention countless close friends, all in exchange for his life. How does a man live with that debt?

When it became obvious he wasn't going to acknowledge her arrival, Molly sighed and went to the kitchen, busying herself with taking food out of her cooler. She placed a pot of soup on the stovetop, turning the heat on. After hearing John's stories about Sherlock storing body parts in the cookware, there was no way in hell she was going to use any pots or pans from 221B Baker Street.

Keeping an eye on the simmering soup Molly pulled two mugs from the cupboard, washing them thoroughly. When it was warm enough she filled one of the cups and walked out to the living room.

Sherlock had returned to his usual chair, still staring ahead sullenly. "I've already told you," he said, looking up at her defiantly, his gaze sharp despite his ill health. "I'm not eating anything."

"You don't eat this soup - you drink it. It's outside your rules therefore it should be admissible," she parried coolly, still holding the mug out.

He narrowed his eyes at her but then, to her great surprise, his face broke into a wide grin. "Well done, Molly. I knew you had it in you - you've always been smarter than you let on."

He accepted the proffered mug and took a sip, closing his eyes and humming in pleasure. "This is delicious," he complimented before taking a second sip. "What's in it?"

In shock from his about face, Molly hesitantly answered. "Um, cauliflower, carrot, lentils, vegetable broth - not the sodium reduced one, because I know you don't like it - coconut milk and curry paste." She watched him continue to take measured sips. "Someone shared the recipe on Facebook and it reminded me of that dish you always order when we go to Trishna. I just puréed it with a hand blender so you could drink it."

"A wise gamble," he conceded as he tipped his mug, draining the last drops. He peered around her into the kitchen, one eyebrow raised. "You wouldn't have more, would you?"

Molly smiled; this Sherlock was infinitely more enjoyable than the last one she'd been confronted with. "Only if you join me at the table. I've had a long day at work and would rather not have to eat off my lap whilst sitting in an armchair."

"Agreed." He stood up, a brief flash of pain crossing his face. "Remind me to never piss John off ever again, will you?"

There wasn't anything Molly could say in reply. John had indeed beat him brutally and it was going to take the detective a long time to heal - physically, that was. It would take longer for both men to heal emotionally.

She took his mug back into the kitchen and grabbed the second one, filling both with the now steaming soup before placing them on the table. She sat in the chair next to him and opened the paper bag, reaching inside and pulling out a still-warm roll.

His gaze was fixated on the bread, watching as she ripped a piece off and dipped it in her soup before popping it in her mouth. She stared at him, one eyebrow raised.

"Are those fresh?" he asked, leaning forward and inhaling deeply.

"Yes," she replied innocently, breaking off another piece. "I bought them on my way here. They came straight out of the oven. Pity you aren't eating anything, though," she added. "Unless you've changed your mind."

"Damn you," he muttered, reaching for the bag. "You know baked goods are my weakness."

"Yes, I do. And it's going to do you a world of good to have some solid food in your stomach."

She had to stop him after the third roll, taking the bag away and rolling it up. "You're going to make yourself sick - you can't go from one extreme to the other."

Ignoring his protests - after spending days looking after a five month-old, she'd become a pro at refusing whiny requests - she stood up and carried the bag to the counter. He'd have to actually move from his chair if he wanted more, and the chances of that were slim. Just then, something on the living room floor caught her eye. She walked over to pick it up, realising it was one of the tiles from their failed Scrabble game.

She quickly pocketed the game piece, trying to push aside the lead that settled in the pit of her stomach at the memory of how it got there. That was Tuesday, she told herself, not tonight - things are different tonight. When she turned back towards the kitchen, Sherlock was watching her steadily. "I'm sorry," he said. "My behaviour on Tuesday was inexcusable."

Despite agreeing with him Molly shook her head, trying to avoid an uncomfortable moment. "Look, Sherlock, you were tired and sick, and it doesn't matter anymore."

"It does matter," he insisted vehemently. Standing up with a wince, he walked over to where she'd stopped. "You are one of the few friends I have, Molly. Here you are, taking time out of your life to help me and I treated you like shit. I was angry at myself and took it out on you. There's no excuse for that."

She looked at him: unshaven, weary, bruised, the hyphema in his left eye making him appear even more haggard. He seemed so vulnerable, so human. "Thank you," she said, reaching out and wrapping her arms around his waist. He surprised her by hugging her back, tentatively at first, but then with more confidence.

