A/N: I'm glad you all still seem to like it! Thanks for R&R & Alerts!

Well, let's see if I can handle a woozily (I just love that word!) Sherlock…

Sherlock massaged his temples. "I'm going to have a headache in the morning."
"Probably, but the coffee seems to work. Your eyes aren't that glassy anymore."
Molly wished she could have kept on camera what Sherlock did next according to her statement. His eyes narrowed and went testingly from left to right and back. He was clearly trying to look at his own eyes to see if she was right. The pathologist started to giggle, whereas Sherlock sounded frustrated, "I still feel quite befuddled."
"I can see that," she squeaked in between giggles.

Sherlock shook his head to get rid of the dizziness, but it hadn't the desired effect. On the contrary, it became worse, so that he closed his eyes momentarily. Molly stopped giggling. She could sympathize with her consulting detective.

She drank the remains of her coffee, stood up and went over to the kitchen to retrieve some chocolate. Chocolate was one of the few indulgences in the life of Molly Hooper. She loved it. It always made her feel better; not surprising of course, given chocolate contained endorphins. But then again bananas contained more of them than chocolate… Not that she felt bad at the moment, but she just wanted some right now. While walking back with the chocolate bar to the man on her sofa, she had to think about the mug Mary had given her. It was pink and written on it was in brown letters: "Save the earth, it's the only planet with chocolate on it."

She popped herself down on her side of the couch again, and as she turned to her visitor to offer him some dark temptation, she saw him looking at her with defiance. She knew this expression all too well. Nothing good ever came from it.

Now is one of those moments when his tact leaves the room.

She steeled herself inwardly for what was coming. Nevertheless, she couldn't help the stab she felt when he said in his condescending voice, "You really shouldn't eat chocolate in the middle of the night. You already have a job that scares away most men. Getting fat or diabetes won't help finding a suitor."

And all of a sudden her hunger for chocolate was satisfied; maybe forever. She put the bar down on the couch table and crossed her arms.

"Has someone ever told you, you suffer from Machiavellianism?"

Her expression was stony and her mouth a grim, thin line. She had decided not to show the hurt his comment caused her anymore, so she settled for being cross. She knew her statement did not really fit to what he had said, but that was something she had wanted to say to him for some time now.

He cocked his head to the side and studied her. After a moment of intensive study, he murmured, "That was a bit not good."
"Sorry, what?" Her tone was tense.
Sherlock rubbed the back of his neck, which could be seen as the equivalent to Molly biting her lower lip. Alcohol makes Sherlock look sheepish. Who would have thought that?
"John says that, when I say something that is not… appropriate."
Despite her being angry, a small smile made its way on Molly's face. "You mean, this is like your… John conscience?"

He considered that for a moment. "You could say so."
Molly gave a laugh and Sherlock's features became slightly exasperatedly. The pathologist stopped laughing and tried to explain herself, "I'm just laughing, because you are hearing John's voice in your head and I've heard yours earlier." Now his face showed interest.
"When?"
All at once she realized that maybe she shouldn't have confessed this, because now she had to tell him, that she had been thinking about the conversation in the morgue. In his eyes I'm being sentimental, and he hates that. It's your own fault, Molly. You started it, now you'll have to finish it.

"I… I," she stammered again and stopped. To her astonishment Sherlock did not mock her or snap at her for being boring, but waited silently, a patient (?! Could that be?) expression on his face. She took a deep breath and continued, "I had kind of a déjà-vu, when you said I shouldn't be boring."
"I've never said that to you before," he said with absolute conviction. For a second Molly was tempted to tell him that he couldn't possibly remember every conversation they'd ever had, so he couldn't be sure about that, but then again: It was Sherlock Holmes; with him you never knew. In the few seconds she thought about it, she would have to agree with him. De facto she couldn't remember an instance when he had said that to her before.
"No, not those exact words, but it took me back to… you know…," she trailed off.

Sherlock leaned forward a bit, to have a better look at her. "No I obviously don't, because contrary to public believe I'm not a telepath, so I need you to tell me, I'm afraid."

