When Molly emerged from her room several minutes later, the flat was silent again.

"Sherlock?" she called out, uncertain if John had whisked him away for some sort of case.

"Down here," came a muffled call from the downstairs flat. Molly treaded lightly down the stairs and into the unused flat of 221C. She then rubbed her eyes quickly, as what she was seeing could not possibly be correct. Sherlock was standing in front of a washing machine and dryer, extracting clothes, and…folding them.

"You're doing laundry," she pointed at the clothes in question, wondering if this was some sort of experiment and mentally noting to check that all her clothes were secure in their place on the floor of her room.

"Why does everyone feel the need to state the obvious today?" Sherlock asked with a roll of his eyes as he artfully folded a pair of trousers.

"You do your own laundry?" Molly asked, still in disbelief.

"Did you think I had a house elf?" Sherlock continued folding, not looking at her.

"No, I just thought you would-wait a minute, you've read Harry Potter?" she asked, her face scrunching up again with a smirk.

"Rehab is a boring place, Molly," he answered, beginning to drop another load of clothes into the washing machine.

Molly wiped the smile off her face and looked down at the floor. "Right. Sorry."

"Don't be," Sherlock said as he poured soap into the machine and set it. "I've come to terms with it as a part of my life that I don't wish to repeat. As I said before, rehab was dreadfully boring."

Molly still didn't look up, a million questions floating through her mind. Seeming to read her mind, Sherlock continued.

"I know I don't talk about it, but that doesn't mean you're not allowed to ask."

Finally, feeling brave, she looked up at his face. "What made you decide to stop?"

Sherlock sighed, leaning against the dryer with both hands outstretched in front of him. "I would have thought that would be obvious."

Knowing he wasn't looking at her, Molly closed her eyes briefly before saying what she had always assumed. "You overdosed." Sherlock nodded solemnly.

"I was working a case for Lestrade. Serial child killer. I missed a clue that caused a four-year-old girl's death. I couldn't…" he trailed off and looked away for a moment. "I wanted to not have to think about it anymore. To not have to feel."

Molly was silent for a moment before going on. "Who found you?"

"Donovan. Lestrade sent her over with the case file for me to study. Contrary to popular belief she doesn't hate me strictly for my personality. Unfortunately for me, I am always in her debt, as she did save my life."

Molly cautiously approached Sherlock and sat her hand on top of one of his.

"The hospital contacted my parents. I was completely out of it at the time. I woke up to Mycroft shoving consent papers in my face and threatening me with bodily harm if I didn't sign them."

"When did you get out?"

"Right before I met John actually. I was staying with Mycroft, which is enough for anyone to relapse, when he decided it was acceptable for me to get my own place, provided it came with a flatmate. The rest is, as they say, history," he glanced up at her face, giving her a small, sad smile.

"Sherlock, what happened before-it doesn't change anything about who you are. You are brilliant. You've always been brilliant. But even brilliant people make mistakes. You just-"

"Would you like to have dinner?" Sherlock blurted out, interrupting her. Molly stared at him in silence, not sure she heard correctly.

"I'm sorry?"

Sherlock inhaled a deep breath in and out, closing his eyes and turning toward her. "Would you like to go out…with me…on a…date?" His sentence got quieter and quieter with each word, ending barely audible.

"A…date?" she asked, her eyes wide in shock.

"Yes. John and Mary are having people over for New Years and I thought…perhaps you would like to go with me? Have dinner before?" Is it hot in here? I feel like it's hot in here. Sweat began to bead on his forehead as he refused to break eye contact with her.

"I," she began, a smile slowly creeping onto her face "I would love that, Sherlock."

He visibly relaxed before going back to pick up his folded clothes. "Right then. I'll pick you up on Friday at seven?"

"Sherlock, I live with you."

"I know. Be ready at seven.