Sherlock Holmes and Molly Hooper sat in a not so companionable silence as the black jaguar, the car not the animal, made its way down the highway racing toward London. Finally, the woman spoke, "Sorry for getting all this mud all over your new car, Sherlock."

"No you're not."

"No, I'm not, as it's your fault that I'm covered in this crap! And since when do you have a car?"

"Since eight months ago, Molly."

"Eight months! And you never mentioned you owned a car! You take cabs everywhere, Sherlock! You make me pay for them half the time! Where the hell was the bloody car all this time?"

"In the garage. Where else would it be?"

"You pay for a car. You pay for a garage. Yet you spend all that money on cab fare? Or rather, make me spend money on cab fare, you bloody…"

"Just fill in an expense report, Molly, and I'll be happy to reimburse you!" Since Molly was currently looking as pointedly as possible at anything but Sherlock Holmes, she didn't see the amused look dancing across his face. Sherlock couldn't really explain it, but he loved to see the riled up look on his pathologist's face, somewhat like a ten year old boy tormenting the little girl he actually adored in the schoolyard.

The car pulled up in front of Molly's building, and she was somewhat surprised to see the detective exit the car to join her on the steps to the door. "Where are you going, Sherlock. You can't park there!"

"I can if I have one of Mycroft's magic little stickers on the window. I could park anywhere. Maybe even Buckingham Palace, although I wouldn't want to put her Majesty out."

"A virtual get-out-of-jail-free card to putter about London, and you still take cabs, which John or I pay for. You're a real git, Sherlock Holmes!"

"That may have been mentioned a time or two before, Dr. Hooper. Hardly an original thought."

Molly simply rolled her eyes, clutched the blanket which Sherlock had retrieved from the boot of his car more tightly around her, and climbed the stairs to her flat. When they entered her sitting room, Sherlock was the first to speak, "I need some tea!"

"Of course you do. You always need tea!" Molly rolled her eyes. "And take off your shoes. You're tramping mud all over my carpet."

'The carpet beneath your feet is hardly pristine, Molly. You're positively dripping with mud. At least I hope it's mud. We were in a pasture, after all."

"Well, who was it that shoved me into the, hopefully, mud, you git? And I didn't notice you dropping down beside me."

"Don't be ridiculous, Molly. I might have gotten my coat all ...muddy."

"We heard a gunshot, Sherlock. You could have gotten a bloody hole in that coat. And I mean a, literally, 'bloody' hole!"

"A hole in my coat is easy to handle, Molly. A hole in my pathologist would be a bit more problematical," he said, smiling gently at her, trying to assuage her concerns. "As it turns out, it was only poacher looking for some illegal rabbits. So, no harm done."

"Except that I'm a muddy mess, and shaking like a leaf!"

"Go get cleaned up, Molly. I'll make the tea."

"Tea for you, wine for me, Sherlock!"

"Wine again? Every time you get the least bit upset, you start on the wine. Have you ever considered that you may be becoming addicted, Molly?"

"You're not allowed to lecture me on my indulgence in cheap red wine until you roll up your sleeve and show me how many nicotine patches you're wearing today, Sherlock!"

"Point taken. I shall put on the kettle and open the wine while you freshen up. Emphasis on the freshen!" Sherlock said as he sniffed the air around the small woman. "Where's your corkscrew?"

"It's really cheap wine tonight, mate. Just twist the top!" Molly told him as she headed toward the shower.

Sherlock put the water on to boil, and was soon puttering around Molly's familiar kitchen gathering the items needed for his tea, as well as a bottle of wine from her cabinet. It could be worse, he thought, at least it's not in a box!

Molly exited the bath some time later, and joined Sherlock on the couch in her sitting room. Sherlock began speaking as soon as she was settled. "I've heard from Lestrade. The suspect was picked up an hour ago, and confessed to everything as soon as he saw a police car. So, we didn't really need to find whatever it was that he had hidden in that field. Officers will go trudging through the muck tomorrow, now that they know exactly where to look. Hopefully they won't be mistaken for rabbits!"

"I'd like to put a pair of long ears, and a big fluffy tail on Sally Donovan, though!" Molly then reached over to pour her first glass of wine, only to be stopped by her companion.

"Molly, shouldn't you let the wine breathe a little first?"

"Believe me, Mr. Detective, this wine breathed its last long before it hit the shelf at Tesco!"

As Molly poured herself a large glass of the deep red liquid, Sherlock noticed that her hand was still trembling a bit. "You're still upset with me, aren't you?" he asked quietly.

"You could have been shot, Sherlock. Killed."

"I doubt it. I don't look much like a rabbit, after all."

"But what if it wasn't a mistake? What if there had been a real shooter out there? You shoved me to the ground, out of harm's way. And then stood there with a target on your back! You wouldn't have shoved John to the ground, would you?"

"Molly, I knew there was no gunplay involved in this case. I wouldn't have taken you out there if I thought there would be…"

"I know that, Sherlock. But I don't think I could take seeing you in danger. Making yourself a target to protect me!"

"Don't let it get to you so much, Dr. Hooper…"

"I can't help it, you prat! It's not my fault I'm in love with you. It''s your fault, what with your big coat, and your big cheekbones, and your big fluffy hair and your big…"

"Where exactly are you going with this, Molly?"

"It's not my fault. I did nothing wrong!" Molly was now on the verge of tears, years of pent-up frustration, even irrational guilt, for being so infatuated with the man sitting next to her building up inside her. He knew about her feelings, of course. And that was why he treated her so gently lately, why he protected her. And that protective instinct could have gotten him killed. And she would not be the cause of any harm coming to Sherlock Holmes. Ever.

"Molly, you're not making any sense. Of course, none of this is your fault."

"Then why do I feel so guilty? Like I've committed some sort of crime?" Molly stopped sniffing, pulled shoulders back, took another swig of wine, and continued, "Well, even if I have committed some sort of crime, I've served seven years. Seven years, Sherlock, of following you around like a sick puppy, probably screwing up both our lives. Well, I'm commuting my sentence, and yours. I'm granting myself an early release. No more following you around. No more being a burden. No more going on cases with you. I can't risk both of our lives just because I want to be close to you! You'll do better on your own, you'll be safer without me to worry about…"

"You're still not making any sense, Molly!" Now even Sherlock was confused by his pathologist's sputtering speech. Why would she feel guilty? He was the one who had possibly taken her into harm's way. If anything had happened to his Molly, he would never have forgiven himself. And not because he felt sorry for having brought about, however unconsciously, her unremitting infatuation. He had been trying to make light of the situation because he realized just how terrified he had been at the thought of losing her. "Molly, listen to me. You don't get off that easy. No commuted sentence for you!" And with that he drew her into his arms, and moved his lips to cover hers, not stopping until she returned the kiss with as much passion as it was given. "I think you had better reconsider that 'early release' you've granted yourself, love."

"You may be right. I think I may have just committed a serious parole violation, Sherlock."

"I'm glad you agree, because you are definitely about to be violated even more. Enough, I would say, for a life sentence."

"Sherlock," Molly murmured into his chest, "You're not going to make me give up my red wine, are you?"

"Of course not, my love. But from now on we'll steal the good stuff from my brother's wine cellar. You're not going to ration the nicotine patches, are you?"

"Not until you start itching and throwing up. Deal?"

"Deal! Ah, co-dependency! Isn't it wonderful!' Sherlock said as he pulled her down on her couch and smothered her neck with kisses. And Molly couldn't agree more.