A/N: Only one more chapter after this one, folks. Thanks again for all the favorites and reviews! So glad you're still enjoying the story!
Round Four – Never Piss Off A Cat Owner
He didn't return to her flat until after his shooting. Molly had been so furious with him for the drug use (it had truly been for the case, Magnussen was far too wily to be taken in by Sherlock faking it) and the Janine Tabloid Revenge Scheme (Molly had very coolly told him it served him right to be back in the press's sights for pulling such a heartless stunt on the other woman), that he hadn't dared. But once he was healed enough to leave the hospital legally, hers was the first place he went.
Meat Dagger was long gone by then, the engagement broken by Molly as she finally realized that Tom was nothing but a boring idiot with boring friends and equally boring parents (even his dog was boring; he'd actually named the beagle 'Spot' which really should have been a warning sign for Molly from the get-go) and had nothing to offer her but a boring life of pubs, telly, walking the dog in the park…dull, dull, so incredibly dull. Besides, Sherlock thought smugly as he approached the front door to Molly's building, Toby would never put up with another pet. Which was undoubtedly why Tom and 'Spot' had never moved in even after Molly had accepted the marriage proposal.
The Magnussen case was even more complicated now with Mary's secret on the line (and John still struggling to deal with her unknown past even now, three months later), and Sherlock needed someplace far away from Baker Street and his temporary flatmate's incessant pacing to spend some quality time in his Mind Palace. Molly would have the telly on low or be listening to classical music if she was on her laptop, and Sherlock could rest his head in her lap and vanish into his own mind for as long as necessary.
As soon as he entered the flat, he realized two things: One, he should have let Molly know he was coming, and Two, Toby was ready for war. The cat was sprawled across Molly's lap like he owned it (Sherlock refused to acknowledge said ownership, even if he did generally subscribe to the 'possession is nine-tenths of the law' theory), his green-blue eyes narrowed to slits as if daring Sherlock to try something.
Molly's expression wasn't much friendlier. She looked him up and down, her fingers continuing to stroke the fur on Toby's head as she said, "I want those keys, Sherlock. Now." She held up her free hand and waited.
He walked over to her, fighting the urge to duck his head and shuffle his feet like an errant school-boy caught out by the Headmistress as he plucked the requested items from his jacket pocket and dropped them into her hand without a single murmur of protest. Then he waited, because clearly she had more to say to him; the set of her shoulders and the compression of her lips told him as much.
"Sherlock, I'm glad you've fully recovered from being shot, you know that, right?" He nodded; how could he not know that, after she'd spent so much time by his side when he was lying in his hospital bed, barely conscious but always aware of her presence?
"Good," she went on, and he braced himself, because this was the part he knew he wasn't going to like but undoubtedly deserved. "I hope you believe me when I say this, because I'm only going to say it once." He met her gaze squarely and inclined his head to indicate that he was listening. "You can use my flat only if you're clean, and only if you promise never to pull a stunt like that again. I don't care how important the case is, I want your word that you'll never ever do drugs or fake a relationship with someone again. Is that clear?"
He nodded, cleared his throat, and answered her. "Crystal. And I do give my word, Molly."
Without meaning it, his gaze darted toward her lap and the smug feline currently occupying that position. Molly's eyes were still lacking their usual warmth, but it was clear she understood exactly what he was asking. But then, that was just how Molly was; she always knew.
For a few seconds he thought she was going to deny him, to send him on his way and leave Toby where he was; then she sighed and lifted Toby from her lap, depositing the disgruntled cat gently onto the floor before patting the sofa next to her in the invitation Sherlock had been craving. "Come on, I can tell you need a good head rub and some thinking time. Is there any point to me asking why John Watson is staying at your flat right now?"
He shook his head, toed off his shoes and dropped his coat on the floor, smirking a bit when it narrowly missed Toby's nose – but careful not to let Molly see him do so. One sign that he was more interested in his victory over the cat than he was in accepting her offer as the gracious concession it was and he would find himself on the other side of the flat's door.
Toby, of course, had no such compunctions; the little beast gave his usual hiss of disapproval and vanished into the kitchen as Molly turned on the telly, volume down low, and waited for Sherlock to maneuver himself into position. He wished he could talk to Molly about John and Mary's situation, he really did, but it wasn't his secret to tell, even to someone as trustworthy as Molly Hooper. "They're having some marital issues, but I'm confident they'll work things out," he finally said, offering her what little he could tell and repressing a sigh of contentment as Molly's fingers began to work their usual magic on his scalp.
This round definitely belonged to Sherlock Holmes, and not just because Molly herself had exiled her spoiled pet. No, it was as much because it signaled the end of the tension that had sprung up between the two humans after that humiliating slapping session (he deserved every blow, no question of that) at St. Bart's.
He just wished he could figure out the right way to broach the question of Molly's romantic availability now that she and Meat Dagger had been over for nearly four months. Yes, he was Sherlock Holmes and he didn't do romance or sentiment, had long believed love to be a four-letter word in the foulest sense…but he was also reluctantly beginning to understand that he felt more for Molly than simple friendship.
Once the Magnussen case was concluded, he would find a way. He couldn't start something in the middle of so pressing a case, while John and Mary were on the outs and while Mary's secret was in danger of exposure to her enemies, but as soon as everything was taken care of, it would be his first priority.