Just want to preface this by saying - this is my first Sherlock fic & I apologize because I honestly was terrified to post this! It's not edited, just a quick oneshot to post before work today. I'm American & relatively new to the fandom, so if there are any glaring errors - besides OOC, that may happen - please let me know. Thanks!

It was positively stifling in her flat. Sherlock stumbled through the doorway and tossed the key onto the side table – didn't he tell her to change the location of the spare once he'd left three years ago? Didn't he tell her? He could have sworn he did – Molly Hooper never listened properly – but then again, his head was pounding with the memory of his last drink not thirty minutes ago so really, he could be wrong.

No. That doesn't happen. Not wrong, never wrong, just….

GOD it was hotter than hades in here. Granted it was early summer still in London and the temperatures had not gotten significantly warm but why, god, why was it sweltering in here? Sherlock loosened the top buttons of his shirt and shook his mane of curls.

Molly Hooper, where are you and why is it so HOT in here?

Sherlock eased his way from the entryway towards the kitchen, sparkling clean as always which meant there were probably takeout cartons left in the living as there usually were. Molly Hooper. Never one to cook a meal, especially not a meal for one. Sherlock sighed and continued through the kitchen to the hallway, where Molly's bedroom was on the left and the spare was on the right.

Her door was shut and Sherlock knew, judging from the lack of spare key moving like he told her, that she had not kept up with oiling the hinges on this door, the hinges that squeaked and moaned unbearably when he began his week of hiding here years ago but were quiet as a whisper by the time he'd left.

SQUEAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAK

Sherlock slipped inside and glanced quickly about the room: window shut tightly – Molly WHY, no wonder it is so warm in here – clothes scattered along the floor, picture frames hanging sadly on the wall – memories for Molly to stare at whilst she falls asleep at night, not many of them happy, he told her to take them down but as she's on track not to listen to one thing-

He paused and diverted his attention to the woman curled up beneath a heavy blanket, her breath even and still. How had she not woken at that god-awful door squeak?

He stumbled the few steps towards the bed and leaned over, hand over her shoulder and shaking slightly. "Molly…. Molly, wake up. This is important, Molly, wake up!"

Molly stirred slightly but did not wake. What is going on here?

Sherlock attempted to race to the other side of the bed – tripping over a lacey bit of something he didn't quite recognize – and reached the side where Molly had curled towards, every bit of her body concealed by the heavy blanket, sweat beading on her forehead.

Drugged. She must be drugged. Or poison – is she dying a slow death – the thoughts rapidly raced through Sherlock's brain, which, addled by the alcohol, was not making this an easy deduction. He knelt down next to the bed, swaying slightly, grabbing the edge of her nightstand for balance and knocking over a bottle of… What? Melatonin.

"Molly Hooper…" Sherlock reached out and shook her again, more violently, raising his voice. "Molly Hooper, you wake now. How many of these did you take? Molly!"

Molly woke now, as her eyes shot open wide and her mouth open in the shape of a scream.

Sherlock pressed his hand softly over her mouth. "Shhhhhh, Molly, it's me, it's Sherlock."

Molly stared.

"Ok… don't scream. Blink twice for me if you won't scream."

Molly blinked once, then twice.

Sherlock slowly removed his hand from her mouth but it remained open as she gaped at him.

"Sh-Sherlock?" Her eyes went to the electronic clock on her bedside table. "It's two in the morning. What… How…" She sighed, her eyes fluttering, heavy with sleep.

"I told you to move your spare Molly, I did, didn't I? Tell me I did and that you didn't listen, tell me." He needed the validation, that he was correct.

She nodded slowly. "I thought… you weren't coming back, didn't I? I did."

A piece of hair fell into her face and Sherlock reached out, his fingers brushing her cheek, and softly tucked the hair back where it belonged. His hand, however, was acting of its own volition and would not move from where it rested, against her flushed cheek.

Molly stared at him, his eyes dark with concern, his hair all a frenzy as it was like to do, his body kneeled down at the side of her bed. And his hand… his hand, resting on her cheek, felt electric.

This must be a fever dream, she thought. This was not real. A dream and nothing more.

The tears came quickly in this dream. She shut her eyes once and felt a hot tear roll down her nose and drip right off the tip. And he sighed.

"Oh Molly… you're afraid." Sherlock said simply. Windows shut, air conditioning unit removed – far too easy to remove that from the outside and crawl through a hole – but key in the same place for over three years. Sherlock's hand moved again, stroking the side of her face softly. Was it concern or alcohol that propelled him forward, pressing a kiss to her forehead? "Molly Hooper… you have nothing to be afraid of…." He spoke quietly, sincerely against her skin. "I won't let anything… anything bad happen to you… ever. I promise."

This was most definitely a dream, Molly thought, smiling slightly through her tears. A sad, tragic, beautiful dream.

And in a moment, his lips and hand were gone, her eyes fluttering open again, heavily.

She sighed – letting out a small whimper at the loss of his presence – it was a dream. Just a dream.

Then next to her the mattress dipped down – what on earth – and she rolled onto her back – what is happening –

A strong arm slipped beneath her head, wrapped tightly around her shoulder and shifted her upwards, her face nestling into the curve where his shoulder met his chest.

If this was a dream, she was going to enjoy this – yes – she decided as she curled this way now, pressing her body against his, wrapping her arm across his stomach – yes, this was going to be a good dream now.

Sherlock held Molly tightly, listening as her breathing slowed and waiting as she fell back into her sleep.

And when she was asleep again and there was no one else to hear and the alcohol began its familiar blackout buzzing and he knew there was no way she – or he – would remember this in the morning, he whispered "I promise Molly Hooper…. Because… I love you."