Over the years, Sherlock had crashed in her house from time to time. Usually it was as a result of Mycroft trying to get him to take cases, Sherlock trying to lie low or in the past few years, spats with John and girlfriends staying over.

There were a couple of times during The Great Hiatus as Greg had christened it, that he'd stayed as well, but Molly never saw him enter her flat, just woke up with him next to her dead to the world. First time he did that she nearly broke his nose.

Molly opened one eye, the other one still melded shut in the hope of drifting back to sleep. She was used to being woken at random intervals by Toby or her natural sleep cycle. This time was different; there was a presence in the room she didn't recognise. Luckily she had the habit of sleeping on her side, one hand tucked into her pillow meant that she could reach for the heavy duty torch she kept at the head of her bed. Her fingers closed around it slowly and she moved in an careless fashion as though asleep swing it as hard as she could at the presence.

'MOLLY!' The figure fell off her bed, the torch rolling after them and judging by the dull thump it also hit him on its decent.

'Sherlock!' She scrambled to the other side of the bed goggling down at the man who was sprawled on the floor, holding a hand to a nose pumping blood glaring at her.

'Was that really necessary?'

'What else did you expect!?' She exclaimed, trying to slow down her breathing and gather herself. Sherlock rolled over and sat up, examining his bloodied hand looking utterly done with the situation.

'Joy mostly.'

'Joy, at someone breaking into my flat, getting into my bed and waking me up at-' Molly turned back to her alarm clock and groaned at the blinking lights. '-half four in the bloody morning. And I only got in at one. Be grateful all you got was the nose.' She slid off the other side of the bed, stomping out into the kitchen.

'Is that so much to ask?' She paused in her rummaging through the freezer, face stony and pissed off. Sherlock was leaning against the edge of the table, trying to ease her with huge sad eyes and the faintest hint of confusion. The pre-Fall Molly probably have caved into that face, but this Molly was annoyed, worked a longer day then she wanted to consider and had barely had managed an hours' worth of sleep.

'I had three drowning victims.' She turned throwing ice pack from one hand to the other, one eyebrow spasming upwards.

'Oh. I apologise.' Sherlock's up lip rolled inwards and he bit it briefly, as he looked down at his bare feet. Oh. She looked down at them, watching in amazement as he curled his toes inwards, leaning on the edges of his feet.

'Well, I would say that you couldn't have known, but…' Molly pushed him down onto the chair and examined his nose before applying the ice pack, head bopping to her words. Sherlock's eyes narrowed at her for a second, face thoughtful and then he burst into laughter. A very rare sound to Molly's ears, it almost sounded rusty.

'I am clearly out of practice.'

'Or you need some rest.'

'As do you.'

'You can sleep in my bed as soon as you stop bleeding. Sorry.'

Molly woke a few hours later to find Sherlock asleep in her bed, tucked into the curve of her own body. She snuggled in despite herself, trying not to think about the fact she was one of only a handful that knew about him still being amongst the living.

Molly quickly opened her door as Sherlock stood in the shadows making sure that no one had noticed him enter with her. Luckily for her, her neighbours weren't the most attentive of people, so if they did catch a glimpse of him, they'd assume it was Tom.

'Why aren't you at Baker Street?'

'I needed to give Mrs. Hudson a bit of time.'

'You mean that you wanted her to calm down before you went back.'

'I need to keep a low profile for the time being. Mrs. Hudson is not capable of that at the current time.'

'Still dead then?'

'Only not.'

'I'm aware. Does John know?' Molly smiled slightly at his attempt at humour, but the weight in his shoulders and tension in his jaw spoke volumes.

'Yes. And that you assisted me? Yes.'

'Oh.'

'Don't worry, he took his anger out on me.'

'You have to admit, he's definitely owed that. So he head butted you?'

'Among other things.'

'Here, let me set your nose before it balloons.'

A few moments, a disturbing cracking and popping noise and ice pack later, Molly stood examining Sherlock's face deeming it a satisfactory set before he stood slowly.

'If I may…?'

'Of course Sherlock, you timed it well I just changed the sheets in the guest room. I have paperwork to catch up on.'

