Molly groaned as she walked up the stairs to her apartment. It had been 24 hours since she'd gotten any sleep, and she was completely beat. Not even a shower or food tonight. Straight to bed.

She flipped the switch and headed toward her room, barely noting that her couch was slightly out of position. Too tired to give it another thought, she tossed her bag onto the couch and headed toward her room.

Her eyes nearly shut, she began to undress. Jumper, jeans, socks, until only a camisole and her underwear were left. She slipped under the covers, her breathing gradually slowing.

The bed dipped slightly, startling her awake. What? It dipped again, and she could hear a soft grumble from the other side of the bed. Completely awake, her heart racing now, she stumbled out the bed, reaching for the baseball bat she kept next to her dresser.

She flipped the lamp on. And then relaxed.

Oh. Tall man with curls. Sherlock.

She gave a quick sigh of relief, dropping the bat and walking to the other side of the room. She shook his arm gently. He mumbled something but didn't wake up.

"Sherlock. Sherlock."

Still no reply.

"Sherlock, why are you here?" she asked anyway, not expecting a response. She sniffed the air, then leaned in closer. God. He was most definitely drunk.

Well, there was no way he was getting home now.

She tugged one of his arms out of the Belstaff, then pushed him onto his back to get the other sleeve. Leave it up to Sherlock Holmes to give her work to do when all she wanted to do was sleep and never wake up.

Seeing his suit still on, she then went to work tackling the buttons, wrestling that off him too, until she was panting from exertion. Despite how skinny he looked, he sure wasn't a lightweight. But she supposed that had to do with the fact that he had gained quite a bit of muscle since his return too. Not that she was complaining. She blushed.

She glanced at his trousers. Those were definitely staying on, but his shirt was a little tight. She unbuttoned the first button and then was about to unbutton one more when he suddenly shifted in his sleep, grabbing on her arm.

"Molly," he mumbled. She leaned a bit closer.

"Sherlock? Are you awake?" She shook him.

No reply.

Guess not. She attempted to pry his hand off her, but he just. Wouldn't. Let. Go. She sighed.

"Sherlock, let go of my arm."

That had the opposite effect though, and he instead flipped over onto his other side, dragging her arm with him.

"Ow ow ow ow," Molly protested as she clambered onto the bed, basically on top of him as she tried to avoid getting her arm town off. Great. Now what?

She shoved the great lug of a thing beneath her.

Swinging her other leg over him, she laid down next to him, her arm still tight in his clasp as he slept peacefully on. Only she supposed not, because he began to undress, unbuttoning his shirt to reveal a muscular expanse beneath. Molly gulped.

Wrestling his shirt off (how he managed to do that with one hand while still managing to keep a hand on her at all times she would never know), he then attacked his pants, ignoring her shrill shrieks of protest and her hand straining to pull his hand away from his pants.

Damn his newly gained muscle, Molly thought as he kicked his pants off too. Luckily for her (or perhaps unluckily, she thought guiltily), he kept his underwear on. She gave a sigh of relief. Thank god for small favors.

"I love you," he whispered. She froze.

"What?"

"I love you," he mumbled again, his hand still tightly clasping her arm.

She smiled. Although she knew it wasn't directed at her, it was nice knowing Sherlock could say that to someone, even if it was while he was completely drunk and half asleep. She smoothed some rampant curls away from his face. At least he slept soundly and didn't have nightmares

So she didn't expect it when, mumbling something under his breath, he tugged her closer, one arm slinging around her waist (burning to the touch since her camisole had risen up in her struggle to get his clothes off), and a leg entwining between her own. She held her breath, waiting for him to stop moving.

After a moment of listening to his breathing, slow and steady once again, she tried to pry his hand off her waist, but it seemed glued to her waist. Screw it. She wasn't going to get another chance to sleep with Sherlock Holmes, so she might as well take this one when she had an excuse.

With that thought in mind, she leaned her head slightly forward so her cheek was pressed against Sherlock's chest. Her eyelids grew heavy as the last 24 hours caught up with her, and she was gently lulled to sleep by the sound of his steady heartbeat.

Only thirty minutes later, when her breathing had become slow and deep, did Sherlock tug her just a little bit closer to his chest and let the hint of a smile linger on his lips.