I don't know why, but I always want to write about Sherlock's thoughts on Molly. (They'd just be so cute together, UGH)
So, here goes my try at another stupidly pathetic oneshot. Enjoy.
It had been a week. Rome was falling around two lone survivors, the unknown saviors of the few. Molly was still going to her usual work schedules at St. Bart's. Sherlock would lay around her small flat, her cat Toby his only confident.
She never told him details of the outside world. John's breakdowns. Lestrade's demotion. Ms. Hudson's depression. He wanted to experience it all, but she had to protect him from the things that would kill him inside. Sometimes, when Molly was out, he'd slip on his new clothes she'd gotten for him and head out into the cool air of the London night.
The stars loomed up ahead, and he began to admire them more greatly. He saw love. He saw hate. The only things he didn't see were the things he thought mattered.
John was never anywhere to be seen. Ms. Hudson was out of sight. Greg's nights were spent trying to raise his rank once more at the Scotland Yard. It was just him. Out alone in the dark alleys.
Except, it wasn't just him; was it?
He pictured Molly by his side, clinging to his arm. Her pink nails gripping the leather jacket she'd bought him. Her hands running through his newly-ginger curls. Toby running along their feet, grey tail swishing too-and-fro. Maybe a...child. He shook his head, deleting the thoughts momentarily.
Yet, somehow, they wouldn't go away. Molly had saved him. Why?
Maybe she had...feelings for...him?
But why him? Even he realized he'd never been anything but terrible to her. She was brilliant woman, Molly Hooper.
With his thought swimming around his head, Sherlock Holmes raced off to Molly's flat before her shift ended.
He made sure to feed Toby extra snacks to keep the feline's mouth shut about his absence.