To be honest, I believe this story has something to do more with Sherlock than Rosie because I've finally thought of a path for this story. Hope you enjoy the slight change :) It will also be called Saving Sherlock as that is more fitting. The second part of this chapter is after the events of Sunday's episode, The Lying Detective so there are spoilers, to warn you.

He had to be sure. No one just ended up in bed together after being intoxicated, did they?

"Molly... Did we?"

Sherlock was now clean, sipping on another cup of tea as Molly rummaged through her work bag.

Molly halted in her actions, running a nervous hand through her still wet hair. "I don't... I honestly do not remember."

That didn't make Sherlock feel any less confused but he stayed silent afterwards, finishing his tea.

"Do you think John's alright? And Rosie?" She asked, putting her makeup set back into her bag.

"I'm sure that they are quite alright," Sherlock replied not too afterwards.

He washed his cup and placed it in the dish rack, drying his hands. "I really do not believe that he's forgiven me."

Molly didn't know what to say so she just grabbed her phone and ordered a pizza for them both. If he was staying, that is but she did so in case.

When she cancelled the call, she nervously took a glance at Sherlock's stoic stance in front of her small kitchen sink. She could see his hands whitening as he increased the grip of pressure by the side of the counter that the sink laid on.

"Are you all right?"

"To be honest, Hooper... I don't even know what being 'all right' is at the moment," Sherlock replied lowly as he slipped his long coat on and tied his scarf around his neck. "Thank you. For the teas."

Molly nodded and led him to her front door, giving him a small smile as he walked out. "For what it's worth... If we did do that, if either of us remember doing it or not... then I enjoyed it regardless."

She just had to say it. She ignored the reddening of her cheeks as her blood rushed to fill those spots in embarrassment.

Sherlock didn't face her but a smirk played on his lips as he walked away from her flat building to hail for a taxi.

You stupid girl, Molly!, she thought, going back inside her home and closing the door behind her. You stupid girl.

...

Mrs Hudson was not surprised when she saw Sherlock waltz in after being twenty-odd hours away from home. She simply made him a meal of brunch and went about her usual activities, laughing loudly on the phone as her friend told her a hilarious story.

Sherlock could hear the story. It wasn't all that hilarious, to be honest.

What are the chances of bumping into a man and having him stay at the same exquisite hotel with you in a lavish place as Hawaii? And the fact that the hotel is only known to an exclusive few. Wow... Hilarious, indeed.

Sherlock tried not to act that way. Rude, he meant. He was bored. No interesting cases came up, the increasingly chances of adultery amongst couples not surprising him at all no longer.

He needed a thrill. Molly was Molly... She wasn't much of a thrill but her company was much appreciated lately. Giving him discreet bits of information of Rosie's well doings. Not much of John's but he knew about it anyway. He always knew.

Rubbing his face, he picked his phone up and set about moving his plan in action.

This is for you, Mary. I seriously hope you appreciate this, Sherlock found himself thinking but this wasn't for Mary. No, not all. This wasn't for her daughter either, although he adored the strange little human.

No. Mary Watson (nee Morstan) was bloody clever.

Sherlock laughed at the realisation. "You really did love him, didn't you?" He spoke into the air.

"Sherlock?! Are you all right? Who are you talking to?" He heard the landlady call out, confused.

"None of your concern, Mrs Hudson. Thank you for the eggs!" He called back, rolling his eyes.

He was relieved to hear no reply nor comeback and continued to make arrangements on his phone, his eyes wafting to a certain box in a certain place.

That. Was the thrill.

...

It had been two months.

Culverton Smith, the philanthropist who couldn't stop confessing had been put on trial, Sherlock being their obvious witness as the victim of attempted murder.

John scoffed in disbelief as he reread the newspaper in his favourite armchair in his old favourite place.

"Still can't believe that you and technically my dead wife, plotted all this just for my attention."

Sherlock opened his eyes, bloodshot from the incapability to stop using and gave his friend a knowing smirk.

"Do you still see her?"

John gripped the sides of the newspaper. "She comes and goes. Mainly to remind me to check on Rosie for her ever since the meningitis."

"I see her. Calling me a 'bloody know-it-all' every time I solve a mediocre case." Sherlock replied, rubbing his face. "You'll be late, you know?"

"Sorry?" John asked, glancing at his wristwatch before jumping up in surprise. "My appointment."

"Yes, give her my regards," Sherlock said, standing up and making himself a cup of tea in his small kitchen space that he had left.

John slowly stood up, his eyes warily scanning Sherlock. "You've finished all this, you know? Why can't you stop using?"

"The thrill's not enough, John..."

John hesitated. "How about I bring Rosie over, hmm? She's all better and I'm sure she would love to see you-"

"If she hasn't forgotten me already." Sherlock sighed, sipping his tea.

His best friend stayed silent, slipping his coat on and stuffing his hands in his pockets. "We'll be here around 6."

"My schedule's always free." Sherlock gave a smile, hearing his friend's steps become quieter as he left.

He was surprised to hear the doorbell and rolled his eyes, going to answer it before the landlady even stepped foot out of her door.

"Don't tell me you've forgot-"

It wasn't John Watson who stood behind the door. No, this was Molly Hooper with a nervous smile playing on her lips.

"May I come in?"

Sherlock gestured her in, his tea continuing to touch his lips as he trekked back up the stairs, Molly closing the front door.

"To whom do I owe the pleasure?" Sherlock said dramatically, making Molly sigh at his state.

"You really ought to stop using, you know? It will kill you."

Sherlock chuckled. "That's what John and Mrs Hudson say. Yet, here I am!"

"No... Sherlock, you must stop."

Sherlock noticed something about her.

The looks, the slightly baggier clothing, the nervous biting of the lips but all that came up were question marks so he waved them off, Molly giving him disinterested looks.

"Who are you to order me to stop?"

Molly gasped silently, shocked that he even asked the question. Flustered, she began to answer him. "I am not your parent, nor am I Mycroft or John but I will tell you this... I am ordering you to stop as the mother of your unborn child." She whispered.