"Molly?" Sherlock was sprawled in the back of my car, his eyes slightly unfocused as he attempted to observe his surroundings.
"Yes?" I asked, my own gaze remaining on the road. I was still trying to memorize how to get to my new flat, and I was constantly looking at the directions taped to the steering wheel in front of me.
"Where… where are we going?" His words were slightly slurred, a side effect from the drug he had administered to himself. His eyes seemed to still have the same restless quality about them, but they seemed slower than usual.
"We are going to my flat, remember? You are going to hide there for a little while."
"Hide from what?" His lack of memory had begun to scare me, but I figured his brilliant mind was just foggy and he was having problems forming comprehendible thoughts. Hopefully he would be back to normal in the morning once the drug had worn off.
I finally pulled into my parking spot outside of my new flat, glad that I had located it without too much difficulty. I quickly got out of my seat and then opened Sherlock's door for him. He stumbled as he stepped out; his weight too much for his weakened legs. As he put one of his arms around my shoulders, leaning on me for support, I felt heat rise up to my cheeks. Sherlock and I eventually made it to the door, but he was in no state to be on his own.
We walked into the kitchen and he instantly took a seat at the counter overlooking the rest of the kitchen. "Sherlock, I think you need to eat," I told him, recalling the fact that he doesn't eat when he is on a case and that he had recently been on several cases consecutively. "When is the last time you ate anyways?"
"Eating?" Sherlock muttered. "Food… it was four days ago. However, food is necessary right now. I need to rest so I can return to normal."
I laughed at the irony of the statement. "When are you ever normal?" I muttered.
"Heard that," Sherlock informed me.
A small smile spread across my face and I searched the cabinets for food that would make a decent meal. I finally located a box of pasta and a small amount of sauce, both which I had started heating up over the stove. "No, no, you are doing it wrong."
"There is no specific way to cook pasta Sherlock. That's the beauty of it." I poured half the box of noodles into the boiling water as I allowed the sauce to simmer.
He nodded halfheartedly, his strength and consciousness quickly fading away from him. "You have to cook at half of the heat you cooking the pasta at now for twice as long; otherwise it won't be fully cooked. The sauce must be near the boiling point to have the right consistency for tomato sauce over pasta." I was amazed that Sherlock could was still able to criticize my cooking skills in his current state.
"Just shut up Sherlock. You probably won't remember this in the morning anyways." I turned up the heat for the sauce and began to stir it with a wooden spoon.
"You are stirring too slowly, and I will remember this, just to prove you wrong. Maybe if I get bored one day I'll teach you how to cook pasta the correct way." He was slowly slumping to the countertop, trying to stay awake.
"The great Sherlock Holmes? Cooking? What did that drug do to you?" I continue to stir, but I slowed my pace down so Sherlock would stop insulting my lacking cooking skills.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, partially obscured by his drooping eyelids. "I prefer chemistry to cooking, but if I am going to live with you for a couple of months, you are going to need to learn how to cook the correct way, along with a variety of many other things."
"Funny, I never thought you would care about cooking food, of all things." I considered listening to his instructions on how to cook pasta, but then I realized he would probably be fast asleep before I was able to finish. The sauce was almost boiling and the timer went off, signaling the pasta was done cooking. I turned off the stove and begin to put some noodles and sauce in a bowl for Sherlock, who eyed it wearily.
"Sometimes cooking shows are the most logical programs on the telly," he said nonchalantly. His eyes surveyed the flat, noting the blank countertops and the empty cabinets. After Sherlock came to me, asking for my help and telling me he would need to stay with me for a while, I told my two flatmates at the time that I needed a new place closer to my job. I didn't have any time at all to move in before Sherlock required my assistance.
I looked at his bowl of spaghetti, still untouched. "Sherlock, you need to eat."
"No," he insisted, but he closed his eyes wearily.
"Either you eat that pasta, or I'll-" I began before Sherlock interrupted me.
