A/N: Well, Sign of Three was a roller coaster, wasn't it? This doesn't have any spoilers for that in, so not to worry if you haven't seen it. Thanks to those who reviewed the first part, you all make me very happy indeed. I'm back to work tomorrow so writing time will be more limited than it has been of late, but I do have a writing to-do list as long as my arm, so keep an eye out for the mass of Sherlolly fics heading this way. :)

Seeing Clearly

by Flaignhan

She's warm and comfortable. She knows that the pillow isn't her own, but all the same, it smells familiar, and that brings a smile to her face. She can hear traffic outside; the diesel roar of the cabs, the whine of scooters, and the screeching of ancient bus wheels as they pull away. She pulls the duvet up over her shoulders and snuggles into it, sighing softly. Yesterday hardly seems real. The argument with Tom feels like a distant memory, and Sherlock's attempt at comfort feels like some bizarre dream. It did happen though, she has to forcibly remind herself of that, but it did in fact happen.

She opens her eyes, glancing around at the unfamiliar space. She's never been here before, doesn't recognise any of it. She sits up, trying to ignore the dull ache in her chest, and looks around. It's all fairly plain - olive green walls, dark wooden furniture, nothing of any real significance. She turns towards the door, and on the adjacent wall there is a poster of the periodic table. She smiles, putting two and two together, before she gets out of bed and heads into the lounge. He's sitting in his armchair, dressing gown on over his clothes, legs crossed, fingers steepled and resting against his chin. She's in two minds as to whether she ought to disturb him or not, but when one of the floorboards creaks underfoot, he turns his head and sees her, frozen on the spot.

"Ah, Molly, he says with a smile, standing up. She relaxes, just a little, still unsure of what exactly happened the previous night. The last thing she really remembers is being curled up against him, inhaling the scent of his aftershave.

"Morning," she says uncertainly.

"Afternoon, actually," he replies, hanging back near the fireplace. "Mrs Hudson's just cooking some breakfast, if you'd like some?"

She doesn't know what to say. Surely she's already outstayed her welcome, and she has the sneaking suspicion that Sherlock didn't sleep at all last night, because she was in his bed, so her guilt levels are sky high without her lingering for breakfast.

"I'm having some," he says abruptly, and she notices that his hands are in his pockets, his expression, though neutral, much warmer than she's used to. She knows he's been different since he returned, my God, she knows that, but it still catches her off guard, when he looks at her with genuine…affection? No, affection is too strong for Sherlock. She can't put her finger on it, but he's much more open to the idea of letting people in, these days. Maybe that's what two years alone does to you. Looking back at all those times she'd been alone in the lab late at night, wishing he were there and not on the other side of the world, she thinks it was worth it. She hopes he feels the same, though she knows he didn't have a smooth ride. Little phrases here and there tell her enough, and when he had first returned to her, in the locker room at Bart's, he had held himself stiffly, his lips twitching when he moved a little too carelessly.

"Yeah," she says, pushing her thoughts away. "All right then. Thank you."

He turns sharply and heads towards the kitchen table, sweeping aside a pile of papers which flutter to the floor. Molly frowns, and, with considerably greater care, Sherlock moves the remains of his experiments to the counter, then opens a drawer, scowls, and slams it shut. He opens the next, and the next, and the next, until finally, his face brightens upon finding what he's looking for. His hand dives into the drawer and with an unnecessary amount of clattering, he pulls a handful of cutlery out and throws two knives and two forks onto the table. He flicks the kettle on, opens one of the cupboard and takes out two mugs, before tossing three teabags into the pot.

Molly leans against the wall, watching him curiously. She's never seen him so domestic, even when she's been in the flat before. It's always somebody else who makes tea - John or Mrs Hudson. Never Sherlock, and she thinks that he's even just demonstrated his version of laying the table. She's using the term loosely of course, but for someone like Sherlock it's rather a large leap towards being house trained. He can't keep still while he's waiting for the kettle to boil, fingers tapping on the counter, impatient huffs, and when the water starts to simmer, he stalks over to the fridge, yanks it open and pulls out the milk. On his way back, he hooks his foot around the leg of one of the chairs and yanks it out, then glances at Molly. She understands the instruction quite clearly and takes her seat, fidgeting with the cuff of her jumper while she waits for Sherlock to finish with the tea.

"Here we are!" Mrs Hudson says brightly, gliding into the kitchen with a plate in each hand. She sets one down in front of Molly, and another in front of the empty seat opposite. She shakes her head at the scattered cutlery and dodges around Sherlock so she can fetch the salt and pepper from one of the other cupboards.

"This looks amazing," Molly says, closing her eyes and allowing the smell to seep through her. There is no cure for a broken heart quite like finely cooked bacon in her mind, and Mrs Hudson has truly outdone herself.

"You be needing anything else, love?" she says, setting the salt and pepper on the table. "Brown sauce? Ketchup? Sherlock hates ketchup on a breakfast but I quite like a little bit on my egg - "

"You don't need ketchup if you have beans," Sherlock says impatiently. He pours the tea into the mugs, adds a drop of milk to each, then slides into his chair, a mug in each hand, and passes one over to Molly.

"Thank you," Sherlock says pointedly to Mrs Hudson.

"Yes, thank you," Molly says, almost forgetting her manners.

