Chapter 10

Molly scrubbed her skin so hard, it hurt. Then she stood under the pounding water, the heat bleeding through her until she was so dizzy she had to make it stop.

For a long time, she stood behind the curtain, hands crossed at her shoulders, breathing into the solid air, remembering...

Running her hands through his wet hair...

Washing the soap off his skin...

Trying not to stare at his chest, his arms, his back, his...

The steam evaporated and she was forced out of her memories by the cold.

She took time drying herself, moisturising her legs, brushing her teeth. She even flossed, eyes on her reflection in the foggy mirror.

"So attractive," she mocked, squinting at her mottled skin and dark eyes, the permanent crease in her forehead. "You look like you spent the night on someone's floor." She smiled. "Oh. That's right. You did."

She peaked out, checking both directions before dashing from bathroom to bedroom and closing the door tight behind her.

Her duvet was still in the living room, her hair was soaking wet, but her bed still looked comfortable and she found herself crawling onto it, wrapping her towel tighter around her for warmth. Pulling a pillow to her as if it were a cuddly toy, she curled up and burrowed into the familiar scent of sleep.

*0*0*0*0*

John's coat was too black, too similar to everyone else's in the crowd. Her legs felt heavy, making it even harder to keep up, no matter how hard she pounded the pavement, how far she stretched with each stride. "John, please! Wait! I can explain!" A hand on her shoulder. She turned to see who it was, but...

She woke with a start. Had a door slammed? She could have sworn...

When she lifted her head to look, there was just her empty room and her closed bedroom door with too many cardigans hanging off the hook. The light wasn't on, but it wasn't dark. The clock on her dresser proclaimed 10:11. She tried to work it out, how long she'd been asleep, but she couldn't because she hadn't even checked the time when she came out of the shower. Or when she'd woken to find Sherlock gone.

Sherlock...

"Shit..." Scrambling off the bed, she threw on the t-shirt and joggers she kept under her pillows and dashed to the living room.

Where she found him sat on the sofa, wrapped in her duvet, eyes fixed on her laptop. The coffee table had been cleared to make space for his ridiculously long legs and a mug of tea.

"Something wrong?" He spoke without lifting his eyes from the screen.

"Sorry?"

"Your haste suggests an emergency."

"Oh. No. No emergency, just...I..." She ran a hand through her hair and it got stuck. She tugged it free and tried to tame it with both hands, but it was full of knots.

"Looks a lost cause to me."

"A case?"

"Your hair." He gave her a cursory glance, and she dropped her hands, cursing herself for falling asleep before blow drying.

"We can't all have perfect hair," she said, tugging hers back into the bobble she always kept around her wrist.

"Clearly."

His hair might be perfect, but the rest of him wasn't shaping up too well. His lips were chapped, his fingertips still tinged with blue, and the colour on him...he looked like he'd spent a month in a drug den.

The protector in her wanted to tell him off. You should be resting. Have you even eaten yet? Why the hell didn't you wake me?

But she opted for, "You logged in ok, then."

"Yup."

"No point asking how you knew the password?"

"Nope."

"Well. I don't mind." He typed something and hit enter. "I, ha, I hope you're not 'fraping' me," she snorted, hands wringing when he still said nothing. "Oh-kay then..."

He sighed. "Is there something you want, Molly?"

"No. Well. Actually," she took a step forward and saw his eyes roll. "I should do some checks on you." He was typing again. "You know, make sure you're fully functional and, you know, not dead."

Her laugh seemed to echo around them. She tried again. "But I can do it after a coffee. If you'd prefer?"

Silence met her, punctuated by the frantic tapping of keys.

"So...do you want a coffee?"

Nothing.

"Sherlock."

Not even a glance.

She walked close enough to grab the laptop, reached for the lid to yank it back. He grabbed her wrist before she got there.

"What, Molly? What is it?!"

"I just wondered if you fancied a coffee?"

"Oh," he said, loosening his grip, eyes still locked on her wrist. "Yes. Coffee would be great, thanks," and he gave her one of his smiles – one of the fake ones that said he just wanted her to go away.

"Great. I'll be right back."

"Great."

*0*0*0*0*

"Mensa accredited genius...can't locate dishwasher," she muttered as she loaded the machine with everything he'd dumped on the worktops, the kettle boiling in the background.

*0*0*0*0*

He didn't look up when she put the cup in front of him and she didn't hover, feeling awkward in her own living room with him there, in her favourite bloody dressing gown, using her laptop, taking over the entire sofa.

