Molly walked quickly through the brisk spring air towards her flat. There was a chill in it that reminded her of the winter. She shivered, only a few more steps and she would be home. Her week had been exhausting. The afternoon shifts she worked this week had been unusually busy. To recuperate, she planned to spend the entire weekend holed up in her flat watching sappy movies, eating crisps and sorting out what to do with her pathetic existence.

Of course, work wasn't entirely to blame for her current state. She'd had trouble sleeping in the days since her confrontation with Sherlock. A flush coursed through her body as once again as she remembered the feel of being so deliciously pressed into the cabinets at work by his taut frame. It had been three days since she had seen him but she felt like his imprint would remain forever etched in the memories of her skin cells like a permanent bruise. How does one move on from a million day dreams brought to life and improved upon in one go? In less than a minute, Sherlock had thoroughly ruined any future physical encounters with anyone else by giving an impossible standard in which to aspire. She couldn't even distance herself from him mentally because he was never really far removed despite his absence. He had obviously returned to the lab to correct his handiwork with the lighting. Even though she didn't see him, his presence lingered. She swore she caught a whiff of his cologne now and again. It was maddening and disheartening and extremely frustrating.

Then again what did her father always say?

"Frustration is a form of entertainment, my dear. It's better than being bored."

Molly rubbed her hands over her face. She gulped down a sob as her father's smiling face replaced visions of Sherlock. Loneliness enveloped her and she had to stop and suck in a few breaths. It was unbearable sometimes, the crushing hopelessness she felt when she thought about how separated she was from the rest of the world. She was adrift again, an abandoned life raft half sunk by the burdens of trying to keep hopes afloat.

A flutter of movement from the lane way caught her eye. She felt her pulse quicken as she imagined any number of Sherlock's predictions coming to life. Then, just as quickly, her anxiousness subsided. A scruffy head looked up from the bin next to the building. She smiled tightly and nodded as her eyes met those of her block's resident bum. How absurd was that, to acknowledge him so casually as if he were any old neighbor? He probably thought her a smug arsehole.

Strangely enough, he lifted his chin and winked, then scuttled back to the far side of the bin. She felt a stab of guilt and impotence. She was inclined to do something for the poor man but what could she accomplish? He was most likely addicted to drugs and beyond her reach. She chewed her lip. Sherlock had been an addict. Was he any more deserving of her assistance? Perhaps all this man needed was a few good slaps to set him right.

She laughed aloud then. She was steps from a warm bed and this poor soul planned to sleep on the street. God, but she had indulged herself in a bit of whinging this night! She knew then what she was going to do and marched upstairs.

Ten minutes later she approached the bin in the lane way with an armful of goodwill and trepidation wondering if she'd gone completely crackers. What was she thinking? She knew she shouldn't get involved, well logically anyways, but something about the cheeky grin the homeless man had given her earlier compelled her to act. She hoped the fellow was still there. Her eyes scanned the far side of the dumpster and saw something move in the dark. She grinned and then started whistling conspicuously. The movement halted.

The bin creaked as she lifted the heavy lid.

"I can't believe I've kept this ugly throw so long!" She exclaimed. "And these crisps are set to expire next week. Good riddance!"

She tossed the blanket and crisps into the bin along with a bottle of water and let the lid slam down noisily. With her heart pounding, she scurried away around the corner of her building. When she peaked back, she saw someone raising the lid of the dumpster and smiled. Her gesture wasn't much, but it was a far sight better than doing nothing.

Molly turned to skip back to her building but slammed straight into someone. She staggered backwards.

"Ack!"

Just before she toppled over, someone caught her wrist and steadied her on her feet.

"What the hell are you doing, Molly?" A familiar baritone asked.

She looked up into his shadowed face. At night, his skin was as pale as the moon. He was imperfect perfection and his visage belonged in a garden somewhere, a timeless marble Adonis among the topiaries.

"Sh-Sherlock, Jesus Christ! N-nothing. Just tossing a few things in the bin."

He had that look on his face, that you-are-utterly-ridiculous face. Her cheeks tingled with heat.

"It's 10 o'clock at night, could it not have waited until the morning?"

She shrugged and pulled away from his grasp. She tried to look him in the eye but couldn't lift her gaze. She glanced down the lane way. Her vagrant was nowhere to be found. She let out a breath.

"No, it couldn't wait. I had a compulsion that needed a fix."

Sherlock chuckled. "Careful, Molly, those are the words of an addict."

"You would know," she muttered.

Sherlock's gait stiffened. She strode quickly in front of him and put up her hand up against his chest to halt his stride.

"D-Don't listen to me, Sherlock, please. I'm in a terribly melancholy mood. That was uncalled for and I'm sorry. F-forgive me."

