He'd suffered a brief lapse at some point during John's stag do. Not that he was to blame for that, given that he was 99% sure that John had tampered with his meticulous calculations for alcohol intake. Alcohol made people into idiots – that was established fact - but Sherlock hadn't fully realised the degree to which alcohol could apparently turn people into idiots with urges. He started to have thoughts, the nature of which he was usually able to keep in check, and his body suddenly wanted to do…things. What was most troubling, his drink-addled mind was telling him he wanted to do those things with Molly. Who was engaged to someone else.

Probably a good thing then that he'd thrown up in a stranger's flat and wound up in a police cell.

The next time he had allowed himself to think about it, he was high. Or at least coming down. Moriarty was alive – or so it seemed – and he was in the car, being driven from the airfield with John and Mary, and still coming to terms with the vivid, narcotics-fuelled, Victorian-era dream-slash-hallucination he'd just experienced. As it turned out, he wasn't going to die in some Eastern European hellhole, and apparently he wasn't going to die from this latest lapse in sobriety either.

Perhaps epiphanies really were a thing - and, although it frightened him to consider it, perhaps there was a reason that his unconscious mind had conjured up Molly Hooper in that way. A mantra had been playing in his head on the drive back into London - a war we must lose, a war we must lose – and he realised, to his horror, that he was thinking about Molly in a particular…way. Again.

And when he'd next seen Molly, in the lab – having fully believed that he may never see her again – he had struggled to make eye contact. Which was ridiculous. He had no reason to feel self-conscious; it had been the last, surreal throes of his dying brain – not like he'd had an erotic dream about her. Nope, that would come later (no prurient pun intended).

It was the day of Rosie's christening and he was now officially a godfather, whatever that meant. So far, it mostly seemed to entail repeating meaningless drivel to a vicar, and having his photo taken – repeatedly.

Photos with Rosie.

Photos with John, Mary and Rosie.

Photos with Molly, Mrs Hudson and Rosie.

Photos with all of the above plus vicar and assorted other people who had apparently trekked out to a church in the middle of the countryside to watch an infant being doused with magical water.

Now, sitting on the sofa in John and Mary's living room, Sherlock was aware that things were going on around him. Embroiled in seven different 'conversations' on his phone, covering four different cases, he had tried his best to ignore it – but Mary pulling at a lock of hair above his ear made that rather difficult.

"Oi!" she said. "Shift!"

Sherlock looked up – and then around him. The living room, previously teeming with hordes of tedious, beige christening guests, was suddenly empty.

"Where did everyone go?" he asked, rubbing his scalp.

Mary laughed.

"Home, probably," she replied. "It's after ten-thirty. Now shift!"

He must still have looked puzzled, as John gestured towards the sofa.

"We need to get this made up, mate," he explained. "Molly's staying over."

"If it's really no trouble," he heard Molly's voice pipe up.

Sherlock acknowledged then, that it was indeed dark outside. He must have lost at least three hours – but then he couldn't imagine having missed anything very important. He'd partaken in the post-christening buffet, so unless you counted holding a baby, being drooled on by a baby, talking about babies or drinking sub-par sparkling wine as being important, Sherlock was confident he'd done the right thing.

"Don't you have a guesr room?" he asked, puzzled.

"You're sitting on it," John replied.

"We're a doctor and a nurse living in central London," Mary chimed in. "And until you set John up with a monthly salary and pension scheme for the time he spends keeping your arse out of trouble, we can't afford the luxury of a proper guest room."

Molly has a guest room, Sherlock thought. Probably best not to mention that, though; John looked three seconds away from angry mode.

Sherlock rose from the sofa and removed himself to a safe distance before resuming his text consultations.

"Bit of help, Sherlock?" John asked with a sigh, as he pulled the cushions off the sofa.

With a roll of his eyes, Sherlock pocketed his phone and started to help John with the ludicrously complicated process of converting a sofa into a bed.

"I can just sleep on it as it is, if you like," Molly offered. "I've kipped on plenty of ordinary sofas in the past."

"No, don't be silly, Molls," Mary replied. "It will be good for someone to get some use out of it. Plus, Sherlock's been sitting on those cushions for the best part of half a day – you never know what you might catch."

Sherlock saw Mary wink at Molly. Mary apparently found it endlessly amusing to make him the butt of her infantile jokes. Even the topic of Rosamund's wind was more humorous than that.

"I've slept in much worse places," Molly said brightly. "Bathtubs a couple of times, out on someone's balcony once, the floor of a National Express depot, on a bench in a cemetery…"

Ah, she was tipsy, hence the babbling. When he looked more closely, he saw that she had the pink cheeks to match. But he'd spent most of the day trying not to look more closely - which had been problematic, what with the scoop-neck flower garment and the hair-up-in-a-scarf thingy. Not to mention the three different half-witted christening guests who had assumed Molly was his wife.

"Well, the Lightweight Twins here slept in a police cell," Mary grinned. "So they've got you beat, Molls. I'll get you something to sleep in."

