Disclaimer: I own nothing! I claim nothing! I'm just borrowing the characters for my own pleasure and the pleasure of whoever reads this!

Chapter Two

Something Old, Something New

Walking through the darkness was very much like what walking through tapioca up to one's neck would feel like. Sherlock couldn't see his own hand in front of his face. At least, he though his hand was in front of his face. His perception was also greatly diminished in the substance.

He had just begun to regret his decision when the end came abruptly enough to have him banging his head on a very hard, very solid wall. He also felt something – or somethings – brushing against his back and a heavy line of some kind tapping his forehead in a most annoying fashion as he stepped away from whatever solid object he'd run into.

He reached first for the line, giving it a sharp tug with the intention of dislodging it from whatever source it came from. Instead of doing so, there was a small click, and the area around him with lit up from a single bulb on the ceiling. Sherlock let go of the pull string and looked around at his cramped surroundings.

The solid was he'd run into was actually a door, its handle sitting slightly below waist height. The things that had brushed against his back were an assortment of coats belonging to a somewhat petite woman and a taller man of lean build. A married couple, middle-aged based on the styles.

He pushed aside the coats to confirm that the black mass that he'd initially entered was now gone, replaced by a dull wooden wall that serves as the back of what Sherlock could only surmise was the very coat closet he'd expected to find upon opening the door.

Still, he knew that this was not where he had entered, and the black mass had spread over several of his long strides, not the scarce three by four foot room he now found himself in.

Unable to reach a satisfactory conclusion that was not both paradoxical and impossible – and getting tired of the pull string tapping against his head – Sherlock decided that the best course of action would be to continue moving forward. Or, since it was the only way to go, to get out of the bloody closet.

The handle gave easily as he tested it, and Sherlock stepped forward out of the room, shutting the door quietly behind him.

His face was blank as he took in his surroundings, hiding his otherwise stark surprise.

It was the flat.

Or rather, it was the flat if someone spent the time, effort, and several thousand pounds to fix the damage from the fire. Someone obviously had done just that, as well as going a bit further as well, turning the disaster area into a home.

The charred and cracked tile that had made up the front hall had been replaced with a sleek dark wood paneling. A simple rectangular run lay on top of the paneling, a guide into the living room from the front door.

The walls were split. The bottom half was an oak wood paneling and the top was smooth wallpaper. The dark pattern had a vaguely Victorian feel, which matched what seemed to be the overall feel of the decor of the flat.

As Sherlock moved into the living room, he observed more of the mixture of old Victorian styled furnishings and modern day comforts. An Elegant black leather loveseat was against the far left wall, and a matching full length couch was perpendicular to it against the back wall. An ebony coffee table was between the two. An armchair was tucked in the corner between the loveseat and couch. A television sat on a long ebony stand matching the coffee table, and on either side of it on the wall were pictures, a few little knick-knacks, nothing interesting.

Sherlock ultimately ignored them without even bothering to look closely at who the pictures contained. He'd learned enough about the couple who lived here without learning what they looked like as well.

The final piece of furniture, stirred some deep rooted memory in him. A crib, settled right beside the loveseat. It was new, purchased less than six months previously. It was so much like his own from infancy. Of course, he didn't actually remember it, but his mother had pictures of him in it displayed in her dining room, as any proud parent would.

It was currently empty, aside from a few toys and a hand-stitched light blue, pale yellow, and soft pink patchwork quilt. It was made so that new patches of cloth could easily be added to the edges. It could grow with the infant, something to be carried through her whole life.

The room as a whole was devoid of the cluster of personal items that many homes contained. Besides the knick-knacks by the television, a small stack of books on the coffee table, and a few candles that had been lit at one point or another, there was very little in true sentimental items.

Though this might say that the family was torn, other evidence showed that they were in fact quite content together.

The sheer multitude of water rings stained onto the table in front of the couch told Sherlock that they often spent their time together in front of the television. Perhaps it was some sort of morning routine, sharing coffee or tea. No doubt the wife read one of the novels on the coffee table and the husband read the morning paper. A dull, boring routine repeated each and every day that brought them close and gave them some form of base entertainment.

