The man reached out a gloved hand and slowly twisted the doorknob. A simple nudge of a finger and the door swung open silently. He slipped inside the room with the practised ease of one accustomed to stealth. Stopping just inside the threshold, he scanned the darkened room with hard eyes. A pale sliver of moonlight picked out the silhouette of a long coat where he stood still and silent by the door. The edge of a curtain fluttered weakly, lifted by a slight current of cold air wafting through a window left slightly ajar. The man flicked an eye toward the movement and grimaced disapprovingly. Careless that. He himself had often gained egress that way. People were often too lax with their personal security.
The quiet of the room was marred by the occasional rumble of a passing vehicle but the man paid it no heed. No, his attention was on his quarry.
The vague outline of a bed could just be made out in the gloom. Soft, even breaths emanated from it. The man's sharp eyes which saw and observed details more easily than most found the occupant of the bed easily. His intel was as usual, correct. His target slumbered on, unaware of his presence. He smirked in satisfaction as he adjusted the leather glove on one hand. This was going to be too easy. He took another quiet step into the room.
The man extended a long arm backwards and closing his eyes briefly to shield them, flicked a wall switch with an audible click. A blaze of light flooded the room, enough he hoped, to disorientate the bed's occupant. His pale eyes adjusted quickly enough to the change. He strode over and loomed over the bed. "Wake up!" he commanded in a loud, peremptory voice. The occupant of the bed, a small woman with her hair fluffed out in a messy halo did not stir. The tall man frowned. This lack of response was unacceptable. He tried again. "Molly!"
Meanwhile, the woman in question winced at the unwelcomed intrusion but made no move to obey. Instead, she squeezed her eyes tight against the glare and rolled sideways to bury her face in her soft pillow.
"Molly!" the stentorian voice boomed again, closer to her ear this time. She whimpered unhappily as she registered who owner of the loud voice must be. No, no, no, she thought to herself, Not tonight, please, I'm so tired."
Sherlock decided to change tactics. "Molleee," he crooned huskily into her ear.
She tried to ignore his low, seductive baritone by burrowing further into her bed and curling herself into a ball, effectively cocooning herself in the warmth and safety of her eiderdown quilt. She remained as still as she could, rather like a tiny animal would hide in hopes that the predator hunting it would give up and leave. This hope proved futile.
She heard an annoyed huff. "I said, wake up!" demanded her tormentor, impatiently this time, punctuating each word with a long finger jabbing between her shoulder blades, "I know you're awake".
Well, I am now, thought Molly to herself but it doesn't mean I'm getting up. This is me saying no. Whatever it is. It's for your own good. Whether for her own good or his, she was uncertain, probably both.
"Molly, I said wake up!" The man sounded highly irritated now.
She briefly considered her options. Aggravated assault with intent to murder was currently at the top of her list and she was fairly certain either Donovan or Lestrade, perhaps even both would help her hide the body considering how its owner had been behaving lately. With regret, she discarded the idea as one that required too much effort and would require her getting out of bed which rather ran counter to her current inclination. In the end, she opted for sticking an arm out and blindly batting at the offending digit. "Go away," she mumbled. It came out as a muffled "Ggrrray".
She felt rather than heard the put upon sigh as the annoying presence moved away from her. When it remained blissfully quiet, she risked uncovering her head slowly and opened one wary eye to confirm that she was indeed alone. Good, he's given up. If she hadn't been still foggy with sleep, she would have been suspicious. Mildly grateful for the reprieve, Molly sighed in relief, then frowned when she realised that the inconsiderate git had left the lights on. Too tired to get up to turn them off, she settled for pulling her covers back over her head and quickly drifted off.
Not surprisingly, her peace didn't last long. All too soon, Molly was once again awakened rudely from her slumber, this time by a large hand shaking her shoulder vigorously. As she struggled resentfully awake, floating in that limbo between wakefulness and sleep, the sweet aroma of strong coffee permeated her consciousness. The mild shock of realising that Sherlock had made coffee was sufficient to propel her fully towards the land of the living. She was about to throw back the covers to check what ailed the man when reason reasserted itself. Sherlock never, ever, made coffee or tea. Never. Well, not without purpose anyway and his motives then were usually suspect ones. Just ask John. No, it was a mere ploy to get her out of bed so nope, still not getting up, she thought to herself, keeping her eyes stubbornly closed, clutching her pillow tightly.
Molly heard the clatter of China as a mug was slammed down on her bedside table. She barely registered a peevish "For God's sake, I don't have time for this," before her covers were yanked unceremoniously off her semi-somnolent body. The sudden, unwelcome chill jolted her awake.
"What the hell, Sherlock?" she yelped, struggling upright into a sitting position. Brushing her hair out of her eyes, Molly looked up and saw him standing frozen with his buffering face on, his eyes trained on her, unblinking.
Following his line of sight, Molly looked down and blushed crimson, remembering his disparaging remarks at that awful Christmas party so long ago. Well, she had been exhausted when she returned home, barely able to summon enough energy to strip her work clothes off. She had stepped out of them leaving them in an untidy pile at her feet and had stared blearily at her collection of pillows. The decision to forgo the effort of changing into pyjamas in favour of collapsing directly into her welcoming bed had been an easy one. Mortified, she yanked her duvet up to cover her bare breasts. "What are you doing here?" she demanded.
