A scream from upstairs pierced the still night. Sherlock opened his eyes, pushing the covers back. He waited, the creaky floors squeaked under Molly's light footsteps. The tap ran, followed by a glass breaking, something tumbled to the floor.

Mind made up, he got out of bed, heading out of his flat upstairs. Mrs. Hudson was on the landing, tugging her housecoat closed.

"Is everything alright?" she asked, worried. "I heard a terrible noise!" Sherlock paused then. Perhaps Molly would not appreciate him barging in after a nightmare. Mrs. Hudson was not her mother, but she was motherly.

"Perhaps you can be of some help," Sherlock replied, motioning her to come up.

Molly sat on the bathroom floor, shaking hands as she cried. Stupid memory in her dreams. Stupid Molly for screaming. Stupid glass for breaking. Toby the dog was scratching at the bathroom door, whining. Toby the cat couldn't care less and sat in the bathtub, glaring over the edge at the noise she was making.

"Molly?" a soft voice called, at first Molly didn't recognize it. "Molly it's Mrs. Hudson," through the frosted glass of the bathroom door she could see the old woman's shape. "Can I come in dear?"

Sherlock waited on the other side of the door as his landlady was let into the bathroom.

"Ohhh, dearie, there, there," she soothed. He poked his head around the corner, watching as Mrs. Hudson picked through the glass, sitting on the closed laundry hamper to gather Molly in her arms. Gently, the old woman smoothed Molly's hair, soothing her brow and cheek. "There, you've had a terrible shock now, haven't you?" she asked softly and Molly tried to apologize for the broken glass and waking her. "Never mind it," the old woman said. "You think I care about a little thing like that?"

"I'm sorry Mrs. Hudson," Molly sniffed. "I don't- I just wish-" her hand fell limply to her side. "I'm so tired of everything…I've ruined everything and nothing is the same and I'm just so tired-" she sobbed.

"I know you are," gently, Mrs. Hudson swayed back and forth, rocking the pathologist as she cried. Sherlock, hair mussed from sleep and still in his pyjamas and dressing gown, stared. He did not like this uncertain ache in his chest. He did not like seeing Molly so helpless, and he in turn unable to do anything to make it right. He couldn't take away her memories of what went on in the bunker. Quietly, before Molly could notice, he stepped away from the door, slipping back down to his flat to dress. Mrs. Hudson had things well in hand, and he needed to think.

Out in the cool night air, he shoved his hands into his pockets, heading in no particular direction.

"Going somewhere?" Sherlock felt an arm slip into his and he looked to his side to see Anthea holding his elbow, her other hand clutching her blackberry, tapping out a text.

"Still on my brother's leash, I see," he said, directing his gaze back to the empty sidewalk.

"I'm off duty, actually."

"Has he been checking the CCTV's?"

"Always."

"Then he'll know I need peace and quiet to think."

"He was merely wondering where you intended to find this peace and quiet."

"Not in a crack house, if that's what he's thinking. I was going for a smoke and then head to John and Mary's. You may tell Big Brother to sod off. I don't need him spying on me or my pathologist," Anthea quirked an eyebrow at him.

"He cares about you," she said, still holding onto his arm, adjusting her pace to match his.

"I don't get high anymore," Sherlock ground out. He dug through his pockets, searching. Anthea held up a cigarette and he stopped walking, muttering his thanks as he took it. He fiddled with his pockets again, in search of a match and again, Anthea held out her hand, this time bearing a lighter.

Under the light of a street lamp, she stood with him as he took his first drag of the cigarette, exhaling after a moment.

"Is she having flashbacks again?" Anthea asked quietly. Sherlock gave her a look. Anthea looked around, finding the security camera mounted on the nearest building, facing it, she removed her earpiece and pocketed her phone before turning back to the younger Holmes. Sherlock tapped the end of his cigarette, flicking ash on the sidewalk.

