Molly lay back in the tub, relishing the last few minutes of relaxation she had left before she has to get up and get ready for work. She heard her mobile's text alert sound from the other room, but decided whoever was sending her a message could wait. She usually didn't indulge herself so, especially since a hot bath would be rendered useless by the combined smells of the dead, formaldehyde, and laboratory chemicals she would be welcomed with at the morgue later on. She felt like mulling over her date earlier that day, and wanted the relative quiet of a bath in place of a hurried shower.

Her phone sounded off two more times, and Molly sighed. I guess it's time to cut this short, she thought. That might be something urgent.

As she was getting ready to stand, a loud, insistent knocking issued from her front door, which was followed by…is that…clicking? She wondered, trying her best not to slip in the tub as she stood and made to step out. Several thuds followed and then her bathroom door was flung open and Molly's heart jumped in her throat, causing her to slip.

She closed her eyes, bracing herself for the impact of her head hitting either the tub or the floor, when suddenly the sensation of falling stopped, and she felt an arm grab her hip and another the back of her head, pulling her upright. Molly squeaked, opening her eyes on instinct, and chocolate brown met an ocean of blue and green.

"Sherlock!" she squeaked. Her hands flew to her chest, her heart still pounding. "You scared me, almost literally to death!" she exclaimed. Then she remembered her state, and blushed a deep crimson, her eyes widening in embarrassment.

Instead of answering, Sherlock pulled her close, encasing her in a brief but crushing hug, before swiftly letting go and turning around while simultaneously handing her a towel.

"Get dressed. We have to go. I left your car at the Yard earlier; we'll have to take a cab." He explained, his back turned towards her.

Molly wiped herself off, wrapped herself in the towel, turned to drain the tub, and gently nudged Sherlock. "Where are we going? Why do you sound…strange?" she asked, worried.

Sherlock turned around to face her. She was surprised to find his usually stoic features set in an anxious frown. "I'll explain later. Just hurry, Molly."

She nodded, and walked out and into her bedroom. As she opened her wardrobe doors, Sherlock stood beside her and started taking out her clothes and flinging them towards the bed.

"What are you doing? Sherlock? Hey! What- -" Molly stared helplessly, clutching her towel as the consulting detective started opening her drawers, paying her no mind. He seemed almost manic. Although his face had resumed its usual stoic mask, his eyes shone, and his hands shook with the urgency of his movements.

Growing more anxious by the minute, Molly grabbed the hand that was reaching for her socks and pulled hard so that he was forced to turn towards her. "Sherlock! What's wrong? Why are you doing this?" She lifted a hand to his cheek, rubbing her thumb across his cheekbone.

"You weren't answering my texts!" He snapped. Stop acting like this! He commanded himself. You'll only frighten her. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes before speaking again. "You need to go with me to Baker Street." He opened them and looked straight into her eyes before continuing. "I'll explain later. However you need to pack your bags with whatever you think you'll need, and I will call Stamford to inform him you need to take the day off."

Confused, Molly hesitated. "What's going on? W-why? Tell me what happened." She urged gently.

"You'll be safer there. Please, Molly." He stood closer, his eyes on hers. He lifted a hand to her face, smoothing the few tendrils of wet hair that clung to her forehead. "Please." He added, his eyebrows furrowed, "Please."


In the cab on their way to 221B, Sherlock remained silent; his hand gripped the large bag she had packed with a couple of days' worth of clothing, his other tightly entwined with hers. His eyes darted about, and Molly could tell he was scanning their surroundings even more closely than usual. She chose not to speak. This, whatever this is, she thought worriedly, it's shaken him. The last time she saw him like this was on the night he'd told her he needed her, and it frightened Molly. She knew Moriarty was dead- - - she had done the autopsy herself- - - but in that moment she started having doubts. What if he'd managed to fake his death as well?

Sherlock sensed her anxiety and shook his head, "It's not him, Molly." He gave her hand in his a brief squeeze before turning back to the window.


"What? A-are you, are you sure?" Molly exclaimed, wringing her hands.

Once they arrived at 221B and Sherlock settled her on the couch, John had handed her a cup of tea and had begun talking. He told her about Lestrade and the case of the nine murdered women. John had seemed odd to Molly, and when he sat down in his chair with a huff and a grimace and told her about the message they'd deciphered, Molly's hand shook so badly she had to put the cup and saucer down.

Sherlock, who had been pacing in front of the window, ruffled his hair irritably. "Of course, we're sure. The murdered women match your general physical characteristics. The moment I saw the woman at Spitalfields, I was reminded of you, however it was not until Lestrade revealed that she was the ninth in a series did I realize the gravity of the situation. I had hoped it simply matched your description, that you simply fit the serial killer's preference for victims, but after the message was uncovered, I'm quite certain they were all merely a prelude to you." He huffed, removed his jacket and threw it across the room, not caring when it landed on the floor. "If only we had been informed of this sooner! But no! Those idiots were simply too arrogant to ask for help, and they wonder why the public is starting to lose faith!"

