Ninety percent of the time Molly was okay with being alone. She was alone, but not lonely.

But the other 10 percent.

Tonight was the 10 percent.

Molly's mind was racing as she lay in bed, staring at the unidentifiable shapes in her dark bedroom.

She wanted somebody. Anybody. But if she was honest, she mostly wanted him.

She looked at her phone on the small bedside table. She could...theoretically she could. But no, of course, she couldn't. It was 4 O'clock in the morning. But that was the least of the reasons why she couldn't call Sherlock Holmes.

You couldn't just call people, people who didn't love you, at any time you wanted. And Molly was short on people who loved her. He certainly did not.

And so it was out of the question.

Although he'd called her at an equally unreasonable hour before.

But then that was for case. Not because he was lonely and wanted someone to talk to.

But...maybe just a text? If he was asleep it wouldn't even wake him up.

No. She couldn't. They weren't on "texting in the middle of night" terms.

Molly felt the tears welling up in her eyes. She hated feeling desperate like this.

Not him, she thought. But who else was there? And he was the most likely to be awake...and the least interested in social conventions.

Finally she grabbed her phone and sent off a text through her tears.

Sherlock? Are you awake? It's Molly.

Stupid, because of course he'd see her name pop up on his phone. There was no need to sign it.

Molly only had to wait a few seconds.

Yes. -SH

That was it. Just yes. Of course it gave her nothing to go on and she was back where she started.

Do you have a case?

Molly wasn't sure whether she was hoping he'd say "yes" or "no".

No. Solved the last 12 hours ago. -SH

When Molly didn't respond for a full five minutes, her phone buzzed again.

? -SH

I just can't sleep and I wondered if you were awake.

Molly winced. Did that sound casual enough? "Wondered if you were awake" was certainly better than "wanted someone to talk to." Right?

I am awake.-SH

This was stupid. Sorry.

Sherlock took two minutes to send his reply. An eternity for him. Molly felt sick to her stomach.

No. What can I do for you Molly?-SH

Nothing.

Molly was crying in earnest now. She wanted to ask, but she was too proud to say it.

Are you ok? -SH

Yes. I'm fine. Home in bed. Molly answered knowing that he was referring to her physical safety.

Molly's phone rang, but she ignored it, even though it made the knot in her stomach even worse. But she couldn't answer and let him hear her sobbing.

Sorry. I don't want to talk. I think I was half asleep when I texted. Like drunk dialing but...sleep texting. I'll see you at Bart's the next time. Sorry.

No response came and Molly figured he'd taken her words at face value and moved on to something else.

She'd made a trip to the loo and spent 10 minutes watching crap telly and 10 more laying in bed again staring at the shapes, when the sound of her phone going off again made her jump.

Let me in.-SH

Molly's heart started pounding in her chest.

What?

I'm outside your door. Let me in.-SH

Molly looked down at her old pajamas in horror. A thin tank top and pajama pants. She wasn't wearing a bra and he'd be able to see...everything. She started frantically searching through her closet for the dressing gown she never wore, but she couldn't find it. Finally, she grabbed a hoodie on her way through the sitting room and zipped it up. That would have to do.

She pulled open the door and squinted against the light in the hallway which cast Sherlock into silhouette. She couldn't see his expression. Wordlessly, she pulled the door open farther and stood to the side to let him in.

Molly shut the door and forced a laugh, crossing her arms over her chest.

"You didn't have to come, Sherlock. As you can see...everything's fine," she said, gesturing to the peaceful room they stood in.

Sherlock seemed to ignore her words as he pulled his coat and scarf off and then paced the flat, going to glance in her bedroom and then the kitchen. Molly guessed that he wasn't so much searching for intruders as reading the clues she'd left behind tonight. Playing the magical game of deduction. What did the dishes in the sink and the messy bed sheets say to him?

He was dressed exactly how he always was. Crisp looking black suit, black dress shirt. His movements were quick and easy...he seemed wide awake. He flipped on the lamp by her sofa and finally looked at her. Molly felt like he could see her pathetic desperation and she wanted to hide it, but she didn't know how.

"Something's not fine or you would never have texted me," he said.

It was just a few semi-kind words, but it was enough. It didn't take much to push somebody in that emotional state over the edge. Molly turned her back as she started crying again.

