Molly's flat always felt different when he was there. She need not even see the Belstaff or the Gucci loafers by the door. The very air she breathed felt different when Sherlock was in her flat. Heaving a deep breath and mentally waving farewell to her evening plans, she slowly trudged to her sitting room. But it was empty. So was the kitchen and the spare room. She then turned towards her bedroom, the door surprisingly ajar. Sighing in defeat she slowly opened it, ready to face that burning glare and be kicked out of her own room.
She met no glaring eyes. In fact, she would've almost missed Sherlock if she hadn't known for sure he was there.
Curled onto his side and facing the window, clad in pyjama bottoms and an old t-shirt, Sherlock was in fact fast asleep. The late summer light filtered into the room, gently illuminating those sharp lines and plains of his face. She hadn't seen him in almost two weeks, rushing after his latest case and keeping that sharp brain busy. He must've solved it, the only way he would allow himself to rest.
He looked younger in his sleep, the curls on his forehead adding a layer of…innocence. Molly had genuinely wanted to leave the room, afraid she might disturb and wake him by her mere presence. But she couldn't move, couldn't stop staring. She had never seen him so much at peace, so lost in another realm. The very same firm lines and sharp edges that defined the hard man that he was, now made him look vulnerable. She had always had a protective instinct towards Sherlock, but it suddenly felt like a tangible force that made her watch over him.
This was her moment, something that even Sherlock himself wasn't privy to. The only time that he had no guard up, when she could look undisturbed at a brilliant man with many human faults. The only moment in a long, long time that she let her heart beat to the rhythm of breaths that rose and fell in that tired, sleeping body. The moment she stole from him, to be always hidden away in her heart and mind. When he snuggled further into her pillow, something tugged at her heart. Something that made breathing a task, creating a want so deep and visceral within her that she could almost touch it.
Molly opened her mouth and heaved in a deep, quiet breath. She then covered him with a light blanket she always used, hoping to steal some of his essence. She was afraid he might wake up but instead he burrowed deeper into her pillow, his breathing steady and slow.
Molly finally left the room, shutting the door quietly behind her.
She spent her evening as planned, throwing together a meal and watching a movie, finally making use of that wireless headset. Winding up later, she kept a portion on a plate in the fridge, just in case Sherlock woke up hungry. Sleep was a stranger in the guest bedroom, so the sofa it was.
She woke up that night to the sound of running water in the kitchen then blearily watched Sherlock walk back to her room. She plopped her head back on the pillow and was about go back to sleep when a sleepy voice called out, "Just come to bed." She would later blame her sleep addled brain but she had actually gotten up and slid under the sheets next to him. When she woke up the next day, she knew without even turning her head that he was gone.
But something was different. Very small, yet different.
Sherlock always plumped her pillows when he left, folding the sheets and leaving her room tidy, in a way removing his presence…sanitising her room. Today the pillow remained mussed, the blanket lay bundled by the foot of the bed. His night clothes were in the laundry basket and his coffee cup in the sink.
Molly's face broke into a small but happy smile. The sun shone bright, the breeze was cool. The day had started late but it carried with it an unsaid, hidden promise.