A/N: Part of a prompt series where I asked for possible gifts Molly could have given Sherlock. Hope you'll enjoy it :) xx

Time

Christmas felt like ages ago by the time Sherlock stepped wearily back into Baker Street. The unexpected death of a certain Ms Adler had sent shockwaves through him, and his brother, which said a lot. Nothing fazed Mycroft, but clearly, plans had been shaken.

Shaking off the heaviness of the night was what Sherlock wanted right now. He trudged into his room, ignoring Mrs Hudson's concerned stare and the mess John had made in his search for contraband.

When he finally sat down at the edge of his bed, kicking his shoes off and loosening the buttons on his jacket, he spotted the lipstick-coloured box on his bedside table. It was Molly's gift to him. He let out a sigh when he realised, with an unusual twinge of guilt, that he had been a right prick to her this evening. She had been nothing but lovely to him, as she always was. And he had been nothing but awful to her, as he always was.

"Romantic attachment, eh?" he said to himself, smirking. Somehow, he found himself feeling slightly flattered.

Deftly, he pulled off the ribbon that criss-crossed itself round the crimson paper. He then peeled off a corner of the wrapper, eventually pulling a dark, velvet box out from the crinkled paper.

"What have we here?" he whispered, lifting the catch and opening the box.

He gave himself a week before deciding to show up there again. While waiting in line for what he deemed decent enough coffee to pay for, Sherlock checked that he was properly attired, and had all the right finery on. With a hot coffee in hand, and checking his wrist once more, he then made his way to the morgue downstairs at Bart's.

Normally, he swung the doors open, unaware of how dramatic his entrance always looked. Today, due to the coffee in his hand and the apologetic stance he was aiming for, there was a lot less fanfare as he nudged only one of the swinging doors forward, letting himself into the room.

"Oh, it's you," said Molly, swinging her head round the moment she heard footsteps. Molly was accustomed to the silence of the morgue and could catch every slight noise or movement.
"Yes," he said, with a furtive smile, "Coffee?"
"Are you…asking me to make you one or…" Molly asked. She was back to peering into the chest cavity of an old lady, and so had not seen the steaming latte in his hands.
"Uh, no, I…" Sherlock replied, perplexed by her response, "I've brought you coffee."

Molly looked up from the ribcage in front of her and put her clipboard and pen down. She then turned around and was stunned to see that he had indeed brought coffee, and for all intents and purposes, it seemed the coffee was for her.

"Are you sure?" she asked, eyeing him warily.
"Why wouldn't I be?" he asked, frowning.
"You're Sherlock Holmes…" she said, moving forward to take the coffee from him, "You don't do coffee."

When Sherlock saw Molly reach out for the decoratively insulated paper cup, he made sure to stretch his hand forward, offering it politely to her. She smiled at his polite gesture, but as her fingers made contact with the cup's warm surface, she gasped slightly and retracted her fingers.

"Oh, it looks so lovely on you," she whispered, unable to stop from smiling.

Peeking out from beneath the cuff of his shirt was the dark leather strap of the beautiful watch that had been Molly's gift to him at Christmas. Initially, she had picked that choice of leather as a cheeky way of remembering the riding crop he often used at the morgue. What she did not expect was how beautifully it set against his skin and how the intricate metalwork of the watch's face was just the right proportion for his wrists. It was the perfect complement to his outfit, and more importantly, it perfectly complemented the man himself.

"Of course, it would." he answered with a cocky grin, handing the coffee to her. "I have most excellent muscle tone in my forearms and rather shapely wrists."

Molly burst into laughter, and quite nearly dropped the coffee. Sherlock had to reach for her wrist to steady her hand. He, too, could not resist a smile of amusement.

"Thank you, Molly Hooper," he said quietly. Sherlock then gave her a quick peck on the cheek before releasing her wrist, and striding out of the morgue.

Molly had rushed home in a panic. The last time she had seen him was when they had all been gathered in some unknown meeting room of Mycroft's, syncing communication devices and watches and going through briefing after briefing after briefing. Now that the work was done and the plan had succeeded, or so Mycroft had told her, she could not help but feel the surging anxiety in her veins.

She tried calming down in the shower, she tried a pot of herbal tea, then some wine, then some vodka, and even contemplated a cigarette. None of these could ease the thumping of her heart as she wondered, Did he survive the jump or not? Molly did not even know where he was meant to be headed after they had executed their plan. This had been top secret information that only the brothers had exchanged.

Finally, Molly gave up and decided that if she did not at least try to get to bed, she would probably never sleep. With a heavy heart, she made for her room and headed straight for her bed. She shrugged off her house robe and flung it angrily on an armchair as she flipped open the covers of her bed. When the corner of her duvet fell in a heap, exposing a section of her mattress, her eyes fell upon an awfully familiar velvet box. That was not the only thing. Molly could see that there was a piece of paper beneath it.

She fell to her knees and grabbed the box, undoing the catch and opening it. There was an instant exhale of relief when she saw the watch she had gotten for Sherlock lying snugly in its own silken bed. Remembering the note, she scrambled for the piece of paper, clumsily unfolding it with nervous fingers.

I have to be away for a while, as you do when faking your death.
I leave this watch in your good hands, Molly.
I trust you will take good care of it.

"Of course I will, you dolt," Molly muttered, holding back tears of relief.

This watch is most important and requires the utmost care and attention.
You will see to that, won't you?

"You're full of nonsense, you are, Sherlock Holmes," she said, chuckling quietly as she shook her head.

It's a terribly precious gift.
And from someone terribly precious to me

"You're lying," she said in both anger and amusement.

I expect to get it back when I return, of course.

"And when would that be, O International Man of Mystery?" she asked, scoffing.

I do love that watch.

"You'd better!" she remarked, chuckling again.

But not more than the one who gave it to me.
When I come back, I shall tell her myself.
For now, hold on to it for me, won't you, Molly?

It never left her. She would bring it with her in her bag to work, she would fiddle with it as she watched the telly, and she would go to bed with it by her bedside.

How strange - and beautiful - then, that it was on a cold Christmas night again that Sherlock Holmes stole into Molly's bedroom, retrieving his beloved watch from her bedside table, and waking only one who had ever mattered with a kiss he had been waiting a very long time to give.