"I'm fine..." she said, even though she knew he would never be so easily fooled.

"No..."

Molly cried harder. She wanted to run into her bedroom and slam the door, but what was the point now?

Sherlock sighed and Molly heard him sink down onto her sofa.

"You don't have to be ashamed to cry in front of me. I don't care...it doesn't bother me. One of the advantages of being a machine is not being squeamish around tears. Cry as much as you like."

Molly was trying so hard to stop, but it was like trying to hold back the water in a dam once it'd sprung a leak.

"You may as well come and sit next to me. It's not as if you were hiding anything over there..."

Molly realized the truth in his words and came to perch on the sofa beside him, but she kept her face covered with her hands as she hunched over them.

Sherlock said nothing. He just waited for her to stop crying.

When she had and she was wiping at her eyes with the sleeves of her hoodie, he started up casually, as if asking about the weather.

"Why did you text me?"

Molly wasn't looking at him, so she couldn't read his expression. When she opened her mouth to speak, he cut in again.

"Don't bother with a lie. I'm just going to know and then we'll be back where we started."

"I was just lonely," Molly mumbled.

He was silent and Molly immediately felt the need to backtrack.

"I'm sorry...I know we're not...that close," she added.

"No. It's just...you wanted company and you came to me. You must have been truly desperate."

She was desperate. But he had it all backwards. He wasn't a last resort; he was the first choice. Anyone else would have been a poor substitute for what she really wanted. She was desperate...for him. She just wouldn't normally have the courage to ask for him. Molly wished she could say those things, but of course she couldn't. And so she just said...

"No." Molly got up quickly from the sofa and moved over to the window to look out into the darkness.

Sherlock didn't move and their backs were to each other now.

"We both know this is not my forte," he said.

He was wrong again. His unflappable logic was more comforting than everyone else's empty words of reassurance. She felt safer with him. Even though he could hurt her. His unintentional insults were nothing compared to the pain of facing the world alone. It was enduring a few paper cuts in exchange for protection from a knife to the gut. It wasn't that the paper cuts didn't hurt like hell...but they weren't going to kill her.

Molly leaned her forehead against the wall beside the window and played with the curtains.

"You're doing fine," she answered.

"You can leave." Molly added, breaking through the silence that had accumulated a few minutes later. She felt like she was holding him hostage.

"Do you want me to?"

Molly spun around quickly at the sound of his voice right behind her.

"No." She didn't look away this time. There was nothing left to hide and so she made eye contact boldly.

"You need to sleep. You just need to sleep. It will be better when you wake up," Sherlock said.

"I know." Molly gestured to the bedroom. "I tried, but I can't."

Sherlock grabbed Molly's hand and walked her into the bedroom.

"Get in," he instructed, kicking off his shoes and it occurred to Molly that she'd never seen him in just his socks before. They were just ordinary plain black socks, but she was a little fascinated by them.

Molly rounded to the other side of the bed and climbed in under the covers, but stayed sitting up. She watched through the soft light filtering in through the door from the sitting room as Sherlock unbuttoned the expensive looking suit jacket and tossed it over the end of the bed.

Sherlock pulled back the covers and got in bed next to her, but where she was sitting up, he lay down fully on his back.

"You won't fall asleep like that," he said, looking up at her. Molly tentatively laid down on the second pillow, facing him. She wanted to...

It seemed impossible in the semi-darkness, but Sherlock must have read her expression.

"Let's not make this an issue," he said matter-of-factly, raising the arm closest to her. "Lie as close to me as you want. I really don't care."

Molly hesitated for just a moment and then bit her lip as she slid closer...closer...until she was pressed right up against his side. She slowly lowered her head down on his chest and brought her hand up beside it.

Sherlock adjusted his arm to wrap around her. Molly reminded herself that he didn't really have a choice; it would be the only remotely comfortable position for him. But still the move seemed like a kind of acceptance, so she boldly draped her leg over his thigh and let it rest between his own. Sherlock didn't protest.

Molly realized with delight that her head was positioned right over his heart...she would be listening to the steady thuds as she fell asleep.

"Thank you for coming," she whispered.

"It's alright," he answered at normal volume.

When Molly woke up it was after 11 and Sherlock was gone. When she'd reached for her phone to check the time, she realized she had a message.

