What a strange day. Molly thought. Not only am I now a getaway driver, co-conspirator in faking a death, and keeper of a life-threatening secret…but Sherlock Holmes is in my flat. To stay. He needs me. That's the strangest thing of all.
Toby had sniffed the tall man warily. To Molly's surprise, Sherlock had stooped to the cat's level. Gold eyes and blue ones locked for several moments, coming to an understanding. Then Toby mewed, Sherlock ruffled his fur, and peace was assured.
Her guest hadn't done much since then, besides alternately pacing around and sitting down to tap on his mobile. She'd ordered pizza, but neither of them did more than pick at it. Toby sneaked half a slice though. Once he'd demanded her laptop, which was handed over. Finally, Sherlock broke his impenetrable shell of silence, and Molly listened readily.
"I'll need to be here for a while. A removal from London too soon could endanger the whole scheme; Moriarty's men might be watching for me. Three months….that's a reasonable amount of time to hide. After that I'll get my own place, far from England probably."
"Whatever you need, Sherlock, yeah." Molly nodded.
"That's settled then."
Sherlock's words were decisive, confident as always, yet Molly heard again that sadness, that strain that she'd detected as he'd whisked out of the ambulance and ordered huskily, "Take me away from here." She had wanted to help, but only ended up saying lamely, "John must be torn up over… you." He'd responded with more real anger than she'd ever seen.
"Don't SPEAK! Just shut up, Molly!"
And she had, blinking a couple of tears away. But she realized the pain he himself must be in, and chose to forgive his harshness. They'd been completely silent on the way home, and for an hour following.
The detective's irritated shuffling through her mail brought Molly back to the present.
"Um, you should go to bed. It's been an exhausting day and you need rest."
Sherlock turned and Molly braced herself for an argument, but after a moment's thought, he yielded.
"Sensible idea. I'll go and change. You'd best get whatever you need out of the bedroom." He hurried out.
He intended to take her bed. "Oh, um…."
Molly knew she ought to say something, that it really wasn't fair to kick her out of her own bed when she was doing him the favor of letting him hide in her flat. But he's had such a horrid day, and I'm sure he's not being intentionally rude (not this time anyway). Just…thoughtless.
"Right."
She quickly pulled out some pajamas. Thank God I washed those pyjamas yesterday, or I'd have nothing to wear but that satin nighty. She blushed at the thought of Sherlock seeing her in such a revealing garment. Letting herself imagine the scene just for a moment, Molly pictured him speechless, taken aback at the way the satin clung to her figure. Then with a sigh, she shook herself back to reality. Not that he'd care. He'd probably tell me that my knees are shaped oddly or something. Besides that, I'd freeze in it.
Sherlock padded back in, clad in a dark green dressing gown. "This dressing gown isn't as nice as mine," he grumbled.
"You know you couldn't take any of your old things, or John would notice and get suspicious."
Yes, but it doesn't make it any more pleasant. He huffed.
Molly couldn't help following the pale skin of his throat down to where the dressing gown closed, allowing just a glimpse of his bare chest. "I-I've got my pyjamas, so I'll just be going now. The bed's made up, but if you need something, just ask."
"Right. Goodnight, Molly." He flung himself on the bed and lay with his palms pressed together, staring up at the ceiling.
"Goodnight, Sherlock." She left the door between the rooms open and made up the sofa with some extra sheets and a crocheted blanket.
Just as she finally sank down on it, Sherlock's voice called from her bedroom. "Molly, get me my phone please."
"Sure. Where is it? On the table?" She glanced around for the device.
"No, it's on the dresser."
"In my room?"
"Do you have another dresser elsewhere?"
He was still lying in the same position, and didn't look at her when she handed him the phone. "Gracias." She nodded and returned to her sofa. A surprisingly short time later, Molly was drifting off to sleep when something swished past her in a startling gust of air. A little gasp escaped as she jerked bolt upright. A blindingly bright light clicked on and Sherlock stood peering at her bookshelf intently. "General Pathology."
"What?"
