A/N: This chapter is similar (not completely) to my previous one-shot, Remember the Night. That story was the one that started the inspiration for this fic, so I apologise if you've read my one-shot before. There are some elements of that story here, but it's only for this chapter!

Thank you so much to those who reviewed, favourited and followed.

Disclaimer: BBC Sherlock belongs to Mofftiss.

Sherlock leaned against the wall as he waited for Molly to fish her house keys out of her bag. He could see her hands shaking slightly as she slipped her key into the lock. He wondered if it was because of fear or exhaustion. The reality of what he had just pulled off was starting to hit him, and he was sure that Molly was beginning to feel the heavy weight of the consequences that were to come as well.

"It's a little messy. And small," she informed him, looking embarrassed.

"Better this than going off with Mycroft," he replied, a slightly disgruntled look appearing on his face at the mention of his brother's name. He never liked to feel indebted to anyone and the fact that he had to approach Mycroft for his staged death frustrated him greatly.

It didn't help that his brother had even offered to house him while he healed. It was as if Mycroft thought him incapable of doing something as simple as finding accommodation. He could imagine his brother's smug expression if he had accepted his offer to stay at his house. Luckily for him though, Molly had offered her flat as well, which he was secretly grateful for. He didn't think that he could handle a night living with his older brother. They would probably be at each other's throat by morning.

Sherlock limped into her flat as she opened the door, taking in his new surroundings. It was, like Molly said, messy and small. There seemed to be only one bedroom, which Sherlock thought was odd since Molly probably had a decent pay as a pathologist. She must not have guests over often then. Or maybe she didn't want a large flat as it would only serve to remind her of her mostly solitary life. He remembered that he used to feel alone as a child in his large house after Mycroft had went off to boarding school. He learnt early on that emptiness was the worst reminder for loneliness.

There were many coffee mugs lying around and various novels were strewn on her sofa and coffee table. He spotted an odd mix of thrillers, science fiction and romance. Random pieces of clothing were thrown around the house as well. Sherlock wondered how someone who was so meticulous in her work could have a flat as messy as this. He realised with a start that he was exactly like her in this regard. 221B would've been in total chaos if Mrs Hudson and John did not clean up after him. The thought of them made his chest tighten dangerously and he swiftly cleared his mind.

He walked over to her sofa and plunked himself on it, wincing from the sudden stab of pain that issued from his broken rib. From the corner of his eyes, Sherlock could see Molly frantically trying to tidy her house. A handsome tabby suddenly jumped to his side, staring at him with large, inquisitive eyes.

"That's Toby. Don't worry about him, he's friendly." Molly smiled, happy to see a familiar face after a stressful day.

Toby stared at Sherlock a moment longer before deciding that he wasn't dangerous. Yawning, it curled up beside the consulting detective, who reached out and scratched its ears. It was warm and oddly comforting. The cat purred contentedly and snuggled closer to him.

Sherlock didn't look at Molly for a long while, preferring to focus his attention on the cat. He could feel the beginnings of fear, sadness, worry, anger and remorse building within him. The thought of a heartbroken John and Mrs Hudson, and the fact that he had to uncover Moriarty's criminal network before he could make sure his friends were completely safe worried him. He had tried so hard to suppress these emotions, but now that he was finally safe in Molly's house, the dreaded feelings were threatening to overcome him like an impending tsunami. He could feel them seeping out of his mind and into his body like poison, escaping from the rooms he had locked them in.

"Are you hungry?" Molly's soft voice drifted from his side, breaking him out of his reverie. "I can make some soup if you are."

"I'm not hungry."

"Do you want to shower then? I have some oversized shirts that you can –"

"Molly," he cut her off curtly. "I just want to rest now." He needed to be alone to properly access the situation he was in. That Molly was in. That everyone else was in. He would never admit it, but he was actually intimidated by the difficulty of the task ahead of him.

"Oh, right. Yes, of course. The bedroom is over there," she gestured to the corridor.

"The sofa will do."