Next time...if there is a next time...just ask. I don't care.-SH

Molly smiled. I don't care. He'd said it when she was crying, and when she wanted him to hold her, and now. Normally they were words you didn't want to hear. But he'd turned them on their end and used them to make her feel better. Take what you need; I don't care.

It was months before the next time came again. So long that Molly was beginning to believe it never would. That he'd cured her.

This time she admitted there was a problem much earlier. It was just after two a.m..

Sherlock?

It was a good ten minutes before she got a response and Molly began to wonder, with a rush of disappointment, if he was actually asleep. Or maybe he hadn't meant what he'd said before.

On a case. Almost done. Leave a key in the hall or I'll pick the lock.-SH

John watched Sherlock's expression change as he read the text message that had come in several minutes ago while he'd been going over the bodies with Lestrade. It was a young couple, dressed in formal wear, they'd obviously been to prom that night; it was the season for it. They never made it home.

As his friend typed out a reply, he found himself feeling intensely curious. It was after 2 in the morning and everyone who might be texting Sherlock at such a time (himself, Lestrade) was here at this crime scene. Perhaps they had another psychopath on their hands. John sincerely hoped not because he had plans this weekend.

"Problem, Sherlock?" he asked.

One corner of Sherlock's mouth raised in a half smile. "Nothing I can't solve, John. Fetch Lestrade, tell him to send officers to every florist shop within 10 kilometres. If the owner has a moustache, arrest him. We'll be visiting the most likely alternative, but that will speed things up if I'm wrong. I'm running short on time tonight."

"Short on time? This is the only case you have right now and it's the middle of the night. And none of the florists will be open."

"Well then I guess we'll have to wake them up. Hurry up," Sherlock waved a hand toward Lestrade and then rushed away.

"How did you know?" John asked, shaking his head in disbelief. It was all over and they were leaving the florist's shop.

Sherlock brushed a few crushed petals off of his coat and trousers with a smile.

"The corsage," he said.

"What corsage? There was no corsage."

"Exactly. The girl had just been to prom and she had no corsage. She would have had one. The killer left everything else on the bodies...even her hand bag and his wallet. Why would he take the corsage? Solution: it had some kind of information that would identify the killer. The killer was a florist."

"Amazing."

Sherlock shrugged. "A five, at best."

A cab came rolling down the street. "Ah, how fortuitous," Sherlock muttered, stepping up to open the door. John moved to get in the other side, but Sherlock stopped him. "You'll get the next one."

John sighed. "Sherlock, it's half past three in the morning. In all likelihood, there isn't going to be a next one for quite a while. Can't you just get over your stupid ego for once? I won't talk."

"I'm not going back to Baker Street."

"Fine. You'll drop me or I'll drop you..."

"No. You'll get the next one."

"Sherlock, no. It's freezing. If you want your own cab, you can bloody well wait for it yourself," John insisted, his patience gone as he climbed into the cab.

Sherlock reluctantly got in and shot a glare at John before giving the driver an address.

John was silent for a few moments as the car pulled away. He glanced around the dark interior.

"Isn't that Molly's place?" he finally asked quietly.

"Yes."

John wanted to question him further, but he briefly made eye contact with the detective, and remembering how battered the florist had looked after their altercation that night, thought the better of it.

Molly had hoped she'd be asleep, but she was still awake when she heard the lock turn over two hours later. She'd left the key in the soil of the potted plant outside her door. She sat up in bed, but didn't get up as she heard him move around in the sitting room.

A short while later he appeared in her door way. She couldn't really make out his face in the darkness, but she could tell he wore only his linen shirt, trousers, and socks. The shirt was white today.

"Sorry to interrupt you during a case," Molly said.

"I don't care," Sherlock answered, climbing into the bed beside her. He lay down and Molly slid up against him, just like the first time.

"You smell like roses," she whispered, taking a deep breath as she settled in on his chest.

"I've been rolling around in a florist's cooler."

"Oh," Molly breathed. And then, without her permission, it came again. The comfort, the kindness, the relief over not being alone anymore. Molly started to cry. She tried to pull away and get up off of Sherlock's chest, but he wrapped his arm around her more tightly.

"I don't care, Molly."

Molly cried harder against his shirt.

"I don't care," he repeated.

I hope you liked it. I would love a review. Thanks.-Listrant