She thought the best way was to get it over with quickly, so she blurted out, "It took me back to the day in the lab, before the fall; when you told me I shouldn't feel the need to make conversation, because it was not my area."
She cast her eyes down on her pyjama pants. She waited for him to say something crushing again. She waited and waited, but no sound was coming from the man next to her. When she couldn't take it anymore she looked up hesitantly to find him looking at her. His expression was unreadable as ever, but something in his eyes caught her attention. They were more blue than grey and shining with something akin to… embarrassment? She blamed it on the alcohol.
But his next words proved her suspicion, "Yeah, that was another one of my not so fine moments." His expression changed into one of pure empathy – something Molly had never seen before. It looked bizarre, almost comical – as if his face was not meant to show that feeling. Now she was definitely sure that his alcohol induced brain made him look like that.
"It's okay." She hoped her face would tell him that she meant it. He only nodded and the empathy left his features, replaced by his customary look. As usual she felt small and vulnerable under his intense gaze.

It's like he's looking right into my soul.

On the one hand she hated it because it made her feel exposed and naked, but on the other hand it was one of those things she loved about Sherlock Holmes.

When he didn't show the slightest inclination to take his eyes off her, she decided she had to keep herself busy to distract herself. Therefore she got up again and pulled the blanket from the chair beside the sofa. She sat back down and pulled the fabric over her legs. She didn't feel cold (quite the contrary), but it felt more cosy that way. When she had finished her task she noticed Sherlock still watching her.
"Won't you offer me some of the blanket?" Molly couldn't tell if he was teasing her or not. His expression gave nothing away. Her eyes danced nervously from the blanket to him and back. "Well… I wouldn't have thought you wanted to share the blanket. And you're sitting too far away for that, so…," she muttered. She couldn't finish her sentence, because he rearranged himself and before Molly could react, he was sitting next to her indicating with his hands on his lap. "Well, is that close enough?"
No. Yes! Too close! There can't be a too close! Molly focus!
"Y… y… yes." She hated how breathless her voice sounded. So much for not stammering and not being nervous around Sherlock Holmes anymore. No change there…

With shaking hands she took hold of the blanket and draped a part of it over Sherlock's lap. She was careful not to touch him in the process. Sherlock Holmes didn't like to be touched. Although just moments ago she would have sworn Sherlock Holmes didn't like to share a blanket…

The consulting detective settled back into the cushions and while doing so his knee brushed against hers. She could feel the heat radiating from his body. An electric shock went through her and she couldn't supress a shudder.
Sherlock noticed but misinterpreted it and pointed out reasonably, "If you're cold, you should drape the blanket over your shoulder." He was about to reach for the blanket and do just that, when her words stopped him, "No. I'm fine." For an instant he didn't look convinced, but eventually he let it go.

Molly, you stupid thing! That would have been the perfect excuse to cuddle with Sherlock Holmes under a blanket, and you let it slide?! Are you out of your mind?! That was probably a once-in-a-lifetime-chance, and you blew it!

Her inner monologue was interrupted by the man beside her.

"Why didn't you move in with Tom?"
Her head snapped in his direction. His eyes were scanning her flat once more.
"I'm not an expert, but isn't that's what you do, when you're engaged – live together?"

The second the topic arose she could feel herself getting defensive. Sherlock – of course – noticed the change in her stance and voice as she spoke. But he chose to ignore it. Acknowledging it would have meant to interpret it and he wasn't good in interpreting feelings.

"We both agreed that we needed our own space." That sounded like a lame excuse even to her own ears. "Furthermore Toby and his dog didn't get on well."

"These are just feeble excuses," he stated. She wanted to contradict him, but before she could say something, he declared with finality, "You didn't love him."

"How would you know anything about love?" she snapped and sat straight up. But the second she realised what she had said, she wanted to take it back.

"Oh my God, I'm so sorry! I meant…"

"No, you're right." He shrugged his shoulders. He seemed nonchalant about it, too casual for Molly's taste. He wasn't as good as an actor when he was slightly tipsy, so the young woman could easily see though his charade. She had hurt him with her comment and he tried to play it down. If she had been someone else she might have had a thought like, "Serves him right, now he can see how that feels!" But because she was sweet Molly Hooper she didn't have such thoughts. Instead she wanted so say something to divert his attention, but he went on, "Still, if you didn't love him, why marry him?"

"I never said I didn't love him."

"You didn't deny it either."

"That's something you wouldn't understand."

"Try me." His look was a mixture between challenge and genuine interest.
Why can't he just let it slide?
Molly really wasn't in the mood to have this conversation right now. But then again, she figured she would never be. So why not get it over with now when he's slightly tipsy maybe I'm lucky and he won't remember any of it tomorrow.
Molly thought about it for some time. How could she put it so that she made herself clear, but wouldn't give too much away? It was like walking on egg shells.