"Your textbook, obviously. I need it. And anything else you have on slide preparation."
She moaned and rubbed her eyes, but obediently rose and located her favorite reference. Handing it to her guest somewhat less graciously than usual, Molly omitted the "goodnight" and collapsed back on the makeshift bed. Unfortunately, Sherlock seemed in no hurry to return to his (her!) room, stooping by the lamp and flipping pages eagerly. After a good five minutes, he strolled out, clutching the heavy volume. However, the light remained on. Really? Really.
The imposed-on hostess hauled herself up and jerked the lamp's cord, unplugging it from the wall. The coffee table reminded her of its new position by coming in contact with her toe….rather hard. Crap! She whimpered softly. This may be a long three months….
Despite the throbbing toe, Molly did fall asleep.
But not for long.
Something….was touching her. No, not touching. Something was on her chest. An itch. Molly scratched it. It traveled. Different….not itch, more like tingle. A tiny warm spot, moving… creeping. Crawling. Blearily her eyes opened and tried to look straight down. A fuzzy brown ball… that looked at her! Beady eyes, whiskers, ears… "A mouse! Ew ew ew! EEWWW!" Molly squealed, vaulting off the sofa and dancing around.
Sherlock burst in, riding crop held high. "What?! Where is it? What happened?!"
While screaming, she managed to first bang her shin against, and then climb up on the coffee table. "Oh god it's on me! It's in my clothes! Get it off!"
"WHAT?!"
"A MOUSE! A freaking mouse!" Molly frantically felt herself all over and searched her pyjamas.
Sherlock lowered the crop with a sigh. "Clearly, the mouse isn't the one 'freaking'." He reached out a long arm and clicked on the light.
"Kill it! Hit it with the crop! Kill it!"
"I don't see it! You probably crushed it when you got up."
Molly looked around for evidence of pulverized mouse. "I don't see it; it could be ANYWHERE! Ughhhh… please find it and kill it!"
"If it's lucky, the mouse is getting as far away from your screeching as possible." He started to walk away.
"Sherlock PLEASE!"
He sighed and used the crop to flick the bedding off the sofa. "See, it's gone. Get down from there. You look ridiculous."
Toby meandered in from the bedroom, the little traitor. His owner glared at him. "You're useless."
The cat just yawned and strolled to Sherlock's feet.
"It sat on me! UGH! I can still feel the feet!" Molly gave a full-body shudder and flailed her hands in disgust. "It dragged its creepy little tail across me!"
"That's not all it did." Sherlock pointed coolly at her collarbone. A glance in the mirror showed a tiny brown pellet stuck to her skin.
Molly was a sweet, gentle woman, but it was one in the morning, she was thoroughly wrung out, and a bloody mouse had not only run over her, but actually LEFT AN ARSE BISCUIT ON HER!
With a half-strangled shriek of rage, she rushed off to the bathroom to wash with hot water.
"I find it odd that you're so bothered by the creatures." Sherlock mused lazily while she scrubbed. "They're small, quiet, frighten easily, attempt to avoid notice, and do only negligible damage. Ought to be relatable for you, really. Also useful for experimentation, if you can catch them-"
"I don't know, they're just disgusting and I can't stand them." Molly dried off and returned to stare suspiciously at her couch. "It could have squeezed under the cushion… What if it's made a nest in the sofa?! There could be a whole colony of them waiting to crawl all over me in my sleep!"
"Unlikely." Sherlock walked back to her bedroom and stretched himself on the bed with a new textbook.
"I don't care if it's unlikely, it's still possible. I am NOT going back to sleep there!"
"Fine." He'd turned his attention to the book.
She walked up to the bed determinedly. Damn it, it's my flat. "Move over."
"What?"
"I said, move."
He slid his gaze over to her. "No."
"I'm sleeping in my own bed tonight."
"But I'm already here."
She slapped her pillow on the bed and plopped herself down next to it. "Then you're going to have to endure my presence or get out."
