Molly and Sherlock were wrapped up in the white sheets of his bed. Rain rapped on the roof of the old building, and the soft grey light of the day filled the bedroom. In this moment, time escaped them. The honking horns outside were dulled by the patternless beats on the roof. There were no cases, no games to play, no murders to solve.

Sherlock's ear was placed over his lover's beating heart, his arms wrapped gently around her smaller frame. One of Molly's small hands was making small patterns on his back the other held a book she had been concentrating on for some time. Her glasses sunk further down her nose with every passing hour.

Once he would have shouted bored and found his revolver, but not today. Today the couple had on reserve for a well needed rest. Their phones were turned off and sitting on the kitchen table. London could wait. The only sound made by the pair was their breathing and the occasional sound of a turning page.

"Oh," Sherlock said sometime later in the afternoon.

"Hm?" Molly replied without looking down.

"So this is it. This is home," he muttered.

"What's that?" she asked finally looking at him.

"I have exactly seven different definitions of the word home, but none of them ever made sense… but now I understand, its you Molly Hooper," he confessed. "You, being in your arms is what I call home." Her smile was infectious to him. "I love you."

"I love you too, you big sap."