A Perfect Fit

Once, the conclusion of a case would leave Sherlock Holmes depressed as well as exhausted. After all, he had built himself as the world's only consulting detective, as someone who lived only for the case and the high that it brought. But now he had become more than that. Of course, his job continued to thrill and stimulate him, but that was no longer the only thing that he lived for.

What he truly lived for now was what he came home to after a case was done, which was the reason he no longer felt depressed after a case was over.

However, he would still feel exhausted after the more challenging or physically-demanding cases. This particular one had ended in a chase that must have covered a quarter of London (which was quite a large area), and the only thing that had made it worth it in the end was that the criminal had been apprehended and locked away. So, their work done, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson had parted ways in separate taxis that would each take them home: John to Mary and baby Emma, and Sherlock to Baker Street and Molly.

The fact that the two of them equally and together constituted his home warmed Sherlock's heart as nothing ever had before and never failed to do.

His taxi reached his destination at about half past one in the morning; the March night was dark, overcast, and had the air thick with moisture just ready to pour out at any moment. Sherlock neither noticed or cared; he was home, and that's all that mattered to him now. His stride noticeably slower than usual, Sherlock entered the building, past the door to Mrs. Hudson's flat (no doubt her herbal soothers had put her to sleep long ago), up the stairs one at a time instead of two or three at a time, and to the door which lead into flat 221B.

As quietly as he could (another contradiction to his usual behavior) Sherlock opened that door, for he was quite sure of what he would find when he entered the flat. And when his eyes adjusted to the dim light of the front room, his suspicions were confirmed and a soft smile came to his mouth.

Molly was curled up at one end of the long leather sofa, a blanket haphazardly covering her from the waist down and the book she'd been reading (Bleak House by Charles Dickens, well-worn paperback, personal favorite) lying open face-down on the floor where it had dropped when she'd fallen asleep.

Still smiling and his heart getting more pleasantly warm by the second, Sherlock quickly stripped off his Belstaff coat and scarf before tip-toeing over to her. His current state of fatigue forgotten for the moment, Sherlock picked up her book and set it on the coffee table. Then he picked Molly up from the sofa, which wasn't a difficult task at all. He had lifted much heavier things before, and Molly could never feel like a burden in his arms. The fact that her body always felt warm against his and that she always consciously or unconsciously snuggled her body against his.

They were a perfect fit in every way, especially this one.

As he walked them to their bedroom, Molly stirred a bit and her lips brushed against his neck. "Sh'lock?" she groaned very softly, her warm breath tickling his skin.

"Shh," Sherlock breathed, softly kissing the crown of her head. "Sleep. I'm home now."

Molly moaned softly, snuggling even closer to him, which made it harder for Sherlock to tuck her into bed. But he did, glad that she was already in her pajamas of purple flannels (though stripping Molly of her clothes could never be an unpleasant task, he preferred her awake and aware when he did so.)

After she was sufficiently settled under the covers, Sherlock quickly and quietly stripped off his own clothes and went to the bathroom. A quick but thorough shower was just what he needed after running all of those London blocks, and the last thing he wanted Molly to do in the morning was be repelled from the bed (for he intended that she wouldn't leave that bed until at least the afternoon).

His shower done, Sherlock put on only a fresh pair of pants before slipping into bed (he never wore much to bed anyway and clothes would only be in the way when they woke up). Once under the covers, he scooched over and spooned against Molly's body, holding her to him securely.

He was fast asleep within two minutes, for they were a perfect fit.

The flatmates and romantic partners of three months did not leave the bedroom until half past one in the afternoon. Truth be told, Sherlock would have been happy to stay in bed with Molly all day (every day), but she was much more attuned to both of their body's needs, especially when they needed to eat. She could be quite forceful about it at times, so Sherlock knew better than to really argue with her about it.

So now the two of them were in the kitchen (yes, it was a kitchen, for Molly loved to cook and bake and would not tolerate sharing that space with Sherlock's science equipment, so John's old room had become Sherlock's new laboratory). Each wore one of Sherlock's dressing gowns, and were munching on scrambled eggs and toast topped with orange marmalade.

"Why do you do it, Molly?" asked Sherlock, breaking the comfortable silence.

"Do what, Sherlock?" she replied, her eyes not looking up from the medical journal she'd picked up yesterday after work.