Another sign was how worn the loveseat was. Though all the furniture was bought in the same short period of time, the loveseat showed wear in the seats, close together, meaning the couple liked their closeness. In contract, the armchair showed the least amount of wear. The couch settled somewhere between used and unused, perhaps a favorite piece for guests to sit, when there were any.

So, they were comfortable together, but neither felt the need to display their relationship in meaningless trinkets, odds and ends, as someone who wasn't secure in their relationship might have.

"Sherlock, is that you?"

Sherlock instantly went rigid when he heard his name, and he cursed his lack of focus to his surroundings outside of this room. He should have heard someone else come into the flat, if they weren't here already.

Of course, even if he had known someone else was here, he still wouldn't have suspected that familiar voice to be his greeting call. Perhaps a baseball bat clumsily swung at his forehead, or the clicking of a gun being cocked. Not a greeting. Not from her.

He turned as Molly came into view, a frown breaking through his stoic facade. "How did you find me? Did Lestrade tell you that I was working this case?"

His questions were met with a giggle and a smile. "AS if I need Lestrade to tell me you'd be late for dinner."

Sherlock blinked. She wasn't angry. In fact, she looked… content. Teasing, even. There was something different about her. She certainly wasn't acting as though she'd just tracked him down after being stood up.

All thoughts of discovering her motives left him as she drew intimately close, wrapping her arms loosely around his neck. The motion was so smoother, so relaxed, as if it was a gesture done often, that Sherlock almost felt guilty for the way his body stiffened against her embrace.

Molly didn't seem to notice, her teasing smile still in place, creating a happy crinkle in her nose.

In his effort to catalog and understand her bold, unusual behavior, her continued actions didn't register until her lips, soft and definitely not too small, were pressed against his.

If his body was stiff before, it went into rigidity comparable only to rigor mortis in his shock. His arms were up in an awkward position between shoved into his pockets and gripping her. Whether his grip would have been to pull her closer or push her away, he wasn't entirely sure.

The experience wasn't unpleasant. Definitely not unpleasant. But it was unexpected. He didn't know how to react.

Thankfully in the end he didn't have to. Molly pulled back with a scowl. "You taste like ash." She let out a sigh that spoke volumes. "You promised you were done smoking!" her nose scrunched up as she inhaled. "You smell like ash too…"

She took the tiniest step back, her hands moving to fumble with the collar of his shirt with a familiarity that really should have been lost in their lack of communication. "I could have sworn you wore the burgundy one today…"

Sherlock looked down, frown back in place as he looked at his shirt. It most certainly was the one he'd left his flat in that morning, a deep navy. It had been pristine this morning, but had since gathered dust and ash stains from the crime scene. Not that Molly should know that regardless, since they hadn't seen each other all day, let alone that morning.

Before he could say as much, he was struck silent as the front door from the hall behind him shut loudly, and another familiar, animated voice came streaming into the room ahead of its owner.

"I know I'm late Molly, but you wouldn't believe the case that Lestrade had for me. I haven't had a nine in…"

The voice trailed off into an abrupt silence as the newcomer took in the sight of Molly standing so comfortably close to the man whose face he couldn't see.

Molly, for her part, looked absolutely shell shocked as she peeked past Sherlock with a deer-in-the-headlights expression on her face.

Her voice was high as she spoke the newcomer's name.

"Sherlock?!"

Chapter Two :) Chapter three is on its way as well, hopefully soon!

Thank you to the lovely commenters of this fic, Mistykins, Rose of Zakarisz, and MorbidByDefault!

Just a warning, this fic will probably change title and summary very soon, as I don't feel either of them do this fic justice. If anyone has any suggestions on a better title/summary blurb with this second chapter, I would really appreciate it, thank you!

And another blessed thank you to my beta, Liathwen :3

Until Next Time! :*