*creeps into view* Hey...guys! Heh, so, here's Chapter 4! Sorry it took me so long, but life has been hectic, adding to that writer's block, which is a bitch. I'm not entirely happy with how this chapter turned out, but rest assured, I have the rest of the story fully planned! This was just the part of the story that I needed to bridge the rest!

Anyway! On with the story!

Disclaimer: Sherlock and it's characters belong to BBC, Sir ACD, Moffat, Gatiss, Cumberbatch, Freeman, etc.

Sherlock awoke to a warm weight on his chest. Opening his eyes, his vision was suddenly filled with speckled fur. Blowing away some hair that had landed in his mouth, he frowned at the furry mass. Molly's cat, for that was what it was, lifted its head languidly and looked at him from under half closed lids. Sherlock scowled, but the cat remained unfazed, instead choosing to stretch itself and cover his face with its tail.

He sat up slowly, his sore body protesting, and the cat rolled off his chest and onto his lap with an indignant "Mrow!" It straightened itself and batted at him with its paw, before jumping to the floor and strutting away huffily. He glared after it.

Sherlock rubbed the tiredness from his eyes. His shoulders and legs were stiff, and his ankle had a dull ache radiating from it. Carefully, he shoved the coffee table away from the sofa and swung his legs to the floor. He moaned softly when his bad ankle twinged. Shoulders slumping, he ran a hand through his hair and threw off the quilt that was covering him. He glanced toward the kitchen, and saw the time on Molly's stove read 7:27. Placing his head in his hands, his foggy mind fought to bring itself back up to par, but his sore body fought to be at the forefront.

With a resigned sigh, he lay back down on the sofa to wait for Molly to wake up and bring him painkillers, for once adhering to his body's requests. It was one thing to physically exhaust himself during a case, but a whole other thing when there was no reward in it apart from humiliation. He honestly didn't know if he could make it to the kitchen without tumbling over.

Sherlock rolled over onto his side, facing the backrest, his brain feeling like it was afloat. He hadn't felt this out of it since Irene Adler had chosen to stab him with a hypodermic and reduce him to a wobbling tower of jelly. At least this time Lestrade wasn't there to film him.

The thought of Lestrade made Sherlock's hazy mental focus sharpen. Something that felt suspiciously like guilt began needling its way through his intestines, as thoughts of Lestrade shifted to thoughts of Mrs. Hudson, and…John.

Sherlock shut his eyes against this unfamiliar sensation. He knew he had perfectly logical reasons to feel guilty. It had just never occurred to him that he would actually feel it like normal people would, once again reaffirming John's belief that Sherlock wasn't as sociopathic as he liked to believe.

Opening his eyes, he inhaled deeply through his nose, and noticed the rather pleasant smell coming from his pillow. He took another whiff, identifying pomegranate and three other subtler smells. Obviously, Molly's shampoo. The knots in his stomach loosened a tad.

With a slight huff, he rolled onto his other side. As he did so a muscle in his shoulder strained, and he moaned softly. Frowning at the opposite wall, Sherlock decided to screw it all and get the painkillers himself. He sat up stiffly and set his sights on the kitchen, where he knew Molly kept her over the counter medicine. By sheer force of will, Sherlock levered himself up and began limping toward his destination, wincing slightly with every step.

He reached the counter and leaned forward against it for support, his head muddled a bit. He reached up with one hand and massaged his forehead, then blinked rapidly. Shuffling sideways, Sherlock began opening and shutting cabinet doors, looking for the medicine.

"They're above the fridge," a voice said behind him. Sherlock whipped his head around.

Molly stood in her bathrobe leaning against the entrance to the hallway that led to her bedroom, arms crossed and a small smile on her face. Her hair was draped in a braid over her shoulder, and Sherlock noticed the dark shadows under her eyes and the slight strain around her mouth.

"And I thought I told you to stay off that ankle," she continued, walking over to the sink and filling a glass of water.

"I was, for the past eight hours actually. I felt the need to stretch my legs." He smirked when his sarcasm made Molly roll her eyes.

Sherlock reached over his head to the cabinet Molly had indicated. Taking down the small bottle, he turned to lean his back against the counter. Sherlock opened it and shook out two pills. A glass of water appeared by his hand, and he glanced down to see Molly holding it out to him. She seemed to be watching him closely as he took it from her.

"Thank you," he said, then knocked back the pills in a gulp of water. Molly took the glass from him and set in on the counter. She placed her hands on her hips and looked him squarely in the face.

"Okay, now go sit on the sofa and rest." She pointed in the direction of the living area. He frowned.

"Are you trying to order me around like a little child?" he asked. Molly huffed and crossed her arms.

"You didn't seem to have a problem with it yesterday," she replied.

"That's because I had a concussion that limited my mental capacities."

