Welcome Back

Her eyes fluttered open and like most mornings, her mind struggled to hold onto the images that had been flitting through it only to have them slip away entirely by the time she managed to sit up. This morning, the dreams didn't stand a chance at being remembered since her immediate attention was given to the rather unpleasant throbbing behind her eyes. Speaking of unpleasant, the cottony quality of her tongue and its foul flavor also left something to be desired. She really needed to stop drinking so much wine. She used to be a one glass every few days sort of girl, not a bottle a night…

Oh god. She didn't drink a whole bottle last night. She hadn't gotten the chance since none other than her occasional houseguest had finished her last glass for her, really finished it. She ran through the night's activities and conversation with relative clarity, the alcohol doing nothing to help her forget it. Unlike her easily forgotten dreams, last night remained quite clear despite that she would rather it not. After all, she hadn't had that much to drink; just enough to make her regret the volume until she managed to drink some water and eat some toast.

The things she'd said to him last night, she regretted half of it She'd acted appallingly after he'd revealed that… She hadn't actually meant to laugh at him and in fact, she hadn't been. She'd just been so surprised and overwhelmed, let alone drunk. Still, it was no excuse. She could only imagine if her first, Peter, had laughed at her like that. She would have been beyond mortified and hurt. Was that the sort of drunk she was? The mean, cruel sort?

She buried her head in her hands, wracked with guilt. She had to take several deep breaths and wipe the sleep from her eyes before she found the wherewithal to stand. She grabbed her robe and tied the cord loosely around her waist. Opening her door, she immediately halted in her tracks. She heard movement in her kitchen and the clink of metal on ceramic. He was still here. Oh god, of all the times he sticks around, it has to be the morning after she acted like a complete jerk.

The last time, the question she'd asked herself had been 'why did he leave?' This time, it was quite the opposite. Despite the strong urge to do so, she didn't sneak back into her room and dive under the covers. She might have really, really wanted to but she refused to sink to that level of coward.

Tentatively, she stepped down her short hall before steeling herself for her appearance around the corner. The moment she stepped into view, a very rested if not somewhat manic looking Sherlock walked over to her with a mug of tea in his hand. He unceremoniously pushed it into her hands before speaking.

"You weigh 116 and a half pounds and consumed roughly three quarters of a bottle of a rather high alcohol per volume cabernet, some rather low end swill that's decidedly high sulfites, in the span of one hour before sleeping for only five hours and fifteen minutes. You didn't feel the need to urinate yet so you didn't drink anything besides the wine last night so you're quite dehydrated. You also, judging by the content of your bin, you didn't seem to eat much more than a bag of crisps as your supper, hardly nutritionally sound. You likely have a headache." He finished as he moved back into the kitchen seemingly intent on something else now, not having actually looked at her.

She felt like a deer caught in headlights and the only thing she could do was sputter out the first thing that came to her lips. "I um, yeah, I do have a headache actually but why did you feel the need to…"

"The chamomile tea. Mild sedative affects for the headache, no caffeine due to the dehydration, sugar for the lack of simple carbs in your system." He answered without turning around. "And," he added, "some toast for more complex carbs though whole grain would have been better for that but this was all I could find in your cupboards. Eggs would have been ideal but again, you're lowly stocked. You could seriously do with a trip to the market." He turned then with a plate of said food sitting on it and held it out to her.

It remained in his extended hand for a few moments. She broke from her frozen, mouth-agape state at the threshold of her little kitchen when he finally raised his eyes from the plate he was still patiently holding and up to her eyes.

"Oh, well thank you." She finally managed to whisper out; still a bit shocked by the odd scene she'd walked into and shuffled the few steps to take the offered plate. The moment it was in her hands, it suddenly wasn't anymore as he took it from her once more as well as the cup of tea. He carried them to the counter and set them down, pulling out a stool, the same one he'd sat on the night before.

"Sit."

Molly couldn't find it in herself to do anything but do as he'd ordered. She sat down and looked up to see him looking back at her expectantly. His eyes dropped to her tea and she took the silent request. Picking up her cup, she took a sip. As she did, he started to speak again.

"I'm nearly done."

She swallowed.

"With what?"

He rolled his eyes and started pacing within the confines of her tiny kitchen, his manic behavior continuing. This was the Sherlock Holmes she remembered. The one that would barge into her morgue and coerce her with either little compliments or biting remarks into allowing him free reign with her equipment and even a corpse or two from time to time. He seemed confident once more, sure of himself and… pleased with himself. It left her unsure of how she should react to him, especially after last night.

"With everything that needed be done before I can return."

She was glad that she managed to swallow her sip of tea without coughing as her eyes went wide. "That's what you've been doing?"

"Obviously."

"How?"