"Really, of the two of us, you think that I'm the one who'd care whether we sleep in the same bed?" The words came out smoothly in that deep, low tone. Why, of all people, did Sherlock Holmes get blessed with a sexy voice?
She gulped, but replied, "I don't."
"I'm not leaving."
"Fine." Molly crawled under the covers.
He stared at her in evident irritation, then threw back his head, accepting the challenge. "Then you won't mind if I get comfortable." With that, Sherlock peeled off the dressing gown, appearing in nothing more than pyjama bottoms.
"Whatever you like." She said shortly, attempting to ignore his show by climbing under the covers and turning her back to him.
"I'm not sleepy, so I'll just read for a while longer."
"Sure." Molly already had her eyes shut tight.
He read for about ten minutes, saying "hmm" or jotting down notes in the margins (I hate that; does he know? How could he? What am I saying, he probably knows what brand of detergent I use…) and shifting his position at least twenty times.
All right, Holmes, I know how to deal with you. "Actually, I'm rather grateful for the light. It means there won't be any mice tempted to run across the bed."
The light went out within a minute. "Don't touch me." He'd already scooted to the furthest edge away from her.
"Wouldn't dream of it." All right, that was a falsehood, but the implication was true. She fell asleep with the blankets wrapped around her as tightly as possible, just in case the furry little bugger found her again.
Vague awareness of movement woke Molly slowly. It was her unexpected bedfellow. He began making small moans. She smiled without opening her eyes. Sounds like Toby when he's dreaming…. The moans grew in volume, and gradually resolved themselves into words. He sounded worried.
"John..…gun…Mor…"
Molly turned over to look at him. Sherlock was twitching and tossing around in the sheets, getting more agitated by the moment. "… can't…. 'Strade…."
The man seemed really distressed now, and she whispered, "Hey, Sherlock?" He turned violently on his side & his mumbling reached its highest pitch. "I- No! …John, stop!…John…John!…"
It was almost a sob. His thin body curled in on itself and he clutched the pillow for dear life.
Her first instinct was to hug Sherlock out of his nightmare, but Molly knew better than to think he would appreciate that when he woke up. Instead, she reached out a hand and placed it tentatively on his shoulder. The skin was hot and damp, and deep, desperate gasps pushed it against her hand.
He groaned. "…Sorry…" That time it was definitely a sob that followed the word. A pang of sympathy shot through Molly's tender heart. She started rubbing circles on his bare back, murmuring, "It's okay, it's okay. Everybody's safe."
He stiffened, turned his head a bit, then released a long breath. A couple of shaky inward ones followed.
Hesitating lest he wake up and freeze her with scorn, Molly did what her mother had always done for her after a nightmare: she began stroking that genius head. He didn't react. Sherlock's breathing was slowing and evening out. She inched closer and pulled the cast-off blanket back over him. The long lithe body relaxed into a prone position, head still turned away from her. He's probably okay now, but... Unable to help herself, Molly toyed with the ends of his slightly damp curls. She combed the black tresses delicately, watching them twine around her fingers in the moonlight. I guess some dreams do come true. Her fingertips dared to brush down the nape of his neck...
"What are you doing?" The low rumble coming out of the dark shocked her.
"Y-y-you were having a nightmare… I was just..trying to help."
"By playing with my hair."
She snatched her hand away from where it still rested on his head. "Sorry."
What was I thinking? Molly was glad of the dark and Sherlock's faced-away position, because she could feel a scarlet blush racing all the way to her ears. Why in heaven's name do I always have to do something stupid around Sherlock Holmes?
"Stop blushing, Molly. I didn't say I minded."
"Should- would you like me to keep on?"
"If you like."
Well. That certainly didn't help the blushing problem.
She gave the curly head three more gentle strokes, but it was too weird now that he was awake. She put her back to him. "Goodnight."
"Mmhm."
It took a long time before her body and mind calmed enough to float toward sleep. Just at that moment of teetering on the edge of sleeping and waking, Molly heard the deep voice roll through the darkness again.
"Thank you."
A sleepy smile spread over her face. "Any time."