I was unaccountably nervous as I pushed the key into the lock. I knew Sherlock Holmes would be in my house and in the space of two minutes and would probably have performed an entire psychological evaluation on me just by walking from the front door to the kitchen. Ignoring my inward turmoil, I plastered a jovial smile on my face as I turned off the alarm before leading him down the hall towards the open plan kitchen. I turned, only to see his eyes narrow and his mouth thin as he looked around the room.

"This isn't your home."

"What?" I stared at him in shock. Of course it was my house I'd lived here for the past five years.

"You may live here, Molly, but this isn't…ah!" he grinned and nodded to himself as if he'd solved some sort of puzzle. "This is your dead father's house."

"He left it to me," I replied numbly. I sometimes forget how blunt Sherlock can be.

"But you still don't view it as yours. Not really." He looked at me briefly as he waltzed around the room, looking in cupboards, picking up magazines and unopened envelopes, twisting them around and sniffing the occasional one. "The walls haven't been painted in, oh, I'd say, at least six years, the same with the carpets, and the furniture is well worn but of high quality. The colour scheme is decidedly masculine, and your tastes are, without doubt, some of the most obviously girly, garish styles I've ever seen." I was offended but too much in awe of him to protest.

"Your father left you this house to live in but you don't think of it as yours. You still think it's his and that's why you haven't changed anything in it. Am I wrong?" he asks a wolfish grin on his face.

"No," I twisted my hands together, "you're right. It just doesn't feel like, well mine."

"Would you like me to continue?"

"Not really," I quickly replied making a bee line for the lounge. He followed me like my shadow, his eyes quickly spanning the bookshelves and dark furniture in the coffee coloured room.

"Your father was a doctor," he continued, clearly ignoring my preferences, "paediatrics judging by the medical texts. This isn't your childhood home of course, although your father owned this place for a number of years before his death, even while he was still in practice."

He paced up and down the room, his hands clasped behind his back. I was suddenly reminded of that time I got in trouble for kicking John Wilson in P3 and the principle marched in front of me for half an hour, lecturing about how unladylike it was to kick a fellow student.

I realised I was just an onlooker into the inner machinations of the great Sherlock Holmes' mind, but it's always fascinating to see it at work. Even at my own expense.

"Your father would never have been able to pay for a home like this in London along with one in the country which means only one thing."

He turned a curious smile towards me, a surprised glint in his eyes, and I felt a lot like the proverbial deer in the headlights. "You come from money, Molly Hooper."

I cleared my throat and opened my mouth to speak but nothing came out. It was as if I had suddenly been struck mute. Not that it mattered, not when Sherlock decided to answer for me anyway.

"You're embarrassed by it," he declared, "Why is that?" he looked confused and I stared at him.

"I, I never said anything about being embarrassed about where I come from," I attempted to sound confident but I knew I'd only annoyed him.

"Oh, Molly. Why be so boring?" he sighed dramatically, and collapsed onto the sofa beside me. "You know I'm right. I've actually found something about you that interests me, why don't you just play along? Isn't this what you've always wanted?"

I gaped at him, eyes wide, mouth falling open in silent protest. He rolled his eyes and crossed his ankles.

"Clearly, you're wealthy enough to have the best fashion of every season, your hair and nails done every week and dine out every day. Instead, your clothes are uncoordinated, your shoes are…" he looked down at my feet and raised an eyebrow, "far too practical to be considered fashionable, you don't go to a salon above three times a year and you would prefer to eat baked beans on toast at home than dine out in a glitzy restaurant. Evidently, you don't want to draw attention to the fact that you are financially comfortable, the question is why?"

"Hungry?" I asked quickly, trying to change the topic, and I was surprised it seemed to work. My question was answered by a low grumbling in his stomach and I bit my bottom lip trying to stop the school-girl giggle from escaping.

He ate like a horse, wolfing down not only the pepperoni pizza, but bread, yoghurt, fruit, basically anything he could get his hands on. I remembered John saying he would do that after a case, would eat like a starving man and then sleep for practically days on end. Now, I got to see it firsthand.

He seemed deflated after satisfying his food craving and I couldn't help but wonder how long it would be before what had happened would suddenly come crashing down around him, and by extension me. But I didn't want to think about it, all I wanted was to look after him and let him sleep.

"Well," I said brightly, a wide smile plastered across my face, "why don't I show you to your room?"

I walked out ahead of him and marched up the stairs, Sherlock following me. It suddenly hit me that he was walking behind me. I swore I could feel my bum shaking like not-quite-set jelly. I should have let him go up before me. He was probably eye to eye with my flabby arse. Oh, sweet Lord.

My pace picked up and eventually I reached the top of the stairs that had never seemed so long in my entire life! He eyed me curiously but remained silent. He really did look tired, with dark circles forming under his eyes, and the usual brightness dulled with exhaustion. Not surprising, I reasoned. The man did just jump off the roof of a London city building and fake his own death. Who knew when he last slept before that?

"Your room is here," I opened the door to the spare room and he strode in as if he owned the place. His narrowed eyes took in every little detail, and I felt unaccountably nervous, even though I knew there was nothing wrong with the room. It was a nice spare room, neutral colouring and with clean floral bedspreads, though perhaps a little on the small side.

"It will suffice."

"Good, I'm, I'm glad. The bathroom is next door, and there are fresh towels in the cupboard." His gaze focused on me again, his left hand tapping absently against his thigh in irritation. "Well, um, I'll leave you then. If you need anything, my room is the second door on the left."

"Why would I need anything from your room?"

"No, I'm just saying, if you need me for…anything," his forehead crinkled in confusion, and I could practically see the wheels in his head turning. I'd already served my purpose, I helped him 'die' and given him somewhere to stay, what else could he possibly need me for?

I felt my face flush with heat as my imagination went haywire imagining all the sordid ways Sherlock would envisage I think about needing him in a bedroom.

He opened his mouth to say something but I quickly cut in before he could say anything particularly caustic.

"I don't expect you to show up at my door in the middle of the night, Sherlock," I gave a strangled laugh and his right eyebrow rose, "it's just a thing people say t-to people who stay with them."

"They do?"

"Of course," I replied gaining a little confidence, "in case a visitor needs sheets, or towels, or a-a toothbrush."

"Molly?" he interrupted me and looked a little uncertain. "Should I," he cleared his throat uncomfortably, "should I 'thank you' now?"

I stared at him for a moment. It always amazed me how ignorant Sherlock could be when it came to social conventions. I decided to let him off easy and shook my head.

"No, Sherlock. You don't have to thank me. You don't ever need to thank me… not unless you mean it." And I'll be able to tell when you don't, I added silently.

Closing the door to leave him alone with his thoughts and whatever plans he was concocting, I was stopped by the sound of my name on his lips.

"Molly."

"Yes?"

He seemed frozen for a second, and then his head tilted ever so slightly to one side and he regarded me with that genuine sincerity I last saw the night before his 'death.'

"Thank you."

I was too overwhelmed to say anything, so I just nodded my head and shut the door quietly behind me. I crossed over to my room and collapsed onto the bed, my arm thrown over my face.

Sherlock Holmes was currently living in my house, under the same roof, a few feet from my bedroom. And, despite the fact that my brain knew he saw me as nothing more than a tool in his grand plans, everything else was ridiculously giddy at having my own living Greek Adonis as a roommate. It had the potential to be a dream come true or…more than likely in my case, a nightmare!