"Thank you ever so much for the coffee, Molly. Ohh, anytime Sherlock," she muttered as she reorganised the fridge, bashing containers and jars around with more vigour than the task required. "And thanks for looking after me, too. Making sure I didn't die or anything. Oh, noooo problem at all. It was a piece of cake - a pleasure – I mean, it's not like I had anything better to do or..."

"Did you?"

She whirled around, a gone-off Greek yoghurt in hand.

God, he looked atrociously hot standing in the door frame, mug in hand, dressing gown tied loosely at his waist, the slight flash of his chest more erotic than any of the moments of his bare nakedness she'd witnessed the past days.

"Uh..."

"Did you have something better to do?"

"Well, I-"

"Something more important than thwarting the most dangerous man the United Kingdom, Europe, Asia - I'd go so far as to say most civilized areas of the world, in fact – have ever seen?"

"Of course not, I was...it was a joke."

"Funny." He took a final gulp of what must have been cold coffee, then raised the mug to her. "Thanks."

"I was making one anyway, so it wasn't-"

"Not just for the coffee." He swept closer, putting the mug down next to her, not stepping back to an appropriate distance, so she had to crane her neck just to make eye contact. "You have put in a number of hours and efforts, all of which I really do appreciate."

"Oh. That's ok. I...wanted to."

"Good."

They stared at each other. She was starting to imagine ridiculous things, wonderful things.

He wet his lips, parting them, smirking his sexy little smirk.

"Back to work, then," he said and, with a whirl of pink fleece, he was gone.

*0*0*0*0*

The rest of the day was spent in a sort of silence, with him tapping away at her laptop as she tried to keep herself busy and out of his way.

At intervals, she would try to persuade him to let her examine him, but he ignored, refused and eventually shouted at her.

"Can't you stop meddling? I'm fine!"

He wasn't, but she was beginning to realise he would come around eventually.

*0*0*0*0*

Reading was impossible because her mind was moving at 100 miles an hour, so she swapped to crochet but kept dropping stitches because she couldn't keep her eyes off him, so she tried to get Toby in – he'd gone out after they'd arrived with the semi-conscious Sherlock and had barely been back since – but when he finally appeared with the enticement of tuna, he didn't stay long, clawing his way out of her arms when she tried to hug him, and fleeing through the open living room window out into the growing gloom.

"Some animals can't be caged."

It was the first thing Sherlock had said in two hours.

"I wasn't trying to cage him," she said, closing the window but leaving it ajar, just in case the cat returned.

"He'll be back. When he needs something."

"Sounds familiar."

She watched Sherlock rub his eyes with the heels of his hands; they were glassy with fatigue, and the shadow on his chin and cheeks gave her conviction.

"Sherlock."

"Mm?"

"You need to eat."

"Later."

"And I'd like to use my laptop."

"What for? The only emails you've received have been marketing bumf, and I doubt you really care about Caroline's trip to South End, or what Meena had for lunch."

"You have been on my Facebook page!"

"Just checking in on the 'real' world."

"Have you updated my status?"

She was behind him in a flash, peering over his shoulder at the screen. He wasn't on Facebook – he had a map open in one browser, a Word document parallel to it with a list of names she didn't know, an instant messenger programme she didn't recognise flashing in the task bar, and behind it all was another browser with so many tabs that their titles weren't even displayed.

"What are you doing?"

"Piecing together the network."

"What network?"

"Moriarty's."

"Isn't that Mycroft's job?"

He scoffed. "He has his ways. I have mine."

"And my Facebook page comes into it, how?"

"Need to see how the world is reacting."

"To what? Your death?"

"Moriarty's."

"No one I know will care about that. They'll only want to know..." She stopped. "Sorry, I don't mean-" but he kept talking, like he hadn't even heard her.

"You accepted a friend request from a young man named Jack Tamworth, about six months ago."

"I...how do you know that?"

"He's one of Moriarty's rats."

"No, he's..."

"Fooled again, Molly. By another man pretending to be something he's not."

"We didn't do anything. I never met him or anything."

"He's there to react rather than respond, just enough to make it seem genuine. Not enough to pique your interest to the point where you would ask him out."

"How long have you known?"

"About six months."

She slapped his arm, hard.

"Why didn't you tell me?!"

"Ow! Molly, I'm in recovery!"

"You should have told me!"

