When Sherlock opened his eyes, he immediately knew that something was…different. Changed, but at the same time familiar, because, of course, he'd been through this before and was all too accustomed to the various, delightful stages of recovery. One sign that things were different was that he had woken up on his stomach, face pressed into the pillow; this was his preferred sleeping posture when he was just being 'Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective and general arsehole', but when 'Sherlock Holmes, general arsehole and addict-in-the-throes-of-withdrawal' tried it, it made him feel as though he was about to throw up his guts. A foetal position, preferably with a white-knuckle death-grip on the shins, was the only way to conquer it – and even then, the idea of sleep was fairly laughable.

That was another sign that this morning was different. Sleep had been so erratic and wretched during the past few weeks that he had invariably been getting up before dawn, swapping restlessness in his bedroom for restlessness in his living room, which somehow seemed more bearable. But now, Sherlock's room and his bed were bathed in bright, spring daylight. Ordinarily, this unsolicited intrusion of nature would prompt of succession of curse words, but now it felt almost miraculous. There was a pleasant heaviness in his limbs instead of a marrow-deep ache.

He threw out a sleep-heavy arm and dragged the alarm clock close enough to be able to confirm that the first digit really was an eight. As he processed this unlikely turn of events, a sudden thought urgently jabbed at Sherlock through the haze of sleep – was he alone?

And immediately after this thought, a disconcerting surge of mild panic that he might be.

What day was it? Somewhere in the recesses of his brain was the shift timetable for the Pathology lab at Bart's, but despite the fact that it was data he accessed regularly, it stubbornly refused to present itself.

Sherlock sat up, trying to block out the noise of the central London traffic – and Hudders' damnedable vacuum cleaner - while he listened intently for signs of life in the other rooms of 221B.

All was quiet.

He hastily disentangled himself from the sheets and scrambled – with limited dexterity, but with far greater energy than of late – out of bed and towards the closed bedroom door. It was only as his fingers curled around the handle that another region of his brain woke up, causing him to pause, check himself, evaluate. You like being alone, he reminded himself, It is your preferred state of being. When this talking-to failed to quell the gnawing in his stomach, he tried another kind of reasoning: if she had gone, then barrelling into the living room looking like a mad scarecrow wasn't going to achieve anything, and if she hadn't, then another sixty seconds wasn't going to make a great deal of difference.

Sherlock sighed. Why the hell did it even matter?

He knew why it mattered. Because the nights that had been most bearable were the ones that ended with the soft sound of Molly's feet descending the stairs from John's old room, and her gentle, cautious knock at the living room door, as she sought him out, sought reassurance that he hadn't done anything astoundingly stupid in the dark, hopeless hours.

Summoning a modicum of dignity, Sherlock slid into his dressing gown, made a quick effort to tame his wild halo of bed-hair, and gave himself one final, firm pep-talk before he finally left his bedroom.

Before he'd reached the kitchen, he had his answer; the air was filled with the scent of coffee and butter. Sherlock's stomach, previously so clenched, unexpectedly started to growl. It was another sign. For the past few days, all he had been able to contemplate was very weak, sugary tea – so weak that Mycroft would consider it unpatriotic - and a few joyless bites of dry toast.

There was a split second before Molly noticed him in the doorway, long enough for him to take in the sight. She was sitting at the kitchen table, one hand around a mug of coffee in a space she'd cleared on the table-top. Beside her was a plate bearing a half-eaten piece of toast, and she chewed slowly as she read from the medical journal she held in her other hand. She looked…different. Relaxed? Unselfconscious, maybe. Standing there in the doorway, he suddenly felt…strange.

Light-headedness could surely be down to possible hypoglycaemia or being slightly anaemic as a result of his irregular eating - but Sherlock had a horrible feeling it might have something to do with the fact that Molly Hooper was wearing his dressing gown. The blue satin stripe, his second-favourite.

And from that acknowledgement, apparently there was only one way things were going to go. His treacherous gaze took in her bare legs before he'd even had time to realise what he was doing.

"Oh…hi," she said, offering him a surprised smile. "Sorry, I…I didn't know you were awake."

"Good morning, Molly," Sherlock said, hoping that adopting a formal tone might distract from his flushing skin. Thankfully, Molly didn't seem to have noticed – although she had noticed something, and the smile had been replaced by a slight frown of uncertainty.

