A/N: I took ages I know, it felt like life-times rolled past me by the time I finally wrote this. Blame my inner narrator for being a wonderful git. You've all been wonderful, with your comments, your follows and what-not. I hope this is a reward for your patience, since it was a torture to write. Well - enjoy.

She coloured, doubted - as her nails clung to her cheeks staring horrified at the scene before her. Tables were being overturned, guests were throwing themselves out of the way, food was being wasted on the otherwise immaculate carpet and Molly felt a twinge of want for her now toppled glass of wine.

Two men, or well one man was fighting for her – the other was swerving elegantly out of the way, despite being somewhat caught off guard by the fist that connected to his cheekbone the minute prior. It was one of the oddest things to see Peter hurling his fists brutally towards the much taller Sherlock, who seemed to be amused, despite it all. Peter threw some conveniently placed grins every time he managed a hit, as if it was an occasion to be proud of.

Sherlock however was trying to spew out reason to the man, his hands gesturing quite pointedly at Peter, who seemed even more maddened by his attempts at a truce. He was perhaps the better man, but he wasn't less of an idiot. The entire evening had been spent with him blatantly convinced that he had triumphed, but Molly saw herself as no trophy in particular to be won.

She had expected some ruckus – not shattered glass and blood stained tablecloths. Though when wasn't something involving Sherlock Holmes not chaotic? It didn't help that none of the guests dared to meddle, only giving to shout once in a while, as she already did – half-shrieking for Peter to stop. The staff were only trying to avoid the men breaking more glass, but hadn't really considered the chairs. It was the first and last time that Molly ever saw a chair being thrown at a man.

When she thought things couldn't get any worse, considering torn dress jackets and bloodied shirts – James came sprinting in acting a right fool, still sporting a bloody nose – only to find himself thrown aside by Peter – who in a rage was clearly much stronger than any of them. This was the downside with being quite pale and thin apparently. Luckily the police ran in not long after, and grabbed Peter who kicked and screamed as he was taken to the outside. Clapping ensued after that causing Molly to raise her brows, as she didn't quite understand what was impressive with this – Sherlock was however still standing, even if he looked a bit peaky. James took to hold him up, and they got out of the restaurant with her shuffling nervously after them avoiding any of the other guest's eyes.

James gave him a worried look, too worried for his taste, and he soon shrugged him off. He stood if not a bit uneasily, narrowing his eyes at the two policemen who instantly recognised him. By the look of them, he certainly wasn't their favourite, and considering the lack of nicotine in one of them – they were itching to detain him too. They seemed to rethink this, as Peter kept struggling against his binds.

"What do you want us to do, miss?" asked one of them. "We're sure to take him in, if you want, but we'll release him if you don't feel he was the one to blame here." He sent Sherlock a grim look.

Peter was quiet now, looking at her expectantly. With a sharp intake of breath she seemed much more tempted to run off than anything, but she stood her ground when Peter finally breached the silence, "That idiot just sat there making a laughingstock out of me."

She pursed her lips, glancing at Sherlock with two bright brown eyes, before she gave Peter a sharp look, "Sherlock – well – he - does that to everyone."

The policemen gave to chuckle, and the other who held Peter soon started to lead him away to the car. Molly just gave them a sheepish look, taking more interest in her mobile phone all of a sudden, than her ex being carted off by the police.

Her attentions were soon drawn, when Peter half-shouted, "You're really going to choose that git, are you? I shouldn't have wasted any of my bloody time with you."

Sherlock smirked, as he saw the rather raw look in her face. It was a similar expression to when she finally threw him out of Bart's. Molly gave a little dry laugh at first, blinking furiously at him, before saying in a cold sweet voice, "You'll have to phone up Jane, then. You can use up all her time, but I think she might be better off. Please take him away officers."

She turned on her heel rather smugly, but her brown eyes were directed worryingly towards James. Sherlock wondered if she was confused, for they did both wear the exact same clothes, but he knew her sight was splendid. He took to glare at the man who was receiving a much fonder look than he was.

