Bolthole

Molly was exhausted.

There'd been a particularly brutal accident and she'd been up for the better part of forty-eight hours trying to help piece together what had happened.

Literally 'piecing' things together in some cases.

She didn't even bother turning on the lights as she dropped her bag by the door and made her way to her bedroom. She briefly considered taking a shower as she passed the bathroom, but decided against it and went to flop, face down on her bed.

"As a pathologist, I thought you'd have greater powers of observation," commented a deep voice beside her.

Molly leapt away from the voice with a frightened squeal and found herself tumbling off the side of the bed. In her sleep addled state her attempts to find something to hold onto proved unsuccessful and she landed with an audible thump on the floor.

The light snapped on and she found herself looking up at the concerned face of the world's only consulting detective.

All her fright left her and she glared up at him, "What are you doing here?" she demanded as she got stiffly to her feet.

Sherlock had the grace to look a little guilty, "I needed somewhere to think."

"And the only place in the whole of London that you could think was my bedroom?" she asked incredulously, placing her hands on her hips and glaring down at him.

At any other time, Molly probably would have enjoyed seeing Sherlock squirm, but she was too tired to care about anything except the fact that he was preventing her from having a well-deserved rest.

"I didn't think you'd mind," he admitted lamely after a long moment.

Molly took a deep breath as she pinched the bridge of her nose, "No, Sherlock, you didn't think at all," she snapped. She sighed heavily as she crossed her arms and regarded him with narrowed eyes trying to decide just how angry she was about his invasion of her privacy.

She was so engrossed in her own musings that she missed the small spark of admiration and interest in Sherlock's eyes as he regarded her in turn.

"Fine," she said finally, deciding she was too tired to argue any further, "you can stay," she told him, "on the couch," she added in a tone that brooked no opposition.

"Thank you," Sherlock murmured as he stood up and wisely made his way to the couch.

Molly gave a curt nod as she moved back towards the bed, missing the look Sherlock shot her over his shoulder.

He'd suspected that there was more to the petite pathologist than met the eye and his visit to her flat had been partly an attempt to find out more about her (not that he'd ever admit as much, even to himself). But infuriated Molly was truly a sight to behold and one that had surpassed his expectations.

Even he hadn't suspected such hidden depths of strength and passion.

Sherlock thrived on riddles and he wasn't going to budge until he solved the riddle of Molly Hooper.