Another tumblr prompt!fic, this time for theaddress-is-221b-bakerst, who writes: Ahhhh I'm so excited! Sherlolly , rated T. Molly has trouble with a paper she's trying to publish and Sherlock helps her by bringing her coffee, buying her dinner, feeding Toby etc.(can you tell I'm at the end of my wits with uni?…). It can be Established Sherlolly or they're still pining for one another, as long as there's a happy end :) Thank you again! You are wonderful :)

This was SUPPOSED to be a one shot but somehow, nine pages later, it's not finished. Oh, and parts of the second half will be in French, courtesy of the lovely and talented SherlockSteph, who saved me from having to rely entirely on Google Translate. Merci beaucoup!

Molly Hooper had barricaded herself in her flat, taking an entire week off from work in order to finish up the damned research paper she was due to present at a conference in two months. In Paris. The paper was to be presented in English, but she'd been asked if she wouldn't mind doing an abstract in French as well, and although her conversational French was more than adequate, she felt intimidated at the thought of translating something so technically complex into another language.

To make it worse? The only person she knew who also spoke French – fluently, idiomatically, and with a flawless accent, of course – was Sherlock Holmes. Although they were friends now, ever since his return she'd been reluctant to call on that friendship, worried that it was still too tenuous. Especially after his (thankfully temporary) return to drug use and the (thankfully even more temporary) Janine thing, and then being shot and Magnussen and exile and Moriarty…

Ugh. He'd been through a helluva lot since his return from the dead (much of it his own doing, granted, and she would never regret slapping the crap out of him for being so stupid), and asking him to help translate an abstract of a paper on Retroviruses into French just seemed too trivial to bother with.

Still, Google Translate and her own skills could only go so far; she needed someone to look over the translation and make sure it made sense. She'd hate to get to the conference and make a fool of herself when reading the abstract (she'd do enough of that with her barely-adequate accent, thank you very much), so with a great deal of reluctance, she'd asked Sherlock if he wouldn't mind helping her, one day when the two of them were in the path lab together.

His enthusiasm had surprised her. "I don't get to practice my French much," he'd explained when she asked him why he was so eager to help. "Plus this is the first paper you've published since Moriarty came back, and well, it's good to see you getting back to normal."

He'd looked her squarely in the eyes the entire time, and Molly had become flustered and stammered out a thank you. God, she hadn't stammered around him in years, and all it took was one sincere compliment, if it could be characterized as such, and there she was, regressing to the lovestruck git she'd been back then.

Of course, if she was being honest, she'd never actually come out of that phase, she'd only learned to bury it, to make herself content with Sherlock's friendship and knowing he valued her for herself and not simply for the body parts she could procure for him. They'd long since left that stage behind. She still loved him, quietly and rather desperately, and had resigned herself to the knowledge that she always would.

She was musing on things of that nature rather than focusing on her paper when she was startled out of her thoughts by the sound of a key in the lock. The only other person besides herself to own a key was Sherlock, and she couldn't imagine why he'd be stopping by when she'd told him she was planning to draft the abstract out only after she'd finished her second set of revisions.

Toby meowed and hurried over to brush himself against Sherlock's legs as he breezed into the flat. Molly smiled but allowed her confusion to show at the sight of the small overnight bag in Sherlock's hand. "Going away on a case?" she guessed, although why he felt obliged to stop by and see her first was a mystery. A pleasant mystery, but a mystery nonetheless; surely if he didn't think he'd be around to assist her with her translation he'd simply have texted her?

"No, staying here for a few days," he replied nonchalantly. "Don't worry, I don't plan on sleeping much so that cramped little daybed of yours in the guest room will be fine." He continued past her into the flat, headed straight for the room in mention. He called over his shoulder, "And don't worry, Molly, I won't disturb your work. It's not that kind of a visit." Then she heard the door shut and found herself once more alone, with Toby meowing disconsolately in the hallway, cut off from his second favorite person without so much as a head-scratch.