He headed to the guest room, still holding the ice pack to his face.

'Wait, I still have some of your stuff, pyjamas should still be there.' Molly ran into her room and grabbed his clothes from the bottom drawer. Why she had kept them there, she didn't care to think about.

'It's good to have you home Sherlock.' She smiled at him as she pressed the clothes into his arms, pausing to reach up and kiss him on the cheek. The look on his face was indescribable as she stood back from him, eyes welling up despite her best wishes.

'There's just one thing I don't get…' She mused out loud, taking out her plait and fluffing her hair.

'What?'

'Why do we always seem to go for your nose?' She grinned brightly as he frowned, processing her thought.

'Thank you Molly.' He smiled softly at her disappearing into the room just as she let out the breath she didn't know she had been holding.

So it was with a jolt she woke to find Sherlock's arm draped across her torso snoring loudly. Molly's eyes widened and then closed thanking whatever multidimensional beings that were out there that Tom was away. Perhaps she should have woken him up and encouraged him to go back to the spare room, but she didn't have the heart to do it to him. He slept so rarely; Molly honestly couldn't bear the thought of rousing him from it. She took a moment to stare at him, allowing herself to really take in his presence. He looked years younger asleep, his face still and peaceful no lines of deep thought or the agony of boredom etched into his face. It even looked as though he was smiling, a real genuine smile. At least he could have nice pleasant dreams. Perhaps it was a particularly tricky murder; that would be good, her final thought as she drifted off, her face still turned towards him.

'Urinating in wardrobe. Bad.' Molly paused as she and Sherlock started working on the calculations for John's stag do. The whole idea of having a drink near every murder scene was delightful. There was a moment in which Sherlock stared blankly at the opposite wall, thinking the timing of the alcohol consumption through, where as Molly was in charge of the variety of drinks to be consumed and volumes.

Wardrobes.

It had been ages since she thought about that.

It had happened shortly after she started working as a pathologist, it had been her second month and third encounter with Sherlock Holmes. The "Giant Walking Cock" Meena had christened him one evening when Molly had come home both furious and sobbing. Though a part of that was the fact that she was working mental hours at Barts.

It was after one particularly gruelling shift in which she had to cover for one of the other new pathologists. Craig had somehow, mysteriously, been dosed with a very powerful drug causing him to grope of the nurses. She woke only a few hours after she had managed to fall asleep, to Meena cursing loudly and yelling at someone at the door. Molly stumbled out in just a t-shirt and her knickers to seeing the Giant Walking Cock himself tripping in her front door. Meena side-stepped him neatly letting him face plant onto their carpet.

'I have to go to work. Have fun with him. He may be an asshole, but his ass is damn fine in those pants.' She tilted her head at the detective's backside as he murmured incoherently into the rug. Meena grabbed her backpack and headed out to work waving her fingers at her and skipped out the door.

Molly walked over the him, frowning as she squatted down to him. She shoved him to his side and took his pulse, examining his pupils. The former was erratic and the latter were blown wide open.

He had been dosed with the same drug as Craig. Though as he mumbled about "the only capable pathologist" and "incoherent morons", she wondered if he was the one who dosed Craig; somehow managed to dose himself in the process.

'Come on Sherlock.' She tried to get him to move, her small frame unable to support his, but his legs seem to have given out altogether.

'Doctorrrrrrrrrr Hooooper. Molly.'

'Yes. Surprised you remembered me. As far as I recall you've only stopped to comment on my father, lack of breasts and terrible taste in men.' Molly was positive that she was only talking honestly to him now was due to the fact that he was out of him mind and so tired that she no longer gave a flying fuck.

'You are the only one who doessssssssssssn't bore me.'

'Thank you?' Her face contorted in confusion as he finally stood on his own account pointing at her, swaying to and fro.

'I mussst utilissse the facilitiesss.' He stumbled off, one hand ruffling his curls as he took off his very dramatic black coat and blazer. Molly rolled her eyes as she padded after him, picking up the bits of clothing and hanging them up. She froze in horror as she realised that the bathroom door was open and she couldn't seen him in there. That's when she heard it.