She frowned, opening her mouth to rebuff him, when the telephone suddenly rang. They both looked to it, and saw that the caller I.D. read Stamford, M. Molly's mouth went dry, and she swallowed. She looked back to Sherlock, who was watching her with brows drawn together. She reached over and picked up the phone, then very obviously pointed to Sherlock, then to the couch, her mouth a thin line on her face. Sherlock smirked, musing that her expression would be funny if the atmosphere wasn't so tense. She turned her back to him, putting the phone to her ear. After a moment, Sherlock decided that it would be better for his health to listen to Molly and made his way back to the sofa, all the while listening to Molly's side of the conversation.

"Hello?" she asked into the receiver.

"Molly? Oh, good. I caught you before you left," Mike Stamford's tired voice reached her ear. Her chest tightened.

"Yeah, I was just about to make some breakfast. Is there something you need?" she asked. Stamford sighed on his end.

"Actually, Molly, I was calling to tell you that, due to recent…events, you've been given leave for the next couple of days," he paused, and Molly's breath hitched audibly. Sherlock perked up from his place on the couch at the sound.

Molly couldn't help the tightness in her throat. "Y-Yes, um…thank you," was all she could think of to say.

"Listen, Molly," Stamford began. "I know yesterday was rough on all of us, especially you. Those of us who knew Sherlock know how you…felt about him." Molly blushed, glad that Stamford couldn't see her face.

"So, know that we're here for you," Stamford finished, his words sincere. Molly's eyes became misty with unshed tears.

"Thanks, Mike," she said, her breath hitching again. Sherlock frowned. Stamford coughed slightly, and Molly could tell that he was holding back tears as well.

"Yes, well…," he trailed off, "Oh, and John called-"Molly paled.

"John?" she interrupted, breathless. Sherlock froze, attentively listening.

"Yeah. He said he wanted you to know that the funeral is on Saturday, but that since you did the post-mortem you weren't obligated to come if it was too…difficult." Molly swallowed the lump in her throat.

"Thanks for letting me know," she said, at a loss for anything else to say. Stamford coughed again.

"You're welcome, Molly. I would say try not to dwell on it on your day off, but then I'd be a hypocrite," Stamford chuckled wearily, and Molly couldn't help but smile sadly at his attempt at lightening the mood.

"I'll try to take that advice…See you in a couple days, then," she said.

"'Bye, Molly," said Stamford, then the phone clicked as the call ended. Molly stood there for a second, then slowly put the phone put in its charger. She placed one hand on the counter, drumming her fingers slowly as the fatigue settled on her shoulders. Sherlock shifted on the sofa.

"So, what did Stamford want?" he asked casually. Molly turned to face him, her eyes blank.

"He just called to say I've got the next couple days off," she said quietly. "You know, since you died and I had to examine your corpse. It would be traumatic to any normal person." Her tone was laden with sarcasm by the end. Sherlock heard it, but decided to ignore it.

"And…John?" he asked, his voice perceptively softer. Molly saw the hesitation in his eyes, and softened her tone as well.

"John wanted me to know that the funeral is on Saturday," she said. Sherlock nodded slowly.

Silence settled between them, until a small growling noise severed it. Molly smiled, realizing it was Sherlock's stomach. He frowned down at his abdomen.

"So, what would you like to eat, on this, the morning after your death? Anything in particular?" Molly asked jokingly, trying to lighten things up as she turned and began opening cabinet doors. Sherlock hesitated.

"Well…" he began. Molly looked at him in surprise, not having expected a response.

"I seem to be in the mood for toast and beans," he said finally. Molly's eyebrows lifted. Sherlock looked away, his face a mask.

"It's something that John would make the morning after we solved a case," he said quietly. "It was sort of an…inside joke between us." Molly's heart softened, then she smiled.

"Okay, toast and beans it is then!" she said brightly, and began rummaging through her kitchen for bread and a can opener. The corners of Sherlock's mouth lifted, and he watched Molly as she prepared him breakfast.

Finally, she brought a plate to him on the sofa, and settled down in the armchair with her own food. Sherlock took a bite.

"These aren't the kind of beans we use," he said bluntly. Molly looked at him, a piece of toast in her mouth, unsure how to react. She swallowed, then frowned.

"Do they taste bad?" she asked innocently, poking them with her fork. Sherlock hesitated, for once actually realizing that what he had said sounded rude.

"Never mind," he mumbled, looking down at his plate and opting to keep his opinions to himself. Molly shrugged, and continued eating, oblivious to the memories the food was evoking in Sherlock.

They ate in silence, and when they both finished Molly took their plates and set them in the sink. She faced him, leaning against the kitchen counter and crossing her arms. Sherlock's bad leg was propped up on the coffee table again, and his hair was still mussed up from sleep. Molly couldn't help noticing the slight sag in his shoulders, and the weariness in his eyes.

