Hiya! Again sorry for slowness of updates. Believe me if I could I would write this all day, every day.. but my parents and teachers wouldn't be too happy about it :(

Here's Chapter Two, hope everyone enjoys. If you liked it, leave a review! And if you didn't like it, leave a review! (what I'm trying to say is... I love getting reviews!)

Disclaimer: The words are mine, the characters are not.

Love Misty x

Chapter Two

During his long, uneventful night with Molly, Sherlock learns three things.

One, Molly sleeptalks. This quite amuses him - Sherlock himself is a regular feature in many of Molly's dreams, and at one point he believes her to have said, "No, Sherlock, not now, not in the fish tank!" which even he finds difficult to decipher the meaning of.

Two, Molly is a heavy sleeper, but also tends to roll over and fidget, particularly when in non-REM sleep. Which makes Sherlock's night an uncomfortable one, as two hours into the night, Molly shifts and ends up lying sideways right on top of him. She doesn't weigh much, but Sherlock is still unable to move, and discovers it is impossible to wake her. He tries to get out of her bed on several occasions, but is scared that his movements might worsen her injuries.

Three, she often cuddles up with her cat before going to sleep. Moreover, her cat has become accustomed to this, and settles down next to her. When Molly drops off and rolls over, it decides that the awake human is much preferrable to snuggle up with than the asleep one, and promptly plonks itself right on Sherlock's head. And then to top it all, the cat dozes off and refuses to move. "Brilliant," Sherlock manages to mutter sarcastically from underneath the surprisingly substantial furry mass. "Just brilliant. Amazing."

(Actually, Sherlock learns five things; the other two being that Molly looks strangely adorable when sleeping, and that the feeling of being in the same bed as her is not an unwelcome one, but he chooses to dismiss these. He places them carefully in the room of dangerous thoughts in his mind palace and locks the door, then misplaces the key.)

(He knows getting rid of them will be much harder than that, but it's worth a try.)

Finally, at around quarter to eight, Molly stirs, still halfway in between reality and dreaming. "Mmm. Stop it. That tickles! Stop it, Sherlock! Pleeease? Alright, I surrender..." Her eyelids flutter open and she is jolted back to reality.

"Sherlock. Why.. What happened? I don't remember.." She looks down at her rib and prods it lightly. "Ow!"

"I really suggest you do not aggravate your fracture any further. I also suggest that you should not date again for a while."

"It's broken?"

"Just a hairline fracture, should heal itself within a few weeks, you can walk but no strenuous activity or it might worsen." Sherlock gets out of Molly's bed and notices she is staring. What is she finding... Ah yes, he was in pyjamas. He rolls his eyes at this: what else had Molly expected him to be wearing after a night of (not) sleeping? "And take the day off work."

Molly sighs reluctantly. "Why? If I'm fit to walk, I'm fit to go to work, aren't I?"

"You have bruises. People would ask about what happened. And if I remember rightly, I am still dead."

She admits defeat and pulls the duvet up to her chin. "Fine. But I'll be back once I'm healed."

Sherlock starts to leave the room, then spins round on his heel and faces her again. God, thinks Molly, he's really sexy when he does that. "What was I going to say again? Oh yes, coffee, black, two sugars."

Not so sexy. Molly gives him an 'Are you kidding, I'm ill, make your own bloody coffee' look.

"Oops. Forgot." With that, Sherlock leaves, and returns in a few moments with two mugs.

"How did you know what tea I drink? Oh, you're Sherlock.. Sorry."

"Nope. Just noticed the teabags you keep reserved in your locker. Lady Grey."

(He had actually looked at the most recent stain on her sofa and matched up the colour to that of Lady Grey tea using the extensive collection he had stored in his 'Tea Room' somewhere in his mind palace, but he didn't want to show off.)

(Why didn't he want to show off? He usually loved showing off.)

Sherlock perches on the edge of Molly's bed and they drink in awkward silence until Molly says (somewhat bravely regarding her usual disposition), "You don't have to pretend, Sherlock."

"Pretending? When was I pretending?"

"If the only thing you had to go on was the teabags in my locker, how do you know that I take milk and no sugar?"

She's cleverer than he gives her credit for. "If you insist, then OK, I lied. I spent five months in India for a case a few years back. We had no information about the jewel thief except for that he drunk Assam tea. I built up a knowledge of tea types and their exact colours and consistency. It proves useful sometimes. Did you know about the stain on your sofa?"

"Yes, been meaning to clean that up for ages."

"Told me all I needed to know."

Molly nods, wishing she could be able to work things out like that.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmm?"

