This is my submission for Holidays at 221B on Tumblr which I mod along with the lovely and talented darnedchild. I *may* have a New Years fic as well, depending on my schedule. Here's hoping!

Sending sugarplum thank yous to MrsMCrief for giving this one a 'first look' and to MizJoely for her incomparable beta work. I have to mention that Miz's Secret Santa on Tumblr inspired this fic with their gift of a skull scarf. It all started there and was supposed to be a one shot. Well, that didn't happen. As of now, it has four parts total. A fifth may spring up as well, who knows?

I own nothing. Enjoy ~Lil~

Part One

It wasn't unusual for Molly to find herself at Sherlock's flat on a Saturday morning; at least not since Mary's death, his relapse and the sudden emergence of his long lost sister. Everyone was keeping a cautious eye on the detective. Though he'd not shown any sign of danger, drugs or spiralling into depression, after the year they'd just had, no one was taking any chances. There was no schedule, per se, just occasional 'pop-ins' to see how he was doing. Molly was sure he was aware of his friends' concern; strangely enough, he didn't seem to mind.

"Here you go," he said, handing her a mug of coffee. She'd had a late night at the morgue that had bled into the early morning. A rash of people ringing in 'sick' - that Molly thought had more to do with holiday shopping than any actual illness - had her working her second double shift in a row and tea simply wasn't going to cut it today. Apparently, Sherlock had read that in the ten minutes since she'd arrived; he'd then stomped off to the kitchen, muttering something about her inconsiderate co-workers.

Sherlock sat down in his chair - his new chair - but Molly wandered, afraid that if she sat, she'd pass out. Rather than heading home, she had opted to check on him first, get it out of the way early so that she could go home and collapse. Taking a sip of her coffee, she walked towards the fireplace. Oddly enough, Sherlock had a fire burning in the grate and she felt drawn to it.

She'd been worried about the state of 221B after hearing about the explosion. Well, after hearing from Mrs. Hudson that everyone was fine and unharmed, for the most part. Later, however, she had found out that the iconic building had sustained significant damage. Molly had wondered if he would upgrade the place, modernise it in any way. He was the epitome of modern fashion, after all, as if he'd just walked off a runway rather than a dirty crime scene. But his home was some strange eclectic mix of eras and styles.

Her eyes suddenly were drawn to the familiar skull that sat on the mantel. She set her mug on a nearby table and picked up "Billy". Suppressing a laugh, she studied it closer than she had ever before dared. Oh, well hello, Billie. You are just what I suspected, she thought.

"Something funny, Doctor?" Sherlock asked.

The recognition must have shown on her face and, of course, since he never missed a thing, he had noticed. Still holding the skull, Molly turned to face him fully. "The first time I came here, you told me you knew him." She smirked, holding the skull up just a little higher. Her lips stretched into a wry smile. "That he was your friend. Why'd you lie?"

His smile suddenly matched hers. "You tell me."

Molly's mind wandered, drifting back to a similar scene many, many years before...

He must have just moved in; there were boxes everywhere. Or he's a slob, she mused.

Somehow, the dashing detective had managed to talk her into risking her job with nothing more than a wink and compliment about the shade of her lipstick. She'd only been wearing the lipstick because it just so happened that she'd had her 90-day evaluation that morning and, of course, wanted to look her best.

The first time he'd strode into the lab, with that lovely DI Lestrade in tow, Molly couldn't help but be a bit unnerved. Both men were gorgeous and the detective - "Call me Sherlock… Molly," he'd said at their first meeting - was brilliant in a way she'd only read about in mystery novels. The sound of her name in his deep, rich voice had caused an involuntary shiver down her spine that she had a hard time suppressing. The DI had snorted and cuffed Sherlock on the back of the head, telling him to 'knock it off, you pillock!' and asking her about the body of a John Doe that had recently been brought in.

Molly, twenty-six-year-old Molly Hooper, was lost at that moment.

Thinking on it now, she wanted to cringe, but really… she'd been so young and impressionable. High on ideals and short on experience.

Three weeks later Sherlock had started asking her about 'spare parts', dazzling her with his talk of experiments and deductive reasoning. She knew now that he was working her, softening her up, making her pliable; he was manipulating her and perhaps showing off a bit. Let it never be said that Sherlock Holmes doesn't enjoy an audience. At the time, unfortunately, she had thought that he was interested in her… personally. By a month into their association, he had her… at his home… delivering a dead man's toes…

"Your place is… lovely, Sh-Sherlock," she stammered as he eagerly rummaged through the cooler that she had bought for the sole purpose of smuggling the toes out of the hospital.

