I have been blown away by the response to this little fic. I'm so glad you've all enjoyed it (and alternately wanted to punch me). Thank you, guests, for your lovely reviews. They're always appreciated. Once again, givin' props to Miz for all her help but the mistakes are mine.

I own nothing. Enjoy ~Lil~


Clean-Up Day

Morning came, as it was wont to do, and Sherlock was no closer to a decision about the situation. An entire night of Molly musings hadn't done him a bit of good. John came down the stairs, seemingly unsurprised to find him awake and sipping coffee on the sofa. Though he did mention that he was pleased that Sherlock had kept his clothes on all night. As if I'd strip naked to kip in my best friend's lounge! This isn't the Palace, for God's sake.

Ten minutes after John left Sherlock received a text from the man, asking if he could stay and 'tidy up a bit, before I come back with a toddler in tow' since they'd spent the whole night dealing with 'your Molly problem'. He scoffed, but got up and started clearing the dishes. Normally he would have sent back a scathing text, telling John 'No, clean up your own damn house and stop it with the stupid game nights, while you're at it', but he was filled with nervous energy (and far too much sub-par coffee), so he jumped at the chance to burn them both off.

He heard the front door open just as he started filling the dishwasher. It was far too soon for John to be back from Hastings, unless he forgot something... Picking up a hand towel, he walked into the lounge and fought back a curse when he saw Molly standing, dumbstruck, her bag clutched to her chest, staring at him from across the room.

I'm going to have to kill my best friend!

"John phoned me," she said. "Asked me to come and…"

"Tidy up," Sherlock finished. "Yes, he asked the same of me."

"And you accepted? Just like that?" She didn't even attempt to hide her disbelief.

"I was already here, so…"

"You spent the night?"

Sherlock nodded and turned to go back into the kitchen. He had dishes to clean and a pathologist to avoid. Only one of his objectives would be met, however, because Molly followed, for some reason. She arrived a minute after him, sans jacket and bag.

Ignoring her, Sherlock continued loading the dishwasher. She didn't speak, just watched him; he could feel her eyes following his every move.

After five minutes, she said, "You're doing it wrong."

He didn't respond, just shoved a wine glass into a slot.

"That's going to break when that plate moves."

He glared at her and picked up another glass. Without looking at the machine, he shoved it into a random spot.

"Now you're being deliberately obstinate."

Straightening up, planted both hands on his hips and said, "Perhaps I'm just really bad at it. Add it to the growing list."

"What?"

"Nevermind," he mumbled and started to walk past her, managing to knock his shin on the open door of the washer in the process. It hurt, but he didn't break stride, just continued on into the lounge, intent on finding his jacket and getting out of the house as fast as he could.

"You're just going bolt again!" she said from behind him, her voice slightly raised, not quite a shout, but close. "Why am I not surprised!"

His jacket was crumpled up in the corner of the chair he'd occupied for several hours the night before. He didn't even remember taking it off. Picking it up, he shook it out and tried to make it look like the expensive piece of clothing it once resembled.

"I see no point in staying," he said as he donned the wrinkled jacket. Turning, he faced her but did not, could not meet her eyes. Sheer will and stubbornness had forced him back to Barts after two weeks. An unwillingness to be without her in his life - in some capacity - made him speak first, pretending that nothing had ever happened. Yes, it had taken time, but they'd managed… then. Now, however, he wasn't sure if they could ever find that middle ground again. At the moment, all he wanted to do was run. "You'll obviously do a better job of cleaning John's house than I ever would."

He made it as far as the door before stopped him. "Could you answer one question for me? Please?"

Nodding, he kept his eyes trained on the painted wood in front of him.

"Why?" she asked. "Was it just a really bad night? Was it so bad that you needed something… different to distract you and I was… just there? Because I tried, Sherlock, I did. I tried to distract you..."

He swallowed the lump that had formed in his throat. She was questioning his motives. Of course. It was true that he'd never gotten around to expressing himself, but… but there was a reason for that. "No, Molly. That's not the reason why."

She moved closer, her soft footsteps alerting him to her proximity. He still couldn't look, however.

"Okay, fine. Just tell me then." She drew a deep breath. "After all this time, all these years, why?"