John sighed, pinched his nose and closed his eyes. Here we go. He was used to Sherlock's verbal rampages, and knew that this time around his best friend had more cause than usual to launch into one. He waited for something else to be thrown across the room, probably a book or a random pile of papers, anticipating the sound of something flying and then a thud as it lands on the floor.

When the consulting detective's rants were followed by mere silence, he opened his eyes and was taken aback by the scene that met them.

Sherlock stood still, his face to the window. Molly had apparently stood up from her seat and now had her arms around his flatmate, her hands clutched atop his middle, her forehead resting on his back. John watched, fascinated, as Sherlock's hands went to hers, prying them apart and entwining them with both of his. His chest was still heaving from the speed and volume of his earlier rant, but he'd let his eyes close, his head bent forward.

A faint clicking sound turned the former army doctor's attention away from the couple and towards the doorway, and he saw Lestrade with his phone held out, a grin on his face.

John stood and walked over to the Detective Inspector. "Good, you're here."

At the sound of his voice Sherlock and Molly separated, and Sherlock nodded at Lestrade before pulling Molly to sit next to him on the couch.

"What was so urgent?" Lestrade had received a text from both John and Sherlock earlier that evening, asking him to hurry over to the flat. "Couldn't leave earlier, they called us over for a meeting."

John motioned to Sherlock's seat by the fireplace. "You'll need to sit down for this." He waited until Lestrade had settled down before once again launching on the story.


Once Lestrade had been caught up, he had vehemently insisted that Molly should stay over somewhere she won't be alone, even if it meant Baker Street, until the case had been solved. She had tried to protest of course, citing everything from inconvenience for the two men to her ability to defend herself in a fight- - - she'd proven she can once before- - - but John and Lestrade had argued right back.

Sherlock, who had oddly been the one to remain silent during their entire discussion, took advantage of a lull in the conversation. He turned in his seat to look at Molly and uttered a single word. "Please." He didn't touch her, but his eyes searched her face, clearly asking her to agree.

She couldn't find it in her heart to say no.


That night, Molly lay awake in Sherlock's bed, listening to the sound of the consulting detective's footsteps as he paced in the sitting room. John had gone to Mary's; leaving immediately after Lestrade had gone back to the Yard to give his team an update on the case. Since Molly had slept for some hours earlier in the day in preparation for work, she was nowhere near sleepy, but had chosen to stay in bed to let Sherlock concentrate on the case.

An hour passed, and Molly, both bored and agitated, crept out of the bedroom and into the kitchen to try and prepare some tea for herself. Once done, she settled on a kitchen stool and watched as Sherlock grabbed his violin and sat down with a huff on the couch. He absently plucked the strings, and he was muttering to himself, a faraway look in his eyes.

Several minutes passed, and Molly stood to clean her cup and saucer in the sink. Intending to walk past the still detective and back into the bedroom. She threw one last look over her shoulder and saw him doing something she'd never seen before.

Sherlock's nodding off.

Molly realized that he must have not had any sleep yet. They'd had their date just after her graveyard shift earlier that day, and prior to that both he and John had been on a case that lasted four days. She was willing to bet he hadn't slept a wink.

She watched, fascinated, as Sherlock's shoulders slumped, and his head slowly dipped forward. When his hand on the violin grew slack, he suddenly jerked back up, stifling a yawn. Catching his eye, Molly laughed, and reached out a hand.

"Come on."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow and glared at her. "You know I don't sleep when I'm on a case." He plucked a violin string to emphasize his point.

Molly walked over to where he sat; her arms on her hips. "You haven't had any sleep for who knows how long already. You won't be of any use to anyone if you faint from exhaustion." She reached out her hand again, beckoning to him.

"I don't faint." He scowled, eyeing her outstretched hand.

She shook her head. "You will if you don't get some rest."

"I am resting."

Molly sighed. "Fine. Just lay with me then." When Sherlock's eyebrows lifted, Molly's eyes widened. "No! N-not that way! I meant…I meant come to bed with me." She flustered, flailing her hands. Good job, Molly, what he must think of you now! "No! I-I meant you could…FINE!" she screamed the last word, frustrated. "FINE! Stay there! But don't blame me if you fall flat on your face because you're too tired to move pro-MMMFFF!" Sherlock swiftly stood and caught her lips with his own, effectively cutting her off.

A couple of minutes later, he pulled back and looked down at her with a cheeky grin. "Come to bed, Molly." He said, before pulling her into the bedroom.


Author's Note: Sorry for the delay, folks! Hope the fluff in this chapter makes up for it. ^_^

Thanks again for your generous reviews, encouragement and constructive criticism really helps!

Ta,

~Liberi Ad Somnia