Sherlock

Characters: Sherlock and Molly.

Time Frame during season 2 episode 3.

Let's face it, Steven Moffat and Mark Gatiss are amazing. I am not. I love the characters, and am only borrowing them for a moment.

S S S S S S S

"What do you need?" she repeated.

"You."

One word, just one word and Molly knew she would walk to the ends of Earth and back again for this man. This man that had insulted her, belittled her and humiliated her on more than one occasion. But she would do whatever he asked, however he asked it, just because he was Sherlock Holmes.

Looking into his eyes as he stared at her, she knew that at that moment she was all he had. She must be, otherwise he wouldn't have asked.

S S S S S S S S

She was surprised when he had insisted on black cab back to her flat - she normally took the bus. He had ignored the first two taxi's in the queue, ushering her into the third car along. When they arrived, Sherlock paid the driver. She open the door to the house and then led downstairs to a basement flat. She paused outside the door.

"Can... could you just wait here for minute?" she asked hesitantly.

He studied her. "I don't care if your radiator has washing on it."

She blushed. "You might not, but I do. Please?"

He nodded briefly, and she unlocked the door to her flat.

Her flat wasn't big, or grand, and certainly wasn't in the prestigious part of town like Sherlock's, but it was her's - she had the crippling mortgage to prove it. Her flat consisted of four rooms, a lounge, a kitchen, a bedroom and bathroom off a small central hall.

Tobias, her cat, was waiting in his usual spot in the hall. "I will feed you, but not now." She whispered as she shooed him into the kitchen.

Estimating she had about 40 seconds before Sherlock let himself in anyway, she dashed into the lounge and quickly gathered up the laundry she had left drying on the radiators. (How did he know?) A scan of the kitchen revealed her cat hadn't been sick or left any other messages for her. She shut the bedroom door firmly and resolved to spend a lot more time dusting in future.

She went back to the front door, and opened it shyly. "Um...Thank you for that. Please come in."

She indicated for Sherlock to go into her lounge. "I'll... um... I'll put the kettle on."

She tried to busy herself in the kitchen making tea and feeding Tobias, as Sherlock inspected her lounge. His eyes skimmed the bookshelves, taking in the vast quantities of medical text books and reference books. He dismissed the slightly beaten up copies of Mills and Boon Romance novels stacked on the floor next to the fire. The mantle piece held a collection of photo's and a small collection of letters tucked behind a large fossil bone. He scanned the walls, briefly glancing at the small watercolour pictures and framed photos.

Molly entered the room, carrying a tray with cups and a teapot. "I'm sorry... I wasn't sure...i can't remember," she stammered, "do you take sugar?" she asked as he put the tray on little table in front of the sofa.

"Yes."

Molly sat down on one end of the sofa, then realised that she had left her favoured seat for him. She lifted the tea pot with shaking hands. Sherlock noticed immediately and placed his hand over hers to support the teapot. "Let me."

Molly watched as he poured her tea, ensuring the milk went into the cup first. He then added just under ½ a teaspoon of sugar, and handed her the cup.

She stared at the cup. "How did you know that's how I take my tea?"

"You never use the drinks machine near your lab. You always go to the kitchen at the end of hall. I've seen half used packets of sugar in waste bin, and you always get the milk from the fridge before you actually switch the kettle on." he said dismissively.

Molly lowered her head. "I didn't think you would notice something like that." Molly said, and took a sip of tea.

"I notice everything, whether I decide something is worth remembering is something entirely different." Sherlock poured himself a cup of tea, and added 4 sugars.

Molly giggled. "How can someone who has 4 sugars in their tea be so skinny? I mean, it must be nervous energy. Not that you're nervous..."

"I am not skinny!" he protested.

"Right." She sipped her tea again. Silence fell. Feeling the need to say something Molly cast her eyes around the room. "You've been very restrained. So far you haven't insulted my flat."

"It's clearly something you are proud of," said Sherlock standing and pacing the length of the room. "as you didn't want me to see it untidy. I can see that you've recently replaced the windows – not with modern double glazing, but with original styled wood sash ones, the wood is in too good condition and the paint only has one layer, on a house this old you would expect multiple layers. The carpet is second hand, but of excellent quality. It probably cost more than purchasing a new one. The indentations in places, are clearly not from your furniture, hence second hand. The lampshade is an original, in keeping with period of the house, but not originally from this house. The size of the ceiling rose clearly shows a slightly larger chandelier originally hung here. Therefore you spent time looking for the right style to suit. You wouldn't spend that kind of time on a light fitting unless it mattered to you."

