The bed and breakfast was certainly not the Savoy. But three days of trekking across the Scottish moors, a bed was a bed. The suspect had led them on a merry chase, and while they were closing in and Sherlock desperately wanted to continue the pursuit, Molly was nursing a sprained wrist and he was dealing with too many bruises and over-exhaustion. They both needed a rest. Molly turned the ring he'd loaned her over and over on her finger. It'd been his grandmother's ring. The only reason she'd agreed to come along on this case was because Mary had gone into labor and John would not miss the birth of his second child for a case, no matter how big. Sherlock could not disagree, and begged Molly (she was shocked to say) to come along instead. He'd told her from the start they would be pretending to be married, so far it was easy. Now though, staring at a narrow bed in a single hotel room, she wasn't so sure.

"I'll sleep on the floor." He offered.

"Don't be stupid, that floor is far too cold," Molly heard herself answer. "It's a full size bed, there's room for the two of us. Just…don't put your cold feet on me."

"Who says my feet are cold?" he asked, miffed.

"I know your feet are cold," she turned down the covers on the left side of the bed. "You forget all the times you snuck into my bed when you use my flat as a bolt-hole during John and Mary's engagement?"

This wasn't awkward.

Or at least that's what they told themselves.

Baths were taken in turn, and dinner was delivered, and eaten at the tiny corner table by the window. There was no television and Molly was far too tired to even look at the stack of books on the bedside table. She crawled under the heavy duvet, sighing with delight. Sherlock followed, finding the full bed was little better than a twin size. There was far too little space between his pathologist and himself. He could practically hear John giggling over the situation all the way from London, Mary hissing at him to scoot closer. Heaven help him if it wasn't tempting.

Molly inched away from the edge of the bed, feeling the heat radiating from Sherlock's lanky form, and stopped where she was. Sherlock rolled his eyes, this would never do, besides, he was flipping cold. So, with the reason that shared body heat was the best excuse, he rolled over.

"Do excuse me," he said and slung his arm over her waist, knees automatically curling up behind hers. "If I don't hold onto something I'm liable to roll off."

"Tell yourself that to make yourself feel better, do you?" she teased, though a small thrill that Sherlock was actually cuddling with her made her smile in the dark. It was easier to tease now that the parameters of their relationship were clearer. Being friends with Sherlock was not what she had hoped for, but it was better than being apart, and a touch of humor made the situation so much easier to deal with. She didn't even try to tell herself that if it were Greg or John instead of Sherlock she'd be just as uncomfortable. Well, maybe John, because he was married, and Mary would probably kill her.

"I am not snuggling." Sherlock insisted, breaking through her thoughts. There was a pause. "Consulting detectives do not snuggle." He felt her relax, and she covered his hands with hers.

"If you say so." He lifted his head from the pillow.

"Are you making fun of me, Molly Hooper?"

"No," she insisted. "I just never took you for a 'big spoon'."

"There are a good many things you don't know about me." He said.

"Hmm, like what?" her voice was heavy with sleep.

"My feet are only cold because my socks are damp," he said. "Running around London does that to ones shoes,"

"Hm," she laughed sleepily.

"And this bed is too narrow so I'm holding onto you so if I roll over, I'll dump you out first and perhaps have a little more room." This earned another giggle from the pathologist. "It is not cuddling. John and I had to share a bed once on a case." She lifted her head, looking over her shoulder. Sherlock looked back. "We slept back to back, and John made me swear never to tell another soul because the press would never believe that we weren't a couple." She laughed, shaking the bed. She rested her head on the pillow again, still giggling. He shifted closer, and he felt her tense up briefly, holding impossibly still. Slowly, she let herself grow limp. The room was quiet, and the rain falling steadily was soothing. She sighed lightly, barely awake now. "It certainly was not as pleasant as this," he said finally.

"Hm," her voice was faint now, her breathing evened out. Silence stretched between them, comfortable quiet. Sherlock felt his thoughts slow to a steady thrum, not rushing past in a dizzy frenzy as they often did when a room was peaceful. Molly often had that effect on him. Perhaps he had been remiss, in so clearly defining their relationship. The friendship had been easy, keeping it there had been difficult. He was well aware of her keeping her feelings for him well hidden while together, but still, there were times he knew, he could see how well she loved him, and there were times when he knew she could see his own feelings clear as day for her written across his face, both of them too cowardly to bring it up. He buried his head in the crook of her neck, at last allowing sleep to take hold.

"Molly?" he called softly, his voice heavy with sleep.

"Hm?"

"I don't want you to give back my grandmother's ring after this case," he murmured. The room was still, and he wondered if he had dreamt asking her, surely she was fast off by now. He was too tired to force himself to ask again. As he drifted off, he felt her hand squeeze his, the warm metal of the band on her finger only just pinching against his skin.

"I won't then," was her quiet reply.