"You would have deleted him from your profile, or acted differently online because you knew he was reading what you wrote."

"Not if you'd told me why and what to do."

"Hmmmmm, debatable."

"You just don't trust anyone."

"I trust you."

"Only so far."

"I think asking you to fake my death was-"

"That's the part you knew I could do. And you didn't have a choice."

"I had plenty of choice. Mycroft could have brought in any number of people to do what you have done."

"So-"

He held up a finger.

"I think you're right, Molly."

"What?"

"I should eat."

*0*0*0*0*

He sat at the breakfast bar with her laptop while she grilled Halloumi for a salad, and he ate slices between sips of diluted apple juice, like it was an aperitif, until there was none left.

"Ok. I guess it can be a starter. So...pasta? Umm..."

He didn't protest so she searched the cupboards for a sauce base, getting more and more stressed at the lack of stuff she had available. She needed to go shopping. Desperately.

"Maybe we should order in?" she offered, head in a cupboard.

"The pesto will do."

"There isn't any."

"In the fridge. At the back. Second shelf."

She didn't ask how he knew, but rescued it from the midst of jam jars and chutneys, crinkling her nose at the date on the lid and the white spots of bacteria that were invading their way over the surface.

"It's off."

"The penicillin will help the chest infection."

"What chest infection?" she looked at him sharply. "You told me you were fine."

"It's just a little..."

"Why wouldn't you let me check you?"

He ignored her.

"Sherlock. I'm meant to be looking after you."

"It's nothing serious. Don't over react."

"You could get pneumonia. It's common after hypothermia. I'm supposed to be checking you. God, why do I ever listen to you?" she said, slamming the pesto jar down too hard on the table.

"Don't beat yourself up about it, Molly. I'm difficult to defy."

"Well that's going to change.

He flicked his eyes up, stalled in his work by her defiant stance.

"I doubt that..."

"Stay there. I'll be right back."

A second later, she popped her head around the door to add, "I mean it. Stay."

"I hadn't planned on moving."

*0*0*0*0*

The bits she needed to examine him had been swept under the sofa and she had to lie on the floor to retrieve them. When she marched back into the kitchen, he had already disrobed, the dressing gown drooping down over the bar stool, pinioned by his perfect arse cheeks.

"Close your mouth, Molly. It's unbecoming."

"Cover yourself up a bit then."

"I thought you wanted to examine me?"

"You don't need to be naked!"

He rolled his eyes and folded the arms of the pink robe across his lap, tying them together in a bow that sat right over his...

"Will that do?"

A gulp was necessary. "I suppose."

Warily, she stepped forward, depositing the GP's kit on the worktop as he moved her laptop aside, his eyes and fingers still trained on it.

"You can keep on working," she told him. "Just do what I say at the same time."

"Fine."

"Right arm, please," she said and he held it out to her, ready for the blood pressure band.

She slid the plasticy material over his hand and up his arm, trying hard not to notice how smooth his skin was, trying not to marvel too much over the tone of his muscles as he moved his hand back to the keyboard.

"Rest your hand, please, or it won't be accurate."

"I can tell you what my blood pressure is without the aid of that useless contraption."

"I'd have to believe you weren't lying." She tugged his wrist away from the keys and he obliged, sighing as she pumped the device up. He sucked in a quick breath at the cold of the stethoscope on his forearm, but his eyes stayed on the screen, even when she had finished and had to move closer to press the bell of the scope against his chest.

She watched his face as she listened to his heart beat. It was strong and fast and she wondered if he could hear hers thumping to the same rhythm.

She wanted to step closer between his legs. She wanted to press herself against him. She wanted to untie the arms of her dressing gown that hid him from her and take his cock in her hands; this time, she would touch it the way a lover would, not like a paid nurse. She wanted to see his face change, his eyes glaze, his lips part at her touch.

Her own lips parted as she imagined it; imagined him lifting her to the worktop, spreading her legs, guiding his cock to her opening, gripping her buttocks so he could thrust...

He turned to look at her and she flushed because he was reading her mind, she knew he was, and so she dropped her eyes to the stethoscope and moved it, searching out the infection on his lungs.

"Are you quite alright, Molly?"

Her fingers shook against his skin because he was still looking at her, his breath light on her hair.

"Fine. Thank you," she said, moving the diaphragm a little to the left.

"John doesn't shake this much when he, uh, looks me over." The last three words were said with such emphasis that she did as they stated, looking down his torso then back up to his face. Which was a mistake.

