Post Reichenbach. Molly has a terrible, no good, very bad day and Sherlock makes it worse. John is there to pick up the pieces. Pre- John/Molly, but it's there if you squint.

Molly was shaking. She was tired, achy, hungry and just wanted to go home. Unfortunately she had unexpected visitors when she got back to her flat. Unlocking her front door she found her kitchen turned into a make-shift lab, Sherlock's equipment (commandeered from her lab no doubt) spread from one end of the room half-way into the living room.

"What in the bloody hell-"

"Ah. Molly. Good, you're home. I need you to go to the morgue and bring me three fingers, preferably from three different hands,"

"I got your text," she said, tossing the bag at him. He scowled at the Ziploc.

"You couldn't bag them separately?"

"Sherlock," a warning voice from the couch said. John was flipping through the tv channels, he gave Molly an apologetic look.

"What are you even doing here?" she asked Sherlock. "You said you didn't need the fingers until tomorrow, you're on a case right now-"

"Solved this afternoon, obviously," he snapped his fingers at her. "Gimmie the bag, they'll have to do for now, if not you can always go back,"

"They're two inches from you,"

"Yes, and my hands are busy handling important things, you're not doing anything, so open the bag up," the microwave dinged cheerfully. "Ugh," he rolled his eyes, annoyed.

"Sherlock, you said you weren't using her appliances!" John said angrily.
"What's in there?" Molly asked, she went to the counter, pulling open the door to the microwave before reeling back from the stench. She'd smelled dead people before; she'd had to empty colons and stomachs and had to deal with bloaters, but whatever Sherlock had put in the microwave smelled about ten times worse.

"I lied, obviously," Sherlock said, collecting whatever it was and setting it on the table. He took a sample, placing it under the microscope. Molly pinched the bridge of her nose, counting to ten.

When Sherlock asked for her help during the Reichenbach case, she had thought it was a turning point for Sherlock. It was, to a point, he had changed somewhat, he became more aware of her feelings and while she did come to accept he would never think of her the way she thought of him (nor anyone else for that matter) he was still very much Sherlock Holmes, which meant he could be an ignorant arse hat.

"What. Are you doing. In my flat?" she ground out.

"The power is out on Baker Street. I needed somewhere to perform my experiment. Your street has power. Ergo I'm here," he held out the baggie of fingers to her.

"Sorry," John said, coming into the kitchen. "He texted me while I was out and said to meet him here. By the time I got here he already had this all out and I couldn't persuade him away. I figured I'd better stay and keep him from doing anything too crazy,"

"Thank you, I guess," she said tiredly. She took the baggie from Sherlock's still outstretched hand, opening it for him. "There, I suppose you can stay, if you keep the noise down, and don't use my appliances anymore," Sherlock gave her a petulant look "No, don't even-" she said, pointing a finger at him. "I cook in this kitchen, I don't want anything that isn't food stored in my fridge or oven or microwave or on the stove-top, do you hear me?"

"Fine," Sherlock grumbled, taking the bag from her. John kicked him in the rear. "Ow!" he whirled back, glaring at the doctor. John just gave him a look, flicking his eyes from Molly back to Sherlock. "Oh." He pursed his mouth, crinkling his nose. Turning back to his microscope he sat down again. "Thank you Molly," he mumbled. She just sighed heavily, ruffling the top of his hair.

"You're welcome," she said.

"What are you doing for the evening?" John asked.

"I'm just going to take a hot bath and go to bed," she said wearily,

"Bad day?" he asked. He noticed her hands hadn't stopped trembling since she came in.

"Worst," she said, heading down the hallway.

Sherlock sat up then. What was it he was supposed to warn Molly about? He searched his thought process from the past ten minutes, filtering through what he'd observed in the slides, the baggie of fingers, what he'd been looking for- and then Molly had come home and interrupted it. Had he deleted what he meant to tell her? Probably. This experiment was taking up more time than he thought which is why he was so annoyed with the power outage on Baker Street. It'd been hell to carry that carcass across town- oh hell.

Molly's scream down the hall sent both doctor and detective running.

"What is it- oh for bloody- Sherlock!" John shouted. The bathroom door was open; Molly stood by the tub, peering closer to the half of a cow Sherlock had stowed in her tub, its contents slowly leaking down the drain. Sherlock stood at the end of the hall. "Come here." John ordered.

"I'm comfortable where I am thank you," he said, and headed back to the kitchen.

Short, quick footsteps behind him alerted him that a presence was behind him. Small fingers wrapped around his arm, turning him around. Automatically his hands went up to block the blows.

"Molly there's no- ow! – call for violence, it's still got the tarp under it- ow!" Molly slapped him, pushing him back until he hit the fridge.

"I've been on my feet for eighteen hours performing autopsies, eighteen of them were children from that school bus fire," she was crying now, she hit him again. "All I wanted was a stupid bath to wash off this stench of death and smoke and I can't even do that!" he let her hit him now, until she was too overcome to even try. She bowed her head, forehead against his chest as she sobbed. "I can't even heat up a stupid frozen dinner, you stunk up the microwave you ass," John was in the hallway. Sherlock managed to hug her, looking at John over the top of her head for help. He didn't know what to do. Taking pity on him, John took matters into his own hands. Guiding Molly away from the kitchen, John brought her to her room,

"I'll be back in a minute," and he shut the door behind him.