His fingers lightly came to rest on the back of her hand. "There is nothing to forgive, Molly. It's just, when you speak it is truth I hear and truth is so much harder to process that fact."

Sherlock's thumb gently stroked the back of her hand. He seemed lost in thought a moment. Then he surfaced from his musings like a grey whale from a deep dive. He jerked his hand away and stepped back as if singed by their contact. Molly's heart constricted in her chest. The ground felt like it had dropped out from under her feet. She could never get used to his brand of rejection no matter how frequent the experience. So, instead of justifying and dismissing his rebuff as a quirk of his personality, this time she just absorbed the blow.

She swallowed. "I suppose you need a place to hide out then. That's why you're here."

Sherlock blinked a couple times then nodded slowly. "Yeees. Yes, would that be . . . alright?"

Molly laughed. "Oh, you know it is, Sherlock. You can always have me, I mean, no! You're always w-welcome that is. Let me just tidy my room a bit in case I have some knickers lying about or something. Oh, bollocks!"

Molly slapped a hand over her mouth. One corner of Sherlock's lips twitched up and he gestured for her to precede him. She led the way into her building with a shake of her head. She was prone to these bouts of verbal diarrhea in his presence. No wonder he thought her too ridiculous for anything beyond the most casual of relationships. If he ever did consider a romantic partner, why would he choose a wardrobe challenged spinster with a proclivity for inane discourse?

Stepping into her apartment with Sherlock at her heels was always a strange experience. He carried with him an energy which completely changed the look and feel of her flat. The space became smaller somehow and the atmosphere stifling. Memories bombarded her, the last time he was here he'd caused the blowout and eventual deflation of her relationship with Tom.

"Ye-oooow!"

Of course, that made no difference to Toby. In an instant, her small calico snaked himself around Sherlock's legs. Sherlock doffed his jacket and blazer and then squatted down to stroke the affectionate feline who proceeded to mewl and cry as if being reunited with a long lost love.

"Greetings, Tobias Hooper, yes, I do apologize. It's been a long time."

Molly repressed a smile as she slipped out of her jacket and squeezed by the pair into her living room. In a reckless instant, she fished her phone from her pocket and snapped a picture. Sherlock looked up with a frown.

"You invite trouble, Ms. Hooper."

She clutched her phone to her chest. "I-I think it's too late to rescind my invitation. Trouble has already arrived."

He stood up and raised his brows. She clenched her teeth. She was terrible at flirting, why did she even try? His eyes darted about, as if he were cataloging every detail of her flat. Then his intense focus reclaimed her as its primary target.

"Give me your phone," he said as he moved towards her.

She shook her head and stepped back.

"Molly," he said, his voice saturated with admonition.

She shrieked as he leaped into action and then took off with him hot on her trail. She realized the moment she ran into her galley kitchen she had made a mistake. There was even less room to navigate this space let alone evade Sherlock. In desperation she grabbed a spatula and waved it at him as he blocked her only avenue of escape.

"Back! Stay back, you lout! You will not delete the only photo I possess of you."

The moment she said that, she wished she could take it back. His lips pressed together in a thin line. A wayward curl fell over his forehead. Like her, he was panting. His left eye twitched. He stepped towards her with intent and his pale green eyes flashed. She chewed her lip. What had she gotten herself into?

She squinted and swatted the spatula at him. "I'm warning you, Sherlock! This will hurt far worse than my hand!"

He rolled his eyes. "Pfft, please."

Of course, there truly was little to fear from Molly Hooper armed with a kitchen utensil. In a heartbeat, Sherlock knocked the flipper from her grasp, twisted her arm behind her back and held her tightly against his hip. He used his free hand to pluck her phone from her grip and set about trying to unlock it.

She glared up at his profile and beat his chest weakly. "You are such a b-beast!"

"Molly, there are innumerable reasons that picture should not exist. The least of which it will harm my reputation . . ."

"And the worst?" She asked breathlessly.

He glanced at her from the corner of his eye but did not turn his face fully in her direction. His vice-like grip tightened around her waist and pressed her pretzeled arm more firmly against the hollow of her back. Her hand stilled on his chest. The fabric of his dove grey shirt felt decadently smooth under her fingertips. She bit her lip again. She feared she would leave a sweaty imprint.

"There is a phrase I find extremely trite yet apt, Molly. That is, 'a picture says a thousand words'," he murmured. "In this case, your photo says only one thing yet repeats it over and over, a most dangerous term."

She took a breath to try to steady the hammering of her heart. "What i-is that?"

He angled his head and looked down at her through hooded eyes.

"Sentiment."