"Wow," said Molly "you got all that from just this room".

"There's lots more – shall I continue?" Sherlock didn't wait for her to answer. "You graduated from medical school at least 1 year early, possibly two. You have an extremely well read collection of medical text books, most of which seem recent publications, so you spend a lot of time keeping abreast of current thinking and research. You were extremely close to your Father, but your mother doesn't understand why you went into medicine and thinks you should be married with children by now. You have an extremely important job for someone so young and regularly work late, and yet you have time to read trashy romance novels."

"Wait some of that I understand, but how did you know about my father and mother?"

"The letters on the mantelpiece, all the same hand, a woman's hand, and each written exactly a month apart from the date on the post mark. That's too exact, almost like like it is scheduled in, therefore a duty rather than a desire. The letter formation is old fashioned, hence your mother not a sister. You mentioned earlier that your father had died, and given your age, deduced from the university diploma on the wall, you graduated early, probably driven to see if you could assist or cure your father. And don't all mothers want their daughters to be married and raising children? There are also more pictures of your father, and you with your father than of your mother."

Sherlock sat back down in the chair, and picked up his cup. "Did I miss something?"

"Do you know Sherlock, that's the first time you have done that without insulting me."

He frowned slightly. "My observations aren't meant to be insulting, they just are."

Molly sighed. "Possibly to you, but to those you are dissecting with that clinical eye of yours, it can be very hurtful. And you can't even see what you do is wrong." Molly stood up left the lounge, leaving Sherlock considering her words.

She came back in a few minutes later carrying a duvet, sheets and a pillow.

He eyed them curiously. "Molly, right now I just need a safe place to sit and think. I won't be sleeping tonight."

She placed them on the sofa. "That's fine, it's your choice, but they are here if you need them. The bathroom is next to the kitchen. Make yourself at home. I'm going to bed. Good night Sherlock."

She left the room and entered her bedroom, carefully closing the door. He had been right about everything. Absolutely everything, even the smallest detail. She had chosen medicine to help her father.

Perhaps it had been a mistake to agree to let Sherlock come to her house. He had told her his concerns about Moriarty. (She no longer thought of him as Jim. Jim had been nice and caring, Moriarty wasn't.) Sherlock had explained how he thought she might be able to help him. He'd even said it was a possibility that she might be in danger. Although it was somewhat remote.

She undressed quickly and slipped into her pyjamas. There were pink with cute sheep on them. Hardy sexy, but then she had no intention of Sherlock seeing her in them. She didn't exactly possess anything in the negligée line anyway. She turned on the little night light next to her bed and settled under the covers. It had been a very strange day, and for a while she didn't think she would sleep knowing Sherlock was in the next room. But almost in spite of her expectations, she drifted off.

S S S S S S S S

Sherlock sat in Molly's lounge and contemplated what had occurred. This evening when he had spoken to her in her lab, he had half expected her to shout at him, not offer him unconditional support. But then this was Molly. Always there for him. He had asked for help and she had given it. He had asked for sanctuary and again it was provided to him. He could have gone to a hotel or Mycroft's club, but instead he had sought her out.

He sat in the chair almost motionless. He heard Tobias the cat scratch at the door and for a moment considered ignoring it. Instead he stood and opened the door and watched as Tobias immediately made a beeline for the seat he had been sitting in. Sherlock gently removed the cat from the chair and sat back down. Instantly Tobias jumped onto his lap. "I am not a cat person," he said quietly. Tobias stared at him for a moment as if doubting this statement, then settled comfortably into a position that Sherlock could only describe as "melting" over his leg. Carefully he extended his hand, and gently scratched Tobias behind his ears. The loud purring noise he made led Sherlock to understand that he was finding this pleasurable. He continued to rub and scratch the cats' head before moving to longer strokes of the animals back and tail. For a moment an image of Blowfeld from the Bond films ran through his head. Sherlock and Tobias continued in this fashion for a while, until a noise disturbed Sherlock's musings.

At first Sherlock heard only a whimper, then a clear cry. He stood up immediately causing Tobias to half fall, half jump from his lap. Carefully Sherlock went into the hallway. Molly's bedroom door was closed, but he could clearly hear signs of agitation coming from her room. Suddenly he heard her cry out, a clear single word. "Don't."