"Hmm?" he absently hummed.

"Your flat. I love it!"

Looking up, Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her, then glanced around the room. "It serves my purpose."

Molly put her bag down on the coffee table and strolled through the maze of boxes, not touching anything, of course, just taking everything in: the skull on the wall - Is that a bison? A very large goat? No… definitely a bison! Why is it wearing headphones? - the beautiful leather chair, worn but oddly inviting, the settee that looked like he found it in an alley and another skull, this one a lithograph, hanging on the wall. I'm seeing a pattern…

She had made it to the mantel and was just about to reach for the very interesting, very old human skull when Sherlock suddenly appeared from behind her, snatching it out of her line of sight.

"Billy," he said, apparently referring to the object in his hand.

"Oh?" She had only given it a quick scan before he'd grabbed it, now holding it against his chest, obscuring the skull with his large hand. "Billy?" Though she couldn't be sure, Molly was suspicious about the sex of his apparently - judging by the way he was cradling it - beloved skull.

"Yes. An old friend of mine."

"You... knew him, then?"

A spark of… something lit up in his eyes, but Molly couldn't possibly place it; she hardly knew him well enough to judge his facial expressions. Oh, but she could hope.

He nodded. "As I said, he was an old friend."

"Sorry for your loss," she replied, half-heartedly and with a fair amount of suspicion. In her professional opinion, that skull was at least a hundred years old. And… it was female.

Sherlock just nodded again and placed it back onto the mantel, positioning himself between her and Billy. "Well… thank you for the toes."

The atmosphere had changed; it was now awkward and strained. Molly knew she was being dismissed. Retrieving her bag with a heavy heart, she made her way to the door. She had hoped the toes had been some kind of excuse to get her to his flat. Apparently not.

A week later, she would pluck up the courage and - after applying the lipstick he'd mentioned the day of her evaluation - ask him out for coffee. And well, that hadn't gone to plan.

That day felt like a lifetime ago as she stood there, holding the skull of his 'old friend', reliving the moment. Thinking on it now, it was clear what had started her infatuation, or was it an obsession? Whatever it was had gradually evolved into admiration, after an unhealthy dose of angst, of course. Which led them… here.

She shook herself, not wanting to dwell on unpleasant things. Back to the puzzle. Though it wasn't exactly difficult to figure out what he had been doing that day. She'd thought he was flirting in his odd way, but no he was…

"It was a test," she said, setting the skull back in its place.

Sherlock smiled knowingly but said nothing.

"You wanted to know if I could figure anything out about Billy," she motioned to him, well her, then put her hands behind her back and paced a few feet away, "with nothing more than a cursory look."

He relaxed back into his chair. "Very good, professor. And what did you observe? What did you keep to yourself because you misconstrued the reason for my invitation?"

Annoyed, Molly turned and picked up her coffee, drinking half of it in one go. He had known! Of course he had known that she'd thought he was interested in her. It wasn't as if this was new information; hearing it out loud, however…

She carried her mug over to the chair that had replaced John's and sat down. Unlike Sherlock's, it wasn't an exact replica. "Billy," she said with a bit of venom. "Is female and she's quite old."

He smiled. "You wanted to tell me and I wished that you had. No one else noticed. Well, my brother did, but no one cares about Mycroft." Steepling his fingers just under his lips, he studied her. "I saw the recognition on your face, however, and that was enough."

"Enough for what?"

"To know that you were quick, observant. Upon our first few meetings, I…" He suddenly looked a bit ashamed. "I was unsure of your intelligence and capability. That day was, as you said, a test. After I realised that you saw the truth about Billy, I only wanted to work with you."

Molly looked down at her mug, willing the tears not to fall. She picked at a chip in the glazing with her thumbnail as she gathered herself. "I, ah, thought you only worked with me because I was… easy. Easy to manipulate…"

"No, Molly. That wasn't it." He leant forward, causing her to look up. "You were - are the best." Smirking, he added, "Of course, you're also the only person who will put up with me." They both laughed but Sherlock quickly sobered. "You, my dear girl, are precious and rare."

All the air seem to leave the room at once as they stared at each other. Something had just changed. Something about that last sentence was different, as if they were no longer talking about lab assistance.

A knock on the door of the flat broke the staring contest and she nearly dropped her mug. Mrs. Hudson's voice was saying something about a client, though Molly paid the woman little attention.

"Have her wait downstairs, Mrs. Hudson. Molly and I…"

"I really need to get home," she interrupted, standing. "I'm about to fall over."