Bringing his right hand up to the door, he looked at it and realised that he was shaking. Far too much coffee. He steadied himself and said, "I'll tell you." He paused. "But first tell me why you called out his name."

At length, she said, "What? Who's name?"

He wasn't surprised by her question; he didn't think she had realised what she'd said. "Tom's." Leaning up against the wall to his right, letting it support him - God, he was tired - he whispered, "You said his name, not mine."

Silence rang out in the small house, deafening silence. Seconds turned into minutes and Sherlock began to wonder what was going on. He finally tilted his head enough to see her. She wasn't looking at him, but staring off into the room, her brows furrowed, lips thinned.

"I said… Tom?" she asked, still focused on nothing in particular. "Are you sure?"

"I assure you, Molly, it is something I will never forget."

"When did I…?"

"At the worst possible moment," he interrupted, wanting it all to be over - wishing they weren't having the conversation in the first place.

Molly gasped as she turned and looked at him. Then she did the strangest thing: she smiled. "Is that why you left?"

He nodded.

Taking three more steps, Molly was suddenly close enough to touch him. She didn't though. "Will you sit with me and let me explain some things?"

He suddenly didn't want to hear the answer to his question. "There's nothing…"

"Oh, but there is. I'm sorry, Sherlock, but you need to hear this." She took his hand, gripping it tightly. "Besides, you still owe me a 'why'."

Molly led him to the sofa and pulled him down to sit next to her. She had yet to let go of his hand. "So, to explain what… what must have happened - because I don't actually remember saying that, you see - I have to tell you about how sex was with Tom..."

"For God's sake, Molly, I don't want to…"

"Please, I promise it's important." She squeezed his hand. "This is… it's a bit embarrassing for me, so just be, well, try not to be you about it." Releasing him, she started picking at a loose thread on her jumper, her eyes focused on it rather than him. "He couldn't make me come," she stated bluntly. "Not without my help that is, and even then, it was… a difficult task."

So, quite a lot of sex doesn't to translate to quite a lot of good sex. Sherlock managed to keep his comment to himself. Thankfully.

"Actually, that's something I've always had a hard time with. Don't know if it's me, physically or some kind of mental block or... But I just… Not every time, mind you."

Explains some things...

Looking up at him with flushed cheeks, Molly seemed to be on the verge of tears all of a sudden. "I don't know exactly what I said that night, but I swear I wasn't thinking about Tom. After…" She sniffled. "After you went down on me - that's why I tried to stop you, I didn't think I'd be able to, well - anyway, after I came the first time, I was a bit out of it." She huffed out a laugh. "I could have been saying anything at that point, Sherlock. I could have been reciting Bayes' Theorem, for all I…"

"Can you recite Bayes' Theorem?" he asked quickly.

"Not the point, Sherlock." Molly rolled her eyes. "Who knows? I might have been saying how much better you were than him. Probably was, actually."

And then the clues all came together. Yet another epiphany. All her mumbled blathering started running through his mind. Couldn't… So hard… Good… Didn't know… He… He… Never… Dozens of garbled words and then Tom. She was saying that he was better than Tom. Yes, it all makes sense now. But suddenly Sherlock remembered something else she'd said...

"Beddder than jam!" he blurted out.

"What?"

"Molly, did you have sex with Moriarty?"

"Oh, my God!" She covered her face with both hands.

"Just answer the question," he demanded.

She nodded. "I never wanted you to know that. Never wanted anyone to know..." Her words were muffled against her hands but even so, he could still hear her shame.

Tears were falling now, and he understood why. Moriarty had used her. Worse, the psychopath had used her to get to him. And now he knew to what extent. It wasn't some mutual one-night stand - that he was sure she could have easily brushed off - she had been a means to a nefarious end. Why that had to include sex, he didn't know and never would, unfortunately.

"Molly…" He reached out, pulling the crying woman into his arms. "It's okay. You didn't know."

"I can't..." The rest of her words were lost in jumbled a sob, as she cried into his chest.

"I know. But none of that is your fault and it's ancient history."

It rankled him, of course, the fact that Moriarty had touched her, had... But no, he'd deal with that later and privately.

