Thanks to KraZiiePyrozHavemoreFun for the prompt idea and to AsteraceaeBlue for betaing! Most of the time I admit to being pretty well paralyzed if someone sends me a prompt, with the mind going blank and me feeling like an idiot, but for once...well, I'll let you lovely readers be the judge if I did the prompt justice! And by the way? It was going to be a quick drabble but grew into...this. What can I say, the plot bunnies burrow where they like!

Round One In The Great Lap Ownership Wars

It started the night before Sherlock left to take down Moriarty's web of evil, the night after his jump from the roof of St. Bart's, when he'd stayed with Molly. His brother had offered a safe house, but Sherlock had insisted that there was no safer place for him than Molly's flat. She of course had offered no objections; after all, not only were her feelings for him abundantly clear, but he hoped she understood now exactly how much she meant to him as well.

She counted, he trusted her. And so she allowed him the use of her flat for that one night, after his 'body' had been identified by Mycroft, and his parents (Mummy really was an amazing actress) had sobbed over him and released him to the 'mortician' and he'd endured a brief ride in the back of a hearse, slipping out once inside the garage of the funeral home to make his way to Molly's flat.

He'd used the spare key she'd tucked into his jacket pocket, although tempted to test out his lock-picking skills. But no, one of her neighbors might come by at an inopportune moment, and although he trusted in his abilities, he was forced to admit that, on this particular day, he wasn't at his best. Too emotionally wrought (don't think about John's face, John's anguished words), physically compromised to a certain extent (wrenched shoulder, aching left wrist, twisted ankle, headache verging on migraine) to take the chance.

As soon as he closed the door behind him he found himself confronted with a very suspicious looking Toby (male, three years old, fixed, grey and black striped fur, extra digit on front right paw, green-blue eyes with flecks of amber, looking familiar for some reason but unable to place at the moment), Molly's cat.

The two stared at one another; had anyone been there to see them (Molly was finishing up her shift at Bart's and would undoubtedly have to endure an extra half-hour of colleagues offering her their condolences on her 'loss'), they would have found the sight particularly amusing, as the human man and the male cat wore identically comic expressions of mutual dislike; if Sherlock's ears could fold back against his head the way Toby's currently were, they would have. If Toby had been capable of wrinkling his nose the way Sherlock's currently was, he would have.

Other than that, the narrowed eyes, the curled lips and the reared-back heads made the two look a bit like twins (different species, but twins nonetheless).

The moment ended when Toby hissed, turned his back and fled into one of the two bedrooms – most likely Molly's, Sherlock deduced, although to his chagrin he would proven wrong an hour later, after he'd made himself tea (contrary to popular belief, he did know his way around a kitchen), gulped down a handful of chocolate biscuits (Molly had told him to help himself to anything he found in the flat), and calmed his nerves (not that he would admit to needing calming) by deducing Molly's life by examining the public areas of her flat.

Then necessity called, he used the facilities, and gave into the desire to explore the remaining two rooms, both doors being open. One would be Molly's bedroom, of course, and the other would be a combination guest bedroom and office.

He was correct on both assumptions; however, he was vaguely displeased to discover Toby lounging across the cheery yellow comforter on the daybed in the spare bedroom, instead of sprawled possessively across Molly's bed as Sherlock had assumed he would be. That wouldn't do, it wouldn't do at all; if he was to spend the night here, that daybed was his, and Toby was going to have to give up ownership.

Now.

Sherlock continued into the room, locking eyes with his foe as he finally removed his coat and scarf and hung them on the hooks on the back of the door. He sat on the rolling chair pulled up to Molly's desk (and on top of a pile of papers she'd left haphazardly piled there, not even noticing since he was so intent on outstaring the cat) and removed his shoes. Then he stood back up (said papers falling all over the place and once again unnoticed by the consulting detective) and stalked over to the bed, still glowering at the cat. "Get up," he said in his coldest, most intimidating voice. "I need to stretch out and you, cat, are in the way."

Toby continued to stare up at him, seeming not one whit discommoded by Sherlock's presence looming over him. In fact, he had the temerity to blink (Hah! I won, Sherlock thought triumphantly, immediately followed by disgust at the fact that he was competing with a cat) and then yawn before proceeding to lick his paws (the one with the extra toe first) before moving on to his private parts. There was a certain air of disdain if not outright dismissiveness to his actions, and Sherlock was sorely tempted to pick him up bodily and toss him out the door.