He stopped his pacing for a moment to return her question with a hard stare before he started moving once more. It might have been obvious to him but the only thing that was obvious to her was that he wasn't willing to answer that question at this time, perhaps never.

"Well that's… fabulous, really." And she found herself actually smiling. It'd been such a foreign expression on her for these past months but it seemed to come back easily enough. "Oh Sherlock, they'll be so happy, John and Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson."

"I'm going to let John punch me."

The incongruous statement threw her for another loop, sputtering into her tea. "What!"

"It will be his first inclination. I'm going to let him do it."

She wasn't sure what to think of that. Hell, she wasn't sure what to think of him making her breakfast either. In fact, she just didn't know what to think about anything with him lately.

"It might break my nose."

She just looked at him quizzically but he had looked away from her, walking to the front door and pulling his coat off the hook.

"I will need someone to set it."

"Sherlock." She stood from her stool just as he was opening her door and checking the hallway to see if anyone else occupied it. He didn't respond and looked like he was just about to leave. He couldn't do this to her again, just disappear. Sure, this time he'd at least given her a 'soon' and some hope that he'd be ok, but she needed to say something before he walked away from her again. "Don't… don't you dare leave yet."

He hesitated but slowly closed the door again. However, he didn't turn to face her.

"I…" But all of her momentary bravado had now fled her. "I'm sorry." She whispered out. He turned his head to the side, his eyes looking at her feet.

"After I've spoken to John, may I drop by?"

She really needed to stop being surprised by the fact that everything he did surprised her. "Y-yeah, sure."

"Another month, maybe two. Oh, and I cleaned up the glass." And with that, he opened the door and slipped out of it, closing it behind him.

XxXxX

Mycroft watched as his younger brother paced the length of his office for the fifth time.

"Oh please do sit down." Sherlock looked over at him but didn't desist.

"I don't see why I bloody well need those papers. It should be clear enough to even the slowest dimwit out there that I'm not, indeed, dead."

Mycroft just sighed. His brother had never been able to control his seemingly ever-present agitation to any great degree and patience in matters he deemed trivial had never been his forte. Today was just a continuation of normalcy, something at which Mycroft quietly breathed a sigh of relief. Over the past six months since his brother's 'death', they had not spent much time in one another's physical presence but they had communicated more in that short span of time than they perhaps had in the past ten years. During that time, Sherlock had not been himself. He'd been the same singularly dedicated person he'd always known but he'd been… morose in a way that he'd never been before. It seemed Moriarty had been cleverer than he thought. Not even Mycroft had realized how much the few people that his brother normally associated with had become important to him.

His loner of a brother had finally developed real, meaningful connections to something other than his numerous experiments, puzzles and violin. It had started with his tolerance and eventual fondness for his landlady. Then DI Lestrade had not only recognized Sherlock's brilliance but hadn't been intimidated by it. Instead, the inspector had seen his brother for the wealth of help he could be. Bless him for being able to endure the genius's acerbic personality. Then came the oddity of a flat mate. For a moment in time, Mycroft seriously wondered if his asexual brother's unusual psychology had finally made a decision. But when it became clear that John Watson was in no way homosexual, he realized it was just his brother's unusual progression towards forming a true friendship.

So it had started with the motherly role he'd been denied as a child, moved onto professional acknowledgement and finally progressed to friendship. The next logical step in his oddly stunted social development obviously pointed to companionship of some sort, male or female but the older brother wasn't going to hold his breath. It had taken Sherlock thirty-five years to make a friend, anything more complicated than that would be beyond imaginings.

Though he'd never say so aloud, he was genuinely happy for his brother. The younger man would only meet any expression or even indication of such feelings on his part with distain, so he kept them close to the vest.

Also over the course of the past half-year, Mycroft had done nothing but endeavor to rectify his egregious errors that he'd made concerning both Moriarty and his brother. It never would have come to this in the first place, at least not in that particular fashion, if he hadn't supplied the dangerous psychopath with the ammunition he'd then deviously used. As a result, he'd called in numerous favors in order to secure his brother's eventual return from the dead ranging from newspaper writers and editors to politicians and high ranking members within London's New Scotland Yard.

Not to mention ensuring that the pathologist that had enabled Sherlock to survive his own death would escape the coming scandal mostly unscathed. It had been impressed upon him enough times by the younger man that her job and reputation must be kept fully intact lest he 'lose his easy access Saint Bartholomew's excellent facilities'. His brother would never cease to be obsessed with his little experiments it seemed.

"I suggest you start with Baker Street. I've kept up with the payments on the flat with Mrs. Hudson. I led her to believe that some sort of sentiment led me to keep it as it were, asking her to keep everything tidy indefinitely."

"She's my landlady, not my housekeeper." Sherlock supplied tersely.

"But of course. Apologies." Mycroft responded sarcastically.