Oh sweet-Merlin...

He was devastating. His eyes, his lips, the cut of his cheeks. He was...

"Perhaps you require a doctor, Molly? You look flushed. Shaken, even. You're out of breath. Shall I check your pulse?"

"Stop it," she said, stepping away.

"Stop what?"

"You know what." She pulled the ear plugs out and dropped the headpiece around her neck. "It's...it doesn't sound too bad, all things considered. A bit...a bit fast but-"

"No tachycardia. I could have told you that."

"Probably a slight chest infection, worse if you're not careful."

"The pesto will do."

"The pesto is going in the bin."

"Such a waste," he sighed, turning back to the laptop.

"I'm not done with you yet. Here," and she shoved the thermometer into his mouth, pumped the blood pressure monitor once more because she'd missed the readings. She watched him wince at the squeeze of it. Serves you right.

"Blood pressure's fine," she eventually announced, pulling off the band and reaching for the next piece of equipment.

"I'll just..." She hesitated, fingers hovering at the hair in front of his ear, otoscope in hand. He didn't say anything, didn't help, so she pulled back his curls - went up on her tip toes because even on the stool he was too tall for her - and delicately inserted the nose of the scope. She was quick checking both ears but he still scowled as she returned the implement to its case and picked up the ophthalmoscope. She clicked the light on and shone it into his eyes.

"Is that really necessary?" he asked, trying to grab the implement from her hand, but she was too quick.

Slow reactions. Reduced spatial awareness.

"It won't take long. Sherlock, open your eyes."

He huffed.

"Or I'll make you."

"Try."

She gave him a short, sharp jab in the side with her free hand and he jumped, yelped, the thermometer falling from his mouth to his lap.

She tried to reach for his eyes, to keep them open with her fingers but he jerked further away. "You're a cruel woman," he told her as he tried to evade her.

"And you're a petulant child." She stood back. "Just let me look. I'll be quick."

"My eyes are fine," but he stayed still to let her shine the light into them.

"They're not great, actually. The reaction is a little slow. You definitely have an infection."

"I thought we had already established that."

He was already turning back to the laptop, blinking rapidly to rid his eyes of the light blots. "I picked up some Amoxicillin from Pharmacy."

"You couldn't get anything stronger?" A message had popped up on the screen, long and in...was that another language?

"You don't need anything stronger," she said, trying to sound flippant as she craned to see what he was typing in reply, just five words. Not words she understood. Was it German? He minimised the box before she could guess anything else.

"What lie did you tell for the antibiotics?" He eyed her as he shrugged back into the dressing gown. "Does the whole of Barts think you have a yeast infection?"

"I'll have to do this again," she said, eyeing the dead display on the thermometer.

"Or perhaps an STI?" he ventured, ignoring her as she brandished the stick like a sword. "It wouldn't be the first time, would it?"

"Take the test, Sherlock."

"So it is an STI?" He was smirking, teasing her. "But I don't need to get tested. After all, only in your dreams have we ever..."

"Let me take your fucking temperature, Sherlock."

"No need to get upset, Molly."

"I'm not upset. I just want to take your temperature."

"Do it later."

"No. We'll do it now."

"I'm busy."

"Busy making fun of me."

"Busy chasing up leads on Moriarty in 12 countries and-"

"You don't need your mouth to type."

"And you don't need a thermometer to check my temperature. Or you wouldn't, if you were a proper doctor."

"I'm a pathologist."

"And John's a soldier. Doesn't stop him from-"

"John's a GP. He's trained to treat people who are alive, trained to-"

"That would explain the difference in your bedside manner. Tell me, Molly, did they teach you to be this infuriatingly asinine, or have you always been-"

"You chose me for this, Sherlock. You."

"And I'm already regretting it. Owwm!"

She shoved the thermometer into his mouth with force.

"Fine," she said, walking out of the kitchen. "That's just fine."

"Mowwy." She heard him call around the thermometer. He must have discarded it, because his next words weren't muffled. "Molly, where are you going?"

She didn't look back.

"To get my phone."

"What for? Molly..." It sounded as though he'd stumbled jumping from the stool, yet he was close behind her.

"Molly, what are you doing?"

"Looking for my phone. Have you seen it? I was sure I'd left it..." she was looking under cushions, reaching down the sides of the sofa.

"What do you need it for?"

"Thought I'd ring John. Invite him 'round."

