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Something did not feel right. She had the unmistakable feeling that she was not alone in the room. Slowly she found her way out of sleep, because at first she was not sure if she was still dreaming, if she was still imagining it. But no, there was someone else in the room. She could hear him/her breathing. Her heart began to race and she tried her best, not to let the intruder know that she was already awake, until she had figured out what to do.

Had somebody broken into her flat? What time was it? Why hadn't she heard the lock being picked? And why did her head feel like a convention of drummers was taking place inside of it?

The room smelled peculiar – not like her bedroom at all, but familiar all the same. And the sheets felt odd as well. The pillow was way lower than usual, and the mattress seemed to be harder. While she tried to process all that in her aching head, she heard the rustling of clothes very close to her – too close. She stopped breathing.

"I know you are awake," an all too familiar baritone voice informed her.
She dared to breathe again and opened her eyes slowly. She squinted, because even the little bit of light that shone through the curtains and told her that it was close to sunrise, felt like stings of needles in her eyes. When she finally focused on Sherlock Holmes sitting on the bed beside her, her heart could not decide to slow down, because he was no burglar, or to speed up, because it was him.

Then in a rush all the memories came flooding back to her. She was in Sherlock's bedroom. He had made her stay. She had been out with Carol, this Mark-guy had said she was sexy, she had felt sexy, she had been drunk, she had come to Baker Street, she had wanted to seduce Sherlock, it had gone totally wrong, she had confessed that she was still in love with him, ... She closed her eyes again, because she did not want to see his impassive face. It was too much to take right now. She buried her face, which was red from embarrassment, in the pillow.

She could not help but think that it would have been less embarrassing urinating in his wardrobe, than making that dreadful confession. She was never going to have a sip of alcohol again!

When Molly did not react to Sherlock's statement other than trying to hide her face from him, he said, "There's aspirin on the bedside table. I suspect you're having a bad headache."

Molly nodded into the pillow, wishing it would swallow her whole.
"You should probably sleep a little more. It's still very early."

Since Sherlock did not show the slightest inclination to leave the room or even to get up, and the bed did not fulfil her wish and swallow her, Molly decided to look fear in the eye. Slowly she turned her head, opened her eyes again and dared to look at the consulting detective sitting beside her on the bed. He was still wearing the same clothes he had been wearing before she had gone to bed: a white shirt, black trousers and his blue dressing gown. She wondered if he had even changed at all. But what surprised her even more, was the look he was giving her. It was an odd mixture of frustration, concern, confusion and... something she could not quite place. If it would not have been Sherlock Holmes she would have said it was affection. But hence it was said man, she blamed the rest of the alcohol in her system for seeing things that could not be there.

To escape his captivating gaze, she glanced at the bedside table. There were a glass of water and a white pill – the aspirin. She had to smile on spite of herself – that was really thoughtful of Sherlock. While still keeping her gaze on the medicine she said, "Thanks."
"No problem," he rasped.
"Have you been here for long?"
There was a small pause.
"I thought I'd bring you an aspirin."
It did not escape her notice that he had not answered her question. He was stalling. That made her look back at him. He was staring at some point behind her head on the headboard, which seemed to be awfully fascinating. She did not know why it mattered, but she wanted him to answer her question, so she tried again, "But when was that?"
His face was as unreadable as ever, but he was belied by the way his fingers danced nervously over sheets next to her form.
"Not long after you went to bed."
Molly popped herself up on her elbow.
"You left the door open," he said as way of explanation.
"I can't remember," she answered truthfully.
He looked away from the spot behind her head back into her face.
"But you remember the rest?"
Molly could not decide if he sounded uncertain, fearful, annoyed or even a bit hopeful. Her hammering head did not help in making the decision. She gulped. For a second she thought about lying, but she knew it was useless. This was Sherlock Holmes after all. He probably even knew now that she was considering it.
Therefore she settled for the truth. "Yes, I remember the rest." She could feel her face going hot again.

"Good." He nodded.
The perplexity showed on her face. She had no clue what that was supposed to mean. Did it mean good as in 'I see', as in 'not good at all', as in 'I'm glad you do', or...
Molly felt a new wave of shame wash over her.
"Sherlock, I'm really sorry, I..." But she could not finish, because he interrupted her, "You've said you've tried to stop caring about me."
Her mouth felt dry and she felt a cold hand grabbing her heart and squeezing it. "Yes," she breathed.
"Why?" There was an undercurrent of disappointment in his tone and that made the grip loosen slightly.
"Well, because...," she hesitated and looked down self-consciously onto the sheets where his hands lay, the fingers still toying with the bed cloth, "because it hurts me." The last words were spoken so low, Sherlock could hardly hear them.
"I am selfish," he stated with conviction, and Molly looked at his face again. He stared right back at her, his eyes swirling pools of emotions.
He went on to explain, "I am selfish, because I don't want you to stop caring about me."
She stared at him incredulously. Had he just said what she thought she had heard, and did he mean what she thought he meant? Could it be?
She shook her head slowly. "I think I'm still drunk."
Sherlock chuckled, sounding bewildered "I hate to admit it, but it worked, you know."
If it was possible Molly got even more confused. "What did?"
He lifted his hand off the sheets and reached forward to gently tuck a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "You have managed to seduce me, Molly Hooper."
Her eyes widened on shock, and she could only watch perplexed as Sherlock's face came closer to hers, until she felt his lips on hers. Instantly she closed her eyes at the contact. It was soft – almost hesitant, and he pulled back all too soon.
He leaned back slightly to gauge her reaction. Her face was flushed and he could not help the smile that tucked on his lips when she looked at him in utter wonderment. Molly caught the gleam of happiness that was shown in his eyes, and that made her bold and lean forward to kiss him again. This time it took him a moment to realize what was happening, but when he did, he let one hand travel in her hair and pulled her closer to him while the other snaked around her waist and he leaned over her. Molly sighed happily at his actions, let her hands do some travelling of her own and deepened the kiss.

So far it had never ended well when Molly Hooper had drunk too much, but this time it did.

The End

A/N: And once again all my love goes to you amazing people who continue to read, review, PM, alter, ... THANK YOU!
Read you again soon - hopefully ;-)