You're staring, you tactless twit! he heard John's voice admonish him.

"Sorry, I hope you don't mind that I borrowed this," she said, glancing down at the dressing gown. "It felt colder than usual this morning."

She seemed to think that he might be annoyed, which saddened him for a moment. Was he really that petty and ungenerous?

He'd been a lot of things over the past couple of weeks, though, most of them fairly unpleasant to be around.

"Of course not," he managed to reply. "I did say that you could borrow it. And besides, I have six."

Molly's expression changed again; incredulity followed by amusement.

"Six?" she repeated. "Six dressing gowns?"

"Two red, two blue, one Tartan and one camel," he heard himself gabble. "I mean not actual camel, obviously, but wool and cashmere in the approximate shade of a camel."

He needed to shut up. But apparently that wasn't going to happen.

"I used to have eight, but one was lost to a kitchen experiment, and my dry-cleaner was unable to adequately remove the bloodstains out of the other one," he said, watching Molly's eyebrows slowly rise. "Anyway," he said, clearing his throat. "My point is that dressing gowns are something I am not short of, so…"

He couldn't help but contrast this situation with the occasion a few years ago, when The Woman had sat just a few feet away from where Molly was now, also wearing his dressing gown. A lot of things had changed since then, in so many ways. But whereas he could never completely relax his guard while Adler was on his territory, with Molly it felt…easy, welcome even. The flat seemed somehow warmer, more lived-in.

"Oh. Well…thanks," Molly replied. "I would have had a shower and got dressed properly, but I didn't want to wake you. Did…did you sleep well?"

"Yes, very well, apparently," Sherlock replied. "…you?"

She nodded.

"And I'm sorry…you know, about dozing off like that last night," Molly said, with an awkward smile. "I mean, especially when I'm supposed to be here looking after you."

Sherlock smiled.

"I can assure you that I did not use that interval to escape from the flat and hunt down the nearest all-night sweetie-shop," he told her, using John's preferred euphemism.

In truth, Sherlock hadn't known what to do when he realised Molly had fallen asleep on his sofa. He knew he should probably just throw a blanket over her and take himself to bed as well, but he couldn't bring himself to leave. Instead, he had passed the time in his chair, quietly cleaning his violin, looking through an old collection of microscope slides, and reading online the latest paper Molly had had published in The Journal of Forensic Pathology. He wondered why she never told him about these things (Why don't you ever tell her you read them? John's voice needled). Occasionally, he would realise, with discomfort, that he had been looking at her for slightly too long. Sherlock Holmes: detective, chemist, misanthrope, addict – and apparently now inappropriate-watcher-of-sleeping-women, too.

"Good," Molly said, smiling behind her coffee mug. "Because then I'd have to tell Mrs Hudson, and she'd probably nail the windows shut."

Sherlock shuffled further into the kitchen, casting his eyes around vaguely, hoping that something would answer the call of his growling stomach.

"Is there any bread left?" he queried.

Molly set down her mug, evidently surprised and pleased by this latest development.

"Yes, but if you're hungry, I can make you some scrambled eggs," she said, starting to get to her feet. "Or a banana and oat smoothie – if you've got cinnamon and vanilla essence."

"I don't even have any bananas," Sherlock replied. "Is that likely to be a problem?"

Molly smiled.

"Okay, um, well, toast then?"

"Tea and toast will be fine," Sherlock told her. "But I can get it myself – thank you, Molly."

He examined the bread briefly before dropping a slice into the toaster.

"Are you sure you don't want a coffee?" Molly enquired. As he turned to face her, she wrinkled her nose at him, adding, "I've, um, I've been practising my barista skills."

Sherlock arched an eyebrow, feeling his lips form a pursed smile.

"Is this in case Pathology doesn't pan out?" he asked.

Molly narrowed her eyes at him suspiciously, as though she was deciding whether or not he was joking.

Not joking, mate – flirting.

"I'm really not," Sherlock replied insistently to the disembodied voice of John.

"Sorry?"

Christ - he'd said that out loud.

"Coffee actually sounds good," Sherlock said hurriedly. "If it isn't too much trouble."

He moved aside to allow Molly to get to the kitchen counter, watching her push up the sleeves of his dressing gown as she went to the sink to rinse out the jug she'd previously used. When her hand was on the fridge door, she stopped, turned.

"Oh…you usually have it black, don't you?"