Molly, somewhat bemused but used to Sherlock's comings-and-goings at odd hours of the day and night, just shook her head and went back to rewriting the middle section of the paper, which had been giving her so much trouble. Usually she had a hard time with the conclusions and the introduction, but for some reason those two parts had flowed beautifully, and it was the body of the paper that was giving her grief.

An hour later she looked up from the computer, sniffing appreciatively. Sherlock had apparently emerged from his den in order to fix her a cup of coffee and a sandwich, both of which were perched on the corner of her desk farthest from her messy pile of research materials and rough drafts. She took a sip and sighed in utter bliss; it was perfect, exactly how she liked it. Seeing him sitting at the counter that separated her kitchen from the living room, she called out her thanks and went back to work, alternating sips of coffee with bites of the sandwich until suddenly both were gone. She considered getting up and bringing the dishes to the kitchen, but she'd finally pinned down the most problematic part of her paper and so just shoved them to the side and went back to the keyboard.

Two more hours passed before she came back up for air, this time because her neck was sore and her back was sore and her arse was sore and her wrists were sore and her fingers were cramping. She knew better; no matter how ergonomically sound a chair and keyboard were, two – no, three, or was it four? – straight hours of typing weren't good for you. And her bladder was reminding her that she'd downed an entire cup of coffee…oh, wait, hadn't she reached over once to find that it had been refilled? So at least two cups of coffee…Molly groaned and stretched, winced and pushed herself out of her chair. She made her way to the loo, took care of business and felt a bit better afterwards. Moving around was helping as well, so before returning to her computer she went into her bedroom and made herself do a few minutes on the treadmill jammed between the bed and the dresser.

When she finally emerged from her room, she was surprised to see that the plate and coffee mug had been whisked away from her desk in her absence…and that the massaging cushion she'd purchased and never bothered to use had been removed from its box, plugged in and placed on her chair. She grinned, surprised and pleased at Sherlock's sudden bout of thoughtfulness; she'd never really seen the domestic side of him, hadn't believed it existed, to be honest, but to be the recipient of his attentions was nice. Very, very, nice, she decided as she looked around for him. A noise from the spare bedroom caught her attention; the muffled sounds of a violin playing, something slow and haunting that wouldn't distract her but was a nice change from the silence she'd surrounded herself in all afternoon.

She settled back in her seat and turned the massager on its lowest setting, feeling as refreshed and ready to return to her work. From time to time a small smile would break out over her face as she thought how nice it was to have someone fussing over her for a change…especially since that someone was Sherlock Holmes.

oOo

The next morning when Molly emerged from her shower, dressed and ready for another round of Research Wrestling, she was greeted with the enticing scent of coffee and some sort of baked goods, as well as the (equally enticing) sight of Sherlock stretched out on her sofa with Toby purring comfortably on his chest. "I've made breakfast," he announced without opening his eyes. His fingers were steepled under his chin in his classic 'thinking' pose, and until he spoke Molly hadn't been sure he'd even noticed her entry into the room. "Eggs under the warmer, fruit in the fridge. There's coffee brewing as well. Mrs. Hudson made scones and I brought them over, they're warming in the oven."

"Sherlock, you didn't have to go to all this trouble," Molly began, feeling a bit overwhelmed…but also feeling very, very pleased. "The paper's actually in pretty good shape now, I think I can manage to feed myself and Toby…"

"Like you did last night?" Sherlock sat up and gave her a very pointed scowl before glancing down at the now-disgruntled cat. "Luckily I know where you keep his food and how much to give him."

Molly blushed; had she really…yes, she had. She'd forgotten to feed Toby, and hadn't eaten anything herself for dinner, now that she thought about it. At least she'd had the sandwich and coffee for lunch. But she'd found a promising bit of research to buoy up her conclusions, and everything else had just faded away. "Sorry, thanks," she said, then headed for the kitchen and her first cup of coffee of the day.