"Try to wait up for me while I'm on a case. You're not one who likes to stay up late if you're not working. Not once have you been able to remain awake long enough to greet me when I come back home. So why bother at all? You'll get far more comfortable rest in our bed than that sofa, which is only fit for Mind Palace trips and not regular sleep."

That last remark caused Molly to smile a bit, but she remained quiet. Her eyes drifted from the journal to the handle of one of the kitchen cabinets as her own thoughts became deeper. She seemed to be contemplating if and how to tell Sherlock of something serious.

Now Sherlock was quite curious, for he hadn't expected Molly to have a serious reason. When her silence stretched and his worry began to take root, Sherlock reached across the table and took her hand. Her gaze went back to him as he said, "Molly, please tell me."

She squeezed his hand, took a deep breath, and then spoke in a low voice:

"I don't know how aware of this you are, Sherlock, but sometimes you have bad dreams. Not often, but sometimes, I'll wake up to you tossing around a bit and mumbling, almost begging. You're always addressing me in your dream, whatever it is: Molly, wait…Please don't leave me, Molly…I need you, Molly…Don't leave me here alone…They were never so bad that they woke you up, but they were still distressing for you. So I would just…hold you and soothe you as best as I could until you quieted, and I'd fall right back asleep."

Molly paused to blink quite forcefully, as if to clear away both the tears that had gathered there and the heart-wrenching feeling those memories came with. Sherlock himself felt his own throat close up, for he did know that he sometimes had bad dreams. Like most dreams, he couldn't remember them very clearly. All he remembered was that he'd been cold and that he couldn't find Molly.

In short, they were absolutely bloody terrifying.

"I had hoped not to burden you with this," said Sherlock. "They've only happened a few times, and each follows the next less quickly, so I hope that soon they will be of the past."

Molly nodded. "I understand. But I hope you know that you can confide in me about anything."

"I do, Molly, I do." He kissed her hand, and she was reassured enough to continue on.

"There is one other thing, a bit more important, perhaps…it was two months ago, when you'd come home after taking down the Moriarty imposter for good. I was in the bedroom, getting dressed for work, and you called out for me after you came in through the front door. Your voice sounded…quite frightened…as if you thought I was gone…and when I joined you in the front room, the relief exuding off you was palpable…"

She held his hand more tightly, her dark eyes looking into his light ones with fire in the orbs.

"I don't plan on going anywhere, Sherlock. I waited a long time for you, stood by you through all of the bad, and know how to handle all of your less desirable habits. I hope I can really prove that to you, as time goes on and I'll still be here, so that this insecurity you hold will go away for good. Until then, I'll keep trying to wait up for you, so that you can see me right away when you come home. So that you'll see that I'm right here, and that you still, and will always, have me completely."

Sherlock made no verbal reply right away. Instead, he stood up and, still holding her hand, indicated for her to rise too, which she did. When he stood before her, Sherlock wrapped his arms around her tiny frame and pressed her to him, his forehead resting against hers. She stroked his cheeks and his chest as he gathered his thoughts and emotions, his eyes closed and his shoulders tense. When those relaxed and his eyes opened, he only said three words:

"I love you."

It was the first time he'd spoken those words to Molly since that climactic day three months ago. A day after his four-minute exile and near-OD, as he was lying in a hospital bed and she was sitting in a chair beside, their relationship had finally reached what it had been building towards for seven years (slowly because of Sherlock, but better late than never). They'd talked about and over everything, Sherlock more so since he had a lot of explaining and groveling to do; Molly had shed some tears, and it had all ended in that soft, three-word vow from each of them and a tender first kiss.

When Sherlock was cleared to leave, Molly returned to Baker Street with him, and had been sharing his home, his bed, and his heart ever since. Those who didn't know them would call that awfully fast, but those who did know them felt nothing but relief (that the git had finally come to his senses) and joy for the both of them. That long, emotional, and revealing conversation between the two had been the last stone to launch the avalanche after seven years of mounting pressure. The two were in love, they needed each other, and both felt it would be foolish to be any less open and sharing with each other now than they had been in that conversation. And though Sherlock had waited three months to actually say those three words to Molly, he'd proven it in his actions to her so many times every single day in between.

So, in response to his softly but richly spoken words, Molly smiled and murmured, "And I love you."

They shared a long, warm kiss as their arms around each other tightened. And then they just held each other for a long time, as the rain which had been looming the night before poured as freely on the city outside as their feelings for each other did now.

And why not? They were, after all, a perfect fit.