Molly seemed quite confident until the words "Bitch," slipped out of Peter's mouth.

In the span of seconds, she wheeled around, her brown hair whipping about giving Peter the broadest grin he had ever seen, before Molly kneed him.

Peter would have keeled over hadn't the policeman still held him up. Both policemen just gave a minor shrug, as Sherlock said "I think she spoke rather eloquently of her feelings on the subject officers – I suggest you take him away."

Her knee did hurt, just a little, it felt much more present than usual, and as she wandered to where James and Sherlock stood she certainly felt lighter. The police soon drove off with Peter, and she stood wide-eyed before the two duplicates in front of her. Sherlock, being the original of the pair was staring at her intently, his blue eyes seeming mildly confused, as she gave all her attentions to James who was holding onto his bloody nose.

"Are you OK?" she asked, putting a tender hand on his shoulder, which caused James to give her a brief nod.

"I'm quite used to it - dressing up as Sherlock has gotten me into some trouble before really, but I'll be fine. He hasn't broken it at least – just a wee bit unsettled that's all -," said James receiving Sherlock's scowl, before awkwardly adding, "Well - I'm off - then – got – err – things to do – good to see you Molly – hopefully I won't be seeing any of your exes again."

"You won't," she promised, as she gave him a quick hug.

James proceeded to nod at Sherlock, "I'll see you, when you need me next then – hopefully not any time soon," and with a knowing look he disappeared down the streets without further ado.

Molly rummaged in her bag, finding none of her things forgotten, including her keys – gave to straightening her coat, before catching his blue eyes boring into her face. She gave him an innocent look in return before saying rather determined, "I better go too."

She started to walk, her heels clicking on the rather wet pavement, but she could distinctively hear him following her. Molly stopped abruptly glowering at him, "What?"

"Considering the evening's events – I would expect less coldness, especially from you Molly."

"You're expecting a nurse then?"

Words seemed to fail him, an unusual position for her, to find herself looking up at the otherwise brilliant man who seemed rather confused by her anger.

"Can't say anything – right – right – I'll just leave you to it then," she said stretching out her hand to hail a taxi.

Nothing he was going to say would convince her to stay.

He was certainly not going to manage to get into her flat any time soon.

And she was certainly not having dinner – or any sort of arrangement with the confident idiot.

He was so convinced she'd drop everything for him without a second's hesitation.

It was astonishing that he wasn't clever enough to see where he'd gone wrong – this was evidently one of his faults.

Sherlock had most likely anticipated being injured, and more than that – probably hoped for her to take care of him.

When the taxi took to stop, she opened the door without a second thought, and not considering saying goodbye – when she heard him colliding with the pavement - that quickly changed her mind.

Don't come home – SH

I'm at Mary's – JW

Reconciled? - SH

Oh yes – JW

Sherlock opened his eyes abruptly recognising the surroundings instantly, as it was indeed his bedroom. He couldn't quite remember how he'd gotten there, things were a certain blur really, and he felt certain body-parts in a very discomforting way. Moaning, as he remembered Peter, and how long it took the man to hit him. He had expected that. Short men with quick tempers, but Peter had waited so long – that when it came he was caught unaware already having a rather victorious speech with Molly. She however seemed not so happy with this, at the point of behaving as if he had given every blow himself.

The bedroom door creaked open, and in she came. Sherlock took to shut his eyes – hearing sounds of ice, the medical kit, and a cloth being dipped in a bowl of water.

"I know you're awake," she said, and he opened his eyes – finding her sitting on his bed. This wasn't exactly the scenario he had imagined when she would be in his room.

"Apparently," he retorted giving a bit of a cough, as his mouth tasted of blood. She just smiled taking to wring the cloth she'd dipped in water.