It felt so right, being in the circle of his arms. She rested her head against his chest, listening to the cadence of his heartbeat. Her chest constricted when she thought of how close it had all been; had John been slower in acting, had he been a few minutes later in breaking through that door, Sherlock's heart would have been silenced. For real this time. No ruse, no switching bodies, no knowledge that he'd some day pop back in their lives.

He placed a kiss on the top of her head and pulled back, letting his hands slowly slide from her back. "I'm not going anywhere," he reassured her.

"I know. It was just so close, this time." Molly took a shaky breath and wiped at her eyes. "I'm sorry. I'm being silly."

"Nonsense," he replied, a smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. "You're not being silly. Imagine how boring the world would be without Sherlock Holmes."

Molly laughed. "Yes, it certainly would be."

She collected the dinner dishes, her mind drifting to Sherlock's pleasant disposition. She was amazed at how easily the puzzle pieces fell into place as she pondered the possible reasons for his mood. I wonder if this is how it feels for him when he's solving cases.

"I'm glad you and John finally talked things through," she casually tossed out as she waited for the sink to fill with hot water. Her remark was met with silence, suggesting she was on the right track.

She jumped when the tea towel slipped from her shoulder. Even sick, Sherlock could be as stealthy as he wanted to be. "That's a very presumptuous observation," he commented, face arranged into a neutral mask he so often displayed.

I like huggy, friendly, Sherlock better, she mused before ploughing ahead nervously. It was time for the new Molly to take the reins. "It's not presumptuous," she argued carefully. "I met John on the way in. He'd been crying, but he was more positive than he's been since... ." She still couldn't say it. Couldn't push the words out. When he didn't press, his gaze still piercing her, she continued. "Since before, which points to a cathartic moment. And you're in a far better mood than before - you're acting as though a weight has been lifted from you: you're holding yourself straighter; your face is more open; you're actually being pleasant. I might not be the world's only consulting detective, but I am able to see what's clearly before me."

Sherlock shifted his attention from the mug he was drying to her. "Molly Hooper," he said, impressed. "That was remarkably perceptive of you. That's twice now you've surprised me tonight." He placed the dry mug back on the counter, staring at it. "I wouldn't go so far as to say that John and I have talked things through - the past few weeks have caused perhaps irreparable damage to our friendship, I'm afraid - but we did talk. And that's something, isn't it?" He turned to her, looking for confirmation that his relationship with John was still salvageable, his blue eyes practically begging her to tell him he was right, to give him hope. She wasn't used to his uncertainty.

Molly finished scrubbing the last vestiges of soup from the pot, placed it on the drying rack and pulled the stopper from the sink. She worked slowly and methodically, giving Sherlock the impression she was pondering his question when in truth she didn't need to consider it at all. The answer - to anyone other than Sherlock Holmes - was simple. And as much as he understood human nature, it was from the perspective of an outside observer; he may as well have been Jane Goodall studying chimpanzees for all the good keeping his distance from humanity had done him.

She finally broke her silence after folding and setting aside the dish cloth. "What you and John have goes beyond a mere friendship, Sherlock. There are rock solid marriages that would crumble under less stress than what you two have been through. Have patience, and have faith in John - he's hurting so much right now, but he'll heal and come around. Anyone who was still your friend after being called urgently across town because you couldn't find the sugar bowl will be your friend forever, and no matter what."

The detective smiled wistfully. "Told you about that, did he?"

"A week after Rosie's birth? Even you should know better, Sherlock."

"I did know better," he countered. "I knew he'd be itching to get out of the house but wouldn't do it out of guilt. I simply… facilitated an escape for him."

Molly simply stared at him, her mouth open in shock.

"Oh, he didn't tell you that he stayed for two cups of tea, did he?" More to himself, he mumbled, "No, of course he wouldn't have. It would take away from his woe-is-me story."

"So!" he exclaimed suddenly, changing the focus of the conversation. "Now that cleaning up is out of the way, what do you have planned to keep me occupied tonight? Not board games, I'm certain - not after Tuesday's fiasco. Charades, perhaps? Ooh! Maybe some crafts?"

Molly stared at him evenly, his sarcasm washing over her. "Perhaps if you stopped acting like a child, we'd stop treating you like one."

"Now you sound like Mycroft," he pouted, wrapping his gown around himself dramatically and dropping into his chair.

Let's see his reaction to this, she mused, pulling out her ace-in-the-sleeve.

"A movie. But you won't find out what it is until you help me find your telly and set it up so we can watch from the sofa."