In a few moments there was a knock on the door,

"Come in," she murmured.

"Can you get the door for me?" upon opening it, she found John standing there with a large bowl of hot water, a washcloth hanging off the end. "Here, it's not a hot shower, but sometimes just washing up helps you feel a little better,"

"How'd you know?" she asked, wiping her eyes.

"Showers weren't always available where I was stationed in Afghanistan," he set the bowl down on the floor, "Let me know when you're finished I'll come and empty it," He shut the door behind him, Molly could hear him and Sherlock speaking quietly now. Too tired to try and listen in, she quickly stripped off her work clothes, pitching them in the corner for now. She scrubbed her face and neck, wishing she could wash her hair.

After she'd cleaned up and changed into a fresh pair of pyjamas John returned to take the bowl away.

"Are you hungry?" he asked after.

"No," she pushed the covers back on her bed. "I'm tired," crawling in, she sighed heavily, her arm covering her forehead, wishing she could push the throbbing headache away. He tugged the covers over her frame, patting her free hand.

"I'll work on Sherlock, see if I can't get him out sooner-" her brow furrowed, her chin wobbled and she began to cry again. "Hey, hey, it's ok, I'll make sure he replaces your microwave, and don't worry, the tub won't have any stains in it. Believe me, it's not the worst thing I've seen in a bathtub," he sat on the edge of the bed now.

"It's not even that," she said through her tears. Sniffling, she didn't bother to wipe her eyes. "John there were so many children, so many-so-" she turned on her side, curling into herself.

"Oh, Molls," he started helplessly, but was unsure of how to continue.

"Did you ever see dead kids?" she asked. He didn't speak for a moment, his eyes were distant. After a long while, he nodded a little.

"Yeah, I did," he said finally. "I saw a lot of them, and it never got easier," he said.

"I feel like I can't stop shaking," she managed, swallowing hard. "Just don't go away yet, please." After a moment, he toed off his shoes, tossing his jacket on the end of the bed.

"Here, bunch up," he said. She did so; he pulled the covers up over them before pulling her close. "Not getting fresh with you," he said, seeing her somewhat confused expression. "Sometimes it's just good to hold someone after something like that," she almost smiled then, turning herself to face him, holding onto the lapels of his shirt.

"Dare I ask how you know this?" He grinned, almost laughing.

"My unit had a couple army dogs," he explained. "One of them always ended up bunking with me. Anytime we had a rough mission, she'd come right up over my middle and stay with me all night, kept me from shaking," he was quiet for a moment, lost in thought.

"How did you stop thinking about it?" she asked.

"Life goes on," he said simply. "You learn not to think about it, most of the time, and when you do, you feel bad for a while, bad enough you don't want to move or think, but eventually something pulls you back up and you move on,"

They lay facing each other, her head tucked under his chin, arms around waists. Right now they were just good friends, and right now, Molly was down, and John was doing his best to put her together again. Maybe he wasn't the one she wanted comfort from, but John was glad to take his place for now. It was the least he could do.

"I keep seeing the families, all their faces," she murmured, breaking the silence. "I had to walk by them all, so many faces…"

"Shhhh," he soothed, "Go ahead and cry, it's alright," she began to sob again, pressing her face to his shirt, muffling her tears. "I'm not going anywhere, you go ahead and cry," he pressed a kiss to her forehead.

Eventually, she stilled against him, and when he felt her sigh deeply, he realized she was finally asleep. He continued combing his fingers through her hair, knowing she had a headache. The only noise now in the room was the gentle ticking from the clock on the wall, Sherlock was still in the kitchen, from the cracked doorway, John could see his reflection in the mirror; he was cleaning up. In a little while, he came to the bedroom door, peering in.

"Is she asleep?" he asked softly.

"Yeah."

"Good,"

"I'm gonna stay with her tonight," John said.

"Will she be alright?"

The question startled John for a moment. Sherlock rarely asked about anyone, unless it was about a victim.

"She's going to be fine."

"Good." The door was left open just a tad; John could see him shut the kitchen light off, leaving the place dark. Sherlock didn't leave though, John listened to him putter around the flat for a while more before finally sprawling out on the sofa. Molly stirred, hearing the springs in her old couch creak noisily as Sherlock got situated.

"What's that?" she mumbled.

"Nothing, just Sherlock," John said. "We're staying the night,"

"Oh."

Quiet.

"John?"

"Hm?"

"There's a half a cow in my tub," he couldn't hold back a tiny smile.

"Yes there is, don't worry about it,"

"I won't," her voice was still heavy with sleep. "Least not until tomorrow,"

"You warm enough?" he asked and he felt her nod.

"Mm." He shut his eyes again, listening as Sherlock muttered to himself in his sleep from the other room. "John?"

"Mmhm?"

"Thanks." He smiled again.

"Anytime."