The clear distinct sound of someone relieving themselves.

Molly ran after the noise and gaped in sheer abject horror as she saw (from behind) Sherlock Fucking Holmes pissing in her wardrobe.

'Oh would you fuck off.' She yelled at him, just as he stopped and tidied himself away turning to face her looking cutely confused. How he managed to look cute after pissing in her wardrobe was beyond her.

Man, he was right; her taste in men was terrible.

'What?'

'There are no words. Right, bathroom, then you are kipping on the couch.' She shoved him out of the room, pushing him into the bathroom, grabbing their rattiest towel and a pair of gloves from the box she had pilfered from the hospital, as well as any cleaning products she could find. She tossed the soiled clothes in a bin bag and left them in the bath. Molly blinked blurrily at another pile of clothes confused as to why a pair of stylish trousers and a very nice shirt, which was probably worth three times as much as her own wardrobe was doing on her floor.

'Sherlock?' She yawned, feeling the adrenaline from his arrival draining away speedily. She was simply going to check that he was not likely to vomit or choke on it and make sure that the surrounding area was protected.

This moment was of course when she saw him sprawled face down, once more, on her couch in nothing at all.

Meena was wrong. The pants had nothing to do with that fine, fine ass. Very much so she mused, swaying slightly as her head tilted to take in the rather delightful view she had. Molly picked up the blanket that was tossed on her arm chair, pausing to take another look at the lovely posterior facing her before placing it over him. Molly may also have taken a moment to see if his hair was as soft as it looked, but that may have been a dream weaving reality into it.

This was why when she woke a few hours later she wasn't quite sure if it was real or not that she was half on top of a very naked Sherlock.

Who was one heck of a snorer as it turned out.

Huh. So he was human.

Still she had to wonder how he'd figured out where she was living.

Molly slowly came back to reality, struggling to smother a giggle at the memory and the blush that came from the other memory.

Engaged you are engaged.

Molly stormed into her flat a very irritated and baffled Tom in tow ripping the stupid yellow bow out of her hair. She flung it across the room, smiling smugly at it knocked over his ugly lamp. Tom had spent the entire trip home bitching about Sherlock and complaining about the wedding. Yes she may have over-reacted but he was making a fool out of her in front of everyone.

'I can't believe you did that to me!'

'I can't believe that you said that about my friend.' She hissed loudly spinning around glaring daggers at him. Tom scoffed yanking off his tie and jacket flinging them on the couch.

'Friend. He's just USING YOU! And everyone knows it, except you.'

'Fuck off.'

'Sherlock Holmes doesn't give two flying fucks about you. Pathetic you are. Just how many times have you bent over just to get him to pay any bit of attention to you' He spat out viscously; stepping right up into Molly's space, trying to intimidate her by looming over her. Molly squared up to him, opening her mouth to reply but-

'I do suggest you shut up… Tom.'

Two heads spun round to see Sherlock standing in the door, staring at Tom coldly. He walked in; hands clasped behind his back, forcing Tom to fall back a few paces, inserting himself as a shield between her and her soon to be ex-finace.

'This isn't about you mate.'

'You insulted my friend. It does concern me, greatly in fact.'

'Friends? You two? Don't make me laugh.'

'Shouldn't be too hard for a simpleton like you. You lot laugh at the most mundane things.'

'He just called me an idiot! Molly!?'

'I'm the idiot.' Sherlock looked affronted by her statement, but she shot him a look. His eyebrows raised, nodding ever so slightly and seating himself down, preparing to watch them as though it was Jeremy Kyle.

'What?' Tom watched the silent exchange, bristling with anger and jealousy.

'How did I get myself engaged to such a twat?' Molly shook her head in horrified disbelief, addressing Sherlock.

'Twat!?' Tom yelled trying to get her to focus back at him, she did focus back at him, but just looked at him in disgust.

'Did I fucking stutter? Yes twat.'

'I cannot believe you. Picking him over me?'

'I'm not picking Sherlock over you. I'm picking MYSELF! I deserve so much better than you!'

