Chapter 5: Wondering

In the morning, Molly woke up and found herself balanced on the very edge of the bed, as far away from Sherlock as she could get. It appeared that even in her unconscious state she had recognized the importance of keeping her distance. Rolling over so that she wouldn't fall off the bed, she suddenly found herself face to face with Sherlock, whose eyes were open and looking at her.

"Oh! Sherlock, I-"

"Shh," he interrupted. He stared into her eyes for a few more minutes. Molly quickly grew flustered.

"What are you doing?"

His intense gaze softened a bit, and he flopped over onto his back. "It was an experiment."

"On?"

"Myself." He glanced over at her. "I was observing my emotional and physical reaction to waking up with a member of the opposite sex in the bed."

"And?"

"I'm not sure yet. I'll let you know."

…

The next few days were full of Sherlock Holmes and his special kind of madness mixed with brilliance. It made Molly's head spin. How did John manage to live with the man for years? When she thought of John, a pang went through her heart. He had locked himself in 221B Baker Street after the funeral and wouldn't see anyone. When she had spoken to Mrs. Hudson, the old woman had sounded increasingly worried. John wouldn't eat, wouldn't sleep, wouldn't even speak. Molly's guilt was weighing down on her like thousands of pounds of fake dead Sherlocks.

She was distracted at home though. Sherlock had confined himself to her flat and was quickly growing bored. She had come home one day to find him upside down on the couch smoking and burning one of her newspapers. After that, she had started bringing him home supplies for little experiments. She had quickly given him rules when she found eyeballs in the refrigerator. Body parts in the kitchen was where she drew the line.

"Where else am I supposed to keep them?"

"No, Sherlock." She had put her foot down and did not intend to give in.

The next surprise came when he started leaving his clothes in her bedroom. He usually kept himself so wrapped up, Molly couldn't get used to the sight of him in just his trousers and button-down. She promised to go buy him a pair of pajamas and a dressing gown.

The pajamas led to sleeping, which was another cause for bewilderment. He was still sleeping in her bed. And every morning, Molly would roll over to find his face inches from hers. She always held perfectly still until he was finished with his little experiment and got up to make coffee. She no longer got flustered, but she still wondered about the results of his self-analysis.

Yes, between experiments, pajamas, coffee and sharing a bed, Sherlock had become a fixture in Molly's life. She was used to his presence and even enjoyed it sometimes, when he wasn't driving her absolutely mad. She was coming to appreciate the impressive patience of John Watson.

She was getting used to the little ways Sherlock showed affection too. He left her coffee on the table, or made her toast every morning. He asked her about her day. He gave observations on the cause of death of each of the corpses she was left in charge of. He cut back on calling her an idiot. He was almost civil, as long as she didn't mention John. If she did, he was sullen and grumpy, making a point of putting severed fingers in the fridge. So she didn't mention John.

…

Thursday night, Molly decided to take off work on Friday. She needed a day to herself. So she hunted down her boss and asked for the day. He gladly gave it to her. That evening, she arrived after work to find Sherlock sitting on the couch, staring off into space. Mind Palace. She could recognize the signs by then. She went about making dinner, knowing not to disturb him. Half an hour later, Sherlock slowly returned to himself to see Molly setting two bowls of soup on the table. He got to his feet stiffly and walked over to her, stretching his long limbs. She ignored him until they were both seated.

"How was your day, Sherlock?"

He grunted in reply and started to spoon soup into his mouth.

"Alright, then…I took off work tomorrow so I'll be here all day."

Silence.

At that point, Molly gave up. She finished her soup and retreated to her bedroom. She changed into her usual pajamas, crawled into bed, and fell asleep before Sherlock had gotten up from the table.

Her dreams that night were strange and confused, full of glimpses of a crying John, falling corpses, Sherlock being struck by lightning. She couldn't comprehend anything that was going on around her. She called to John, but he didn't seem to hear her and by the time she had reached the place where he had been, he was sucked away in a tornado of case files. Then the clouds above her opened up and bodies fell, hitting the ground with solid thuds. Spinning around, she ran to avoid being hit by a body. Sherlock appeared in front of her, reaching for her hand. His face was young and vulnerable, his eyes wide with terror. She stretched out a hand to grab him. As soon as her fingertips touched his, though, a bolt of lightning lit up his tall frame and a horrifying scream was torn from his throat. Molly woke up, gasping for air.

She couldn't figure out where she was for a second. Her breath was coming in wheezes and choked sounds. Tears coursed down the sides of her face, seeping into her hair. Her blankets were tangled around her somehow, making it difficult for her to breathe. She pulled at the bindings and let out a faint cry.

Suddenly, two cool hands captured her wrists and forced them to her sides. Her eyes focused on her captor. His ice blue eyes were gazing intently into hers, searching. The blankets were tugged loose, and pulled away from her so that she could get air onto her flushed skin.

"Molly, Molly," Sherlock's low voice came from above her. "Molly, stop fighting me."

It was then that Molly realized that Sherlock's body was pressed against the length of her. His legs pinned hers, stopping her attempts to kick him. His hands were already pinning her arms, preventing her from hitting him. Molly began to recognize the rest of her surroundings. Her darkened bedroom, rain tapping on the window panes, and a small bit of light creeping under the door.

"Shh, shh," he whispered gently. "It's alright."

Molly stopped struggling and went limp. Her sobs were muffled by Sherlock's shoulder as he rolled to the side, staying close to her. Then his forehead pressed against hers, and she felt his breath on her lips. His longs fingers stroked her face, wiping away the tears that she couldn't seem to stop.

"Sh-Sherlock?" she choked out.

"I'm here."

"And you're…alright?"

"Yes."

She felt herself relax. Her breathing came easier and her head cleared. She expected Sherlock to roll away once she calmed down, but to her surprise, his arms crept tentatively around her and held her close. She lay in his arms, afraid to move or say anything lest Sherlock pull away. He was the first to speak again.

"Nightmares." It wasn't a question.

"Yes."

He hesitated. "Do you want to talk about it?"

"No." She shuddered at the thought of revisiting the horrifying dreamscape, even just in memory.

Sherlock nodded and didn't press her, which Molly appreciated. He didn't say anymore and they stayed close together for the rest of the night, watching the morning light creep in.

Author's Note: Wow, long chapter. But I got going and didn't really want to stop. Thanks so much for reading! Don't forget to review…