A/N: This will be in three parts. The next part will be obnoxiously long and disgustingly detailed.

Having a bath had been one of her favourite things growing up, except her brother popping up on her unexpectedly. They didn't have locks on the bathroom door, because their mother assumed they'd be up to 'no good'. George never liked that at all, since he was always up to no good, though in the typical teenager driven on hormones way, unlike her who spent an age becoming a prune, like he'd say the minute she went shrieking off, water splattering all over the place when he went on the toilet while she was still there, chatting away disapprovingly about how she'd become a spinster with all the bathwater her body consumed.

Somehow it had been a blessing her flat only had a shower, since she didn't waste time in a shower, except on occasion, but that was on those days she wanted to almost drown (regularly due to one curly haired man).

It felt rather strange exploiting someone else's bathtub, but he wasn't home, at least she hadn't heard him rummaging about. After all, the door didn't have a lock either, making her recall when she was younger.

'Who' didn't have locks on their bathroom?

Sherlock Holmes.

For some reason Sherlock didn't bother having a lock. Not that she minded, since he'd regularly know if she was in when he was home at all.

Deductions certainly came in handy that way.

When he'd first suggested her staying at Baker Street, because her bathroom was being rebuilt she'd blinked at him for a few seconds, until he had to repeat the question (or well it hadn't sounded much like a question or an offer for that matter). She suspected that he like her didn't enjoy the idea of the showers offered at St Bart's. Molly didn't really mind, but the last time she'd had a shower at work it had lead to a really awkward conversation with one of the elderly nurses.

The woman Sally hadn't seemed at all ashamed standing naked in front of her for an age, discussing hospital gossip, while Molly was drying her hair – and the woman's ginger curls (not matching the blond ones on her head) were right by her face.

The human body wasn't something she had a problem with. After all her work was centred on it, but dead corpses were so much easier to handle. They wouldn't move about or do anything unpleasant or smell fishy (depending on what they'd gone through of course). People were a problem in itself…

Oh my God! I'm starting to sound like him.

Molly laughed to herself, prodding her toes at the faucet, while the water was still pleasantly warm. She regretted not making a cup of tea for herself and leaving her book out on the coffee table in the living room. There was not a chance she'd nip out to get it, as she suspected something was bound to go wrong.

Despite her living with Sherlock, their paths barely crossed and it was an incident such as that, which begged for a moment of her turning a terrible shade of red. No, she would enjoy her bath accompanied with her thoughts.

Sighing, she rested her head properly on the towel she'd folded to use as a pillow, while she tried to drift off a bit. Not that she was going to properly sleep. Many of her patients were unfortunately people who'd fallen asleep in the bath, but they were usually people over a certain age.

She liked to think her skin still had some elasticity, even if she was a spinster according to her big brother. He had of course settled down with a large family and was much more subdued, always worrying about her, like their dad had, and she rather enjoyed that. Her closest encounter to marital bliss had been with Tom, but it hadn't worked out properly. George had congratulated her that day, for some odd reason, as he apparently hadn't taken a great liking to Tom – "He just seems so…so stupid." Which were more or less the same words spoken by Sherlock himself, though certainly in a more derisive tone and with a loud snort.

Maybe George and Sherlock would get along, oh, don't go there…

Obviously this was why she needed a distraction, a soothing cup of camomile would do her good, or the book of course, which Sherlock had luckily not told the ending of yet. Shaking the idea off, as she was distracted by the warm bathwater - she was amazed of how quiet it was.

It was odd how serene the flat really was, there was some sort of odd tranquillity to it, especially considering how John gave her a great list of things to be adhered to the instant she said she'd be living at 221B – "Don't let him get bored…and try your best-,"

"Just don't be in his way," added Mary, "That's what you mean, right, John?"

Before Mrs Watson had gone on a long rant – " - he's a grown man – he even offered his flat for her to stay. And he's barely going to be there anyway, didn't you say he was going off to Denmark for a case?" She'd half-expected him to badger her to join him on one of his cases, but he hadn't. And she'd been too tired to bother him about any of it, except her weekend was entirely vacant, excluding this bath, which she'd planned since she woke up.

Now it was evening, and she couldn't boast of having done much more than getting some shopping done and watching a horrendous amount of reality shows to numb the slight boredom that crept up on her. She was after all living in 221B; the infamous flat of Sherlock and John Watson (at least that's what the papers wrote) and the most exciting thing that happened all day was when she realized she had bought a packet of crisps (forgotten crisps were the best).

During her decision that perhaps thinking wasn't a good idea, since her thoughts obviously only went one way – the bathroom door creaked open. Of all the things she imagined would happen, Sherlock walking in naked wasn't one of them.