Another morning. His fourth time waking up there. His first time waking up in her bed. She had insisted on her bed, because it had a better mattress. He was inclined to agree, and it really didn't matter to him as long as he could sleep on his side or stomach if he desired.

Not that he'd slept much. Molly hadn't made any advances on him. In fact, she had fallen asleep quite quickly, once she had wrapped her body around his and settled her head on his chest. As soon as he felt her fully relax into deep sleep, he gently extricated himself and lay on his side, facing her. The electricity had come on soon after they came upstairs, and he watched her in the soft glow of her pink shaded bedside lamp. In sleep she was completely blank. He'd seen her sleeping before, a few times catching a nap at her desk in the lab. Another time at his flat when she'd come over to help him with some indexing. He'd kept her later than he originally said, and she had fallen asleep on his sofa in the middle of a conversation. She had always looked the same. Blank and sweet and young.

His mind raced for most of the night, but it wasn't turning over facts and memories and possible escape scenarios. He thought about what she had said earlier, about his character and the type of man he was. It wasn't something he'd given much thought to in the past because he didn't think it mattered as long as he got results. In the past year or so, his attitude had shifted some, and she was right that John had a lot to do with that shift. But maybe he was fooling himself. Maybe being a good person wasn't compatible with being what he was. He used to be fine with that.

Finally, forcefully, he shut down his mind and slept. He woke up to full sunlight. The rain was gone and the room was bordering on uncomfortably warm. It didn't help that Molly was snuggled into him tightly, face in his chest, and his arms around her. He tried to move away without waking her, but was unsuccessful. She stirred as soon as he did.

She roused and propped herself up on one elbow, looking into his eyes. She was wearing a camisole, and when the blanket slid off her shoulders, he saw the bruises on her arms, long purple marks from his fingers, the darkest from his thumbs. He reached out and touched them, as if to verify their realness. She grabbed his hand and kissed his fingertips.

"I bruise easily. It didn't hurt, it just surprised me."

"That doesn't excuse it."

"My brother is smaller than you. Would you feel bad if you hurt him?"

"Not in the slightest."

"Don't let the fact that I'm a woman trick you into thinking I'm not dangerous."

"That's not it."

"It is, though, and it could get you killed. So stop it."

She pulled herself closer and kissed him. He didn't resist it, nor did he return it. He merely accepted it, as one does a handshake from a not so close acquaintance. She pulled back and searched his face for a moment, then ran her hand along his cheek.

"I bet you'd like a shave today, wouldn't you?"

"That would be nice, however I'd really like to do it myself. In private."

"You can do it yourself, but if you don't want me in the room, you'll have to do it in the kitchen."

He knew this was what she would say, but he wanted her to feel as though she'd exerted her authority. He still planned on sticking close to her as much as he could.

"Fine, you can watch me but I will do it myself."

Molly shrugged and sat up. She opened the draw in her night stand and pulled out a package of birth control pills. Sherlock's relief was infinite. Whatever she had planned, it didn't seem to involve creating an heir to the Moriarty empire.

"You take the inactive pills?" he said, after noticing her popping out the second pill from the last row.

"My schedule is so erratic that if I go a week without taking them I can forget to start a new pack." She dry swallowed the little orange colored pill and got up to leave. "I'll turn the boiler up. I assume you want hot water for your shave."

Sherlock followed closely behind her. As she went into a room off the kitchen to deal with the boiler, he started making tea, listening for any signs that the small closet might be where she kept her mobile. There was definitely no chance that she was concealing it on her person, considering that all she wore was the camisole and a miniscule pair of shorts. Even if he wouldn't know what to do with her mobile once he determined she had one, it was a task to focus on. A goal.

When she entered the kitchen, she beamed when she saw that he was making the tea. She started gathering things from around the kitchen.

"Baking?"

"Scones," she said, as she nudged past him to get milk and eggs from the refrigerator. "Will you set the oven to six please?"

He watched her as she gathered her supplies. She didn't seem entirely familiar with the kitchen's contents, but she had said that she didn't get to come as often as she liked, and the kitchen was set up much differently from the one in her flat in London. She was also still quite drowsy. She yawned as she piled all her hair on top of her head and secured it with a hair elastic from around her wrist. Then she leaned on the work top and stared at the ingredients and utensils she had amassed. He handed over her mug of tea and she took it gratefully.

"Your water should be hot by the time I get these in the cooker," she said, and set to work. She didn't use a recipe, and was a bit slap dash with her measurements. This would have made his chemist's heart a bit nervous if it weren't for the fact that he'd partaken of Molly's baking many times in the past. He had just never had the opportunity to watch her do it. She didn't wear an apron, so the front of her shirt and shorts were soon covered in streaks of flour where she wiped her hands. There were also distinct handprints on her backside. Once she had the dough kneaded, she handed Sherlock a juice glass.

"Make yourself useful," she said. He took the glass from her and started cutting circles in the dough. She took them almost as soon as he cut them out, placing them on a baking sheet and brushing them with an egg wash.

"Push all the scraps together and knead it, but just a couple of times. "

"Yes, too much handling causes the bubbles created by the leavening to break, making the pastries tough."

"And you don't want the gluten strands to be too long."

"Right," he said, and cut out the remaining scones. There were only a few scraps left. Molly whistled for the dog, who came skidding down the hallway. Molly tossed the scraps in the air and Lucy caught most of them before they hit the ground. She then scampered back to the sitting room.

Molly put the baking sheet in and set the timer. "You've got fifteen minutes," she said.

In the lavatory, he was momentarily shocked when he saw himself in the mirror. He hadn't looked at himself in days. The stubble (his beard grew at a glacial pace) combined with his out of control hair and a frankly haunted look in his eyes he looked mildly deranged. Shaving would help some, as would giving his hair a good seeing to, but he didn't know what to do about the fear.

She sat on the edge of the bathtub while he shaved, watching him silently. He watched her in the mirror, noticing when she examined the bruises on her arms, poking at them lightly. He noticed when she stretched out one leg and ran her hand up her calf, determining when she would need to shave. When he finished (not a close enough shave but it would do) she came up to him and ran her hand over his cheek and jaw.

"Not bad," she said. She drew even closer to him and stood on her toes to place a tiny kiss on the mole on his neck. "There's something I want to do for you after breakfast."

The oven timer went off and she pulled him by the hand into the kitchen.