Sherlock rose from the sofa and followed her, still scowling. "You take terrible care of yourself when you're immersed in scholarship," he scolded her, sounded very much like her father used to when she would get caught up in a school project and forget to eat. Although her father, of course, hadn't had such a deep, lovely voice that sent shivers up her spine. "I left the flat for a few hours last night only to discover upon my return that you'd gone straight to bed without following any of your usual nighttime routines."

He'd gone out? Molly didn't recall hearing him leave, but she'd been in her own world for most of the evening and so that wasn't so surprising. What was surprising, not to mention a little disconcerting, was hearing Sherlock scold her about taking care of herself. Talk about pot and kettle! When she made to voice that very comment, he spoke right over her. "I shall remain here to ensure that you don't forget to eat again, and I shall take over Toby's care until this paper is concluded. I've already rung John and asked him to bring me more clothes and my laptop, as I neglected to bring it with me when I returned last night."

Molly scowled right back at him, hands on her hips. Her expression might have been more intimidating if she hadn't just taken a big bite of one of Mrs. Hudson's heavenly scones and had to chew and swallow before saying, "I don't need a babysitter, Sherlock! Do I look like Lucy Watson to you?"

He looked her over head to toe and back again, lip curled as he took in her appearance: hair still wet from the shower, barefoot, wearing a pair of sloppy sweats, no makeup…oh, Molly knew exactly what he was thinking and stopped him by waiting until he opened his mouth to make a sarcastic comment and popping the remainder of her scone between his lips.

To his credit he chewed and swallowed rather than spitting it back out – then again, wasting one of Mrs. Hudson's scones would be an absolute crime. However, he continued to lecture her on her need to take better care of herself all while she made up a plate and dutifully ate breakfast. She hadn't known he could even break open an egg, let alone make up a plate of perfect, fluffy scrambled eggs, but he'd done so and her immediate instinct to spite him and not eat anything was sensibly ignored.

He wouldn't let her clean up, just sent her back to her computer with a mug of tea and a plate of biscuits "for later", then vanished – along with Toby – into the spare bedroom.

Molly quickly found herself immersed in her research, only briefly distracted when John and Mary appeared at her door, Sherlock's laptop and baby Lucy in tow. She cooed over the six-month-old, tickled her toes and belly and tried to offer her parents a cup of tea in thanks for their Sherlock-slogging duties, but the consulting detective himself interrupted them. "No, Molly, they can't stay, they're on their way to finally introduce Lucy to her Aunt Harriet in Brighton, now that John's sister has managed to straighten her life up – what, for the fifth or is it the sixth time now, John?"

"Sherlock," Mary said warningly, but there was a twinkle in her eyes, and she shared a rueful grin with Molly when he wasn't looking.

Molly gazed longingly after them when they left a few minutes later – Sherlock hadn't been exaggerating, they had a train to catch – but then her paper drew her back in and she was back in research land again, not resurfacing until lunch suddenly appeared at her elbow, this time a plate of Thai takeaway and a large glass of milk. She made a face at the milk but drank it down, knowing Sherlock would only fuss if she traded it in for a bottle of soda, which was what she really wanted.

The routine continued thus for the next three days, with Sherlock only leaving the flat on the fourth morning when Greg Lestrade showed up and physically demanded his presence at a tricky crime scene. Molly swore she wouldn't forget to eat and absolutely positively wouldn't forget to feed Toby, and waved him off with a feeling of relief. Not that she didn't enjoy having Sherlock underfoot, but honestly, it was beginning to feel a bit like a fussy older relation had come to stay, one who insisted on bringing her tea and coffee and blankets whether she wanted them or not. One with killer cheekbones and voice to die for, yes, but the combination was a bit unsettling at times. Almost as unsettling as the thought that she could definitely get used to it.

Reminding herself firmly that this was a short-term thing, that Sherlock would revert to his usual habits soon enough and that this was another one of his bizarre attempts at showing her his thanks (he never did anything the way other people did, she knew that for sure), she picked up her iPod and stuck the buds in her ears. Soon enough she was happily humming along to a selection of lively classical music – nothing with lyrics, far too distracting, and she didn't need Sherlock to tell her that, thank you very much! – as she got back to work.