She woke up from a dream she couldn't remember, basked in the warmth of the body lying next to her until the dim morning light filtered through the blinds and she gave up any hope of falling asleep again. Her mind was running in circles, and she might as well soak in the bathtub for a while.

It had been a month since the beginning of their unconventional arrangement, but she still didn't know what to make of it. It was only a couple of days after a dead man's message had appeared on every screen of the country that she came home from a nightshift to find Sherlock Holmes fast asleep in her bed. Molly Hooper hadn't been told the whole truth about the Magnussen incident, but she could easily guess how upset Sherlock had to be underneath his indifferent façade; that was why she simply let him be, to the extent that they were practically living under the same roof these days.

He kissed her sometimes, when she woke him from a nightmare – was he dreaming of Serbia all over again? – and brought him coffee in the morning, or when they lay down side by side in the same bed and she dared to hope that he actually cared.

"It's not you, dearie," that Janine woman had told her once. "I'm afraid he has very little use for women; or men, for that matter."

She'd still wondered if he was in love with John, until one evening he'd surprised her by answering her unspoken question. "He's my best friend," he'd said, not bothering to spell out who he was talking about. "I do care for him, though not the way you're thinking."

And now she was starting at her reflection in the steamy mirror, desperately trying to make up her mind as to whether she should put a stop to whatever this was between the two of them. Her educated guess was that Sherlock secretly enjoyed the closeness, no matter that he seemed to think he wasn't entitled to indulge himself when it came to basic human affection.

However, he was still asexual – yes, she had researched it, and was fairly sure he actually fit the description – and married to his work; even in the odd chance he might be interested in what he usually shunned as transport, she wasn't entirely sure she could handle this.

Sighing she towelled her hair dry, then padded to the kitchen where she put the kettle on and glanced out of the window to London's rain-drenched streets. She shivered with cold – she was wearing nothing but the towel she'd wrapped around her body earlier – but somehow she couldn't bring herself to care, uncertainty closing in on her like a bird of prey.

"Morning," a familiar voice drawled from the doorway, startling her out of her musings.

"Kettle's on," she hastened to explain, acutely aware of the fact that she was standing half-naked in front of the man she shouldn't dare to want. "I'll be back in a mo."

She didn't quite succeed in dashing out of the room though, the touch of his hand enough to effectively root her to the spot. "What do you need?" he asked, his eyes intent on reading her like an open book.

"Nothing," she shrugged and turned around, her fingers unconsciously tightening around the towel where it closed just above her chest. Why couldn't he simply let the matter drop, so that they would go back to playing platonic life partners?

He took a step closer, his breath warm against the back of her neck. "What do you need?" he asked again, only this time he didn't wait for her answer.

Her eyes fluttered closed when he leaned to drop a kiss on her bare shoulder; there were a thousand reasons why that was not good to say the least, but her brain refused to heed them at this moment in time. "Sherlock," she warned him half-heartedly, her breath uneven as he brushed his lips at the base of her neck.

"Tell me what you need," he instructed her once more, and she couldn't help but tilt her head to give him better access.

"You," she exhaled, biting at her lower lip; her brain caught up with her at last, and she found the strength to pull away. "Doesn't matter though, I know you don't want to."

He reached for her shoulder, prompting her to spin around. "I don't want not to," he corrected her, his hand shifting to cover hers. Their eyes met, and she didn't shy away when the towel finally hit the floor.