NOTE: Thanks again for your reviews! I really appreciate every single one. Sorry it's taken me so long to update. I've been bogged down with essays for history so I've not been able to update. Next chapter shouldn't take as long I hope. Any mistakes, let me know! I'll sort them out asap.

Chapter Elven: The morning after.

I own nothing!

It was a loud clang and the faint smell of bacon that first woke Molly from her slumber. She was led on her front, hair spewed in all directions across her pillow, the rumble of her stomach making her frown with the need for something tasty. She attempted to piece together how she had ended up in her bed, still in her red dress from the night before, now crumbled and in need of a wash. To be honest, Molly couldn't remember how she'd gotten into her flat in the first place, let alone to her room. She guessed that she'd scraped herself across the hallway walls until she fell through the door and collapsed on the bed. It had happened before and in all honestly, it was the most plausible turn of events. She remembered going on a date, being utterly humiliated by Oscar and then deciding to drown her bitter life into the drain. After that, things became extremely hazy.

The pathologist rolled onto her back, rubbing her eyes before sitting up, the faint aroma of Sherlock hitting her nostrils, wishful thinking, obviously. A headache and the dreaded nauseous feeling washed over her, causing her to groan with pure misery and self loathing. Clanging could be heard again, coming from the kitchen of her flat. Ah yes, Sherlock Holmes. The man who had made her go on the date in the first place. Well, his brother, but still, she went because he'd asked her to and she didn't want to let him down. Molly had gotten hurt again, like she always did and quite frankly, she felt slightly bitter towards the man staying in her flat right now.

She swung her legs over the side of her bed, heading for the bathroom to pull off her dress and shove on her dressing gown. Molly then padded over to her bedroom door, opening it and peering out, hair still hideously uncombed. Slipping on her slippers, she cautiously walked down the hallway, worried in case she'd said anything ridiculous to him on her arrival home last night. It was likely. It was highly likely because if she had felt anger towards him this morning, when soberness was taking hold again, it was probable she'd gotten irritated at him with alcohol rooted in her system.

When she first glimpsed him in the kitchen, half hidden behind the wall, he had his back to her, pouring beans onto a plate and plonking the empty pan into the sink. He was dressed in a fresh suit, looking like he often did when working in her lab.

"Sit down." Was all he said, before he turned and placed a plate on the placemat. Molly did as instructed, not in any fit mood to argue, though wasn't entirely sure why he'd made her a full English breakfast, when he clearly knew the state she was in.

"T-thank you," She started timidly, "but I'd much prefer some paracetamol, if I have any."

She heard him scoff, "Molly, taking drugs to cure the side effects of a drug really is not a sensible option, in fact, it's dangerous."

"Dangerous?" He rolled his eyes.

"Taking painkillers only makes your liver work even harder and considering the fact that you've spent your night last night beating it to a pulp, I'd suggest you stay clear of your usual hang over cures and take one of mine."

Molly frowned, "Do you even drink?"

"Only when I have to." There was a pause, "Make sure you eat the eggs. You need the protein." She caught his eye then and there was a strange look in them, one she didn't fully understand. Sherlock was looking at her like he was trying to work her out, or something, she wasn't sure. All she knew was he knew what had happened last night and she didn't. That made her uncomfortable, the thought that she may have said something she shouldn't, so she dug into the eggs and wished away the ill feelings that clung to her skin.

Later that day, Molly lay on the sofa, taking a nap and resting her head, knowing full well that she had work the next day and didn't want to be slicing corpses with a headache. The detective had hovered around her all day for some unfathomable reason, following her like a puppy dog, only leaving her side to release his bowls, and taking the odd glance at her when he thought she couldn't see. Maybe he was waiting for an apology, or waiting to apologise to her. Maybe he didn't realise she couldn't remember the events of last night and was expecting her to be acting differently. Maybe I should concentrate on feeling better rather than trying to unsuccessfully work him out, she thought. Sighing, she moved her head on the cream cushion, attempting to make herself more comfortable.

"What." His deep voice rumbled in her chest.

"What?" Molly opened her eyes in confusion, not understanding what he was asking.

"Why are you sighing?" Sherlock was holding the violin under his chin, as if he was about to play. He sat on a small Victorian armchair she had by her fireplace that used to be her Grandma's, his eyes gazing over to her, no visible emotion in his features.

"I was just sighing-"

"Yes," He said sounding irritated, "but a person doesn't just sigh for no reason." He swung the bow about in his free hand, "A thought in your head has clearly caused you to sigh. I've lived with John long enough to know that about human emotion." Molly said nothing in response, trying to deter away from him discovering her thoughts, "Why did you sigh?"

"It doesn't matter Sherlock, just let me sleep."