"But your ribs and bruises -"

"I am fine, Molly." He knew that he was anything but fine. However, this was not the time to be asking for more help. He had already depended too much on her and if he went any further, he was not sure if he would cross another line. He had already crossed one when he exposed his feelings to her in the lab last night.

He turned away, expecting her to leave him alone. But Molly had other ideas.

"No, you're not fine. You can't sleep on the sofa with a broken rib!" she said, her voice rising slightly.

"Yes I can," he answered defiantly.

"Sherlock -"

Something in him snapped when he heard his name. Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock. Why couldn't people just leave him alone? They wouldn't be in this mess if they had just left him alone. Moriarty wouldn't have been able to use them against him if he didn't have any friends.

"Molly. Leave. Me. Alone," he said shortly, his own voice rising. "Maybe you should spend your time reading some of those hopeless romance novels I see lying around. Or why don't you make it a fun night by whipping up a dish in a kitchen that you so obviously don't use at all? Judging by the fact that it seems to be the only clean place in this house."

He heard her huff out a breath of air sharply. Good. Now she would leave him be.

"Fine. I'll leave you to it then," she said, her voice trembling slightly. He had to force himself not to look at her face. He didn't want to know what his words had done to her.

The sound of her bedroom door closing loudly was not as satisfying as he thought it would be.

Molly sat on her bed, finally allowing her tears to flow freely in the comfort and secrecy of her bedroom. She breathed out a sigh of frustration. She knew that Sherlock was probably worried and scared, which made him defensive, but his words had stung. She closed her eyes tightly in an attempt stop her tears. She couldn't give in to her emotions now; it would just make the current situation worse.

But exhaustion weakened her will power. She wondered how much more of his meanness she could tolerate before she would finally snap as well. There was only so much she could take, and things did not seem to be going well. She lay on her bed, staring into oblivion and wishing that Toby was beside her. Her cat, surprisingly enough, seemed to have taken a liking to Sherlock.

I am sorry, Molly. Forgive me. – SH

Sherlock hit 'send' and tried lying on the sofa again. It quickly became apparent that his legs were too long and every time he tried to turn his body, a sharp stab of pain erupted from his ribs. He gave up and decided to check on his broken arm instead. He was just in the process of tenderly prodding his right arm when he heard the soft turn of Molly's bedroom doorknob. He inwardly breathed a sigh of relief.

Molly came out of her room tentatively, anger still apparent in her eyes. But one look at the grimace on Sherlock's face and the anger she felt dissipated immediately. She quickly went to sit beside him, concern reflected in her warm, brown eyes. "Do you need more painkillers?"

He shook his head and they soon descended into comfortable silence. His thoughts started to move towards Molly. He could not understand why she cared so much for him. He knew he wasn't the easiest person to be around. How he had lashed out at her just now was a testament to that fact. And yet, despite the numerous times he had hurt her, she still came back. She had offered her help in a heartbeat; she had shown him so much loyalty.

"Why do you care so much about me?" he asked her suddenly.

"I…" she started to blush. "You know why," she finally said, playing with her fingers nervously.

He did. Or he thought he did. He remembered how she had applied lipstick whenever he was around, and how she would stare at him when she thought he wasn't looking. How she had meticulously wrapped his Christmas present last year, which he realised guiltily, had not been opened at all. The answer was right in front of him. But that didn't mean he could easily believe it. It seemed too surreal.

"It's late, you need to rest," she said, changing the topic quickly. "Would you please take the bed?"

Sherlock looked at her and felt a rare rush of affection. He gave her a small nod of assent.

It was well past midnight and Molly was curled up on her lumpy sofa in a deep sleep. Sherlock was in her bedroom, the door slightly ajar just in case he needed anything. The entire flat was quiet save for Toby, who was busy trying to catch an insect that had flew in from the window, his bright green eyes gleaming with excitement.

Suddenly, a loud moan echoed through the hallway. Molly stirred in her sleep before opening her eyes. When she realised that the moan had come from her bedroom, she sprung out of her sofa in a state of panic.