He looked up sharply at her, his interest clearly piqued. "A movie? It isn't one of those horrid sentimental girly films, is it?" he asked, making a face.

"No, it isn't. I left all of my sentimental girly films at home," she replied, fighting the urge to roll her eyes. "You won't find out until we've found the telly though."

He didn't move. He simply sat still, watching her move around the flat in search of their television. She knew they had one; John had mentioned it a number of times in his recounting of various tales.

"Oh no," he groaned. "It's an artsy flick, isn't it? Some pretentious drivel involving more characters than you can keep track of, all of whom are depressed and/or eccentric?"

"What? No!" she replied irritably, peeking under a stack of newspapers. "It's not an artsy flick. If you don't tell me where your telly is, so help me I will log onto iTunes and buy the girliest, artsiest film they have and watch it as loudly as possible so you can't hide from it."

"It's in the bathroom," he acquiesced.

Molly stopped dead in her tracks, straightened up and turned to stare at him. "Why is your television in the bathroom?"

"There was a David Attenborough documentary on bees," he replied, defensive. "I didn't want to miss any of it while I…"

Molly's hand shot up, palm out. "Please do not finish that sentence!"

"... took a bath. What did you think I was going to say?"

"Honestly? With you, I'm never sure." Molly sighed, nearly tripping as she stepped over a stack of books. She looked down the hall towards the bathroom and frowned. "How did you manage to carry your telly all the way to the bathroom?"

"It's on a rolling cart," he admitted. "I don't need a hernia in addition to everything else."

"Good. At least you have some common sense. Would you mind fetching it?" she asked. "I'll go get the movie. I still need to take it out of its packaging." Relieved when he didn't argue and did as she'd asked, Molly retrieved the DVD case from her bag and unwrapped it. She glanced at the cover, hoping that Mycroft hadn't been pulling her leg when he'd told her it would be greatly appreciated by his brother. This really didn't seem to be something the genius consulting detective would watch willingly.

She heard the squeak of the cart as it was pushed into the living room and followed Sherlock, hiding the movie behind her back. When he'd finished hooking everything up he stood and looked at her expectantly. "It's all yours," he announced, waving with a flourish at the television.

"Thank you. Now go sit on the sofa and close your eyes," she instructed. "I want this to be a surprise." A good one, I hope, she thought to herself, more nervous by the second. Knowing Mycroft, Sherlock was scarred by the movie as a child and she would now become an unwitting pawn in their never-ending sibling feud.

Sherlock eyed her suspiciously but went and sat down anyway, occupying the far side of the sofa. Molly inserted the DVD into the player, twisting oddly to keep the case hidden - she honestly didn't trust him not to peek - and jogged over to join him.

She bit her lower lip, her focus entirely on Sherlock, and watched his reaction as The Goonies appeared on screen. His eyes widened, his lips parted in shock, and Molly held her breath. Just as she was about to apologise, he let out a bark of laughter.

"Christ," he half-whispered, "how did you know?" He stared at her, a look of wonder on his face; with the gravity of the past few weeks temporarily lifted, he looked ten years younger.

"Mycroft," she admitted, relief flooding through her. "I did a little nosing around of my own. He suggested it so quickly I was afraid there had to be a catch, like he'd terrorized you with it or something."

"No," he answered, his gaze returning to the screen. "No subterfuge on behalf of my brother this time. He's actually the one who took me to see it in the theatre. I'd started having nightmares about our old dog Redbeard - he'd disappeared three years before, when I was six - and I suppose he wanted to distract me."

Molly settled in at the other end of the couch, her feet tucked in under her. "That was awfully nice of him," she commented.

"Yes," he conceded. "For all his faults, Mycroft has always been very protective of me, especially when it came to the memory of Redbeard." He looked past her, lost in thought, and Molly tried to imagine six year-old Sherlock distraught over the loss of his dog, with big brother Mycroft there to pick up the pieces. Not much has changed, she mused. Mycroft still has both eyes on his little brother.

"Well," he announced, shaking himself from his reverie, "that's enough melancholy for one evening." He settled his gaze on her, eyes twinkling with glee. "Ready for adventure?"

At her nod of encouragement, he aimed the remote at the television and started the movie.

"I didn't think it was possible," Sherlock said, watching the credits roll across the screen, "but that was as much fun to watch tonight as it was thirty years ago." He turned his head in her direction. "I still can't believe you'd never seen it."