"I'll leave you to it, shall I?" Mrs Hudson says with a smile, before she bustles off, out of the flat and down the stairs.

"If you want ketchup, there's some in the fridge," he says distractedly, cutting his toast in half before tearing a bite out of it.

Molly smiles and looks down at her plate, wondering where she ought to begin.

"This is ridiculous."

"It is the least ridiculous thing we have ever done."

She can't help but smile at his use of the word 'we'. It sets off all sorts of overly analytical and optimistic thoughts in her brain. Does he think about the things that they've done as a 'we' a lot? She supposes the main 'we' thing they did was her helping him fake his own death, and she supposes that yes, this is slightly less ridiculous than that, but only slightly.

"Why do you even have this?" she asks, not looking at him, knowing it will break her concentration.

"It's useful. I thought you might see the point to it."

"Practice? Don't you think I get enough of that already?" She successfully manages to extract the wishbone without incident, and she sets it down, letting out a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding.

"Of course I don't think you need practice," he says, as though she's being stupid. "But it helps maintain high concentration levels, acting under stress, steady hand…"

She passes the tweezers to Sherlock, and he frowns down at the game, wondering which body part to pick out next. After some hesitation, he goes for the heart, the broken heart, specifically, which Molly has been avoiding for obvious reasons. Maybe he's just dealing with it for her so it doesn't mock her any longer. His hands move so delicately, and so carefully as he clasps it between the tweezer points. She inhales sharply when he very nearly touches the side, but after a deep breath, he is able to remove it smoothly and soundlessly. He smiles, proud of himself as he drops it onto the table.

"Mycroft always messes that one up," he tells her, his smile twisting into a smirk.

"Mycroft?" she asks incredulously. "You and Mycroft play Operation?"

"Well," Sherlock says with a sigh, passing her the tweezers, his fingers brushing against her own. "After he became too predictable at poker and too fat for Twister, we were left with very few options."

Molly smiles and looks down at the game. It's one of those times where she doesn't know whether she ought to take him seriously or not, and in her heart of hearts she hopes that every word he's said to her is true, just for the sheer insanity of it. But, even if it isn't, he's going out of his way to make her smile, and as she goes in for the spare ribs, she decides that that is just fine with her.

It's getting late, and she supposes she ought to go home, but every time she even thinks about it, Sherlock comes up with something else for them to do. The breakfast things had been pushed to one side to make way for new experiments, dangerous ones involving bunsen burners and too confined a space. He'd called them indoor fireworks, while she'd seen them more as a health and safety hazard. He'd also been through his case map with her, telling her the details of the more curious ones, and also confiding in her which streets he'd like to be investigating on next, to give a sense of symmetry to his pin points.

It's half past eight when Sherlock's phone rings, and he rolls his eyes, slides his thumb across the bottom of the screen, and answers.

"Still not caught your killer?"

She supposes he'll be going out on a case now, which will likely bring him to Bart's tomorrow. Even with the day over, at least she'll have something to look forward to tomorrow, even if it does involve a murdered corpse on her slab.

"Well," he says sending a feigned look of impatience towards Molly. "I suppose I can come and take a look."

She smiles, and his mouth twitches at the corners, before he turns away and faces the window, staring out onto the street below.

"All right," he says, "I'll see you in twenty minutes."

He ends the call and slides his phone into his pocket, then shrugs off his dressing gown and snatches his jacket off the back of the desk chair. He throws it on, and Molly stands up, heading towards her own coat, which has been neatly folded and left on top of the footstool, her scarf coiled on top of it.

"I'll get going then," she says, winding her scarf slowly around her neck. She's dragging it out as long as possible, knowing that when she gets home she'll be faced with the fact that she is, once again, all alone in the world. "Thanks for, well, everything, really." She's becoming nervous again, now that she wants to tell him how she feels, even if all she wants to communicate is gratitude. She can be silly with him, no problem, and she can be serious too, but being sincere is a whole different ball park, one that sets her heart racing, leaves her skin covered in goose pimples, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end.

His eyebrows crease into a frown as he buttons up his coat. "Aren't you coming with me?"

It feels as though the world has fallen out from under her. Even after all they've done today, he still has the patience to keep her around? He can't normally handle other humans for longer than a few hours, John being an exception, but mostly because he likes his own space as much as Sherlock does, and that just works.

"Thought I'd outstayed my welcome to be honest," she mumbles, hoisting her bag onto her shoulder and gazing down at the floor.

He dismisses this with a shake of his head. "Don't be ridiculous. Are you coming or not?"

"I'm still in yesterday's clothes…"

"Molly, they're dead, they're hardly going to be criticising."

"But - "

"Besides, I'm going to need someone to cast a medical eye over everything, aren't I?"

Molly doesn't know what to say. She doesn't want to be a burden, doesn't want him to feel responsible for her current situation just because he knew more about Tom than he ever let on. But then he holds out his hand, and all her fears about being a nuisance are washed away in less than a second. She steps forward slowly, then, with his eyes following her every move, she takes his hand.

"Excellent decision, Molly," he says briskly. "Now, let's go and do Lestrade's job for him, shall we?"

Molly laughs, and allows him to lead her out of the flat, down the stairs, out of the front and into the night.

The End.