If he really was flirting, Sherlock reasoned, this would be the point where he'd make a terrible John-standard joke about being strong and sweet – but aside from the fact that he would never be that moronic, he certainly didn't feel particularly strong at the moment, and the sweetness thing was debatable at the best of times. At the moment, however, he had a deep sense of not wishing to discourage Molly in something that apparently brought her enjoyment. He told her to go ahead.

"It's usually only because there's no milk," he added.

Sherlock took a seat at the kitchen table and switched on his phone, eager to give his eyes and mind something else on which to focus. The texts that eventually appeared included the daily reminder from John to get off his phone because he wasn't supposed to be working. Molly was humming quietly, probably subconsciously, while she warmed the milk and waited for the coffee to brew. Sherlock's eyes flicked between his phone screen and his house guest; although Molly had stayed over at Baker Street several times over the past fortnight, this was, he realised, the first time they had had breakfast together. Previously, either he had been feeling too hideous, or Molly had been rushing off to work. His fingertips drummed lightly on the table top, while his brain grappled with what felt like a major social conundrum – namely, how did one go about asking someone when they're planning to leave when you're not actually sure you want them to go? When it's a genuine query, rather than borne out of irritation at their ongoing presence?

Before he had resolved this satisfactorily, Molly was setting down a mug of coffee, complete with a milk foam design on the top. Sherlock studied it for a second.

"Is it a…?"

"It's a leaf," she replied quickly.

The fact that she appeared to be blushing confirmed Sherlock's initial reaction to what he saw in front of him – they had both realised that the milk foam leaf looked more like a heart.

"I've been watching YouTube videos, but I need more practice," Molly added, cheeks still flushed. "I did a cat for Rosie the other day, and it came out pretty well."

A slight smile nudged its way onto Sherlock's lips.

"Little early to be starting her on a caffeine habit, isn't it?"

Molly rolled her eyes.

"I meant to look at," she told him. "Although she got pretty upset when I started to stir it and destroyed the cat."

"I'll try to rein in my distress," Sherlock assured her, although he did feel a strange pang of something when he plunged the teaspoon into what really was very definitely more of a heart than a leaf.

A few minutes later, Sherlock had retrieved and buttered his toast, and he and Molly were sitting perpendicular to each other at the kitchen table. He'd watched her perform a momentary dance of indecision, presumably trying to decide where best to sit; they were used to being side-by-side while working in the lab, but Sherlock conceded that in the context of a meal, this might seem a little strange. For a while, there was a settled, companionable silence between them – but it didn't last long.

Footsteps coming up the stairs. Molly looked up from her journal, clearly hearing the same thing. He started to get to his feet as the living room door opened.

"Woo-oo, Sherlock, you've got visitors!" Mrs Hudson trilled.

Sherlock saw Molly shoot him a questioning look.

"Mrs Hudson, I'm not receiving clients, remember?"

"Yes, dear, I know, I'm not senile," his landlady replied, giving Molly a little wave. "I said visitors, not clients."

And with that, he was plunged into a nightmare that he felt Edgar Allen Poe might have struggled to envisage. For there, coming through his doorway as Mrs Hudson stood aside were his mother and father. If he'd ever wished that something was a drug-induced hallucination, this would be high up on the list.

"What-what are you doing here?" he gasped. "I thought you'd gone back home?"

"I'll leave you all to catch up properly," Mrs Hudson said in a stage-whisper, winking at him as she backed out of the door. That's it Hudders, just light the touch-paper and retreat.

"Yes, we'd planned to," his mother replied, smiling, as they advanced well and truly into the living room. "But then we managed to get some returned tickets for Oklahoma! last night."

"Yes, I'm sure buyers' remorse is a very common occurrence," Sherlock replied. He was all too aware of the fourth person in the room, and the inevitable moment when they would all be forced to address it.

"Anyway," his mother said, unperturbed by – or more likely just ignoring – his comment. "We were on our way to the station this morning and we thought we'd drop by."

"I'm struggling to think of any scenario where Baker Street would be on the way to Victoria," he said. "Aside from one involving a very unscrupulous cabbie."

If his parents wanted to carry out a spot-check to make sure he wasn't passed out in the flat with a needle in his arm, they could have at least devised a better excuse.

"Honestly, darling, we-" – his mother stopped mid-utterance – "Oh! Hello!"