They'd drifted to the centre of the sofa during the film, sharing a large throw blanket. "I would have been six years old when it came out, and it would have given me nightmares, not cured them," Molly replied. "I do agree it was good fun now, though."

They shared a moment of comfortable silence, the DVD's main menu screen providing quiet background music. Molly could feel the heat of his body across the short distance that separated them, and itched to close the gap, to nestle herself against his side. The imagined humiliation of his rejection was enough to keep her where she sat, however.

Needing a distraction, she turned to ask him how he was feeling and noticed he was watching her, his gaze dark and focused. For once she couldn't tell what he was thinking. Had it been anyone else she would have said he was debating whether or not to kiss her - but this was Sherlock, and she was just Molly - and he'd made it clear over the years he wasn't interested.

But Sherlock proved her wrong, leaning in, his eyes drawn to her lips, telegraphing his intentions. Molly's pulse raced, her heart hammering in her chest. She inhaled slowly through her nose, trying to regulate her breathing, exhaling shakily. Eight long years she had waited for Sherlock Holmes to return her affections. Waited through the cruel barbs and manipulation, through a failed engagement, through a friendship which seemed to develop at a glacial pace. And, now, finally…

She pulled back at the last moment, placing her hand flat against his chest to stop him. No, not tonight, she told herself. They could easily lose themselves to a night of passion - right there on the couch, not even making it to his bedroom, lips and hands exploring, drawing out moans and gentle sighs - but what would happen in the morning? Nothing but awkwardness, regret and, likely, the loss of a friendship. The new Molly valued herself too much to hand him her heart on a platter.

He pressed his lips together, frowning. "I thought you wanted this."

A manic laugh bubbled out of her. She looked up at the ceiling, trying to break the spell of his gaze. "Oh, Sherlock, you can't even begin to imagine. But I need you to want it, too."

He opened his mouth to protest but she pressed a finger to his lips, silencing him. "I want you to really want it. It's easy to want it when we're sitting side by side under a blanket watching a movie, but what about when you're focused on a case? Or when you're in one of your moods and everyone's either boring or annoying? Or when you want another hit and convince yourself it's for a case? I couldn't handle only being needed when it suits you." Her voice cracked, dying down to a whisper. "It would kill me."

Sherlock threaded his fingers in her hair, cradling the back of her head, and leaned forward to press his forehead to hers. "I want to be a better man, Molly. For you, for John and for Rosie - for everyone."

She was about to lose her resolve - she wanted to kiss him more than ever, right now; God, she loved him - but her phone buzzed, giving her a well-timed distraction. "Sorry," she apologized before picking her phone up from the coffee table and reading the text that had just come in.

Just got called out to a homicide. I won't make it in until much later. I'm really sorry Molly. -Greg

Molly smiled. Last Tuesday, she would have walked out, leaving Sherlock on his own; tonight, she welcomed the extra time with the detective.

No worries. He's much better tonight - it's as if the pod people visited. -Molls

Lol. You sure? -Greg

Yes I'm sure. We watched a movie and are having a lovely time. Nothing like Tuesday. Don't worry about me. -Molls

If you say so. See you later. Make sure the pod people don't pull another switch before it's my turn ;) -Greg

Her sniggering must have clued the detective into the topic of her conversation. He reached for her phone, snatching it from her hands.

"Hey!" she yelped, trying to wrestle it back from his grasp. Unfortunately his limbs were much longer than hers and she could do nothing more than wave uselessly at him. "Hand it back!"

"Pod people?" he cried out, feigning affront.

"Give me my phone back, Sherlock!" she hollered, crawling over him to grab her mobile from his clutches. He finally caved in when her fingers found a particularly ticklish spot on his side.

"Take it! Dammit, woman, take it back!" he squealed, curling up to protect himself.

Satisfied, Molly sat back haughtily, checking her message threads to make sure he hadn't managed to send something inappropriate to Greg. Confident that her honour hadn't been sullied, she turned to her companion.

Sherlock lay back against the far corner of the sofa, eyes half-closed, his chest still heaving from the sudden burst of activity. Maybe wrestling with him hadn't been the smartest thing to do, in retrospect.

"You look tired," she commented, placing her hand on his knee. "Why don't you go off to bed?"

"Nonsense," he scoffed, waving his hand at her. "I could stay up for…" Despite his protests, his mouth opened and he let out a big yawn. "... hours."

