Chapter 14

Disclaimer: I don't own any characters recognised... Billy is mine though ;)

I know, I'm terrible at updating and I'm sorry. This is a bit of a filler chapter and - as you'll see - some of my own interests make an appearance. Hope this makes up for the inexcusably long wait...

Internally admiring the cosiness of the bed sheets she lay upon, Molly turned over and opened her eyes. She was faced with the bare, pale chest of Sherlock Holmes. She felt his arm wrapped possessively around her waist, and looking up, saw that his eyes were closed and his breathing was slow, still fast asleep. She relished in these rare moments, when Sherlock wasn't deducing, or running, or complaining. He appeared peaceful, and Molly swore that he'd never looked more magnificent. His curly hair resembled a chimney brush, the dark mane contrasting with his pale skin that was illuminated in the light.

"You're staring at me," His baritone voice stated, causing the pathologist to feel the vibrations.

"Good deduction," She replied teasingly.

The detective opened one eye and smirked, pulling her tightly against him.

"What time is it?" He asked.

"Almost nine, want some breakfast?"

"John has work today, so you'll find two cups of tea on the table, and maybe a plate of jam on toast if we're lucky."

"He's your flatmate, Sherlock. Not your bloody servant," Molly scolded, placing her bare feet on the cold floor. Before she could stand however, a familiar arm pulled her back and he snuggled his head into the crook of her neck.

"Five more minutes," He mumbled.

After another morning of Jeremy Kyle and countless cups of tea, Sherlock was becoming bored. They'd already played Cluedo – he lost. Shooting the wall was out of question, so instead, he played his violin. He performed his favourite pieces, which were followed by his own compositions (some secretly inspired by a certain pathologist) Molly sat in awe, admiring the detective as he walked gracefully around the room whilst playing. He set the instrument down once his fingers grew tired, and collapsed into his armchair.

"Molly, I'm bored," He complained.

"Call Greg and get yourself a case."

"No."

"Why not?" She asked, tilting her head in confusion.

"Because I refuse to leave you, we've already spoken about this."

"Sherlock, I'd be fine."

"No," He insisted stubbornly, while Molly rolled her eyes. After a moment, her eyes brightened with an idea.

"Why don't you take up another instrument?"

He went to answer, but paused instead. His expression changed to one of deep thought, and he soon smiled.

"I've always wanted to play the piano," He admitted, "But no tutor would have enough patience to teach me."

Grinning from ear to ear, Molly stood and slipped on her shoes.

"Grab your coat," She instructed.

"Where are we going?"

She gave him a knowing smile as they left the flat.

The first impression of the shop Sherlock stepped into wasn't a positive one. The yellow wallpaper was peeling at the corners, whilst wooden planks that covered the ground were chipped and damaged. A musty smell lingered in the dense air, causing the detective's nose to wrinkle as he crossed the threshold. The room was filled with unique items, from jewellery and pottery to old fashioned radios and televisions, all covered in a thick layer of dust. But as he glanced at the cheerful expression on Molly's face, he quickly realised their destination was one of familiarity and happiness to her. A neon sign outside told him he was standing inside a pawnbrokers, but he was still confused as to why.

"Well if it isn't Little Miss Hooper!" A deep voice exclaimed.

They both turned to see a smiling old man on the other side of the shop. The pale skin of his face was aged, but his eyes were filled with wisdom. He sat behind a wooden desk covered in newspaper crosswords, his eyes fixed on the couple.

"Billy!" Molly greeted, striding towards the counter, "How are you?"

"I'm bumbling along. As I've told you before, this life can weaken my bones but-"

"It can't weaken your spirit." She finished.

He threw the woman a proud smirk before focusing his attention on the detective beside her.

"And who might this young chap be?"

Before the pathologist could answer, Sherlock hurried over and shook his hand.

"Sherlock Holmes, I'm a…friend of Molly's." He informed.

"The Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes, I have a habit of getting onto the news."

Billy laughed and glanced at Molly.

"No son, that's not where I know you from. Molly talks about you all the time."

Sherlock raised his eyes as her face turned a violent shade of red. She threw an angry glare to the man behind the counter.

"She says you're a Consulting Detective," He stated, "Must be good if your face is getting on the front of my morning paper."

He couldn't help himself.

"You're in your early eighties and have two children. A widower, obviously, to which I give my condolences. A smoker. You were an amateur sculptor in your younger years and now collect model trains, going by your trousers," The detective deduced, his piercing gaze focused on him.

Molly held her breath, expecting Billy to be offended. Surprisingly, he started to chuckle.

"She wasn't kidding." He said in amazement, and they both joined in on the laughter.

"Okay, I'll be in the back if you need me," Billy informed at left the room.

Sherlock turned to the pathologist, his eyebrows raised in confusion.

"Billy was my dad's best friend," She explained, "I've been coming here a lot since he passed away."

"So why are we here now?"

"Because of that." She pointed to an upright piano stood against the back wall of the shop. The light wood was dusty, though the keys were polished and shining. They advanced towards the instrument and sat close together on the stool. Molly stroked the top in adoration before speaking.

"This piano belonged to my Grandmother, who passed it down to my father. He loved to play, and he started teaching me when I seven. Before he died, he put the piano in here, and told me that when I had the money I was to get it back. Ever since I've been visiting the shop to play, and now I'm going to teach you."

Sherlock stared at her in amazement as she spoke. She played the piano and he hadn't noticed. This thought ran throughout his mind like a broken record. He remembered all the times he assumed that he knew Molly inside and out and realised he was wrong. This woman – this beautiful, extraordinary woman- beat any case, any cigarette and Sherlock knew he was idiot for once thinking the opposite. He loved her more than he thought was possible, and he was never going to tire of solving the mystery that is Molly Hooper.

"Sherlock?"

Noticing that he hadn't spoken, the detective blinked before placing a hand at the nape of her neck and crushing her lips with his. Their feet entangled under the stool as her upper body moulded to his. She pulled away after a few moments, realising their location.

"I doubt this is the most appropriate place for…that," She whispered.

"Let's go home then," He replied, craving the feeling of her lips on his.

"No. We can do that later; right now you're going to learn the basics of piano playing."

She pointed to a white key on the instrument.

"Now, this is middle C," She began...