"Don't think for one moment I'm going to believe that means Mycroft can't see us," he said. "But since you asked and I believe you good enough to care, she's frustrated," he paused. "She is upset and exhausted."

"She's back at work now, isn't she?"

"Just started," he nodded.

"Keep an eye on her, the morgue may be a trigger for her." Sherlock nodded. He had not considered that. "Talk to her," Anthea admonished. "She needs to know that it's okay to talk about it. People will always be there to help her get to sleep, or hold her when she cries, and that's good, but she's got to know that she's done nothing wrong, she's not damaged, and she's got nothing to be ashamed of." Sherlock again flicked the end of the cigarette, studying the ground.

"Who do you talk to, Anthea?" She was quiet, hand on the ear-piece. Silence stretched between him.

"He never made me talk about it, you know."

"No, he wouldn't," Sherlock agreed. He dropped the cigarette, stamping it out. "I'm off, always a pleasure, tell Mycroft I said hello," he spoke into the earpiece in her hand.

"I'd offer you a lift," she said as he headed down the sidewalk. "But I know you wouldn't accept it."

"Correct as always, nothing personal, I'd rather the London air tonight," he said, walking backwards.

"Smog and toxic fumes, you mean."

"You work for the government, you'd know better than me," he called before turning down the street, out of sight.

~O~

John and Mary's

"Sherlock, what are you doing here?" Mary opened the door, baby on her breast (literally. He did a double-take, and then stepped passed her, shrugging. If she wasn't bothered, neither was he.)

"Needed a walk. Seemed like the better option."

"What was the other choice?"

"Getting high. Tempting, as it was," he sat at the kitchen table, about to put his feet up, but Mary pushed them down.

"Molly doing okay?" he shrugged.

"I left her with Mrs. Hudson. She seemed to need someone not…me."

"Did she say that?"

"No, but it was obvious. She doesn't trust men at the moment. I didn't think she'd appreciate one helping her out of the toilet."

"Don't be silly," she shifted Lucia from her breast. "Here take her while I clean up," draping a cloth over his shoulder, he patted the child's back. "Molly trusts you implicitly."

"Hm."

"You're one of the few men she does trust."

"Suppose so," Lucia gurgled on his shoulder, beginning to fuss. He bounced up and down, shushing her.

"Why did you think Mrs. Hudson would be able to help her?" Mary asked.

"Molly doesn't have a mother, and mine is on a luxury cruise at the moment, she seemed like the right fit."

"That doesn't mean she doesn't need you," Mary returned, buttoning her pyjama top. She took the kettle down, filling it. "But I do think Mrs. Hudson might be a big help," switching the kettle on, Mary leaned against the counter, arms folded across her middle. "A woman will always need her mummy, no matter how old she gets." She smiled suddenly, looking at Sherlock who finished burping Lucia and was now standing, weaving back and forth to get her to sleep.

"What?" he asked.

"Nothing," she said, grinning in a way that he knew meant something. "How's the dog working out, by the way?" she asked, changing the subject.

"Fair. He's a good watch-dog. Molly lets him sleep on her bed."

"So she's keeping him?"

"Obviously."

Sherlock stayed until Lucia felt heavy in his arms. Realizing she was asleep, he handed her off to Mary.

"Stay for tea," Mary whispered, tiptoeing to the nursery to put the baby to bed. When she returned to the kitchen, she found Sherlock holding two full mugs, three jaffa cakes in his mouth.

"Well the mystery of John's disappearing sweets is now solved," Mary said with a laugh.

"Yours is caffeine-free," he said around the biscuits in his mouth.
"Thank you."

"What's going on?" a voice from the hall made them look up to see John shuffling out of the bedroom, hair askew.

"Just me, I'm off," Sherlock said. "Mary made you tea," he tugged his coat on. "Goodnight Mary, John." He hurried out before the doctor could ask him anything else.