"Or what? You aren't exactly the most menacing person Molly." Even in his tired, drugged state Sherlock was still capable of insulting me.
"I care about you, okay Sherlock? I just want you to eat so you won't starve to death." I blushed, realizing what I had said.
"I still have at least twenty-five days before I starve to death and five days before my body will begin to feel real signs of hunger. Leave me alone Molly. I don't need your help." His tone was hostile and the full effect of his words stabbed me like razorblades. I raced out of the kitchen, leaving Sherlock alone. The bedroom was quite small, with only a queen sized bed and a bedside table left by the last people who had rented the flat. I collapsed on the bed, realizing I was exhausted from aiding Sherlock with faking his death.
A couple minutes later, I heard a slight creak as the door opened slowly. "You needed my help earlier today," I told Sherlock as he stood in the doorway with his bowl of pasta.
He nodded, his movements robotic from sleep deprivation and the aftereffects of the drug. "I ate some of the pasta."
"Just go to sleep Sherlock." I felt defeated. Even after helping him fall off of a six-story building, Sherlock still insulted me. He didn't appreciate me or anything I did for him, which was a lot. I retrieved and delivered the drug that reduced the stress of the impact on his body after landing in the truck that quickly drove away after he landed.
"There is only one bed, and you seem to have collapsed in it."
"You can sleep on the couch then," I muttered, quickly falling asleep.
"There is no couch either. Molly, this is a new flat and you didn't even have the capability to discover that there is no second bed or a couch." I opened my eyes slightly, enough to see Sherlock standing over me, analyzing me and my decisions.
"Just sleep on the floor."
Sherlock rolled his eyes before stating, "I will not sleep on the floor." He placed the bowl on the bedside table and approached the bed. "Scoot over Molly."
I sat up, looking him straight in the eye. "No. You deserve to sleep on the floor. After all I did for you today, or any day for that matter, you don't appreciate me. You have never even said thank you. On top of all that, you insult me, with total disregard for my feelings. You can sleep on the floor."
Sherlock leaned down and tucked a loose strand of chestnut hair from behind my ear, and I felt a blaze of color in my cheeks. "Thank you."
"Still sleeping on the floor," I told him with difficulty as his eyes met mine.
"No I'm not. I'm sleeping right here, next to you." He yawned, a very odd sight. I decided that I could either let Sherlock share the bed with me or he would pass out onto the floor in a short amount of time. I sighed, hating that I was giving in to him, and then I rolled over onto one side of the bed, making room for Sherlock. He kicked off his shoes before laying down next to me.
"I meant it Molly. Thank you for everything."
"You're welcome," I told him, though the hurt I was still feeling was still conveyed through my words. He never apologized for insulting me or for never considering my feelings. Sherlock must have figured that out because he hesitantly reached for my hand, entwining his fingers with my own.
"You are truly amazing for being able to pull that off."
"Stop being insincere and just go to sleep," I told him, but my cheeks were still flaming.
"I'm being genuine. Thank you Molly." I listened as his breathing evened out, signaling that he was asleep.
I whispered, "You're welcome," before embracing sleep for myself, still holding hands with Sherlock. Maybe living with him for a couple of months wouldn't be such a bad thing.
"Goodnight Molly Hooper."
Author's Note: Unfortunately, I do not own BBC Sherlock, otherwise you guys would be seeing a lot more Sherlolly/Mollylock fluff (which one is it anyways?). Anyways, if you liked it, please let me know! I'm considering writing more chapters in this situation, though oneshots are more my thing. By the way, this is not my theory about how Sherlock survived the Reichenbach Fall. If you are interested in hearing my theory, feel free to PM me! Also, if you have any theories, I would be glad if you messaged them to me. I love to talk Reichenbach! Anyways, thanks for reading!
Remember, what takes me over an hour to write only takes you only a couple seconds to review. Please review! :)
Until next time,
~NN