Peace! Peace and quiet and solitude. That, along with an unlimited supply of coffee. Good coffee. He was surprised that Molly preferred and stocked up on Colombian. Guess there were a few things he did miss out about the petite pathologist.
He tried to be quiet about it, but the door always creaked just as it opened enough to let him in. The flat was quiet, so he knew Molly would be asleep. He removed his coat, hung up his scarf and sauntered in like he owned the place but stopped short.
Molly was asleep, but on the sofa. There was a heap of discarded tissue paper lying on the floor near her head. On closer observation he saw that she had a slight red nose and was breathing with her mouth, lips parted. An empty soup bowl lay on the table next to her sofa.
He had seen her in the lab that noon, but she had seemed fine. The onset of cold seemed sudden.
Molly, at that instant, tried to turn in her sleep, but ended up snuggling against the sofa backrest, her blanket pulled even closer.
Leaving her trying to get comfortable on the sofa, he entered her bedroom, removed his shoes and socks, shrugged out of his jacket and lay on her bed. The solitude and quiet that her flat offered was exactly the salve needed for his frayed nerves. Dealing with his brother did that to him. Six straight hours of discussion and Sherlock was ready to fly to Japan, if it meant getting away from Mycroft.
Just as he was about to close his eyes, he heard another muffled cough and sniffling. Choosing to ignore the sick woman outside, he got up, took his spare set of clothes from "his" allocated drawer, changed and flopped back on her bed, looking forward to a good night's rest.
A sneezing fit from the hall disturbed him again. Concerned that he was actually bothered about the sofa's occupant and having his peace disturbed, he got up with a huff and padded out to into the hall.
Looking down, he could barely see Molly underneath the blanket. The sofa was no place for a sick woman and it wouldn't help for her condition to worsen, as he was planning to camp at her place for atleast two days.
Without pausing to think further, he tucked his hands under the sleeping woman and picked her up, blankets and all. Molly, as expected, woke up with a start and would have almost fallen down, had Sherlock not rushed to her bedroom.
Dumping her on her bed, he announced, "Do get better quickly. I will take the guest bedroom tonight but that excuse of a mattress is a pain. I can't sleep there more than a night."
Saying this, he tried to grab her pillow, but Molly was surprisingly quick and held on to it. "This is my pillow Sherlock and I will not spare it tonight."
"Oh c'mon, the spare pillow is harder than rocks…and the pillow case is not high count cotton as yours!"
He tried to grab her pillow from under her head, but Molly dug her head in and let out a big coughing fit into it. Sherlock couldn't move back faster.
"That was playing dirty Molly!"
"Yeah, bite me. Get your own pillow if you don't like the spare one. I cant breath through my nose; my head feels like it weighs a ton and now you woke me from my sleep. Why can't you arrive earlier, before my bedtime! Do you have to wake me up" Molly croaked.
"Its not my fault you have a weak resistance to bugs!"
"Yes, disturbed sleep leads to weakening of resistance powers. And God help you Sherlock, if you disturb me again or whine on again about hard pillows or low thread counts or hard mattresses, I will personally contact Mycroft and ask him to escort you out of my flat! Do not themp mh….achoooo!"
Sherlock wasn't sure which threat worked better: the flu bugs floating in Molly's room now or the fact that Mycroft would be more than happy to appease the pathologist.
He was out of the room in a beat, grumbling away to the guest room and promising that he would ensure that Molly got the best medical help to get her on her feet the next day.
A healthy Molly was much more willing to pander to his whims, he wasn't too comfortable with this sick version. Molly stood up to him more nowadays, but she had never kicked him out, ever, he pouted.
Also, he didn't want a repeat of him picking her from the sofa. He had ignored the sensations in his rush to get her to the bed before she fell on the floor, but it had felt good to hold her in his arms.
Surprised at his own admission, Sherlock decided that he was just too drained and would not spend more than few hours with Mycroft. If six hours made him like holding Molly in his arms, God alone knew what effect more time with his brother might have!