Sherlock stood as well and reached for her mug. Again, he studied her for a moment before saying, "I'll get you a cab."

"No-no. I can take the Tube."

"A cab, Molly. I insist." His tone indicated that there'd be no more argument.

Bundled up against the wretched December weather that had currently settled over London, Molly walked down the stairs, Sherlock right behind her. She had all but forgotten about the client until she very nearly ran into a stunningly beautiful blonde in the foyer. The woman was dressed in designer clothes, a fur coat and stiletto heels that made Molly dizzy just looking at them.

"Mr. Holmes," the woman said in an urgent voice. "I must speak to you immediately! There's been a theft and..."

"In a moment, Mrs…?"

"Miss Brown," she said, heavy emphasis on the 'Miss' as she reached out, grabbing Sherlock's forearm tightly. "And time is of…"

"I understand, Miss Brown," Sherlock interrupted once again, seemingly annoyed. He shook free of her grasp. "Mrs. Hudson will see you upstairs and get you a cup of tea." He gave his landlady a pointed look; she returned it with a roll of her eyes. "I shall return after I see my friend safely ensconced in a cab and on her way." He reached out and put his hand on Molly's lower back.

The act did not go unnoticed by this Miss Brown. She cut Molly a scathing look; her eyes travelling from Molly's sensible work shoes to her puffy, pale blue parka and brightly coloured scarf.

Cow! she thought as she finished putting on her gloves. "I can get my own cab, Sherlock," Molly said turning to him, not realising how close it put them.

"Nonsense," he replied with a quirk of his lips. "Miss Brown's nerves need calming and you're so tired I'm afraid you'll pass out on the pavement." Then the berk winked. Winked! What was he insinuating with that bloody wink? Turning to his landlady, he said, "Do you mind, Mrs. Hudson?"

She'd evidently been watching the exchange closely because her attitude suddenly changed. "Oh, of course not! Our Molly must be worn out. up all night as she was," she said with a giggle." She then turned to the other woman. "This way, Miss Green. Let's get you some tea. Sherlock can see his lady friend off and then hear all about your… I'm sorry, what did you say was taken?" They started up the stairs

Miss Brown looked backwards at Sherlock and Molly before following Mrs. Hudson. "It's Miss Brown! And my favourite Birkin bag was stolen. I have several suspects and…"

"Come along, Molly. I'm afraid that I'm in for a tedious morning." He opened the door and the pair stepped out into the cold.

He held up a hand and for the first time since she'd known him, a cab didn't magically appear. God, she was tired. Her head throbbed and the coffee wasn't sitting well on her stomach. Suddenly, however, something dawned on her. "Sherlock?"

"Yes?" he said, eyes still focused on the street, his brows furrowed, clearly shocked that the world wasn't bending to his will.

"I'm glad Billy survived the explosion." She knew it was the same skull; Sherlock wasn't screwing with her, not now, not after… everything. How it had survived, however...

His hand dropped. "A different man might call it miraculous," he replied, looking more than a bit dubious. Bringing his hands up to his mouth, he rubbed them together, then made them into a fist, blowing into them. He'd not put on his beloved Belstaff before walking her to the curb.

Molly automatically reached up and grabbed them, pulling them away from his mouth and holding them between her gloved hands. Gently rubbing, she tried to give him some of her warmth. She was so focused on trying to warm him up, she didn't notice him staring. "Well, as I said, I'm glad..."

"Molly…"

She looked up. Once again they were standing very close. "Hmmm...?"

"I'm glad you picked him up," he said softly.

"Who?"

"Billy."

"Her," she whispered. "I picked her up."

Smiling, he untangled his hands from hers and fussed with her scarf, wrapping it around her neck then securing it over her shoulder. "Indeed." His hand stayed on her shoulder, his eyes focused on hers as he held up his free hand.

She heard the sound of a car behind her, but could not for the life of her take her eyes off of Sherlock's.

"Your cab's here," he said.

It broke the spell and she stepped back, turning to face the car. Sherlock opened the door and she sat. Poking his head in he said, "Get some rest, Molly Hooper," before shutting the door.

She was so focused on the confusing feelings swirling in her head, the butterflies in her stomach, that she barely noticed the cabbie talking to Sherlock through the front passenger window or the fact that he passed several notes over to the man. A minute or so later the cab was moving and she was on her way home.

It had been a most unusual morning.

As I said, there are at least three more parts on the way. Thanks so much for reading. A review would make my day... really. I would be ever so grateful. ~Lil~