'You'll end up alone.'

'Well, if I stayed with you…'

'I would have a case that in face involved a meat dagger.' Sherlock stood up, picking up the jacket he had inadvertently sat on, holding it out to Tom. Molly nodded sagely, almost sarcastically at Tom, crossing her arms.

Tom just started cursing making to punch Sherlock but he ducked it quickly, grabbing him by the arm twisting it up and behind his back and shoving him against the wall. Tom howled and tried to free himself, but Sherlock was more than a match for him.

'Now if you bother Molly ever again, I will ensure that it won't end well.'

Tom grabbed the coat, glared at Sherlock, swore Molly off and stormed out of the flat.

'Well that could have ended worse.' She muttered flopping onto her chair taking her hair down and staring up at the ceiling.

'Is this where I call him a wanker? Or a cock?' Sherlock hung up his Belstaff taking off his tied and waistcoat lying down on the couch.

'No this is where I go put on my pyjamas and dance the happy dance.'

'I'm sorry?' His head whipped round, unable to comprehend the image that was no doubt skipping through his mind.

'I'm relieved.' She sank back into the seat as the full meaning of her words sank into her mind. She was happy Tom was gone, barely any sadness at all.

'Amm.'

'Okay, I'm a little sad, but I really want to dance the happy dance of FREEDOM. Fuck I am an idiot.'

'You are many things Molly Hooper, an idiot is nowhere on that list.'

'Tell that to my love life.'

'Human nature is the most difficult thing to understand.'

'No one understands it.'

'Are you alright?' She looked at him, smiling slightly, kicking off her shoes, one cracking the lamp in half.

'I thought I was supposed to ask that.'

'You left early. You looked sad.'

'I am fine, Molly, you should rest.' He stood up and grabbed her hand pulling her up and steering her to her room.

'Okay. Thanks.'

It seemed to be a trend, Molly waking blurrily in the middle of the night to find Sherlock in her bed. This time however she woke up and he was holding her close, almost carefully, protecting her from the world around them. It was in this moment that she realised that she was still wearing her ring. She carefully worked it off her finger taking a moment to look at it before flinging it across the room.

Sherlock would find it in the morning.

Sherlock stirred slowly, which was more than a touch alarming for him. All his faculties refusing to fully reach consciousness. Then he felt it, the hum in his veins, the detachment from the roaring locomotive that was his mind and a certain lull in its stead. Ah, morphine.

The lull of the morphine was even greater than that of the heroin, a magnificent holiday for him. But it did not explain the pressure that he felt upon his midriff. With a monumental effort he opened his eyes and looked for the source.

Molly Hooper.

This petite, oh so human person; the personification of hope and light and of the angels in this world was still by his side. Her face was turned towards him, tear tracks still evident on her face, but a soft smile graced her features. As was typical of her REM cycle expressions. He had seen it every time he had stayed with her, or when she dosed off in her office after hours and even once when she had come to check up on him during John and Mar-. That was not the topic at hand. Nothing stopped it, not even her friend and the person for whom she had sacrificed so much, failing her in so spectacular a fashion.

Sherlock Holmes was entirely undeserving of Molly Hooper, and yet the thought of losing her presence, caused an unfamiliar clench in his chest. That was most assuredly not associated with the gunshot.

Sentiment, brother mine.

Do shut up Mycroft.

The morphine was now giving voice to the personas in his mind palace in his waking state.

She mumbled something in her sleep one hand grabbing his gown and clenching into a fist. Her usual cheery smile had faded into a frown. On reflex his arms wrapped around her, trying to ease her worry as his right hand twirled into her hair.

Eventually she settled down burrowing her head back into his stomach. As she snuffled slightly, his eyes grew heavy, the morphine drip luring him back to sleep.

He woke with a pain filled jolt to fin Janine sitting at the end of the bed and absolutely no evidence of Molly ever being there. Over the next few days he wondered if he'd hallucinated her presence in his bed that night.

But as he opened his door to find a rain sodden Molly with tears streaming down her cheeks, after his short exile, throwing herself into his chest. He knew it was real.