Molly gave him a leveling stare. "Your body needs sleep so it can heal, Sherlock. This isn't like when you work a case and go days without sleeping. You've suffered extensive injuries and -"

"I can't."

"What do you mean you can't?" she asked.

"Every time I fall asleep I have nightmares," he replied bitterly. "Mary, dying by my hand; John, watching indifferently as Culverton suffocates me; searching for Redbeard, knowing I'll never find him; you, lying on a slab at St. Bart's… I can't escape it."

Her heart breaking at his vulnerable words, Molly pulled him into a hug, glad when he accepted the gesture and leaned against her. She was holding him to her, rubbing his back soothingly, when an idea came to her. "Hold on, I'll be right back." She slipped away from him and went to his bedroom, scooping up his pillow and duvet; on her way back she grabbed the book she'd brought with her and turned the lights off as she walked back through the flat, leaving only the lamp to the right of the sofa still on.

She sat down at one end of the couch and placed his pillow on her lap. "Come on," she said, patting the pillow. "Time for you to sleep."

When he stretched out on his side, laying his head on her lap without an argument, she wondered how he'd managed to hide his fatigue. His breaths evened out as she tucked the blanket around him. "Good night, Sherlock," she whispered, brushing a stray lock from his forehead.

His reply, muffled by the pillow, came out as "Mfmmf…" as he drifted off into slumber. He slept soundly for the most part. When Molly sensed any distress - twitching, fidgeting and, at one point, whimpering - she would put her book aside and rub his back, making comforting noises. He'd settle back down into a deep sleep and she'd resume her reading.

Eventually fatigue hit her as well and the printed words all began to bleed together. When she'd read the same paragraph four times, still not absorbing any of it, she put her book aside and leaned her head back.

I'll just close my eyes for a bit, she told herself as she sank back into the sofa. The combination of a long day with the comforting weight of Sherlock nestled against her lulled her quickly into a deep sleep.

When Molly opened her eyes again, a weak light was casting shadows throughout the room and she could hear the din of early-morning traffic.

So much for closing my eyes for a bit.

She rubbed her face, taking stock of her surroundings.

Sherlock was still asleep although, she realized with a blush, he'd turned around at some point during the night. His face was now pressed against her tummy, one arm bent under his head and the other hooked around her waist. He snored gently and she smiled down at him, enjoying the opportunity to watch the detective unabashedly.

A noise in the kitchen startled her. Mrs. Hudson, perhaps? She was about to call out when she noticed a black men's coat draped across the back of Sherlock's armchair.

She managed to extricate herself from Sherlock's grasp without waking him, standing up and stretching the kinks out of her back. That's when Molly realized she really, really had to pee.

"Morning, Greg!" she called as she ran for the bathroom. "Be with you in a minute!"

When she came back to the kitchen she leaned against the door jamb. Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade sat at the table, nursing a steaming mug of coffee, three McDonald's take out bags laid out before him.

"Just got here?" she asked. Walking over to the coffee machine, she poured herself a mug and took the chair across from him.

"Yeah," he confirmed, dragging his hands over his face and through his greying hair. The stress of his job had taken a toll on him, and he looked older than he was. "Another goddamn case of domestic violence. The wife left her husband a week ago and he tracked her down and killed her. What the hell is wrong with people?"

It was a rhetorical question, so Molly simply shrugged and took another sip of her coffee. The smell of the food reminded her of how hungry she was. Reaching over, she grabbed one of the bags and peeked in it. "Ooh, are these for everyone?" she asked.

Lestrade nodded. "Grabbed them on my way in - figured it was the least I could do for showing up late." He reached into the bag nearest him and pulled out a pack of hash browns and a breakfast sandwich. "Didn't know what you liked, so I got the sausage and egg sandwiches."

Molly took a big bite of her sandwich, waving at Sherlock as he ambled sleepily into the kitchen. He nodded at her on his way to the coffee machine. "Molly, Greg," he greeted as he poured himself a mug.

Lestrade's mouth hung open as he stared at the other man's back. "You got my name right," he gawped.

Sherlock took the chair between them and grabbed the remaining bag and a handful of ketchup packets. "And you brought me breakfast even after I called you a simple-minded, incompetent wanker." He dipped his sandwich in the mountain of ketchup he'd created and took a bite. "I think," he said while chewing, "that deserves a bit of respect."

Greg stared at him, then turned to Molly. "So, about that theory of yours with the pod people…"

"Oh, piss off with the 'pod people', already," Sherlock grumbled.