"Where the bloody hell is this damn notary." He then said something about government bureaucracy and its inefficiencies but it was mumbled under his breath.

"You've only been here five minutes, dead for six months, another two minutes will not kill you."

Sherlock shot him a withering look before slumping down on leather chair he stood closest too. It seemed he would never grow out of such petulant acts.

"So will you see Mrs. Hudson first?"

With head thrown back, staring at the ceiling, Sherlock spoke with airy resignation. "Yes, Mycroft, I will reintroduce myself to her first. Followed by John and then, after Lestrade has been reinstated into his old position, I will approach him."

"You remember Watson's new address?" This earned him a look that he would wager conveyed 'have you been lobotomized in the past few minutes?' "Yes, well then, have you any other plans?"

"Other than making sure that your boys adequately finish what I've started?"

"My boys, as you so put it, will not need any oversight from you." Sherlock just snorted from his seat that he was now slouched far down in, legs spread wide as they bounced frantically on the balls of his feet. Mycroft ignored it. "We've dealt with the dangerous element that prevented your return, the rest is being handled as we deem necessary.

"God save us all," his brother muttered from his sulking seat. At that moment, the door opened and Miss Glasser walked in carrying a neat stack of papers. Sherlock was out of his seat like a shot from a gun, snatched the papers away and pulled her over to the desk where he proceeded to flip through the papers at an alarming rate, signing and initialing in all the necessary spaces. He scrawled out his name on the final page, shoved the papers back into the indignant woman's arms and spun to leave.

"There's a misspelling on page eight," he said as he strode through the door, slamming it behind him.

"Thank you Miss Glasser, that will be all. Please have a copy sent to 221b Baker St."

"Yes, Mr. Holmes."

She left, leaving Mycroft alone. "Welcome back to the land of the living, Sherlock."

XxXxX

AN: Odd insight: After rereading my previous chapter, I cringed a little bit at my portrayal of Molly. I'll admit that I wrote it while under the influence of a nice Merlot and it seemed that both Molly and I are affected greatly by its delicious effects. Still, I'm sticking with it and tried to soften her a bit (though not make her weak) with the first bit of this chapter. That being said, next chapter we might get a bit of Sherlock POV (gotta psyche myself up for those ones).

MizJoely: Agreed. Hopefully I can do it in a way that's not glaringly ooc as I too don't want to write a pathetic Molly but I also don't want to write a Molly in name only. Yes, believable evolution is the key. This sucker started out as no more than a smutty one shot, I'll be damned if I don't get it back to its roots eventually. :) Typos: Always working hard against them. I'll have that Renaissance fixed by the time you read this. So sweet. Kathmak: Thanks! I'll be honest with you. When I wrote it, I didn't mean for her to be laughing at his virginity. That's one of the oversights I'll blame on the booze but it definitely reads that way. I tried to make up for it a bit with this chap. Originally, I just wanted it to be one of those sorta mental breakdown fits of laughter, not of the lol variety. Of course they'll kiss and make up but I'm a silly angst writer and thus will do my best to make them (and you) earn it, lol. Hot4Neville: Yes, she was, in spades no less. Thanks for the not ooc vote, it means a lot. Luckily you can blame some quirky character shifts on booze, the lazy writers fall guy. Sassy Molly isn't gone though but she's going to have to find her without the aid of social lubricants. CeffylGwyn: I'm glad you feel sorry for him, that's what I was hoping to evoke. Why oh why is the idea of someone who's just not getting it, so much fun to write? Agreed, a very hard task. We'll see if I'm up to it. As far as that line, I find stolen kisses to be one of the sexiest ideas in romantic fiction. Their dichotomy of being both innocent and insidious is intoxicating for me (gives my chest the little constriction feeling, aka: angst). Oh, it never distracted from Price, I was just too sad to post the last chapter… it's like the end of an era… :( ROFL, an easy mistake to make. Our brains are awesome that way. Morbidbydefault: She might have been a smidge more ballsy that might have been characteristically prudent but I'll blame the wine (for both her verboseness and my shoddy writing). Glad it was still a good read for you though! Rocking the Readhead: He is. Unfortunately, none of his other experiences have really prepared him for this. I imagine it as though he's thirteen (maturity wise) in this respect. It's going to be hard for him to get a grasp on it without making some really immature mistakes. Combine that with a huge ego and brilliant mind… recipe for craziness. That line, "It felt good," is the crux… but we would all assume he meant physically… see what I'm going for? Oh, I look forward to whatever Moffat/Gatiss come up with and agreed, in this story, it is far more that just an act. AuroraRose16: It was needed, though it was a bit ham fisted. Sexy times will come gain. You know me Aurora, I can't help myself in that regard. No, it's not wrong at all… it was mine too. You just might get what you want in that regard, lol.