Sherlock snorted quietly to himself. That police cell was palatial luxury compared to some of the overnight accommodation he'd experienced during his exile.

A couple of minutes later, Mary returned with her arms full of bedding, depositing them on the floor beside the bare sofa-bed that John was still trying to wrestle into submission. She picked a pair of grey, star-covered pyjamas off the top of the pile and handed them to Molly. Sherlock was vaguely aware of the various exchanges of 'goodnight' going on around him, before John's voice cut through the white noise.

"Sherlock? Cab?"

"Hm?"

"I said do you want me to call a minicab?" John continued. "Out here in 'the soulless vacuum of the suburbs' as you call it, black cabs don't tend to just magically appear."

Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"No, thank you, John," he replied. "I'm perfectly capable of locating the number of a cab company."

"Suit yourself," John shrugged. "Don't keep Molly up too late."

Moments later, he and Molly were alone. Sherlock perched on the edge of one of the armchairs, scrolling through the latest communications – his battery was low, but he'd take advantage of the Watsons' wi-fi before he left. A quick glance informed him that Molly was pottering around, taking things out and putting things in her bag. She reached up and started to remove the pins and unwind the scarf from her hair, and Sherlock found that he couldn't look away. There was something private about it that almost made him feel like a voyeur. But as Molly shrugged out of her cardigan, he realised that she must at least feel comfortable around him these days – although maybe too comfortable wasn't good? If she was too comfortable, what did that say about their friendship?

"Um, Sherlock," Molly began. "Sorry, I meant to ask Mary if she could unzip me before she went. Could you – I mean, if you could just get it started, I can reach the rest of the way."

If she had caught him staring, she wasn't going to mention it. Still, she was blushing a little.

Sherlock coughed slightly, leaving his phone on the chair as he got to his feet. His hands suddenly felt a degree or two warmer.

Keeping her at arm's length, he waited while Molly lifted her hair from the back of her neck (really, she should have done the dress before the hair) before finding the zip. Suddenly, the assessment of how far he should unzip seemed incredibly important; too far and he would almost certainly encounter the fastenings of an undergarment, not far enough and she wouldn't be able to reach, rendering his help completely unhelpful. He settled on a safe four-and-a-half inches, and stepped back, immediately going back to recover his phone.

"Thank you," Molly said quietly, turning around. "I'm just going to…um, just going to get changed."

The few minutes alone in the living room enabled him to rally and refocus on the case; Lestrade had sent him a toxicology report and a nice set of crime scene photos.

When Molly returned, she was dressed in the slightly-too-long pyjamas and carrying her toothbrush (did she always carry a toothbrush around with her?). She started to assemble the bedding, and while Sherlock's instinct was to offer his assistance (she seemed to be disappearing inside the duvet cover, for one thing) he wasn't sure how either of them would feel about making a bed together. Seemed too domestic, too…something.

"Are you working on anything interesting?" Molly asked over her shoulder.

Sherlock watched her as she arranged the pillows side by side (force of habit, he supposed).

"Gangland thing," he replied. "Friendly neighbourhood crime-lord supposedly died in his sleep, but the tox screen has shown up heroic levels of dimethylmercury. Need to find out how it was administered before beginning the task of narrowing down whom of this charming character's myriad enemies might have had the opportunity."

"Tell Lestrade to check the man's heels for puncture marks, if he hasn't already," Molly replied. "Always the best place to inject someone – difficult to spot, plenty of hard skin, hardly ever leaves an entry wound or tissue inflammation."

Sherlock considered this information. He would have arrived at it himself eventually, but he had to give Molly credit.

"Not going to be easy, though," she continued. "Dimethylmercury can take weeks, even months to take effect. You'll be looking back over a long time-period – loads of people could have had the opportunity to administer it."

She was right, of course. He should probably speak to Lestrade right away, and see if he could meet him at the morgue. But…

"So!" Molly said. "We're godparents now."

When he looked up, she was already under the covers, settling herself down at the side of the bed furthest away from him. Sherlock frowned to himself; he assumed that this statement required a response.

"So it would seem."

"You feel any different?" she asked, smiling.

He narrowed his eyes – it sounded slightly like a trick question.

"How exactly might you expect me to feel, Molly?"

"I dunno," she shrugged. "Happy. Proud. Scared shitless by the responsibility?"

Sherlock felt his mouth quirk into a faint smile.

"As best as I can gather, Molly, my role as godfather is purely a symbolic gesture. John wishes to reinforce his assertion that I am his best friend and worthy of his trust, and Mary wants to bestow on me something that she believes will give me an understanding of adult responsibility, and that will also reassure me that I am not being usurped by their offspring. I highly doubt that either of them actually wishes me to provide Rosamund with moral, spiritual or even practical guidance. Unless they intend to use my entire life as a cautionary tale."

Molly's face broke into a warm smile, as she propped herself up on her elbows.

"But just think how lucky Rosie is," she said. "Not everyone can say that they have the world's only consulting detective for a godfather."