Again Sherlock was silently waiting for her explanation while taking a sip of water. She took a deep breath.

"There's this point in your life, when it's about forwards or backwards. And while you were gone I decided that it was time for me to move on - forwards. So I tried to find myself a…"

"… boring…"

"…decent man and be happy, but…"

All of a sudden his body went stiff. "What did you say?"
"I said 'I tried to find myself…'"
He waved his hand dismissively. "No, not that. You said something about 'there's a point in your life…'"
Molly grew more confused by the second and she wasn't really keen on repeating that personal confession. But she didn't really have a choice, did she?
"I said, there's this point in your life, when it's about forwards or backwards. And…"

He held up a hand to stop her before she could babble on. His look got pensive. He looked like a statue carved of marble – unmoving with his pale skin. Molly was not sure if he had retreated into his mind palace, and if so, what she had said to send him there. Did I say something wrong? But he wanted me to repeat my words. Should I say something? No, it's better to leave him alone, when he's in his mind palace. But it's… irritating to say the least.

In a sudden movement he put his hand down again. Realization flit across his features and he turned to look at her.

"You've said that to me before."

She thought about it for a second, before answering hesitantly, "No, I don't think so."

"No, not in person, but your other self."
Moly cocked her head to one side and turned her body more towards him. Her knee brushed his thigh again in the process, but this time she wasn't distracted by it. There were other things she had to focus on.
"You're not making any sense again, Sherlock."
"I know! Isn't that brilliant! It's fascinating!" He had the excited look on his face he normally got when solving a crime he considered at least to be an eight. The pathologist was worried he may have lost his mind.

Suddenly a terrible thought crossed her mind. Please no!
"Sherlock, did you take any other toxic substances than alcohol?"

Now he looked as if she had gone mad. "Don't be ridiculous Molly, of course not. John would never take me out to do drugs together."
It made Molly almost chuckle, almost.
He seemed to register, that that had not been the answer she had wanted. He sighed. "The last time I took any 'toxic substances' was in hospital when they gave me morphine. How often do I have to tell everyone that the drugs were for a case? Now would you please get over it?" His voice was a strange mixture between annoyance and something Molly could hardly place. His jaw was tense.
When the young woman did not reply to his speech the annoyance fled his features. He touched her arm gently. A movement, Molly blamed on the alcohol as well.

"Molly, I've got it under control. Don't you fret." His voice and eyes were sincere.
Alcohol or not, Molly Hooper was touched.

"If you say so, Sherlock, I believe you." I always believe you.

"Good," he mumbled and leaned back again. She instantly missed his contact. The spot on her arm where he had touched her still felt warm and tickled.

His gaze got distant again. He was clearly thinking about something, but Molly couldn't figure out what. What had triggered this? They had been talking about Tom (sensitive topic!), her explaining her need to move on, him saying…
What was it that he had said? 'You've said that to me before… your other self.' What does that mean?

After some more time had passed, she dared to address the absent minded detective on her sofa once more, "Sherlock, what other me talked to you?"
The question sounded odd even to her own ears, but she didn't know how to phrase it differently. Her tone was deliberately gentle.
Maybe he had some hallucinations from the morphine?

She could see how his gaze became slowly focused again and came back to the present. But he did not turn to look at her. On the contrary, at first Molly wasn't sure if he had even heard her, because he did not answer right away. She registered that his breathing speeded up slightly. Whatever he was thinking about caused him distress. He closed his eyes momentarily and Molly was certain this time it had nothing to do with nausea.

After opening them again he started to speak, still staring straight ahead, his body tense.

"You did it again. You've saved my life."

What? How? When? I don't understand.

But the pathologist did not ask any of those questions. She knew he would tell her. She just needed to be a little patient – as hard as it was.

He swallowed hard. His gaze got distant again and Molly became afraid he would retreat in his mind palace again, but he kept on talking, "When I was shot, I fled to my mind palace, and you were there. You told me to focus. You even slapped me – twice."
His mouth twitched into a short smile, and Molly couldn't help but do the same.

Seems like I made an impression.

"And then… well I had to find out if the bullet went through me or not to know which way to fall. And that's when you've said, 'It's all about one thing now, forwards or backwards.' Do you understand? You helped me to survive… again."