She spoke again, but he couldn't even begin to understand it. Pulling back, he asked, "What was that?" and stroked her tear stained cheeks.

"I don't like to think about it."

"Then don't." He kissed the top of her head.

She started to wipe her face with the sleeve of her jumper but Sherlock quickly fished out a handkerchief, handing it to her with a small smile. Once her tears were dried, she tried to hand it back.

"Keep it," he said.

Nodding, she tucked it into her pocket. "Ah, are you going to answer my question now?"

Time for reckoning, it seemed, was upon him. She had been so brave, so honest - had admitted embarrassing and uncomfortable truths - how could he not tell her?

Clearing his throat, Sherlock moved slightly away from her and looked across the room. "That night, as you know, was a bad one. It's why you gave me a little puzzle to solve. But I realised something..." He turned and looked into Molly's bright, brown eyes. "... as you worked so hard to distract me from my many problems."

He knew that there were hundreds of flowery words meant to convey a man's feelings for a woman. They all were stored somewhere in his mind palace; he could access them at a moment's notice. He had used them, on occasion, to manipulate witnesses, suspects or anyone really to get the facts he required. In his very distant past, he had even employed them to talk his way into someone's bed for the evening as a means to stave off boredom. A game he had once played to see how quickly he could make someone fall for his charms.

None of them were worthy of the woman who sat next to him on his best friend's sofa.

"I love you," he said simply. "That's why."

She didn't react, not at first and Sherlock watched for any sign of doubt. Would it be enough? They'd hurt each other, this time unknowingly, but the pain was quite fresh. He knew one thing, however: he could forgive Molly Hooper of just about anything if she could still love him back.

Finally she spoke. "You do, don't you?"

Sherlock nodded.

With a relieved sigh, and a brilliant smile, she said, "Good. That's… really… I love you too, of course." She shook her head, laughing. "But you knew that."

"No!" he said with far more vehemence than intended. "I mean, yes. I knew, but… It's, ah, good, I suppose, to hear. Always nice to..."

Thankfully, Molly ended babbling with a firm kiss. Snog, really.


"How did you manage to get biscuit between your toes, Rosie?" John asked his daughter as he unburdened himself of her bag and the pre-cooked meals his sister's wife had sent (they were unnecessary, but he couldn't tell the sweet woman no; besides, she was a good cook!).

"Mess!"

She always took off her shoes on the long drive; this time she'd done a number in the back seat.

"Yes, luv. You've made a mess."

"Juice!"

"Give daddy a minute?" He kicked off his shoes and tossed his jacket on the bench by the door.

She took off into the lounge as John picked up the food and looked around. From his vantage point, he could see most of the room. It wasn't clean, though the dishes were gone. Small victories. He just hoped that the pair had done a better job cleaning up their relationship than they had his house.

Rosie was stood at the back of the sofa, which faced away from him, giggling. "Juice!" she demanded again.

"I heard you the first time, young lady."

Glancing at the coffee table as he passed, he sighed. Good thing Rosie doesn't know what liquor bottles are.

"Seepin', daddy," she whispered, leaning over the arm of the sofa. But John didn't hear her as he walked into the kitchen he shook his head. "Why did I actually think that I'd find a clean house when I got home?" He put away the food then shut the dishwasher door.

Rosie suddenly appeared in the doorway. "Sherwock! Mowee!"

John looked at his daughter. "What, Rosie? What about Sherlock and Molly?"

She grabbed his hand and led him back into the lounge, mumbling her godparents' names along the way. When they reached the sofa, he understood… completely.

"Ah, Sherlock," John said.

"Hmmm…" The detective didn't wake, just snuggled closer to the woman in his arms.

John rolled his eyes.

"Molly," he tried.

"Fivemoreminutes," she mumbled sleepily.

Giving up, he turned to his daughter and whispered, "Listen, why don't we go to the park for a while and let them sleep?"

"Seep!" she repeated.

John hushed her as picked her up, a big smile on his face.


Firstly, I have to say, I've got NO problem with Molly/Moriarty...yum! But her embarrassment fit well into my narrative, so I used it. Hope you liked the fic. Thanks so much for reading, please give me some final thoughts. ~Lil~