Sherlock couldn't now help but smile, too. Molly certainly saw things from a different angle; most people would not see a close association with him as a covetable thing.

"And a godmother who cuts up dead people for a living," he put in. "Infinitely more useful than my own godmother, a naturist who wrote cat poems and could never accept that it was no longer 1967."

Molly giggled, stretching slightly.

"She sounds like fun."

"Not when you're fourteen."

"Not much is fun when you're fourteen," Molly said, eyebrows raised.

They were both laughing softly, and when Sherlock looked up at her, he suddenly realised the true meaning of the phrase 'come-to-bed-eyes' – even if Molly wasn't aware of what she was doing.

"I'll, ah, I'll let you get some sleep," he said, swallowing hard. He stood up, swiping the unlock button on his phone.

"You know, you could, um, stay too, if you wanted to," Molly said.

Sherlock didn't dare look at her for fear of what she might see.

"I don't mind," she added. "There's plenty of space. We could even top and tail if you like."

Oh god. Why, coming from Molly, did the perfectly innocent rationalisation of bed-space now sound like some sort of exotic sex position?

"The chair works for me," he blurted. "I'm going to call Lestrade."

"Oh," Molly replied, definitely looking at him with slight concern. "Okay. 'Night, Sherlock."

"Goodnight, Molly," he managed to reply – in a reasonably even tone, he thought - before heading at pace for the sanctuary of the Watsons' backyard.

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Sherlock woke up, but opened his eyes only a fraction.

He was used to assessing strange surroundings within a matter of seconds; it was an essential survival tool, especially when one has been drugged or coshed or otherwise incapacitated, and is just regaining consciousness. Although, apparently, this time it was just plain old, tedious sleep.

The degree of darkness suggested, for the time of year, that it was close to 6am. He was surrounded by a plethora of unfamiliar scents – mild washing powder, several food aromas, possibly stale milk – but also some he recognized. Fruit-scented body-wash, a light floral perfume, skin cleanser.

He was, it seemed, face down on a bed that was not his. And in the dim half-light, he realised he was not alone.

The rest of his assessment happened rapidly, but didn't help him to make any sense of his situation. He was lying beside a sleeping Molly Hooper who, although facing him, was mercifully still asleep. Mercifully for a couple of reasons: one, because his arm had somehow, at some stage, breached the small distance between them during the night and his hand had taken up residence on Molly's hip; and two – Sherlock realised with mortification that although he was still half asleep, certain parts of his anatomy were very much awake and apparently ready for action.

At least he could do something about the hand.

Carefully, he lifted his arm away, pulling it back towards himself like one would reign in a wayward child. Not so easy to resolve the uncomfortably-tight trouser situation. He didn't want to think too closely about what it might mean; he was beyond the age where morning erections were a daily inconvenience, so the timing seemed grossly unfair. Just a physiological aberration, most likely; the change of surroundings, an overly-tired brain, or just the effect of his body's unusual circadian rhythms.

It wasn't as though he'd never spent a night in the same bed as someone else – he and John had been thrown together on several occasions, including the godforsaken stag do. Certainly had no problem keeping things in check then.

He'd even shared a bed with Molly – although at the time they were having a standoff over rights to her bed, and she wasn't exactly well-disposed towards him. And back then, he hadn't been so aware of some of her…qualities. The gentle curves, the soft skin, the smiling eyes, the laugh that increasingly made him want to do everything within his power to make her happy. In short, the things that these days seemed to want to make his subconscious snuggle Molly Hooper.

Sherlock turned slightly on the bed, glanced down at himself - nope, there was no hiding that.

Go away!

As Molly stirred slightly, he suddenly experienced a flash of terror, wondering whether he had in fact been addressing his crotch out loud.

She stilled again, so…apparently not.

He sighed, screwing up his eyes before opening them again. Watching Molly while she slept probably wasn't going to help his current unfortunate predicament, but seeing her at peace like this brought such a warmth to his chest that it made him wonder whether it was possible he could be wrong - that perhaps this scene, this situation was…right.

Sentiment.

His judgement was being clouded by sentiment – and probably by what was currently going on 'south of the border', too (which was nothing but base physiology).

But whatever the reasons, Molly could not wake up and find him there.

Sherlock raised himself off the bed and into a standing position almost in one movement, thus minimising the impact made on the mattress. He silently retrieved his shoes from beside the coffee table (when did he take them off?) and scooped up his jacket, straightening his shirt as he moved with stealth towards the front door. It was going to work - he was going to leave undetected, and get back to unravelling the truth behind his moderately interesting gangland hit.

Then he made the mistake of looking back at Molly - and suddenly his triumphantly stealthy departure now seemed somehow dishonest, shameful.

At that moment, his phone buzzed a text alert from Lestrade. Sherlock scrolled through the message and then flicked to the dial pad.

Oh well - at the very least, a conversation with Gavin was guaranteed to eliminate any residual problems in the trouser area.

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Apologies if Sherlock's 'morning glory' problem descended into a slightly silly farce by the end! :-D