"What was that about?" he asked, accepting the mug from her, blowing on it a little to cool it.

"Molly," she shrugged.

"Anything wrong?"

"Everything," Mary sighed. She got to her feet, putting her arms around his waist with a sigh. Setting his mug down, he returned the embrace.

~O~

Baker Street

Sherlock returned to find Mrs. Hudson tiptoeing out of Molly's bedroom, leaving the door open.

"Is she asleep?"

"I gave her a cup of tea and a little something in it to help her sleep."
"You drugged her?"

"I told her what was in it," Mrs. Hudson whispered. "That dog isn't staying here, is it?"
"Yes."

"Sherlock," her tone was warning. "Why did you run off?"

"Needed to think."

"You've not been into anything have you?"

"Tea. John and Mary's. Smoked a cigarette."
"Ugh," she scoffed, moving past him. "Smoke yourself to death," she muttered.

"Are you going to bed?"

"Yes," she headed for the door. "You'd best do the same as well, mind you don't wake her up either. She was worried she frightened you off."

"Was she better, after I left?" Mrs. Hudson paused in shutting the door, thinking.

"She's very worn out, she misses you," with that, she bid him goodnight, quietly shutting the door after her.

Molly talked in her sleep, nothing profound, mostly mumbled words and distressed noises. Sherlock knew this wasn't a regular occurrence having used her flat as a bolt-hole from time to time. Whatever Mrs. Hudson had given her must have set it off. Tiptoeing into her room, he sat on the floor by her bed. Toby the dog lay on Molly's legs, head on her stomach, ears alert.

"Don't suppose you'd like to change places?" Sherlock asked the dog, who only blinked. "No, suppose that'd end in another cricket bat on my head," he said and got to his feet, heading back downstairs for a moment. Molly turned in her sleep, groaning as she shifted. Toby the dog lifted his head, stretching.

In a few moments, the door opened and closed, and Toby sat up, letting out a short, low growl.

"It's only me," Sherlock said quietly and the dog laid down again. Molly still seemed to be struggling through her dreams. Sherlock stood in the living room, and divested himself of his overcoat and jacket. Quietly, he tuned his violin, testing the strings and rosining the bow. John sometimes had bad dreams of the army, when that happened Sherlock would play his violin to help the doctor sleep again. If it worked for John's PTSD, perhaps it would work for Molly.

~O~

The Next Morning

Molly awoke to Toby the cat purring and drooling on her head, his claws kneading her scalp. Toby the dog was panting and drooling on her legs, watching her sleep.

"Suppose you're both hungry," she mumbled, rolling onto her side. Dog and cat leapt off the bed at her moving and headed for the kitchen. Toby the dog ran back, licking her face and then bolted for the doorway, waiting.

Shuffling into her kitchen, she yawned, trying to remember how much and what exactly it was Mrs. Hudson put into her tea last night. Hearing a gentle snore, she turned to see Sherlock sprawled on her short sofa, legs dangling over the end, one arm draped over his face to keep the morning sun out of his eyes. Smiling to herself, she fed the animals and then started on breakfast.

"Tea for me," she heard his groggy voice from the couch. Smiling, she pushed the lever down on the toaster.

"You'd better have something else," she said. "Tea won't keep you all day."

"Toast and tea," he amended.

"And one egg."

"You're going to make me fat."

"You could use a little more fat."

"If you're going to foster food off on someone, may I suggest Mycroft?" Sherlock sat up, stretching leisurely. "He would probably appreciate it more than me."

"Take Toby out, while you're getting up, and I'll have your tea ready, tell me what you want on your toast too."

"Jam," he said and took the dog leash from the hook on the wall, taking Toby by the collar.

He was halfway down the stairs when he realized what he was doing and frowned. How domestic. He might have sneered at the thought, except Toby was yanking him down the steps, and he could smell bacon frying in the pan and he realized he was hungry. Perhaps Molly would make beans as well.