III. The Belstaff

It's a loud knock on her door that wakes her up. A brief glance at her alarm clock; it's 9 a.m. and she still feels exhausted. The knocking stops just when Molly clumsily manages to sit down on her bed. Oh, headache. The sunlight peeking through her windows is enough to make her take some paracetamol – she always has some on her bedside table. And a glass of water.

She's trying to remember what the hell happened last evening but a loud sound startles her, and she drops half of the water on her. That noise is her front door opening, then closing not very gracefully. Then, footsteps, a coat that's being hanged, shoes being taken off. Her flat is small enough so she'd know every noise that it would make. Or, rather, that he would make.

Sherlock is probably giving her some time to ready herself because he takes ages to enter her bedroom, yet, Molly doesn't move. Instead, she welcomes him with a slightly annoyed look. "Did you have to pick my lock? Again?"

"You weren't answering."

"I was sleeping."

"You sleep too much on the weekends Molly, that's not good for you."

"Excuse-me?!"

Them bantering is the way they say hello. Unusual, yes, but she's grown used to it. Apparently the great and only consulting detective doesn't really accommodate very well with the "hello-how are you today-did you sleep well" package.

"I got your text last night."

"I'm surprised you didn't come earlier then."

"I was on a case." Of course. "Then I did… stop by. You were fast asleep then."

She can't help but smile when he's like this. Caring, even if he would not show it for the world. But their conversation is reminding her of the dreadful events of the night before.

"So do you… do you know who I met last night?"

"Unfortunately, yes." There's a silence. Molly anxiously waits for him to continue, sitting up straight, back resting against her pillows, while Sherlock sits on the edge of her bed. "I'm sorry Molly. You just had the displeasure to meet my brother."

"Your brother?" God bless she put the glass of water down by now, otherwise she'd be soaked. "Since when do you have a brother?" He looks at her, puzzled. "Wait, no, don't answer that."

"Mycroft is my big brother. He does love to be dramatic. He also diets and he likes to control everything I do." Suddenly Molly feels like she's watching a 15-years old teenager complaining about his brother.

"O…kay? What does he do for a living then?"

"Apart from annoying me you mean? Well according to him, he occupies a minor position in the British government."

"Meaning?"

"He is said government".

Molly nods, confused, not quite knowing what to say. It's a lot to take in, after all. Sherlock's big brother kidnapped her last night, using some... odd espionage methods, threatened her, and offered her money to spy on Sherlock. If that's not drama... But still, there's a question at the back of Molly's head that she won't say it, but it keeps on nagging her. She's not quite ready to hear the answer, because she has the feeling it's true. And also, it's way too early in the morning for this.

"Say it, Molly." Of course. He can be such a prick sometimes, with his deductions. "Out with it. What did my dear brother tell you that is so terrible you won't say it out loud?"

She hesitates for a second, and he doesn't like it. "Molly…"

"He said you were an addict". It's a soft breath, a rush of words. Maybe if she speaks fast, it will make it easier. "He said… he said you would hurt me. Bad." She puts the emphasis just like Mycroft had. "And then I think he offered me money to spy on you."

"Ah. How much? Did you take it?"

"What?"

"The money, obviously."

"Sherlock, no!"

"Just asking! You could use a new coffee machine."

"Sherlock."

"Hm?"

He's avoiding it, she knows, and he knows that she knows. It only makes it harder.

"Is it true?" She doesn't precise whether she's referring to the addict part, or the hurting part. Or both. He looks at her and in a blink he's not smiling anymore. But she's too tired to absorb his anger when she just woke up ten minutes ago.

"Yes, but you knew that already, didn't you Molly? I've been using since university. Or maybe shortly before. I am… sometimes not using. I'm not using now, since you're wondering. I am no threat to you."

"Why?" He probably reads the disappointment on her face, and hears the sadness in her voice too. It doesn't help, but she cannot hide her emotions. He's destroying himself. His gift, his mind, his health. If she can't help then she ought to know what leads him to engage in this self-destructing behavior.

"It helps me. It's the only thing in the world that keeps me from going mad." His voice is soft as well but his ocean blue eyes tell another story, and the pathologist fears he'd get upset and leave now. That's not what she wants. So Molly just smiles softly, even though the concern doesn't leave her big brown eyes. At least she's trying.

"Okay." It's far from okay, but surely they can work on that later. If he's not using now, maybe it's a good sign. Maybe it's meant to last.

"Don't get your hopes up."

"Funny… your brother said the exact same thing last night."

"For once, he was right. I will hurt you."

"I won't let you." There's a spark of defiance in her eyes. It's only the first stage of their relationship but she's already trusting him. Loving him. More than she should.

"Don't be silly. You're not as strong as you like to believe."

The banter's gone. Now it's all about harsh words and doing what he does best: poking where it hurts. It could tear her apart now, and it should, however sweet Molly's still half asleep, her head is still aching and she would very much like to enjoy the rest of her weekend without being further insulted. It's enough that she measures the kind of troubles that Sherlock Holmes will drag her into. Drugs, the British government, late night meetings in abandoned warehouses and no quiet saturday mornings.

"Possibly. But I'm stronger than you think I am, Sherlock." A smile. "Now, please, either leave or make yourself quiet. I think I could do with one or two more hours of sleep."

He frowns – surely he wasn't expecting her to… dismiss him like that. Usually, that's the other way around. However he doesn't have the chance to reply, since Molly Hooper is already back in her sheets, well wrapped in her mountain of blankets.

From where he is, he can see the snow and the cold winter wind blowing outside, and a bit of frost starting to cover the windows.

Could he be quiet for an hour or two?

Possibly.

Besides, he already took his shoes off.


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This is the end of this lil story ! I wrote it pretty quickly, and I'm quite satisfied with it tbh, I hope you liked it too. Now I'll return to my bigger work in progress, "Coffee and Daffodils" but I still have some others ideas that I'd like to write with that kind of pattern (hints of Sherlolly + an other character... Mrs H., Lestrade, Mary... so many possibilities!). I'll let you know !

And special thanks to the guest(s?) who left the lovely reviews, it's really heartwarming! Even if it's just a small word it makes my day so much better x