"Why would-"

"You'd much prefer him to me. Might as well fix that now, instead of wasting my time-"

"You're over reacting."

"No. I'm not." She lifted the duvet, seeing it the same time he did. "I'm being realistic." She snatched it up but he snatched it back and her phone was up, over her head in a moment.

"Give it back, Sherlock."

"No," he said, holding it up even higher.

"Give. It. Back."

"Are you going to ring John?"

"Don't you want him, now?"

"Molly," he breathed through his nose, like a teacher trying to stay calm in the face of an unruly pupil. "Do you want John to die?"

"Oh, for goodness sake."

He breathed again. Spoke slowly, levelling each word like a threat.

"Are you going to call John?"

"Of course not. I-"

"I've put my trust in you, Molly. Was that an error of judgement?"

"No, I...I..." he didn't interrupt and for once she wished he would. "Ignore me," she sagged, throwing herself down on the sofa. "I'm just tired."

"You've slept."

"A few hours in more than two days, Sherlock! I'm bollocksed."

"Hungover."

"Still counts."

"Here," he held her phone out. "Your friends have been trying to get in touch."

She took it with a grim smile and scrolled through what she'd missed. Seven calls - a mix of her aunt, Meena and Mike - and four texts she didn't remember being there before, though they'd all been read. One from John read "Home now." She clicked on it, hoping there would be more to the simple two-word preview.

There wasn't.

"How long did you speak?"

"With John? Half an hour. Just about."

"Investigating."

"No, he said he went home."

"Look at the time stamps! Four hours and thirty-two minutes between each message." He was itching with energy. "Approximately three hours not spent travelling between your flat and Baker Street. John was investigating."

"He might have gone for a drink or-"

"With whom?"

"I don't know. One of his other friends, or a girlf-"

He scoffed, striding to the mantelpiece, his keen eyes looking through the mirror above.

"Not a girlfriend then, but he's usually dating someone. He might have wanted-"

"He thought there was something wrong, you said. He didn't believe-"

"He did. By the time he left, he believed me."

He turned on her.

"You believe you were so convincing that his doubts fully receded? You believe your acting skills were such that John Watson would give up on me?"

"Yes! No! I mean...Isn't that what you wanted? You want him to believe you're dead. I had to convince him, and Greg, and Mrs Hudson, and-"

"Of course."

"...because if I did all that for nothing; if I broke that man's heart for no reas-"

"Don't be absurd."

"You didn't see him. You weren't the one who had to look him in the eye and...and..."

"Calm down, Molly. You're being ridiculous."

"That's right. I'm ridiculous. I'm annoying, I'm an idiot. I'm absurd, abhorrent, over-reacting...never mind that I'm taking sick leave to take care of you. Never mind that I've lied to everyone just to cover up for you."

"You didn't have to-"

"No. I didn't."

Silence fell. They stared at each other until he couldn't look any longer.

She dropped her head to her hands. Eventually, she heard him move; felt the cushion beside her sink.

When she looked up his eyes were closed, his head resting on the back of the sofa.

"You're tired." He gave one, small nod. "You should be in bed, Sherlock."

"You were in there."

"You had the duvet. And the sofa."

A shrug was all she got in response.

"You're going to fight me for the bed, aren't you?"

"Not strong enough for that."

"Good."

"Give me a day or two."

She smiled. Sighed. "Is this what it's going to be like?"

"What?"

"You. Being here. Is it...will it always be-"

"I hope not. It's tiresome."

"You're not wrong."

"I know."

She leaned her own head back and stared up at the ceiling. The paint was still patchy from when upstairs had a leak. She'd always meant to get someone in.

"I'll ask for more hours at work. Mike's been nagging me to take on an extra PhD student anyway."

He sighed heavily.

"I can take up with a homeless friend or two. One has a squat. Perfectly comfortable if you imbibe enough narcotics, though the lack of WiFi would cause a problem."

"Now who's over reacting?"

He raised his eyebrows, eyes still closed.

"He'll want to speak to me about the post mortem. And about the funeral."

"What makes you think John would value your opinion?"

"Because you do."

He turned then, one eye opening to look at her.

"That statement alone proves how ridiculous this conversation has been."

"I know," she smiled. "Let me take your temperature?"

He reached in the pocket of her dressing gown, pulled out the thermometer, holding it to his lips like a cigarette ready to be lit. "Do what you like. I'll be asleep."

He popped it into his mouth, leaned his head back and closed his eyes.