Unsure of what he would find, Sherlock quickly opened the door. The small night light gave off ample light to see Molly lying in her bed. She was gripping her bed covers with both hands, and wriggling uncomfortably as if restrained. She moaned loudly and cried out again, "don't. No." She was now panting, like she was being chased. There was no one else in the room, and he realised that she must be suffering from a nightmare.

He crossed to her bed and tried calling her name. "Molly, can you hear me? Wake up." But she was unresponsive. He reached over and shook her slightly, gripping her by the shoulders. "Molly. It's a dream. Only a dream."

Suddenly she started to try to fight him off.

"Molly, it's me. Wake up."

Her eyes flew open and she suddenly realised what was happening. "Sherlock?"

"You're OK. You're at home, you're safe."

She flopped back onto the bed, and turned away. "Oh god."

"It's OK now, you're safe. It was just a bad dream."

The humiliation of having a nightmare in front of Sherlock – the most together man she knew, suddenly overwhelmed her, and she started to cry.

Sherlock sat down on the side of the bed. He'd spent a large part of his life trying avoid the complications of relationships and feelings, but right now for reasons he struggled to articulate, he couldn't leave Molly like this. In the same way that he had stroked Tobias, he began to stroke Molly's shoulder and arm. Gradually he heard the crying stop, to be replaced with regular breathing. Exhaustion had won out, she had gone back to sleep.

He briefly debated leaving her and retreating to the lounge, but then realised he could do his thinking sitting here just as well as in the lounge. Almost in same way he had found he enjoyed having John around as a presence in the flat, right now he actually found it soothing to have another presence in the room.

Molly shifted slightly, unconsciously in her sleep, almost unintentionally making room for Sherlock on one side of her bed. Carefully he swung his legs up, propping himself against the headboard. For the moment he decided not to consider whether this was a wise course of action, but focus on the comfort that he was giving to Molly. A new concept to him.

S S S S S S S S S

In the morning, Molly awoke slowly. Suddenly the events of last night came flooding back. Sherlock coming to her lab. Bringing him home. And then the nightmare. She groaned and hid her head under the duvet. Or at least she tried to. For some reason the duvet failed to move as she pulled it.

"Good Morning" said a deep voice to one side.

Molly squealed and turned suddenly to see Sherlock reclined on one side of the bed. "you... you.." she stammered,

"Yes."

"You're still here?"

"Very observant Molly. Yes I stayed."

"Why?"

"You seemed calmer with company." Sherlock looked her at tousled hair and bright eyes as she gripped the duvet to her, covering every inch except her face. "Tell me, exactly how long have you been having nightmares?"

Molly's mouth made little "o's" as she tried to make a sentence.

"I think I know," said Sherlock sadly, "but …."

Molly shook her head. "It's not your fault"

"It's since you went out with Jim isn't it?"

Molly turned away. "I really …. I don't want to discuss it."

"He tried to hurt you, didn't he?" Sherlock squeezed her shoulder. "Please tell me."

A tear fell despite Molly's resolve. Keeping her back to Sherlock her voice cracked as she tried to speak. "He tried." she whispered.

John had often accused Sherlock of having no emotions, but Sherlock was well acquainted with many of them despite not showing them. Right now, he felt an anger burning in him, so white hot that he wanted to make Moriarty suffer for every little thing that he may have done to Molly.

"Do you need anything?" he asked, his words a strange parody of how he found himself in this situation.

"I'll … I will be alright." she said with a little strength.

Amazing himself, Sherlock found himself leaning over and stroking Molly's hair, the only bit he could see of her. "I know you will. But do you need anything now?"

"Just make him go away. Please."

Sherlock patted her arm. "I intend to."

He pushed himself off the bed and began to leave the room.

"Sherlock?" Molly called.

He turned to see her sitting up in bed, watching him. In her pink and sheep patterned pyjama's, she looked like a small child. "I need to know. Why did you stay?"

He paused, "because you do count Molly. You do matter. You see with John, I can't be myself. He thinks I am, but he expects me to be better than I am. You, you just see me. Warts and all. I don't have to pretend to be anything than I am with you. Can't you see the difference? Can't you see why that makes you more important?"

Molly shook her head. "That's not exactly what I meant."

"I know. But right now that's all the answer I have."

"Thank you... for staying, I mean."

"We'd better get going." said Sherlock sadly. "It's going to be a busy day."

S S S S S S S S

Well it was an idea that I had, that I just had to get written down to make it go away. Thanks for reading.