There was a pause, before he pulled the bow across the strings in an attempt to keep her attention, "You're confused." Why did he always have to get it spot on? "You're confused about something." He paused again, his chin still resting on the pad, "You're attempting to work something out, most likely me, either about why I haven't asked how your date went, or because you want to piece together the hazy events of your drinking escapade and know that I was sober to remember it all."

She sighed again, purposefully this time, to see whether he understood why.

"Now you're irritated."

"Yes Sherlock," Molly said through gritted teeth, "I don't want to talk about it. Please let me sleep."

Like a child, he stared at her for a second, playing the violin defiantly before briskly standing and walking to his room.

Admitting there was a problem, was the first problem. Admitting that he was feeling out of place was not something he did lightly. Sherlock didn't like not understanding something and this day was his worst one yet since living with Molly. It was the worst because when he expected her to behave one way, she behaved in another. When he thought she would be asking petty questions about the previous evening, he had a faint feeling of disappointment in his gut when he was unable to fulfill his need to talk to her. This was unlike him. Thinking and feeling this way was outrageous and he wanted to take it out on her because it was all her fault.

Last night, Sherlock told himself that he'd willingly slept in her bed when she asked because he needed to make it up to her. He needed to make things right because he hated making things wrong. He'd planned to lay with her until he heard the soft breath of slumber, until she slept and he could sneak away from the horrid touch of sentiment. But when that soft breathing never came and he'd woken up in daylight, the detective had panicked. He panicked because he'd woken up on his side, face temptingly close to Molly's, having the first restful night's sleep he'd had in years. Normally, Sherlock would wake before dawn stretched its arms and be pacing about in his dressing down, looking for something to do. He was not lying in bed with a drunken woman wasting time in his dream world.

That morning when he'd cooked her his hangover special, his exterior was calm, his interior was a mess. On the outside he was his usual self, Molly entirely unaware of his discontent. His mind and body were playing havoc, tugging him in one direction and then the other. Sherlock didn't understand this feeling. And he'd hovered around her all day in an attempt to work it out. When she didn't want to talk, he was irritated, because he was unable to think aloud and work out his emotion.

Now he was sat alone in his dull room, wondering about the world outside this flat, whether John was still moping and Mrs Hudson was making him tea. Whether Lestrade was coping without him and Anderson was still secretly happy his inferior mind was now temporarily the superior. Taking a deep breath, he placed his violin in position and began to play, releasing any annoyance he felt in that moment out into the world. Sherlock was enveloped into the notes, not playing any song in particular, just letting his fingers lead. The moment somehow felt personal to him, like a diary to someone else, something for his ears only.

That's why he was frustrated when a light knock on the door broke him from his trance. The detective placed his violin down gently on the bed and opened the door, ignoring the small woman who dodged out of his way as he stormed into the front room and lay down on the sofa, hands in his payer-like position.

"Are you okay?" Molly said, concerned. She'd showered, obviously, and was blatantly feeling better, as she was now dressed and back to her usual mousy self. He didn't know why he was so annoyed. He didn't want to look at her, or talk to her. He wanted to get a text from Mycroft this instant, telling him all was okay and he could return to his comfortable lifestyle of solving crime and working in the lab. The close proximity with her these past few hours was driving him up the wall.

"You know, you've been acting weird all day. Have I done something wrong?"

"No." He muttered instantly.

"Have I said something?" Her voice was wary, like she knew she was guilty in some form or another.

There was a thoughtful pause before he squinted his eyes, "No."

She moved his feet off the end of the sofa so she could take a seat, much to Sherlock's annoyance, "Was it because I came home drunk?"

"Molly, stop asking questions. You're boring me."

"Can you tell me what happened please? It must be something because you weren't funny with me before."

"I'm always funny with you. There is nothing different about the current situation. Stop flattering yourself with sentiment." He pulled himself off the sofa and headed over to her bookcase, pulling out a book on human anatomy and staring intently at the front cover.

"It's not the same. You're not the only one who observes people and situations, you know." He could almost hear her gulp down her nerves, "And I've observed you enough to know you're acting different to usual."

He said nothing, not wanting to prolong the conversation and hating the fact that she was deducing him without his consent.

And that was when it came. The vague remembrance of the previous night and Sherlock was confused as to whether he wanted her to know he'd slept next to her until morning.

"Thank you, by the way." She stood, hands nervously tangling in front of her, "Thanks for putting up with me. I-I don't really remember much but bits have come back to me and you dealt with me well. I'm sorry for making you sleep where you didn't want to."

His head jolted in her direction, "Why are you sorry?"

"Well, because…" She took a breath, "you don't like that sort of thing." Again, he kept quiet, causing her to pick up her coat and pull on her shoes, "I'm nipping out for a few things, do you want anything?"

"No. Thank you."

"Okay." With that, she left.