Molly, presumably uncomfortable with lurking furtively in his kitchen, was now hovering on the threshold to the living room. She greeted his parents, her eyes darting to his as though worrying she was doing the wrong thing.

"We had no idea you had a guest staying, Sherlock!" his mother said. "We would have rung ahead."

He was about to ask why that hadn't occurred to them anyway, but when he looked at Molly, he thought better of it.

"Mummy, Dad – this is Dr Molly Hooper," he said, his jaw clenched. "Molly, this is – as I'm sure you've inferred – my mother and father. Dr Hooper has been, ah, good enough to oversee my recovery."

Judging by the look on his parents' faces, his attempts to introduce Molly as having a primarily professional interest in his wellbeing were not working as hoped. Undermined, he suspected, by the fact that she was wearing his dressing gown.

"Well, that is very good of you," his mother said to Molly with a smile.

"Sorry I'm not properly dressed," Molly replied, pulling the dressing gown cord a little tighter around her waist (or, more accurately, her hips).

"Don't apologise, Molly," Sherlock told her. "If you turned up at my parents' house at the crack of dawn, I am sure they would be similarly attired."

"Oh, it's hardly the crack of dawn, darling," his mother said with a dismissive wave. "But, you're right, no need to apologise." She turned to his father: "Remember those few years before Myc came along? All those lazy weekend mornings at home, not bothering to get dressed until after lunch."

His father nodded, obligingly.

Sherlock was itching to point out that it was hardly the same thing, but then he stopped. Looked at the damning evidence. Molly's shoes by the sofa, the striped jumper folded over the back of a chair, her book folded open on the coffee table next to the half-played game of Scrabble (which Molly had very definitely been winning). It all looked alarmingly domestic.

"I recognise your name, Molly," his father mused.

"Oh, aren't you Rosie's godmother?" his mother put in suddenly.

Molly nodded enthusiastically, seemingly pleased that a connection had been made. Sherlock, for his part, could only think that this information must have come from John, or possibly Mrs Hudson in one of her more interfering moments; he had never mentioned Molly to his parents, let alone their shared godparenting status. That had been a deliberate choice.

Wow, Sherlock. Way to make a woman feel valued.

Trust John – even the John in his head – to view it so simplistically. It had nothing to do with Molly's value - but for what purpose would he have discussed her with his parents? He went out of the way to avoid discussing most things with his parents, particularly anything of importance. And particularly anything that might ignite their tendency to hop on the nearest flight of fancy at the smallest provocation – in short, exactly what seemed to be happening in his living room right now.

But when he glanced across at Molly, it started to dawn on Sherlock that she might see things differently; that not mentioning her to his mother and father could be deemed a sign of her insignificance. Suddenly, his stomach felt like lead.

"Can I get you a cup of tea?" Molly was asking. Sherlock was becoming all too aware of how expertly she could cover any discomfit she might be feeling.

"We're fine, thank you," his mother replied, giving Sherlock at least some hope that this visit wouldn't be a long one. If Mycroft had any pre-existing knowledge of this, the first thing he was going to do once he was back to full strength was to find something creative to do with that umbrella of his.

But then his parents started to make themselves at home on the sofa, his mother gesturing for Molly to sit, too. She glanced at him for a moment, pulling the dressing gown over her knees as she sat down.

Sherlock hovered at the periphery, suddenly feeling surplus to requirements.

"So what are you a doctor of, Molly?" his father asked. "Lost causes?"

He nodded towards Sherlock and gave a chuckle; Sherlock stared at him darkly.

"I work in Forensic Pathology," Molly replied, smiling. "At St Bartholomew's."

"Ah!" his father replied. "That makes a lot of sense. I can see now why you two are friends."

When Sherlock instinctively glanced at Molly, he saw a slightly odd look flicker across her face; it was only there for a second before her innate politeness kicked in again, but he felt the force of it like a knee to the guts. After all this time, and despite everything Molly had done for him, their friendship had never been openly acknowledged between them – and that was his fault.

"So, Molly, how is he doing?" his father added, leaning forward a little with his hands on his knees.

"I am actually in the room," Sherlock put in, tersely.

"Yes, darling, we know," his mother replied. "But you're not really the best judge; when you were shot, you told us we didn't need to bother coming up to London."

"Yeeess," Sherlock replied. "But not because it wasn't serious."

His mother rolled her eyes and tutted.