I can't imagine what it must feel like to be dead to the world. Literally, she thought to herself. Sherlock's eyes flickered to her.

"What are you doing just standing there?" he asked, and Molly was pulled out of her musings.

"Trying to decide what I should do with my day off," she replied. Just then, her eyes alighted on the bag with Sherlock's bloodied clothes, which he had set by the door the night before. She strode over and picked it up, pulling out his Belfast coat and examining it. Sherlock watched her.

"If any of my clothes are salvageable, I would prefer it was that," he commented. Molly nodded.

"I think it is the only one I can save," she said, folding the bloodied coat over her arm. "I'll take it to the dry cleaners today and pick it up tomorrow." Sherlock nodded slowly. She noticed his eyes glazing over a bit.

Obviously, he's still rattled from the concussion, Molly thought as she went to the kitchen table and set down the coat. Then she headed for the hallway leading to her room.

"I'll just freshen up a bit, then I'll go," she said over her shoulder.

"Wait," Sherlock's voice reached her just as she turned the corner. She leaned back and stuck her head out of the doorway.

"What is it?"

Sherlock's mouth quirked to the side, and his eyebrows drew low over his eyes.

"By now my death will have appeared in every major publication in the city, whether refutable or not. People who know my image will know my coat when they see it, and will grow even more suspicious when they notice it covered in blood," he said, frowning. Molly smirked.

"Don't worry," she said. "The dry cleaners I know is run by a little old couple who only have two priorities in life: cleaning other people's clothes, and Countdown. They hardly ever go out, and I'm pretty sure they don't get the paper." Molly smiled reassuringly. Sherlock didn't look convinced.

"Look," sighed Molly, "Since you entrusted me with your life, you can at least have confidence in me that I won't expose you."

She turned and entered her bathroom, leaving a slightly disconcerted Sherlock on the couch.

Sherlock lay on the couch, staring up at the ceiling. In the corner, a spider was scuttling along haphazardly, while Molly's cat gazed up at it in concentration. Sherlock's arm, draped across his forehead, was itching as it missed the familiar stickiness of nicotine patches.

He turned his eyes from the ceiling to the door, willing Molly to come through it. She had left twenty minutes ago, and even with a concussion that reduced his mental capacities for the time being, Sherlock was bored as hell. His exceptionally sharp mind still felt scrambled, and he wished Molly had more powerful painkillers. His ankle throbbed with a dull ache, and his back and shoulders were still stiff. To stave off the boredom, and to distract him, Molly had suggested that he watch television. Obviously, she didn't know about his tendency to yell corrections at it. If John we here, he would have found it amusing.

Sherlock's stomach twisted as he thought of John. When he came back, and he vowed he would after Moriarty's men were taken out, how would John react? Sherlock knew the doctor would probably get violent at first, so he was prepared to take a punch or two. But would John even accept him back into his life? Would their friendship be irrevocably ruined? Sherlock pushed those thoughts away.

Heaving himself up, he decided to do a little exploring to fend off the boredom. Being Sherlock, he had no qualms with rifling through Molly's things. He'd just put them back exactly where he found them.

Getting to his feet, he hobbled past the kitchen and down the hallway to Molly's bedroom. Leaning against the doorframe, he swept his gaze over the cozy little room. A dark red bedspread, neatly tucked in. Open closet full of modest clothes. Photos on a low dresser, with the same woman from Molly's desk, and others. Sherlock went over and picked up a frame containing a picture of a much younger Molly and an older, sickly looking man. Molly's arm were wrapped around the man's middle, and he rested his cheek on her head. Both were smiling, but the man's fatigue clearly showed.

This is her father… Sherlock pondered. He thought back to that conversation they'd had in the lab, a whole lifetime ago it seemed.

You're like my dad…he was always cheerful, except when he thought no one could see him…I saw him once, he looked…sad….You look sad….

Sherlock swallowed hard, and set the photo down. He turned his attention to the closet, and shifted aside hangers.

"Mostly cotton and polyester….with her salary she could afford better, chooses to dress for comfort." Stepping back, wincing as he twinged his ankle, his eyes alighted on several shoe boxes with designer labels.

"A shoe fetish, Molly?" he chuckled. Balancing on one foot, he reached up to shift aside the boxes. His fingers brushed a thinner box covered in dust, and he pulled it from the shelf. When he saw the bold letters across the top, the corners of his mouth lifted in a smirk. He hoped Molly was in the mood for board games.