The sudden movement seemed to rouse Sherlock from his daze. He slowly lifted his gaze up to her face. "Ah, well, yes," he stammered, averting his eyes, although they did flick back once to her chest area before sliding away again. "You, ah, well, you weren't answering your phone," he muttered. He seemed somewhat discombobulated.
Ha, so much for it's just transport. He's still a man after all, thought Molly. Tamping down her glee at being able to disconcert the detective, she glared at the tall bastard. "I turned it off because I didn't want an inconsiderate, thoughtless, insomniac, so called consulting detective annoying me at ..." she paused, glancing at her alarm clock, "... 4 in the morning."
Sherlock visibly recovered his composure at her words. "Inconsiderate and thoughtless basically mean the same thing," he pointed out pedantically.
"You woke me up out of a sound sleep to correct my choice of words?" growled Molly dangerously.
Sherlock thought she looked like an adorable, angry kitten. Wait, adorable? He swallowed, remembering belatedly that an angry Molly packed a strong wallop, ambidextrously too. He stuck his hands in his pockets and pouted, "No, of course not. I'm here because I need you." He raised his puppy dog eyes to her, a hopeful, boyish smile on his face and was disconcerted when it did not elicit the usual desired effect. She was glowering at him instead. His smile faltered. Molly Hooper was becoming immune to his charm, he realised with a pang, an unwelcome development but not an unexpected one he supposed.
Molly stared at him before closing her eyes and flopping backwards onto her mattress, determined to be strong in the face of adversity, namely Sherlock. "You always need me," she grumbled, mainly to fetch, carry and generally be your dogsbody she thought to herself. Aloud she said, "but whatever it is that you want, it can wait until I've had a proper night's or as is the case, morning's rest. You're not dragging me to Barts at this ungodly hour to pull a body or run some stupid tests for you. I'm too tired to acquiesce to your demands. Now go away and bother whoever's on duty."
Sherlock looked shocked that she would deny him. She'd never done so before but he rallied gamely. "My tests are never stupid," he protested indignantly. "Besides, I'm not here for that."
Eyes still shut, Molly muttered, "Whatever. I'm still not leaving this bed. I've worked a double shift and now no thanks to you, have had exactly three hours sleep."
"Three hours is plenty," stated the man who never seemed to sleep, nor eat.
Molly drew a deep breath and rubbed her eyes wearily, "Maybe for you but not for normal people. I, for one, definitely need more than three hours, especially after working sixteen hours straight." She yawned, "If you need to see a body, go ask whoever's on duty. If you need a bolt hole, you're welcome as usual but I warn you I'm not leaving my bed nor giving up my room, not this time. I'm too tired. Besides it's MY bed."
Sherlock rolled his eyes and said slowly with painful restraint. "Molly, you're repeating yourself. As I stated earlier, I do not require you to run any tests or show me a body. I also do not require a bolt hole." He felt quite proud of himself for heeding John's constant admonishment to be nicer and more polite to people in general, particularly to Molly, whom he felt Sherlock used abominably. His best friend could be such a nag at times, worse than his mother, really.
Molly cracked an eye open and asked exasperatedly, "Why are you here for then or are you here simply to annoy me?"
"Case, Molly. I need you to come with me on a case," Sherlock informed her, bouncing excitedly on the balls of his feet, somewhat like Tigger on steroids thought Molly. Oh, shite. She raised herself onto her elbows and stared at him, eyes narrowing, "Sherlock, are you high? You've only just gotten out of rehab. Please don't tell me you've relapsed."
Sherlock stilled. He stared at her. Molly could have sworn he looked wounded but his expression was so fleeting she couldn't be sure. "Okay, then I won't," he replied, dropping his eyes to his feet, his mouth pressed into a thin line.
Her brow furrowed. "Oh, Sherlock," she whispered, dismayed.
He looked up and eyed her apprehensively "You're not going to slap me again, are you?" he asked.
"You promised. You told me you wanted to get clean and stay clean, not for John or your friends but for yourself because you wanted to." Molly couldn't help the shrill note in her voice.
Sherlock shot her a cross look, "No, Molly. I just told you I haven't had a relapse. Weren't you listening? You were with me when I destroyed my last syringe and buried my roll in that ridiculous ceremony you insisted on. I am not high. Look." He shrugged off his heavy overcoat and threw it on her bed before removing his jacket revealing a crisp white shirt. Molly couldn't help but stare at the buttons straining across his chest. How they stayed close was a miracle of good tailoring. With deliberate movements, he unbuttoned his cuffs and slowly rolled up his sleeves, one at a time. Molly stared hypnotised, following their trajectory upwards. The man could give a burlesque artist a run for their money if he ever decided to do so. When both sleeves were past his elbows, he thrust both arms out to her.
There was silence while Molly examined the inside of Sherlock's elbows closely. She let out a breath she didn't know she was holding when she noted the absence of fresh track marks.
