Molly quietly sat by the crackling fire, while strings of colored Christmas lights twinkled from her holiday tree, and sipped on her hot tea as she watched Sherlock's chest steadily rise and fall as he slept. Her breaths instinctively paralleling the rhythm of his. It was so good to see him, touch him, and hear his voice.

She still couldn't believe he was laid out on her couch, wounded, but okay. He had stumbled out of the shadows as she put her key into her front door and moaned out her name in pain.

As she turned and recognized him under his disguise of an old street person, her relief turned to concern. He was bleeding from a cut on his forehead and he held his left arm close to his chest. He apologized profusely to her as she helped him into her townhouse. Later Molly would be astonished as she recounted how often he had said he was sorry for putting her in danger and how much he appreciated her help. How much he appreciated her.

She knew his words came from loneliness for the world he left behind and the ramblings of a man who had a 101 degree fever. She had guided him straight to her bathroom and helped him undress, bathe and allow her to check over his wounds and examine the rest of his body. His initial resistance for privacy melted as his balance gave out and he had to brace himself against the wall.

His body had always been lean and tight with muscles that were as active and as stimulated as his brain, but now he was weak and so much slimmer than she remembered. What had he been through the six months since he had left? Since he had "died."

Molly helped him into the shower and was forced to get in with him as he swayed unsteadily back and forth. She shed her holiday jumper and pants, tied her long loose hair in a high ponytail then got in behind him and gently coaxed him to rest against the shower wall. He shivered till she got the temperature of the falling water just right. Her own body heat mixed with the flow of water over and around him and helped ease his shaking.

Ever the gentleman or perhaps because of no actual interest, Sherlock never once looked below her neck. His fevered eyes seemed only to zero in and center on her wet plastered wisps of hair that curled around her neck and lay across her face.

She smiled with sadness at the fact that his eyes never went lower. She knew she was being silly. For heaven's sake the man was wounded. Did she really expect him to show any sexual interest in her just because she was naked and in the shower with him? He just didn't think of her in that way and never would.

She tried her best to be just as respectful, but...everything about him was magnificent. Every one of her senses yearned for him. She gently soaped and rinsed his body, unconsciously lingering on his gorgeous head of inky black curls, as she cleaned off the dirt and blood. She adored his curls. He groaned making her realize she had been massaging his head.

"Sorry, Sherlock," she said as she stopped her fingers and gently placed her palm against his cheek. "Let's get you dried off and warm."

He had nodded and obediently listened to her as she gave him a t-shirt and pair of shorts to wear from some pieces an old boyfriend had left behind. She bandaged his cuts and bruises and then made him swallow fever reducing pills.

Her attention came back to the man in front of her as Sherlock shifted on the couch so he faced her and the warmth of the fire.

He opened his eyes and slowly smiled at her. He was so beautiful she thought. His cheekbones even more pronounced from his weight loss. Molly couldn't help smiling back at him as they enjoyed the quiet camaraderie of friendship.

"Hi," Sherlock croaked out as he gingerly touched the bandage on his forehead. "The other guy was bigger than me."

"Huge, I'm sure," Molly jokingly responded as she placed her teacup on the table beside her chair and walked over to sit on the table in front of him.

"Would you like something to eat?"

"No, thank you Molly. I'm...not in London to stay. I'm still on the hunt, but may I stay the night?" he asked nervously as if he thought she would turn him away.

"Of course. It's so good to see you, Sherlock," she said as she smiled, trying to cover up her pain at the knowledge he wasn't back for good. She then began to tell him all about their friend's lives since he left them. He hadn't asked, but she knew he was hungry to know. They talked into the early morning, or rather she talked and he listened.

As Molly stirred from where she had fallen asleep in her chair by the fireplace, she soon realized that Sherlock was gone. She got up and looked around at the neatly folded blanket and clothing perfectly stacked on the end of the couch he had slept on.

No note. He didn't wake her. Nothing. Her heart ached. She thought she was stronger than this, but she was still a woman...who loved a man.

A week later on Christmas Eve, Molly received a package in the mail. No return address and no distinguishable markings or stamps.

She peeled opened the box and unfolded white tissue that surrounded a delicate crystal Christmas ornament in the shape of a butterfly.

How beautiful she thought and it was a butterfly, how did anyone know?

She opened the small envelope that rested below the ornament and read the words that changed her world.

My Dearest Molly,

Forgive me. I couldn't wake you before I left because, I would never have been able to say goodbye.

I still have work to do and I don't know how long it will take me, but I'm going to be selfish Molly, I'm going to ask you if you will wait for me. Wait for me to come home and tell you that "I love you" in person.

I hope you like my gift. It isn't as beautiful as the one on your left thigh, but it's close.

Merry Christmas,

Sherlock

Molly couldn't believe what she just read. He loved her. He loved her.

"You bugger, you looked when we were in the shower," she said as she started to laugh.

"Merry Christmas, Sherlock." Molly whispered as she made a private vow to wait for him and slowly ran her finger along the beautiful crystal butterfly.