Molly blew a strand of hair out of her face as she walked along, swinging the grocery bags at her side. After dropping off Sherlock's coat at the cleaners, she had decided to pick up some food for lunch and dinner. Going to the cleaners, toting a very bloodied coat, had been one of the more awkward experiences of her life. First, Mrs. Leighton had commented on how nice it was that Molly had finally found a man. She then proceeded to insinuate that the reason the coat was bloody was the result of a little too much roughness in the bedroom. Molly's face had gone beet red when the older woman had started giving her tips on how to prevent serious bodily harm while still getting maximum pleasure. She had rushed out of there as soon as she made sure the coat would be ready the next day.

Molly shifted the bag in her hand so she could pull out her keys. She entered the flat, fully expecting Sherlock either to be on the couch staring up at the ceiling in boredom or rummaging through her kitchen. What she did not expect was the detective to be seated on the floor by the coffee table, a Cluedo board game spread out before him. He looked up from his examination of the suspect cards when she opened the door.

"Ahh, Molly," he said, holding up the cards. "You're just in time to start playing. Pick your playing piece, I've already decided to be Professor Plum." He held up a small plastic purple piece and smiled at her like what he had just said was completely normal. Molly blinked.

"Where did you even find that old thing?" she asked, walking over to the kitchen and setting down the groceries and her purse.

"In your closet," he said, arranging the cards on the board. Molly looked up from putting away the milk and frowned.

"You were in my closet?" she asked, not knowing if she should somehow feel flattered or creeped out.

"Yes," he replied, not looking up. "It was the least dull option available to me at the time." Molly rolled her eyes, and put away the last of the groceries.

As Sherlock reached over to set Molly's record sheet on the board, his sore muscles protested and he groaned. He sat back and rotated his shoulder. Two pills and a glass of water appeared in front of his face. He looked up, and saw Molly standing over him.

"Take your pills and I'll play with you," she said, a small smile on her face. He took the pills and knocked them back with water. When she was satisfied, she went over and sat on the floor on the opposite end of the table.

An hour later, she was ready to pull her hair out.

"Sherlock, for the last time, that's impossible!"

The detective glowered at her.

"How on earth is it impossible? If the victim did it to himself, it was obviously a suicide!" he exclaimed, pointing at his record sheet. Molly rubbed her brow to calm herself.

"Suicide isn't a valid option in Cluedo!" she said.

"Now you sound just like John!" he said, crossing his arms like a petulant child, "'It's not in the rules, Sherlock'. Whoever came up with this game had the IQ of a trout!" Molly sighed.

"Do you always say it was the victim himself, Sherlock?" she asked, honestly curious. She had never known someone to get worked up over a game like Cluedo. But then again, it was a detective game, and she was playing with one of the best. Sherlock threw his hands in the air in exasperation.

"I've never had the chance to say otherwise! John refused to play again after that first time," Sherlock scowled in the direction of the couch. Molly giggled, musing how he looked like a moody preteenager when he acted like this. How could John stand having him as a roommate?

He looked at her when the laugh escaped her lips.

"What's so funny?" he demanded. Molly shook her head, biting her lip to keep from smirking.

"Nothing, nothing," she said, waving her hand to brush his question aside. She glanced at the clock on the stove over Sherlock's shoulder. Deciding that it was time to start making lunch, she stood and brushed off her pants. Sherlock watched her stand.

"Are you hungry?" she asked him, heading to the kitchen. She heard the couch creak as Sherlock heaved himself on top of it, and a small thunk as he set his bad leg on the coffee table.

Rummaging through her cabinets, she decided to make soup and sandwiches. She looked up when she heard no reply.

"Sherlock?" she asked, leaning around the doorway. Sherlock was sitting there, his eyes unfocused. The detective shook his head, as if clearing his muddled thoughts. He looked up at her and smiled, though his eyes were blank.

"Yes, thank you, Molly," he said, and went back to the staring at nothing. Molly's eyebrows drew down in concern. The faraway look in his eyes…Molly suspected he was thinking of John. A small ache blossomed in her chest.

Abandoning lunch for the time being, Molly walked over and stood next to the couch. Sherlock ignored her at first, but looked up at her after a few moments. She stood there, ringing her hands, not sure how to offer words of comfort to him.

After another moment, she sat herself next to him and took his hand in both of hers. When he tried to pull it away in surprise, she tightened her grip. He scowled down at her, but when she met his eyes he froze. Even with Sherlock's limited knowledge of human emotion, he could see the depths of pain in her eyes. This confused him greatly. Why did she care so much? Why did it seem she could understand the pain he himself didn't fully comprehend?

His gaze became sharper, and Molly's cheeks felt hot. She looked away embarrassed, and dropped his hand. Tucking a strand of hair behind her ear, she stood and went to the kitchen.

"How do cucumber sandwiches sound, hm?" she asked, her tone light. She looked back over her shoulder at the man on the couch, who was looking at her with a puzzled expression. She smiled a small smile, then turned back to opening cabinet doors. She heard him clear his throat.

"Sounds good," he muttered.