"Sherlock!" she cried, pushing the bedroom door roughly. Fear clouded her mind when she saw him.

He was sitting on the edge of the bed. Sweat was dripping profusely from his face and his shirt was completely soaked. His fingers were pressed to his temples and his eyes were closed. What scared Molly was the fact that his hands were trembling.

"Sherlock?" she whispered. "Are you alright?"

"Just a dream," he replied curtly, still not removing his fingers from his temples.

Molly moved over to the bed and hesitated before sitting down. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No." He needed to clear the memory of his dream – delete it from his mind. But the images had been so vivid that he was going to need some time. John's anguished face and Moriarty's triumphant one was still burning in his retina.

"Sherlock you're shaking," Molly said softly. She wanted to reach out and touch his hand but controlled herself.

"Yes. Mere effects of a nightmare, Molly. Or haven't you experienced one before?"

"Well, it helps to talk about what's scaring you."

"I am not scared! And stop looking at me like that. There is nothing wrong with me!" he stated indignantly, his voice rising with every word.

"Sherlock, it's alright to feel afraid."

"I'm not afraid," he reiterated.

"Yes you are," she said gently. You're worried about what's going to happen to John and Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. And you need to dismantle Moriarty's network before you can clear your name…" Molly trailed off, unsure if she had just made the matter worse by reminding him of his task. She half-expected him to lash out at her again for making him out to be some vulnerable human being.

He did no such thing. He removed his fingers from his temples and looked at her. "You didn't include yourself."

"Sorry?"

"You said I was worried about what's going to happen to John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade. You didn't include yourself."

"Oh…I figured -"

"That I wouldn't care about what happened to you," he finished for her.

"No, I figured I'd do my best to be fine so you wouldn't have to worry about me. You'll work better if you didn't have so many people to worry about," she attempted to smile.

He looked away from her for a while, his breathing gradually calming down. "What do you do after a nightmare?" he enquired quietly.

"Warm milk," Molly said without a second thought.

"What?"

Molly felt her face burning. She realised that warm milk sounded like something a child would drink. "I er…usually drink a glass of warm milk. Do you want some?" she asked, sounding more confident than she actually felt. She thought Sherlock would laugh at her offer or make some cruel deduction about her habits. But he surprised her by giving a small nod.

She soon returned to the bedroom with a glass of milk and two sleeping pills. He had removed his sweat-soaked shirt and was looking a lot more peaceful. He muttered a thank you and gulped down his milk and pills. It took everything Molly had to not jump forward and hug him.

The effect of the pills soon kicked in and she saw him starting to get drowsy. He lay down on the bed, his eyelids drooping slowly. She took the opportunity to slip her hand in his, hoping that it would provide him some comfort. She was glad when he didn't shake her hand away.

"Molly?"

"Hmm?"

"Do you want to sleep on the bed too?"

"What? No, of course not!" she said, her cheeks turning red again.

"Why? There's more than enough space and your sofa is only suitable for a cat to sleep on."

Molly bit back a smile. Even in his drowsy state, his criticising skills were working perfectly.

"Oh. You don't want to because it's one of those intimate things?" Sherlock asked.

"Yes."

They remained silent for the next few minutes and Molly thought that he had fallen asleep. She was just about to let go out his hand when he mumbled her name again.

"What is it, Sherlock?"

"You smell like vanilla. I hope you have another shampoo I can use, Molly. I don't fancy smelling like vanilla tomorrow."

"I think I have a mint scented one."

"Good."

Molly laughed softly. Drowsy Sherlock was the funniest thing she had ever seen. Her heart swelled when she saw that he had finally fallen asleep, his chest rising and falling gently. He looked so innocent and angelic when rest claimed him.

She brushed a few stray curls away from his face before giving him a tender kiss on his forehead. Hoping that he would not be haunted by anymore nightmares tonight, Molly turned off the lights and closed the bedroom door softly.

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