"Sherlock is…he's doing really well, actually," Molly said, her fingers toying with the dressing gown cord. "I'm...I'm really proud of him."

She glanced up across at Sherlock fleetingly, just as her words were sinking in, and he felt momentarily off-balance. He had fallen so far and so spectacularly this time, taking those he cared about down with him, and yet somehow Molly could find it within her to not only forgive him, but to advocate for him, too. Not for the first time, Sherlock felt completely floored by Molly Hooper's patience and compassion – and the thought of ever losing that was unspeakable.

You know what this means, don't you? You really can't screw it up this time.

His parents were continuing to engage Molly in conversation, asking questions about her work, whereabouts in London she lived, how long she had known him. Sherlock's own presence now seemed entirely surplus to requirements, as far as his mother and father were concerned. He watched Molly, how she was with his parents, how, within mere minutes – and with no discernible effort – they seemed to have been completely won over by her. In fact, they hadn't looked this happy when he returned after being dead for two years.

Eventually, once Molly had established once again that his parents didn't want any tea, she started to get up from her seat.

"I'll go and get ready quickly, and then I can get out of your way," she told his parents, smiling. "It's been lovely to meet you both."

Instinctively, Sherlock felt a strange spike of panic – and not, as he might have thought, because he was facing the prospect of more excruciating small-talk with his parents.

"Please don't feel you have to leave on our account, dear," his mother replied. (Funny how this term of endearment sounded very different than when his mother employed the word 'darling' on him, Sherlock noted.)

"Yes, Molly, it's fine," he said quickly. "My parents won't be staying long. After all, they have a train to catch."

He looked pointedly at the senior interlopers on his sofa.

"Open tickets, old boy," his father smiled. "Valid any time over the next month."

Oh, good God. At this point, given their delight at making Molly's acquaintance - and ruining his Sunday - there seemed a very real chance that they might stay for a month. Right there was something that would spell the end of his sobriety.

"Still, you've got…things to get back to," Sherlock told them, waving his hand vaguely. "Village-y things."

Sherlock made a step towards the door, but stopped when he caught Molly's eye. She was giving him a look. He interpreted it as a combination of 'stop being a stroppy toddler' and 'they're your parents – do this for them', and it made him literally swallow the words that he was about to utter. He wondered whether it was enough that he was prepared to do it for Molly instead?

He distracted himself with his cooling coffee, catching the gentle smile that Molly gave him for his quiet compliance. She started to scoop up her jumper and other scattered possessions, Sherlock watching as his living room became more and more joyless and bereft by the second.

"Anyway, it was wonderful to meet you, Molly," his mother said, getting to her feet so that she could grasp Molly's spare hand in hers. "And the next time we're able to persuade Sherlock to visit us, you must come too, as our guest."

"And as a thank you," his father added, with a wink.

Again, Sherlock was on the verge of retorting that this offer was hardly much of thank you, when he saw Molly's reaction – she seemed to be genuinely touched by his parents' gesture. But at the same time, there was something in her polite smile that suggested that she didn't think it very likely that the invitation would ever come to anything. There was that gut-punch again.

"So, um, if you need anything, Sherlock," she said, poised at the threshold of the kitchen. "Just text. Okay?"

His parents, he knew, were doing that ridiculous 'don't mind us - just pretend we're not here' thing, and, if anything, it made him feel more stiff and self-conscious. He thanked Molly, heard himself assure her he would be fine, and watched rather helplessly as she disappeared through the kitchen and into the flat. In a few moments, he would hear the shower clanking and sputtering into life – were his parents not ten feet away acting as the perfect libido-suppresser, Sherlock would have been concerned about where his thoughts would wander. It wouldn't have been the first time this week, he acknowledged, guiltily.

As it was, he turned his attention back to his uninvited guests, and he couldn't help but notice that his mother and father were wearing strange, irritatingly cheerful expressions – in fact, he half expected one or both of them to break into song, like characters from their beloved stage musicals. Perhaps Mrs Hudson and the boys from Speedy's would even join them in a chorus line.

But he thought, too, about the look on Molly's face as she made conversation with his parents - and about the feelings it flared in him, which he didn't seem able to tamp down. Much as any family gathering pained him, Sherlock now accepted that he would have to find some way of asking Molly to accompany him to his parents' house - whatever the blasted occasion turned out to be.