"You going to be staying here? Like you did before you went to.. Wherever it is you went."

Sherlock feels a pang of guilt. He'd been so wrapped up in uncovering Moriarty's network he hadn't thought to tell Molly he was leaving, let alone where he would be going. Guilt... He decides that he doesn't like guilt. He buries it under the few other feelings in his catalogue.

"Mexico, then Italy, then New York State," Sherlock said.

"That's quite far away," Molly thinks out loud, then curses herself for sounding so simple.

"Don't state the obvious, Molly. And yes, I am going to be borrowing your flat for a few nights before I come back from the dead."

"How many nights?"

"A few. I said."

"No, like, exactly."

"If you must be so specific, then four." He paused. "Is there anything that could clash? Visitors or.. things."

(He already knew Molly hardly gets any visitors, but is bemused as to why she wants to know.)

"No! Um. No it's fine. Really. Fine. Very fine." She laughs and curls a lock of hair around her finger. Nervous tick.

Four whole nights with Sherlock, Molly marvels. Well, not with Sherlock, but in the presence of. She has to stop herself from grinning like an idiot.

She takes in a shaky breath. "I.. will.. make breakfast!"

"No you won't. You are ill. It is common practice for ill people not to do such things, especially if the sickness may hinder their mobility, which your rib may well do." He stands up abruptly and leaves, Molly staring after him as he disappears into her kitchen.

"Molly?" A voice calls from outside the door of her flat.

"Shit," Molly mutters, and gets up gingerly. It's her idiot landlord who makes it her job to fuss over Molly like a second mother, which is all very well in moderation.. But moderation didn't seem to exist to -OW! Her rib twinged. Sherlock was right; walking was a bit of a hardship. She limps over to him and makes frenzied hand gestures so her landlady don't hear she's in.

"Molly, what are you -"

"For god's sake," Molly says, and drags Sherlock into the towel cupboard, shutting the door as quietly as she could behind them.

"That's my landlady. She's a bit protective and will insist on coming in, so she'll see my injuries and ask about them... She can't know I'm in. This was the only way of getting you to be quiet and not give us away." She looks down apologetically. "Sorry."

"No. It's fine, I suppose that makes sense. When can we come out?"

"When she leaves. I don't know when that'll be." Molly isn't sure whether she's enjoying being in such a small space with him. It's a little cramped and she can't move without elbowing him. But then again, this is Sherlock, and the feeling of his chest pushed up against hers is just... wow. She's glad he can't see her; she feels her cheeks staining bright red. She can hear his regular heartbeat and feel the gentle rise and fall of his chest. What's even more amazing is his smell - soap mixed with rain mixed with aftershave mixed with pure Sherlock-ness.

"Molly? Are you sure you're all right in there, dear?" Molly remains silent.

Molly's landlady reminds Sherlock a lot of Mrs Hudson. He can tell from the voice that she was born in Manchester but raised in Cardiff, and moved to London at age thirty to find work.

"Molly? Oh dearie me, she's probably at work." She walks away slowly (the volume and speed of her footsteps indicate that she is in her fifties and suffering from an ankle problem, most likely a sprain) and Molly exhales sharply.

"It's safe to come out," she whispers, almost sorry (no, most definitely sorry) that her landlady didn't stay longer so that her and Sherlock could have spent a little more time in the cupboard.

"Sorry again about the whole cupboard thing," Molly says sadly, after they both stepped out and blinked as their eyes adjusted to the light.

"It's no bother." Sherlock had already deduced early on that Molly had enjoyed being so physically close to him. It was clear; the way she kept breathing in spoke for itself. She probably has some sort of emotional attachment to his scent. He finds this rather petty (endearing) and hopes they'd never be in a similar scenario again (secretly wishes they'd had to stay in the cupboard longer).

"But - seeing as we're not, like - I mean - didn't it seem weird that -"

"Molly, I have already spent a night in bed with you and carried you back to your flat last night. Don't look so surprised, you fainted. How else do you presume I got you home? Anyway, we've had enough physical contact not to feel uncomfortable about its occurence."

"Oh. That's -"

"Then again, it is you we are talking about. Your elevated heart rate was easy to detect."

"Sh-Sherlock? What?" She blushes again.

"What? Nothing. I said nothing."

"Um. OK." Molly looks uneasy. This is the first time Sherlock has ever properly addressed her (one sided) love for him.

"Oh and Molly?"

"Yes?"

"Your eyes look particularly nice today." With that he swept out of the room, leaving Molly by the mirror scrutinising what exactly was different about her eyes.