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Sherlock awoke to a dull grey spring light coming through the curtains. For an instant, he wondered where he was, and then it all came rushing back. The roof, Moriarty, the call with John, jumping, listening to his friends suffer, letting Molly wash his hair, hugging her after her call with John…ohmygod, the pain. His ribs were in agony today, not helped by sleeping in so small a bed. I wonder if I could get Molly to swap beds. Is that too much to ask? Probably not, she's so little, a single bed would be fine for her. Sherlock amused himself for a minute with how she would look if he asked baldly "can I sleep in your bed tonight?" Sitting up, he lamented the lack of his dressing gown. He hauled himself off the bed and put on his shirt and trousers – every centimetre of bending was pain-filled. He could hear Molly moving about the kitchen.
Molly awoke at her normal time for work, but since she'd already told Mike she wouldn't be in, she lazed for a little bit, then suddenly leaped out of bed. She wasn't quite ready for Sherlock to see her in a nightdress with messy hair and sleep in her eyes. She flung herself into the shower, trying not to think of the last occupant, and failing. Several indulgent minutes later, she got out and dressed in jeans and an old t-shirt, leaving her hair to dry naturally. On work days, there was never time for that. There was no point in make-up – the furthest she'd go today would be shops.
Sounds like Sherlock's still asleep. I'll just leave him there – he's going to be in serious pain when he wakes up.
Molly wandered into the kitchen, put on some coffee and ate a bowl of Weetabix. Since there was time, she put on toast too.
Turning around, she jumped. Sherlock had silently appeared in the kitchen, and was already opening the correct cupboard for mugs, even though he'd never been in her flat before. Apart from the time he apparently left a bag of clothes I never noticed here! He was wearing the same clothes from last night but she'd never seen him unshaven before and, predictably, it was damn sexy.
"Morning. How are you feeling today?"
"The pain is quite distracting and getting dressed was distinctly uncomfortable."
"I could have helped you."
"Please. I'm hardly at the point of needing assistance with dressing." said Sherlock a touch sharper than necessary.
"Alright, no need to be so touchy. Do you want some cereal?"
"No, coffee's fine. You know how I take it."
"Yes, I do. And since you're in pain, I'll do it for you. But I am not your lackey, Sherlock." Molly felt a little aggrieved – she was well put out with this whole exercise and here he was ordering her around as usual. Changing the subject, she said; "What are your plans for the day?"
"I'll monitor the news channels and read the papers. Would you mind going to the shop and getting them, please?" Time for some manners. Even Sherlock could tell that Molly was a bit pissed off with him.
"Fine. I need to buy some groceries anyway. I'm going to call around to Baker St too and check on John."
"Molly, that's a bad idea. It would be easy to accidentally give the game away…"
"It'll be weird if I don't. Besides, I'm really worried about him. He's a mess. And while we're on the topic, I don't understand why we're continuing the deception since Moriarty is dead."
"Yes, well, he had a substantial network, someone may well step in to fill the void, and I can't be entirely sure of John's, Mrs Hudson's and Lestrade's safety until I see that it's disintegrating. The hit men may well have been given a contingency plan if I reappeared."
Molly snorted. "Oh come on, you think Moriarty would have had a back up plan in case you faked your own death? That's ridiculously convoluted."
"I did. And if I were in his place, I would have. We, he and I, are more alike than you realise."
"Whatever. I'm still going around to see John."
"Fine. You can pick up my dressing gown, some nicotine patches, my skull and my violin while you're there."
"Are you mad? You think I could sneak all that out? A violin? I might as well just casually tell John that you've shacked up with me and want your stuff while I'm at it. You're dead, remember? I think that bump on your head did some permanent damage."
"Hmm. You may have a point. Not about the permanent damage. Your own ability to be sneaky is limited." Sherlock's voice was tight. What is the matter with us both today? We're very snippy. It's all a bit reminiscent of conversations with John. She'll be complaining about my housekeeping next.
"Limited! Dammit, Sherlock. I'm putting up with a lot and I don't need to be insulted too." Molly slammed down her cup, not caring that coffee splashed over the side, and left the room. Gathering her coat and handbag, she left the flat before she could say another word.
The bloody cheek of him! After all I've done. Not sneaky! I cannot believe how hard he is to cope with. John is a flippin' saint for living with him so long...