"It took some time to get you here, you were rather out of it – I thought for a moment you were pretending – but you didn't even wake up when Mrs Hudson and I managed to accidentally drop you on the steps - sorry about that," she said not seeming whatsoever miserable, as her mouth quirked upwards on the idea.

"John's not home then?" he asked.

"No, he's out at Mary's. She's not mad at him any longer – not that she could ever really be cross at him."

"Unlike you."

Molly frowned, as she slowly brought the wet cloth to his face. She halted a bit, before she carefully attended to his brow – with a curious expression on her face.

"I don't need a nurse," he said sounding much more gruff than intended.

"I know you don't, but John's not here," she said dipping the cloth back into the water.

"Mrs Hudson?"

"She's busy."

"Ah."

Molly looked into the medical kit, fetching out a compress, holding it in her hands for a moment, "You haven't got a concussion at least."

"No, I remember everything quite fine."

"Yet you still managed to – faint."

"I did not faint."

"There's nothing wrong with fainting Sherlock – considering how Peter kept hitting you, I'm surprised you weren't out earlier, really."

"Would you have left James to take care of me, then?"

Molly chewed on her bottom lip, "No, I wouldn't. He's an actor. Wouldn't be much help in this case." She slowly brought the compress to his face, giving to smile, as he annoyed groaned.

"You don't need to do this," he said giving to flinch a bit, as he touched his face gingerly pressing his lips together on the odd sensation.

"Stop touching yourself-," started Molly, who then bit her lip – shutting her eyes for a moment, as she turned crimson.

He raised a brow at her, eyeing the cold compress in her hands, "Err – well – you should have more laying about here, but there's only one – I've made these at least-," she gestured to some cloth wrapped around ice. "He did hit you in the stomach, quite a few times – err – sorry."

"You don't need to apologise."

She gave no answer to that, giving to breathe rather deeply there she sat on his bed, "You could have fought back, you know," she said rather softly, looking at the compress in her hands. "It was rather stupid of you to take his punches."

"John is usually the wrangler," he said with a smile, which admittedly hurt his cheeks, "He's not as attentive either. But – I am in no medical danger Molly."

"You're right – shall I just go home then, then?" she said standing up from the bed questioningly, while he pouted when the compress just lay flatly on his forehead.

She sat down on the bed again, picking up the compress, and pressing it upon his cheek gently. His blue eyes darted about where her hands attended to him, sweeping the compress from his cheek, to his brow, ending at his chin, as she gently tried to give relief to his features.

Her brown warm eyes looked worryingly into his face, "There's going to be some bruising."

He scoffed, as she gave him a look.

Molly stopped her attentions to his face all of a sudden, and he furrowed his brows in return, "Didn't John hit you when you came back?" she asked gingerly.

He didn't reply.

"Does it hurt?"

He narrowed his eyes, taking to answer slowly, "Yes."

"Good," she quipped.

"You're happy he hit me then?"

"Well – you certainly weren't surprised he did."

"No, I was surprised he hadn't done it sooner."

She laughed, "You deserved it."

"I suppose it isn't because I offended him – that I deserved it, then – since you're smiling in that manner."

"That too, but I haven't seen a man so convinced I'd sleep with him." He furrowed his brows at her, "Yes – you."

"You are sitting on my bed."

Molly rolled her eyes, "Sherlock – really – after all you've done – it's a surprise I didn't slap you myself."

"I think that would have hurt less."

"Exactly."

"Didn't stop you from hitting Peter."

Her brows knitted at this, "He – err – well – I'm not proud of it."

He raised a brow.

"OK – I'm a bit proud of it – at least he got that I don't want to get back together with him. I suppose you're going to tell me off for my horrible taste in men."

"How could you even consider me pointing out the flaws of your taste in the opposite sex?"

"Right," she said doubtfully, "Don't date - that's what you told me once, and I was about to have a lunch-date too."

"I hope I didn't ruin your evening."

"You never ruin my evening Sherlock – or – well – you did tonight, but I expected that."

