Part I: Kicking the Habit

Chapter 4: Companionship

"It was a few weeks later when I found out what sort of distraction he meant. I hadn't been able to talk to him since he ordered me out of his flat; every time I came round, he refused to answer the door. But after a while he came into the morgue with Greg as Dr. Chambray and I were looking over the body of a recently deceased woman." Molly looked over at John, lips quirked up into a grin. "He stood there, cool as you please, and Greg spoke to Chambray about letting Sherlock examine the body."

"I'll be damned," John said softly as they made their way through the park, red and brown leaves scattered across the pathway. The trees in the distance looked like matchsticks, tall and thin and bare but for a few leaves hanging on to autumn. "That's how he started consulting for New Scotland Yard. I knew he was doing it as a, you know, alternative. But I didn't know—"

"That it was to repay a favor?" Molly laughed. "No one knew. He struck a deal, just the one, to get out of a drug charge, and ended up liking it so much he stayed. He still had his danger nights. Mycroft would call me sometimes, you know. I was so bewildered the first time it happened. I didn't know who was on the other end of the phone, and he just gave me this cryptic command to keep watch on Sherlock Holmes." Molly rolled her eyes at the memory. "They both like to be so dramatic."

John laughed out his agreement.

"He barely acknowledged my presence. We tiptoed around each other. It was so childlike. So embarrassing to think about it now. But after a few months he started to open up. It was … nice. It was a bit like you are with him, really. Comfortable. Almost companionable."

"You should start a blog."

The statement hung in the air between them, surrounded by silence. Molly liked that about Sherlock; you could have a comfortable silence with the man without feeling the need to fill it with useless words. The silence stretched on as Sherlock shuffled her words in his head, staring down at the single finger sitting on his kitchen table. He was surrounded by chemicals, beakers, vials; an old microscope and several pairs of gloves. Clear plastic goggles were pushed up into his curls.

"A blog," he repeated. Molly nodded. "What would I write exactly?"

"Anything. Your experiments."

"My experiments." His said it slowly, drawing out the words, rolling it around on his tongue. He was liking the sound of that. But — "Why?"

Molly smiled at him sadly.

"Just thought it might do to get your mind off … things. You know."

Sherlock nodded his understanding. He picked up the dismembered finger between his latex-clad ones and brought it close to his face. He sniffed it once, inspected it. Then turned to her, gesturing to the dead finger.

"Do you think you could get me more of these?"

Molly paled. "I—er—"

"Possibly a whole hand. Oh, maybe a arm?"

"Sherlock, I can't just bring you body parts. I could lose my job." She was folded up in his armchair sideways, bare feet on the arm. A book was perched in her lap, lying open against her legs.

Sherlock lowered his eyes to the finger, dejected. "What am I supposed to experiment on? Write about?" he asked.

"You have other interests. You're a graduate chemist; you can do experiments on things other than dead people—"

"But this is so much more interesting," Sherlock pouted, placing the finger back on its specimen tray. Molly couldn't help thinking he looked like a little boy. His dressing gown was open, he was still in his pajamas, and his hair was a ruffled mess from his goggles. His shoulders were hunched, palms pressed against the tops of his knees. He was sulking.

He was adorable.

Damn him.

Molly rolled her eyes and snapped her novel closed. "And where exactly would you put these body parts?" she asked him. "It's not as though we can fit a whole arm in that little cooler."

"I can put them in my fridge," he told her, all business.

Of course. Genius.

"Meet me at the morgue tomorrow evening when my shift ends. I'll see what I can do."

Molly opened her book; Sherlock returned to his dismembered finger.

"So it's your fault he keeps that bloody blog," John grumbled. Molly grinned at him.

"You could say that. It was one was my better ideas, wasn't it? Occupied his mind well enough. His relapses were much fewer after that. He stopped drinking altogether, did keep smoking, but stopped the opiates. Mostly."

John looked at her, really looked at her then, and stopped on the path. They had come to another bench, and John took the opportunity to sit down.

"It occurs to me," he said slowly, "that when I met you in the lab that day, for the very first time, you and Sherlock were not pals. Certainly didn't have the relationship you've been describing. What happened?"

Molly took a few moments before responding. She looked down at the frayed hem of her striped scarf, toyed with the loose strings. Then she sat down next to John and looked out at the brown grassy expanse of the park lawn, matchstick trees waving in the distance.

"I ruined it," she said finally. "I mean, at the time, I ruined it. He was always so lonely. I thought he and I were just alike. I thought we got on well. I misread all the signals completely. We weren't alike at all; that was just wishful thinking. I thought helping him and being there for him had helped us forge this uneasy friendship that could … be something more. That's what I thought he wanted. I was so sure that's why he let me come around."

"You've lost me, Molls," John told her, bewildered.

Molly adopted a knowing smile, one side of her mouth tipped up, lips pressed together. John was still looking at her, waiting. She then opened her mouth and uttered, so softly, two words John definitely wasn't expecting.

"The Kiss."

End Part I

This is the end of part I, my lovelies. I hope you all follow me into part II. Thank you so much for all your faves, follows, and comments thus far; they are my driving force. 3

See y'all soon. ;)