"Finally!" Molly exclaimed when Mycroft walked into his master suite later that night. "I thought he'd never leave."

Molly's arrival at his home had been announced by Anthea's four-beat text alert, followed by a notification from the security alarm application that the portico door had been accessed, opened, and re-secured. Mycroft eyed his—girlfriend? No, too juvenile. Partner? No, that implied a shared investment in each other's lives not yet negotiated. He thought of Sherlock's words. "She's my pathologist." "And my lover," Mycroft had claimed. Perhaps not a complete description of Molly's role in his life, but certainly an accurate one. So, Mycroft eyed his lover with some apprehension.

Her hair was down, loose in the kind of waves that told him she'd worn it braided today. Her feet were bare beneath the hem of his paisley dressing gown (draped over the knotted sash to compensate for her shorter height), and if she wore anything under the dark silk, it was nothing more than knickers. Add to that her position on his bed as well as the fire crackling in the grate, and Mycroft was afraid he was doomed to disappoint.

"Ah, Molly, I don't think … it's been quite the trying day. Perhaps some other time, we could…."

"Oh, don't look like that." She waved him off and rose from the bed, adjusting the dressing gown when its wide collar slipped off her shoulder.

Definitely naked.

"I came here to check on you, not seduce you," she said, crossing to the bath. "Besides…."

She smirked, an unnecessary reminder that he'd made a similar protest early this morning, only to be proven (rather spectacularly) wrong.

"So, the waiting in my bed naked under my dressing gown was…."

"Just for kicks," she said, returning with a glass of water and holding out an assortment of pills. "After the second hour my self-restraint collapsed. I was going to just cuddle with it, but that seemed sort of creepy, so," she shrugged. "In for a penny…." She extended the handful of pills again but he ignored them, unbuttoning his shirt on his way to the wardrobe.

"How's your back?"

"Fine."

"Mmm." Her voice was skeptical but she made no outward protest. "What color is your urine?"

"I beg your pardon?" He gaped at her in horror, braces hanging against his thighs and shirttails untucked.

Molly was unfazed, following him into the walk-in and leaning against the dresser. "I thought about bringing a banana bag, but then reckoned I'd probably have to sedate you to get a line in. Your liver hardly needs the additional insult, so I settled for a p.o. mix. Here."

The fine-boned hand with its pale skin and slender fingers reappeared under his nose, multicolored tablets pooled in the well of its palm. Mycroft straightened to his full height and looked down his long nose at the impertinent appendage. The retort that came to mind, a personal inquiry regarding her own private parts, was crude indeed.

"Your urine, Mycroft," Molly repeated patiently. "What color is it? How much water have you drank today? How hydrated are you?"

Oh. She was in doctor-mode, not intrusive-girlfriend mode. He turned his back to her, undoing his cuffs before shrugging off the shirt. "Yellow, approximately 150 centiliters, adequately."

"That's not at all adequate after the alcohol you had last night," she scolded, circling to face him again. "Drink this."

Mycroft closed his eyes and sighed. "Molly…."

"Drink," she said firmly, pressing the glass of water against his bare chest, causing him to start at the chill.

His headache was still booming, and despite what he might normally think about being half-naked with Molly in his bedroom nude under his dressing gown, he wanted nothing more than to turn off all the lights, crawl into bed, and sleep until next week. A quick glance at her expression confirmed his best chances of executing those plans were to do as she said as quickly as possible, so he took the glass, chugged it, and handed it back … without taking the pills.

Molly gave him a dirty look but left to refill the glass without complaint. She waited until he had redressed in pajamas and tidied the wardrobe before extending the medicine again. "Anti-inflammatories, a muscle relaxant, and an assortment of B vitamins," she explained. "Nothing narcotic or addictive. Take them."

Mycroft complied, drinking the second glass of water in entirety but at a more moderate pace. "How is it we had the same experience last night and I'm dreadfully hungover while you're positively chipper?"

"Other than our ten-year age difference, you mean?"

