A/N: Written in response to a prompt so kindly lent to me by MorbidlybyDefault and iamamazonian: Established Sherlock/Molly. Molly goes out of town and Sherlock finds it unbearable to be without her. I've tweaked it a bit so it's a different take from Morbidlybydefault's A Reuniting Reunion. Much thanks also to my lovely all-around beta, J, who says she loves this as much as Mycroft loves cake. Bless you. And finally, yes, I've been watching The Office UK.

Disclaimer: Nope, I still don't own anything. I do, however, have a friend who's named Molly Watson. So, that's not relevant.

It was the unmistakable sound of the doorknob being picked that startled Molly awake a little past three in the morning. She quickly rubbed the sleep from her eyes and reached for her mobile to call Greg Lestrade (surely he could call someone in Slough's police department?) but paused at the sight of an unanswered text. She scanned the message, threw a glare at the still jangling doorknob, and crawled back under the covers. Sighing, Molly scooted to the left side of bed and waited for the door to open.

She listened to the soft footsteps moving around the small hotel room before it was replaced by the sound of papers rustling near the bureau. Oh God, what if he brought his research? Molly froze and reconsidered calling the police. Maybe a pillow to the head would be more effective.

"Sherlock," she said, moving her head from pillow to make sure she was heard, "get into bed and we'll talk about how clingy you are in the morning."

The room was blissfully silent for nearly a minute. Molly turned back on her side and left Sherlock to stare at the back of her head. She felt him glaring and knew that he was appalled at being called clingy—which he really is, surprisingly. She had fifty-six messages in her mobile inbox to prove it.

The silence was broken by more footsteps and the now familiar sound of his suit jacket pulling against the softer material of his shirt. Molly pictured Sherlock carefully folding his jacket over the chair in front of the vanity, followed by the matching trousers, his belt, and his socks. She heard him move closer to the bed as he began fumbling with his cufflinks.

"Stupid," Sherlock muttered under his breath. Molly tried to hide her grin against the pillow. The world's only consulting detective, one of the greatest minds of this century, was always rubbish at undoing his own cufflinks. "Molly…"

She ignored the warning tone in his voice and put up a hand instead. "Give it here."

Molly heard Sherlock sigh in relief but wisely chose not to comment. He pulled back the covers and slid in next to her, his chest warming her much more efficiently than the duvet. Sherlock placed his left forearm in her extended hand as he pressed his face against her hair. "I did manage to remove the right one," he said and momentarily distracted Molly with the gentle brushes of his lips on her nape.

She quickly undid the cufflink and placed the heavy stud of gold on the small bedside table. Mycroft must've picked out his clothes again, Molly thought wryly.

"Was it John or Greg who called in Mycroft?" Molly asked as she started folding back the sleeve of his shirt.

"Neither," Sherlock replied stiffly. "He likes to make himself an inconvenience when the feeling strikes him. Unfortunately, today was one of those times."

She thought of the desperate texts from John, Mike, and Lestrade begging her to skip the rest of the conference. Before her speech during that night's cocktail party, she also received pictures of a flat that vaguely resembled the 221B she left two days ago; Molly seriously considered going to the train station at the sight of newspapers on the floor, Monopoly daggered to the wall above Cluedo, and John's pistol alarmingly unattended on the coffee table.

It must've been worse than I thought if Mycroft involved himself. Molly bit back another grin as she turned to face Sherlock. He studied her face carefully, his silver eyes seeing things even in the darkness. The thought of him piecing together the last three days without him—that he actually wanted to know contrary to the brief texts he sent her—was enough to make her toes curl.

"Tomorrow's the closing ceremony of the conference. You can sneak in if you want," Molly said and tilted her head towards him. His eyes stared back at her with amusement before she closed the distance between them. He really is a bad influence, Molly thought as she sighed happily against his mouth. "Your knowledge on forensics is more up-to-date than most people here."

"I'm sure you're right. Getting in should be just as easy as sneaking in to Scotland Yard." His teasing was tempered by the shift of his eyes from silver to a deeper blue-green. Molly smiled and smoothed her hands over the wrinkles of his shirt. "Thank you," Sherlock whispered. He wrapped his left arm around her waist and fitted her tightly against him.