Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, Steve Moffat, Mark Gatiss own Sherlock and his realm. I just own my computer,my version of Openoffice, and my sick fantasies. English is not my native language, and this story is un-betaed, so please forgive the mistakes and the typos.
A prompt from MorbidbyDefault: "Molly hasn't been sleeping for awhile, pushing herself past her physical limits. When Sherlock leaves his coat in the lab one day, he comes back to find his Molly sleeping, finally, her face burrowed into the Belstaff". Hope you like it, dear!
It didn't happen often for him, to not have his coat on him. Of course, sometimes a coat finished burned, or ruined by a bullet, or soggy after an unexpected swim in the Serpentine...but not a coat had been left behind. It never happened, and never would...after all, how could a knight leave his armor behind?
Plus, Sherlock Holmes knew exactly where he had left it: sprawled on one of the bench in St. Barts lab, near his favourite microscope, abandoned there in the haste to follow a new clue for his last case (a promising 7 that revealed to be only a banal 3, a complete waste of his precious brain cells). He would probably find it hung to one of the hooks, as it had happened every time Molly Hooper was helping him with his experiments or researches.
Loyal, reliable Molly Hooper...lately, also tired Molly Hooper. After her failed engagement (with a grimace he tried to suppress the inner enjoyment he always felt at knowing that Meat dagger was now out of the picture) and the return of the Moriarty's threat, she had started to dedicate herself to her job, with a commitment that her colleagues learned to take advantage of. Sherlock had lost count of the graveyard shifts she had worked during the last month, but he never failed to observe the dark circles under her chestnut eyes, or how tiredly she had started to drag herself from the morgue to the lab. Mike Stamford had threatened to force her to take a vacation, but in vain; not even John and Lestrade succeeded into making her see how exhausted she looked.
Sherlock had remained silent every time: he knew Molly would have fair game to answer back to him, the man who was firmly convinced that body was only transportation, and who could stay four days with only a few hours of sleep every night. That didn't mean that he wasn't worried...in fact, he was ready to carry her on his shoulder to her flat, and there possibly drug her, only with the noble intention to let her sleep soundly for at least a few days.
So it didn't surprise him to see that the lights in the lab were still on, and with his long strides he reached the pathologist's office, ready to scold her and go caveman on her...and there, he found the small woman, asleep on her desk, her pale face burrowed into the thick fabric of his Belstaff, a faint smile adorning her mouth.
If his non-existent heart skipped a beat at the sight, it was only at the relief of seeing her so peacefully lost in the land of dreams...and not at all because of the inappropriate thoughts that crowded his mind at the vision of his pathologist resting so cozily on his coat. And if he remained silent, lost in his thoughts, looking at Molly sleeping, it was only to not disturb her, not because he was wondering how much he wanted to see her waking up every morning, next to him, in his bed.
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