Mycroft didn't deign to answer and took another long swallow of water, but Molly gave him a warm, intimate look, the kind of look that said she didn't care about his age and warmed parts of him best forgotten for a while.

"Med school," she said, exaggerating her natural cheerfulness as she took the empty-again glass and set it aside. "It's a unique learning situation for managing alcohol intake and the resultant effects." She pulled back the covers and waved him in.

"And the results of those years of research?"

"A carefully curated assortment of pharmaceuticals combined with the natural healing properties of water and sleep. Alcohol is terribly dehydrating. It's why you should never drink when you fly, you know, low humidity and—"

Molly's voice went on, but Mycroft was no longer listening. She had preheated the bed with what felt like a four-foot heating pad and the warmth against his spasming muscles might be better than sex. Her hands were repositioning him to her liking, shifting his hips into alignment and lifting his legs to place a pillow under his knees. The unrelenting pressure in his back eased immediately, a change startling enough to open his eyes.

"Better?" she asked, her smile saying she already knew the answer.

"Very much. Thank you."

The smile widened, her genuine pleasure in helping easy to see. Mycroft reached out and took her hand, lacing his fingers between hers and tugging slightly. "Sleep with me."

He felt her posture tense immediately and didn't need to look at her face to know what he would find there. Dark brown eyes fixed on him, a tiny furrow between drawn-together brows, thin lips turned in and pressed together. They had used many euphemisms for sex over the last six months; some casual, some romantic, occasionally explicit, but he had never asked her to sleep with him, euphemistically or otherwise. Sherlock was obnoxious because he'd been right: Molly had never spent the night here. Or more specifically, not here, in his bed, not the entire night in his home. They had never slept together without sex first, had never engaged in that simple yet primitive ritual of trust and sharing lives. Mycroft kept his eyes closed and his expression blank.

"You … want me to stay?"

There was something in her voice, a vulnerability, a depth of meaning, that caused him to look at her.

"Yes," he said, then as the intensity of his answer registered, added quickly, "only if you want to, of course."

"I, um … I didn't pack a bag."

It's what he had said to her last night, after the first go-round, when she had protested his leaving. He parroted her response.

"I have an extra toothbrush."

"I have to work tomorrow." A warning, a not-so-subtle hint that there would not be a repeat of this morning's shenanigans.

"So did I," he said dryly. "I'll make sure you get there … eventually."

Her smile mirrored his own, genuine happiness lighting her eyes. "Really?" she whispered.

"I …" He swallowed, mouth suddenly dry despite the two glasses of water. "I found that once everyone knew I was … involved … with you, I didn't care they knew. More importantly, given the choice of ending our arrangement to make a plausible denial or continuing as we were, I didn't want to lose you. I don't want to lose you. Sleep with me," he repeated, caressing her hand with his thumb.

Molly needed no further urging, pulling the covers back further and carefully climbing over him before snuggling against his side with a contented sigh. Mycroft wrapped one arm around her, fingers tracing the line of her neck and shoulder, dipping inside the dressing gown to feel the warmth of her skin contrasted against the cool silk, barely a change in texture between them.

"Why my dressing gown?" He'd seen her slide into his shirt for a quick trip to the loo or throw his jacket over their legs while watching telly, but no evidence of a fetish that would have her removing perfectly comfortable clothing of her own just to wear something of his.

"Have you felt this thing?" Molly said incredulously, rubbing a fold of the sleeve between her fingers seemingly unconsciously. "It's divine, and the way it feels against my skin…." She made a sinuous movement, as if rubbing herself against the fabric from the inside, a gesture no less sensual for his inability to do anything about it at the moment.

"Would you like one of your own?"

The question popped out of his mouth without permission, another boundary crossed. They didn't do gifts; didn't acknowledge the financial gap between their incomes. Maintaining a discreet relationship meant no formal dates, no public appearances, no "who's paying" obligations.

Molly's hesitation was shorter this time, her quiet, "yes, please" a sealing of the change in their relationship. Mycroft was just getting fuzzy, his senses softening at the edges, his limbs heavy and weighted, when he felt Molly go limp with sleep and realized….

He really had to wee.