Molly, however, would undoubtedly not approve if he manhandled her beloved pet, so instead, Sherlock tried crowding the animal off the bed.

Toby of course refused to budge, and in the end Sherlock retreated to Molly's colorfully patterned sofa (flowers of course, she loved flowers), laid down and vanished into his Mind Palace for a good, long sulk...uh, think. A good, long think.

He was still deep within his own mind when Molly finally dragged her way home (a half hour later than normal, as he'd predicted). He only came out of it, blinking and looking around, when he heard her clattering around in the kitchen. Why was it that some people only became noisier the quieter they tried to be? "I'm not sleeping, but yes, a cup of tea would be appreciated," he called out, anticipating her question. Then he folded his hands back beneath his chin and returned to a (less intense) review of the plans he and Mycroft had made to take down Moriarty's criminal empire.

He heard Molly approaching a few minutes later and angled his head up so that she could sit on the sofa and he could leave his head where it was – well, in her lap, which seemed like the best place for it at the moment. He trusted her to understand the invitation and, being Molly (so much more observant than he'd given her credit), she hesitated only a moment before joining him there.

He relaxed against her thigh, murmuring his thanks for the tea and the life-saving and for the head massage she was about to give him – oh, wasn't it obvious that was what he needed? Headache, don't you know...

Then Molly's gentle fingers were stroking through his hair, easing the pain he'd been doing his best to ignore, and Sherlock Holmes felt all the tension in his body that had built up over the past twenty-four hours finally draining away.

Until, of course, a certain cat made his displeasure at being deprived of his favorite seat known.

"Toby! Oh, Sherlock, I'm so sorry!"

Sherlock had levered himself upright as soon as Molly's cat had jumped up onto her lap – more accurately, onto his face, which had been occupying her lap. Little bastard had made sure to use his claws as well, as witness the blood currently dripping down Sherlock's face. He'd endured less damage from his leap from the roof of St. Bart's earlier in the day!

While Sherlock glared and spat curse words at the clearly unrepentant – and maliciously triumphant – cat, Molly hurried into the kitchen and retrieved her first aid kit. She fussed over Sherlock, much to Toby's disgruntlement, while Sherlock shot him malicious grins whenever Molly wasn't looking. She cooed and fussed over Sherlock and scolded Toby, which made Sherlock grin even wider and sent Toby into the spare bedroom in a sulk. Then, when Molly tentatively offered to exile Toby from his usual perch, Sherlock pretended to be the bigger man and told her not to bother, he'd already discommoded her beloved pet enough for one day. Then, with innocent eyes and his most rumbly voice (the one he knew did things to her limbic system even if he still refused to admit that her reaction to his voice did the same for his own body), he asked if he might just lie down on her bed, instead?

"It's larger, there's more room, and if I feel the need to pace, I think it would be best if I confined myself there rather than disturbing your evening routine, wouldn't you agree?"

And of course she had; she was Molly Hooper and had already proven she would do anything for him.

But as he closed her bedroom door behind him and set about pacing, he found his mind lingering not on his current predicament or Moriarty's left-behind empire, but on how much he relied on the fact that Molly would do anything for him.

And how much he wanted to do...things...for her.

For her, and to her.

No. Wrong. He banished the images that tried to spring to mind, shoved them away in the cupboard (small room...mid-sized room...hell, ballroom-sized space) he reserved for All Things Molly Hooper. He needed to focus on taking down Moriarty's empire and had no time for distractions, even Molly-shaped distractions.

Of course, being in her bedroom certainly didn't help, since the sight of her clothing (surely she must have remembered that she'd left her nightgown – a pale yellow satin that would complement her skin and hair beautifully – lying across the foot of the bed and that the strap of a black bra was hanging from her dresser drawer) and the scent of her perfume all sought to remind him of her presence.

No. Wrong again. He laid himself across her bed (after carefully removing her nightgown, his fingers lingering only because the fabric was an interesting, seldom-felt texture and not because he was busy trying not to imagine Molly wearing it), closed his eyes, steepled his fingers beneath his chin, and forced his Mind Palace to order itself.

It took three tries, but eventually he succeeded.