"Luring me under false pretences Molly," he said tutting now, "Dinner with Peter – I am sorry to say that it did not gain the response I'm sure you wanted."

"Says the man who showed up."

"I was barely intrigued. I knew you wanted me to appear, so I materialized for your sake. You seemed very bored – I hate leaving anyone bored."

"Well – your tricks kept everyone entertained. I don't think there was one bored person present, really."

"You sound pleased."

"I'm not, Sherlock – you could have ended that dispute much faster than you did, but you didn't."

"I am not happy about the end-result if it is any comfort."

"How's that?"

"You are mad - it's not very difficult to deduce, but I have the rest of the evening to repay you."

"How are you going to do that exactly? I'm the one taking care of you, and I hadn't thought of staying that long really."

"You hadn't?"

"No."

"Ah."

"What? Do you want me to?"

"If you wouldn't be against it - I might need something."

She looked at him doubtfully, "Coffee?"

"No, not exactly, but considering my state – it is rather unprofessional of you to leave me."

"You're much more alive than my regular patients. Bearing that in mind - I think you'll live."

Neither said anything, but she didn't leave either, still pressing the compress to his face gently, "I can – yes - I'll sneak off to – oh - maybe not John's bedroom - since I'm sure Mary visits."

"Yes - she does," said Sherlock scowling at the thought, "You can sleep in the bed."

"What bed? Is there a guest-room?"

"You're sitting on it."

"Oh – no - I can take the sofa."

"It's not as comfortable as the bed."

"Yes, but I don't want you to sleep on the sofa."

"I didn't intend to."

"So – we're both going to sleep on the bed?"

"It was the idea, yes. The sofa isn't as spacious really. I don't feel compelled to move from the spot, and you do need a decent night's sleep. The sofa won't do in that case."

"Oh," she said feeling not at all tired.

"Don't be so alarmed."

"I'm not alarmed."

"You look alarmed."

"I'm not – I just – I can sleep on the sofa – it's really not a problem."

"Is it a problem to sleep in the same bed as me?"

"Sherlock," she snapped, dropping the compress from his face, tossing it onto the bed, "I'm not going to argue with you about this."

"Well - if you were to agree with me it would certainly make the situation easier," he spat rather heatedly.

"I'm not sleeping with you," she retorted sweeping some hair from her face.

"I am just offering you my bed."

"Yes - with you in it."

"Problem?"

"No, it's no problem," she said, her eyes downcast, as she picked up the compress again. Molly let it sit in her hands, eyes flickering to his shirt, and he knew what was racking her brains at this point.

She cleared her throat, "Err – could you unbutton your shirt?"

Her hands gestured wildly to his front, and she seemed to be edging away from him.

Shuffling uneasily on the spot, her thighs unintentionally being shown, as her dress got pulled up in an upward direction. His eyes followed her crossed legs, but she took no note – as she was averting his gaze.

"I know you're quite able to do it Sherlock," she said sounding rather exasperated.

He gave a quick smile, which she didn't notice,

"It's not visible above the collar," he said trying to sound irritated by the idea.

She looked at him expectantly, "Fine," he snapped, his fingers peeling every button open, but painstakingly slow.

He could see that he was having an effect on her, for her eyes darted above his head, fixed suddenly on his wall, and his expert hands deftly swept the shirt open wide.

Molly cleared her throat again, flush creeping slowly into her face and chest, as her eyes landed on his torso fleetingly, "Oh – well – it's not that bad – just a bit bad, really." He laughed at her observation.