Molly was speechless. It didn't really make any sense what he had said, but then again it did – in some very weird way. She couldn't believe it: She was part of his mind palace? She knew she counted, but that…

He still refused to look at her. She wondered if he would have ever told her any of that it he wasn't slightly drunk.

She felt the urge to say something. "You know, I'd do it again, if necessary. I'd help you anytime. Even if I'll have to slap you."
That finally made him turn to face her. Her last sentence was meant to lighten the mood, but it hadn't had the desired effect on the detective. His eyes were a dark pool of emotions and Molly couldn't decide which to identify first – there were so many.

"Even after I disappointed you by doing drugs again and using Janine and everything else?"
Molly shrugged. She couldn't stand his adhesive glance and looked down on her lap again. She could see where their knees under the blanket almost touched. Suddenly she felt sad. It was like an analogy to her relationship with Sherlock – almost, but never quite.

Her fingers nestled with the blanket.

Then she heard his dark voice again. The uncertainty in it was almost imperceptibly.
"So, I can still… have you?"
"Yes." Always.

Silence followed. Molly felt like in stalemate. Now what? Should she just stand up and run away light her flight instinct told her to? No, she would be brave and look him in the eyes. But what if all she'd find there would be resentment? Could she stand that? Do I have a choice?
She took a deep breath and dared to look up at him through her lashes. And what she saw made her heart stop. He looked at her in utter wonder. As if seeing her for the first time. Molly had to gulp under his mesmerizing gaze.

He moved his right hand slowly from his side to her face. He touched her cheek lightly with his thumb and caressed it hesitantly. Never before had she seen him handle someone else so gently. Although his touch was so subtle, it felt as if his fingers were burning her skin where he touched her. She was unable to move or breathe. Afraid, if she did anything she would scare him away. His eyes darted from hers to her mouth and back. Oh my God, he can't be considering to… Before the pathologist could finish her thought, he lowered his head slightly and leaned forward. She could feel his warm breath on her lips. He dipped his head to the side. She heard the blood rush in her ears and she felt his other hand lightly on her hip. Just as her eyes were about to flutter close and his lips to descend on hers, she heard herself say, "We can't do that." Her voice wavered.

He pulled back; confusion written all over his face.

"Why not?"

"You're drunk."

"Yes, we've already established that."

He was clearly irritated and annoyed. He let his hands leave her face, but not her hip. She sighed deeply to calm her nerves. The hands in her lap were slightly shaking. She tried to explain herself without stammering, "Because you either won't remember any of it tomorrow or you will, and then you won't be able to cope with it and be mean to me again. And I honestly don't know what would be worse."

"Do you have so little faith in me?" He sounded sincerely hurt. "I won't be mean again, at least not on purpose. I don't want to hurt you anymore." He looked genuine and Molly wanted to believe him desperately, but she was afraid. She couldn't really convince herself that a not-drunken-Sherlock would still think like that in the morning, that his sober self would try to kiss her – with no strings attached.

"Sherlock, it's…" She didn't know what to say. „I don't want you to think I'm rejecting you, it's just…" She groaned inwardly for her inability to get her point across.

His eyes narrowed and then he nodded and took his left hand off her hip.

"I understand," he said in an even voice, and somehow she knew he really did. He sat up straight again and emptied his glass of water as if it was something high in alcohol content.

"I guess you should go to bed, Molly. I've already occupied enough of your time." He stared at the empty glass.

"You're right."

She got up and he stood as well. Although you couldn't tell by his talking anymore, it was clear from his slight wobbling while getting up that the alcohol had still an effect on him. His face was an inscrutable mask, staring blankly ahead.

Molly walked to her bedroom door. Just as she was about to enter, she stopped. Her tone was hesitant, "The sofa is too small for you. So come along. I don't want you complaining about a sore back again."

She didn't dare turn around to face him. He didn't respond, but she continued to enter her bedroom, knowing somehow he would follow her.

Just as she had turned off the bedside table lamp and gotten comfortable, she saw a dark shadow entering her room. He shrugged off his jacket and took off his shoes, before slipping under the blanket. Toby watched him with curious eyes from his position on the chair in the corner.

They laid there for several minutes, either on their respective sides. Then Molly turned around and snuggled against him. His body went tense and Molly thought she'd crossed the line and was about to apologize and retreat, when his arm wrapped around her.

"Thank you, Molly Hooper."

"You're welcome, Sherlock Holmes."

Soon both drifted off to sleep, glad to have something to hold onto, not daring to think about the morning to come.

TBC