"I didn't inhale anything either. No heroin, no cocaine, no morphine, not even any of Mrs Hudson's herbal remedies'". He made air quotes around the last. "Not even a nicotine patch. The list is blank. I swear. I. Am. Clean." His clear eyes locked onto hers. Molly rewarded him with a tremulous smile of relief. "Now," he continued brightly, rubbing his hands together when the moment had passed, "back to the reason I'm here. I need you to accompany me on a case."
Molly frowned, "Uh, see Sherlock, that's what John is for. Me not John, Me Molly," she said slowly as to a child. "You've mixed us up again. Now go away so I can go back to sleep." She waved a hand at him in dismissal.
Sherlock paused in the middle of rolling his sleeves back down, looking confused, "Of course you're not John. Why would you even say such a thing?" Molly raised an eyebrow and gave him a long look to which he answered hastily, "Well, you're awake now and I need an assistant. John's not available so you will have to do. The Watson's are away visiting John's sister. I have no idea why."
At first, Molly was a little hurt to be Sherlock's second choice but immediately shrugged it off as business as usual and tried to be flattered that he thought of her as an adequate substitute at all. She remembered John had mentioned going away to celebrate his sister's birthday. "It's Harry's 40th birthday. She's throwing a big bash at a country house somewhere. I'm sure John must have told you," she reminded him. "Turning forty is a big deal," she told him then added, "for some people anyway."
Sherlock stared at her uncomprehendingly. "As I said, no idea why," he repeated.
Molly shook her head bemusedly, then frowned as a new thought crossed her mind. She asked curiously, "How did you get in here anyway? I thought you said my new locks were burglar proof."
Sherlock gave her a pitying look. "I installed them for you myself, Molly. Of course I made sure to keep a set of keys, not that I need them. I do like to keep in practise," he replied.
Of course he did.
He flashed a Sherlockian smile at her, "I made you coffee. I know you're not a morning person and require caffeine to jump start you as they put it." At her suspicious look, he heaved a sigh and rolled his eyes, "And no, I did not drug it." He then crossed over to her wardrobe, opened the doors and made a small moue of disapproval at the selection within before pulling out some clothes and flinging them at her. "Get up, get changed," he ordered briskly. Moving to her dresser, he pulled out the top drawer and peered in.
Her eyes widened. Oh, God, thought Molly, flushing red. He wouldn't, would he? Who was she kidding, of course he would. How did he know which drawer she kept her underwear in, she wondered. The only valid conclusion was that he'd been poking his nose into her things when he used her bedroom as a bolt hole, which meant that he'd more than likely found her "personal friend" as well, which she kept hidden, stuffed at the back. Oh, god, oh god, oh god, Molly was sure she was the colour of beetroot now as Sherlock stuck a hand in. Her horror grew apace as she watched him withdraw it with a racy, black g-string dangling from one finger. He cocked an eyebrow at it. "This one is new," he observed, studying the scrap of sheer lace in his hands with clinical interest. "Not much material to it, is there? Not very practical." he said matter-of-factly. His eyes narrowed as he eyed her speculatively, "So, why bother?"
Molly started as Sherlock turned back to the drawer. "Stop, right there," she ordered. Shoulders slumped, knowing he was never going to leave her alone until she agreed to accompany him, Molly sighed, defeated, "I can get my own underwear." She sat up slowly, clutching her covers close and tried to ignore his triumphant smirk. She reached a hand out and grabbed the mug of rapidly cooling coffee and took a swig from it to settle her nerves. "I'll need a shower first," she declared. The look she gave him as he leaned against her dresser indicated that this was non-negotiable.
"Yes, yes, just be quick about it," Sherlock said impatiently as he turned away from the dresser. He retrieved his phone from his suit pocket and began texting furiously on it. Molly stared at him. Finally, he raised his head and asked, "What?"
"I'm not getting out of bed with you standing there," she told him.
A crinkle developed above his nose. "Why not?" he asked. Molly looked pointedly at him. His incipient frown cleared as he finally understood her objection, "I've already seen you undressed. It's not like there'll be anything new. Besides, it's all just transport." He waved an airy hand. She made no move. The silence stretched. "Fine," he huffed and turned his back and continued with his texting.
Molly stared at his back. Realising that this was as much a compromise as she was going to get, Molly grabbed her clothing and covering herself as best she could with them, scrambled out of bed. She brushed past him and quickly grabbed the first set of bras and knickers to hand, not bothering to check if they matched. She was shuffling off towards her bathroom when his low baritone stopped her, "You really have nothing to be ashamed of, Molly." She halted in her shuffle and looked over her shoulder at him. Shocked was a mild word to describe her feelings at finding Sherlock with his head tilted, examining her bum.
Molly's eyes widened. Wait, was Sherlock checking her out? Was that... a compliment? She swallowed the fresh blush that threatened to engulf her and straightened her spine. However, his next remark deflated her new found confidence. "After all, nudity is natural no matter one's size or shape." He paused, "or weight." She shut her eyes and bit her lip. The prat could jolly well wait.