"Molly! Are you home?"

The brunette's ears perked up and she frowned. That sounded like Sherlock, but what was he doing at her apartment? Her voice was a bit croaky, but she called out, "Yes, I'm here!" Molly sighed and stared at the ceiling, hating that she would have to get out of bed to greet her friend.

It's not that she wasn't willing to invite him in, but she was so bloody tired and achy that walking to the door would be a chore. As she pushed her comforter back and began scooting her body across the bed to its edge, she heard the front door open and close. Molly furrowed her brow. How had he gotten in?

Oh, that's right. He still had a key to her flat. Any sensible person would have retrieved their key from Sherlock as quickly as possible, but Molly opted to let him keep it. It was likely that he may need to use her flat as a bolt hole again someday.

Not that she was hoping for such an outcome, but it was better to be safe than sorry.

Footsteps came towards her bedroom door and Molly opened her mouth to say something, but Sherlock swept through the room before she could get the words out. She scowled at him. "Sherlock, how many times have I told you to knock before coming in my bedroom?"

He paused and cocked his head to the side. "I don't remember."

"That's because you don't lis-achoo!" Molly sneezed, but managed to cover her mouth with her sweater sleeve.

Sherlock handed her the box of tissues she'd left in the living room and she took it from him, grabbing a couple of the white sheets and blowing her nose on the soft fabric. He observed her for a few moments, then said, "I was right. You're sick."

Oh, lovely. Molly usually was in great admiration of Sherlock's deducing skills, but today, she honestly couldn't have cared less. "Please, tell me how you figured that out." Sarcasm dripped from her voice, but he paid no attention and preceded to sit on her bed.

"I went by St. Bart's, only to find out that you had taken a few days of paid leave. You love your job, but it was possible that you had been overworked recently and felt that you needed a break or you really were sick. However, after I entered your flat, it was quite obvious you were sick. There is a slight scent of disinfectant in the living room, which originated on the coffee table. You're always methodical when it comes to cleanliness, so it was clear to me that you had scrubbed it down. The lemon rind by your cup and saucer on the kitchen counter was evidence that you made yourself a cup of tea earlier to soothe your sore throat. There are also crumpled tissues in your trash can and your bed because your nose has been runny for well over an hour." There was a smug look of satisfaction on Sherlock's face as he looked down at her, smirking.

Molly scowled, as she was very much not in the mood for his arrogance right now. If he was going to be annoying, he could leave. Grabbing her pillow, she smacked him on the head good and hard - much to his detriment as he made a sound of protest. "Right on all counts, as usual, but I won't be able to help you with whatever case you're working on today."

He ran a hand through those beautiful ebony curls and shook his head. "As a matter of fact, I'm not working on a case."

"Oh...well, what are you doing here, then?"

"I came by to take you to lunch, actually."

Molly's eyes grew as wide as two saucers. Sherlock Holmes came to her flat with the intention of taking her to lunch? As in, a date? For a moment, all Molly could do was stare up at the detective in shock. Her palms grew sweaty and she felt her cheeks warm.

To distract herself from the butterflies that had begun flitting around her insides, she forced herself to speak. "Well, that's kind of you, but obviously, I'm not fit to go anywhere in my current condition."

"Have you had anything besides that cup of tea from earlier?"

"No. I don't have much of an appetite when I'm sick, Sherlock."

"Whether you feel like it or not, you still need something in your stomach."

"Well, unless I grow wings, there's no way I'm going to hobble around my kitchen to heat up soup in this state. My limbs are tired and achy and-"

Right there, her stomach finished her sentence by growling. Molly's cheeks were definitely red by now and she self consciously covered her belly.

"As I said before, you need food." Sherlock was about to say something else, but something caught his attention and sat on the edge of the bed, taking Molly's hands in his own. The brunette squeaked in surprise from his quick movements and stared into his beautiful eyes as he searched her face carefully. His thumbs grazed the skin of her palms and she fought the urge to lick her lips. If only she weren't sick, she'd be tempted to lean over and kiss him.

Oh, for goodness' sake. She was still tempted even though she was sick! Why did he have to be so irresistible?

That was when he spoke, interrupting her thoughts. "Your palms are sweating, your pupils are dilated and there is a pinkish tint on your cheeks. All indications that you're aroused by my presence and embarrassed by it."

"Sherlock!" Molly tried to sound indignant, but her tone was hardly that.

The detective grinned again and placed a hand on her shoulder. "There's no reason to feel shame about your feelings, Molly. I'm quite fond of you, too."

Her eyes grew wide again. "What?"

Sherlock kept grinning and he leaned forward, kissing her forehead softly, as if she were a priceless treasure. "I'll go heat up some soup." He stood and after a wink in her direction, he turned and walked out of her bedroom to the kitchen.

Molly stared at his retreating back and after a few moments, she tugged the comforter around her body tighter as a small smile grew on her face. Sherlock Holmes just admitted to liking her and he was going to stick around even though she was sick?

If this is a dream, don't wake me up.