He's still unconscious – M

Leave him. John will sort him out in the morning – MM

He might have a concussion – M

So how much do you want to stay? – MM

Shut up – M

It was nothing short of difficult to get him back to Baker Street, despite the extra helpful hands she got from the cabbie or Mrs Hudson. Sherlock was entirely out, resting in her lap in the back of the taxi, taking up all of the space, and she could only imagine the situation if he had been awake. Of course she didn't need to stroke his hair away from his face, but she felt compelled to nonetheless. He looked terribly innocent there he lay, no ridiculous statements being given and just looking the air of virtue. Had he been awake, the circumstances would have been different, and she might have gotten home – angrily eating the insides of her fridge. When she finally got him upstairs, ushering Mrs Hudson away, as the landlady did have a dinner arrangement with someone – she found herself positively hating the attractive man, wondering if she should just let him be. The fact that John was nowhere to be seen wasn't very helpful either, and she had brought him there under the pretence that his friend would be the one who'd help him.

Now he'd woken up, his shirt unfurled and beaten up torso on display for her to see. She quietly took the cloth to his chest, "Where does it feel worse?" she asked stroking him with the cloth first, trying not to look in his face.

He gives no answer, "Or – maybe it'll heal on it's own, then," she said taking to fold his shirt shut, but he stopped her hands with his.

His warm hands on her cold ones, "I think I might need to change, don't you agree? Sleeping with a blood stained shirt isn't my idea of hygienic."

Molly stared at her hands, recovering quickly, as she pulled herself away rapidly taking to rummaging through his closet.

Everything was neatly folded, clothes hung perfectly coordinated – if there was one place he was organised it was his closet. The rest of his flat was disputable. She assumed that the people who were to blame for it being acceptable where John and Mrs Hudson.

Molly reached for a fine black shirt on a hanger, when she suddenly felt his breath on her neck. He stood suddenly hovering right behind her, the proximity alarming, as he murmured in her ear, "I'm not going out Molly – you don't need to dress me up." Sherlock had obviously regained some strength, enough to try to change his clothes.

She swallowed, eyes shutting for a moment, as she felt the heat from him, "Are you saying you wear pyjamas? I have a hard time believing that," she quipped giving a bit of a laugh now, which ended quite half-heartedly - the room turning even more silent due to it.

Molly felt his breath on her neck now, as he replied, "I don't."

There is no nervousness in his body, just fluent movement as he set the hanger back inside, but he does not move from behind her. She does not move either, eyes dancing from side to side, slightly unsure what to do, but she jokes, "I hope you've considered the fact that I am going to be in bed with you, then?"

"I have," he whispered.

She fixed her gaze on the shirts, there are blacks, there are purples – every single piece a statement – trying to cool her mind, before she said, "And?"

The warmth from him pressing against her back disappears, he walked away again, and she wheeled around to face him. He lay down on the bed with a slight groan, as if the soft cushions were torture to his pale bruised skin.

"I'll make something to eat. You've got something in the fridge," she tried to say casually.

"I do, but I suggest you order in nonetheless," he said coolly not looking at her, as he slipped off his shirt with furrowed brows. It was evident that despite standing on his feet he was still in pain.

She exited the room hurriedly stepping into the kitchen, ignoring the mess, and just prodding into the fridge. Molly shut the door hurriedly, as he was right – it was bare, except some few body-parts (that he'd obviously nicked from her). No, wonder they always ate out really.

There was a menu on the fridge, some Chinese restaurant nearby, and she felt tempted by the look of the kitchen to ask him to go out with her, but she reasoned she could quickly tidy it up beforehand. Considering his state it would be better if they stayed in the flat, and he might not even leave the bed.

She fetched her phone from her bag, ringing them up, as his "regular's" where already circled around on the menu itself.

"Yes, a number 24 and a 17 – yes, and some drinks – It is for 221b Baker Street – oh, it's free? Well, that's nice, I'll be sure to tell him-," she said with the phone pressed to her ear, as the bedroom door slammed open and Sherlock appeared wearing just a sheet looking disgruntled, before disappearing into the bathroom.

Molly raised her brows at the antics, "How long? – Oh – twenty minutes – OK – well, see you then." She hung up staring at the bathroom door wondering what on earth she was doing there.

It was going to be a long night.