"You know," the other detective said lightly, "you're pretty grumpy for a man who spent the night in the arms of a pretty woman."

Sherlock stared at him nonplussed, before he turned to Molly, frowning. "Did you stay on the sofa all night?" he asked.

"I fell asleep," she admitted sheepishly, trying unsuccessfully to hide behind her remaining hash brown. "I woke up maybe five minutes before you did."

Greg held out his phone to the consulting detective. "This was the scene I was greeted with this morning when I came up the stairs," he told him, chuckling. "Wouldn't have believed it for all the money in the world if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes."

Sherlock took the proffered phone and looked at the picture. His lips quirked into a smirk and he handed it over to Molly. "Best night's sleep I've had in ages," he admitted before digging back into his breakfast.

Molly handled the device with trepidation, fearing the worst. She hadn't needed to worry, though, as the photo Greg had taken was actually rather lovely. The morning's light had been kind to her, and the play of shadows over both her and Sherlock's sleeping forms presented a pleasant contrast. She made a mental note to ask him to text it to her - once Sherlock was out of earshot, of course.

"So what movie did you two watch last night?" Lestrade asked as he balled up the wrappers from his breakfast and shoved them into one of the bags.

"Goonies," she and Sherlock replied at the same time.

"My God," the detective laughed. "I must've seen that movie ten times when it came out. My mum kept saying she was going to move my bed to the cinema - I was there more often than I was home."

Molly stood up, gathering her own wrappers up. "Why don't you boys go watch it - I'm sure Sherlock won't mind seeing it again. I'm going to go home and do a bit of laundry before I head off to work."

Lestrade gave them both an amused glance before walking out to the living room, giving them the privacy Molly hadn't realized she'd asked for.

"You behave for Greg," she warned Sherlock with a smile. "I don't want to hear anything about you reverting to your wicked ways."

She was about to turn on the tap to wash the mugs when his hand strayed to hers. "Leave them," he said. "If I can't wash three cups, my issues extend beyond being a selfish cock, as John has so aptly called me on many occasions."

"Sherlock," she gently chided, "you're not a selfish cock." When he threw her a disbelieving stare she added, "Well, not since yesterday, anyway."

His smirk faded and he grew serious again. "I meant it, yesterday, what I said. I want to prove to you that my intentions are true - I'm not simply looking for a temporary distraction. If the past few weeks have taught me anything, it's that my life is richer for the friendships I've forged. Maybe…" He paused, cupping her cheek. "Maybe it's time I accepted the fact that I'm human, same as everyone else."

Molly had always been able to see through Sherlock's lies; that ability had been one of the few advantages she'd ever had over him. She looked up at him, saw the sincerity in his eyes, and knew he spoke the truth - or, at least, he believed he did.

Feeling bold, she stood up on her tiptoes and gave in to the desire to press her lips against his. Sherlock groaned and deepened the kiss, wrapping an arm around her waist and holding her to him. Molly let out a small gasp; her pulse racing, she felt giddy and lightheaded.

When he pulled back and let go of her, he appeared just as surprised at his slip of control as she was. "When are you back?" he asked, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. It was a gentle, familiar gesture that surprised her almost as much as his reaction to their kiss.

"Not until Sunday night, I'm afraid," she replied, her voice husky. Damn it - it was just a kiss! she chided herself. Sure, her inner voice retorted, a toe-curling kiss with Sherlock fucking Holmes. Nothing at all to it. Liar. "It's my weekend to be on call at the hospital."

"Pity," he replied, a sad little smile playing at his lips. "But it'll give me time to think."

"Think about what?" she asked, although she was pretty certain she could have guessed.

"About us."

Her hand shaking, she reached out and touched his arm. Despite not detecting any deception on his behalf, she still wouldn't let herself believe that he really was interested in pursuing a relationship with her. As a result, she remained purposefully obtuse. "I'll see you on Sunday, then," she told him, plastering a bright smile on her face.

"Bye Greg! You two have fun!" she called out as she left the flat at a near-jog. When she reached the street she realised she hadn't called Mycroft's taxi service. She found she didn't mind, though - she would need a very long walk indeed to sort through all the thoughts storming around in her brain.

"Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper," she said sotto voce. "Doesn't have such a bad ring to it, does it?"

No, she decided. It actually sounded just right.

A/N: Well, here you go - what do you think? Don't forget to click on the Review button and share your thoughts! Chapter 1 is in the works and should be up within the next week or so.