Author's note: never written anything from the Sherlock world before, but I saw an amazing fanvid which made me ship Molly/Sherlock (although I am aware its unlikely to happen) and I wanted to write a fic for them! Even though it's pretty un-romancey. Sorry for grammar mistakes!
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The doorbell rang and I knew it was him.
Peeking out through the curtains, I took the advantage of looking at him without him seeing me just yet. The sky was a dark plumb colour and the rain bounced off the pavement around him like a hail of bullets but he seemed not to have noticed. His dark hair was longer than when I had seen him last, ducking into a cab on a night not unlike this one, and his face seemed thinner too, causing his cheekbones to appear even sharper, but apart from that he was exactly the same. I let out a small sigh of relief.
"Molly, kindly stop staring at me and let me in" he said calmly, his eyes fixed on the letter box which he was propping open with a finger in order to be heard. I started and hurried into the hall, fumbling with a bunch of keys. The same old Sherlock.

"Thank you" he said finally, stepping over the threshold and walking straight towards the kitchen, leaving wet and muddy footprints that I would have to clear up later, not that I minded.

"You've given up your diet again, " I heard him say from somewhere ahead of me. "A pity, though not unexpected. Will your brother be out long?" I followed him into the room and shook my head, still taking in his presence and trying not to look too happy.
"He's just gone to the shop for some cigarettes, but I told him I had a … friend, coming over anyway."

"How's John doing?"

I hadn't actually seen Dr Watson for a few months, but I had bumped into his landlady outside the bingo hall the week before, so I had a vague idea about how he was getting on, and it wasn't well.

"I…not brilliantly."

Sherlock sighed.

"I thought as much, his blog's become blatantly depressing."

"mmm" I replied, aware of how his eyes were still roving around the room, taking in every mark and scratch and empty space and judging the very nature of my existence on it. His sodden coat was dripping water onto the squares of lino.

"Tea?" I inquired quickly, hoping to divert his attention, and it momentarily worked.

"Thank you. I'll take it up in my room. I need quiet."

"Erm…right, ok, if you just wait a second…" I clattered around for a few minutes with cups and saucers and only just remembered to turn the kettle on , but somehow I got to the stage where I actually had a cup of tea in my hand and nodded towards the door.

"You're on the second floor, I'll show you."

He followed without a word and as we climbed the stairs I found myself wittering on about nothing in particular.

"…Of course, this is really my parent's house, but Dad's …well…dead, like I said and Mum's in a retirement home and it's near work and Alex needed someone with him so I moved back. Hasn't it gotten cold? You'd never think it was May…"
I half wanted and definitely expected him to stop me but he didn't, seeming lost in own word just as he so often had in the lab.

We came to one of the old guest bedrooms and I pushed open the door before stepping aside to let him in first.

"I'm just three doors down if you…I don't actually know what I was going to say then …but, but the bathroom's the door nearest the stairs and you know where the kitchen is if you want some water or anything…"

Sherlock squeezed past me into the room as I spoke, causing me to blush at his close proximity , took one glance out of the window and sat down on the bed, his back poker straight. I put the mug of tea down on the bedside table and hovered awkwardly near the door.

"So… goodnight! I'll see you tomorrow, probably." I started to leave, already cursing myself for that overenthusiastic "goodnight!" , but the abrupt return of his voice brought me back.

"How old were you?"

I hesitated, then laughed a little uncomfortably

"How old was I when?"

"When your mother started hitting you."

I tried for a moment to smile, to brush the question off, but I knew my face had gone white.

"What? Where did you get that from?"

His expression didn't change but he suddenly began to speak quickly and unfalteringly, as if he was simply counting from one to a hundred.

"You walk into your own kitchen as thought you would rather be anywhere else in the world, suggesting some kind of trauma occurring there, this is your childhood home so it's likely to have occurred then. Your mother is in a home but on your calendar she's not mentioned, no visits, no medical appointments, nothing. Of course, that would be expected if you were lax in updating the calendar but although it's sparsely filled the corners of the pages are worn, you look at it often, it's important, suggesting there's just a problem between you and your mother. You have low self-confidence, you have chosen a workplace that repels people, you don't like letting them in too close until they have earned your trust, you would also not have chosen that profession if you were not already comfortable with the sight of blood and injuries. Your makeup is badly applied, no one taught you how to do it at a young age and although your brother lives here the house is spotless, you clean up after him, you are protective of him. There are dents in the wall; someone has been knocked against it, hard. It has been painted over but not for years, the colour clashes with your implements and the size of the house shows you can obviously afford to redecorate but you haven't, you don't want to think about what happened there."

I blinked and took a few deep breaths until I trusted my voice enough not to crack. Sherlock continued to watch me all the while.

"Seven. She found me looking in her jewellery box. Goodnight."

I turned to leave for a second time but once again the sound of his voice stopped me.

"You spent eleven years at least being abused, and the only way it seems to have affected you is an abysmal choice in boyfriends. And you thought you were someone who "didn't count?"

He smiled for the first time that evening, a fleeting, strained one but a smile all the same and it made me suddenly feel warm, and confident enough to ask a very obvious question.

"What are you doing here Sherlock? In London?"

He half shrugged. "It was time. I'll see you in the morning, Molly Hooper."

I did leave then, smiling to myself. I stopped at the end of the corridor and allowed myself to look back just once. He was still sitting motionless, silhouetted in the amber light of the streetlamp just outside his window.