Molly woke up slowly the next morning and groaned.

She had a dull ache in the back of her calves from wearing heels that were much too high and was still a little stiff from when she'd been slammed into a wall during her attack.

She rubbed her eyes; thank God Sherlock had been there.

The memory of how angry and protective he had been during her rescue made her smile and warmed her heart a little. Sometimes actions spoke louder than words and she realised that it wasn't until the moment when he was disarming her assailant (with much more force than necessary) that she truly believed that she counted.

That happy thought was lost the moment she stepped out of her bedroom and realised that Sherlock was gone.

She reminded herself that she should be used to his leaving by now and that she shouldn't let it get to her so much; he'd already explained that the less she knew about his movements the better.

Although she usually at least got a good bye.

Deciding that she wouldn't dwell on it, she made her way into the kitchen to put the kettle on and feed Toby. Absently humming a tune, she didn't notice that there was someone else in her flat.

Until that someone threw a tennis ball at her back.

"Ow!"

She whirled around to find Sherlock standing in the doorway, "What was that for?" she demanded.

"It could have been a knife," he told her and she stared at him in disbelief.

"What?"

"It could have been a knife," he repeated slowly, "you didn't even realise that I was still in your flat, what would you have done if I was a threat?" he demanded.

"I'm not so sure you're not," Molly muttered, turning back to the kettle as it stopped boiling.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at her back, "I…" he began before stopping himself as he realised he almost said 'I need.' Molly turned around expectantly.

"I just want you to be safe, Molly," he told her instead, congratulating himself on his new choice of word, "you should be prepared in case something happens."

Molly smiled at him and Sherlock had the uncomfortable feeling that she knew what lay behind his words, things that he wasn't ready to think about let alone articulate.

Especially as he was planning on leaving again within the next few days, the lead they had gotten the night before might just be the key to bringing down the last of Moriarty's network.

Molly was still watching him and he pursed his lips slightly; she had developed the disarming ability to see right through him, to deduce him, and he wasn't entirely sure he liked it.

"I'll be fine," she assured him, taking a sip of her coffee, "no one's after me, remember? And I certainly won't be dressing like that any time soon," she added cheerfully.

Sherlock suppressed a grimace at the memory, when he'd asked her to help him by posing as a cabaret singer he hadn't expected her to be any good at it. Much less that the memory of her in that figure hugging dress and singing would haunt his Mind Palace, refusing to be deleted.

He coughed, "Well, I need to conduct some more research before I leave," he said briskly, spinning on his heel and making a beeline for her computer.

Although roughly the same size as 221B Molly's flat suddenly seemed very small; a curiosity that never occurred when he was living with John.

...

A/N: This scene was taken almost directly from "Details" but I have some other chapters and I have actually almost finished the whole story. However, I will be posting at different intervals in case there are scenarios people would like to see :)