A/N: Special thanks to my lovely beta, Priscilla and too all of those who read/reviewed the previous chapters. And, to those who asked, yes, the idea for this story did come from the Sara Bareilles song "Gravity."

Also, I'm really sorry about not having updated in so long. Horrible writer's block plus college is not a good mixture.

Over the following several weeks, nothing changed. Molly went to work in the mornings and came home in the evenings. She'd cook or order in dinner for herself and for Sherlock. She'd make up excuses as to why her sister couldn't visit, why she couldn't watch her nephews for the weekend. She answered the door cautiously, making sure no one ever had the opportunity to enter her home without fair warning. Even between herself and Sherlock, things remained the same. He'd drink his coffee as she got ready for work each morning. He'd be waiting, just inside the door, when she got home.

But everything had changed.

She knew Sherlock slept infrequently - he had made her quite aware of that when he moved in. But she had caught him before, fast asleep on the couch when she would go for a glass of water in the middle of the night. But lately, he seemed to be awake constantly. More than once she had caught him perched on a chair long past midnight, staring intently at the door, as though daring someone to try to enter. Once, she had even awakened to find him in her room, checking the bolt on her windows. These occasions went unmentioned between the two, but Molly knew, without a doubt in her mind, that the great detective was pushing himself to the limit.

She looked at him over her coffee one cool October morning.

"Sherlock?" He said nothing, staring into in coffee mug as though it was taunting him. "Sherlock, when did you last sleep?"

He looked towards her, paler than she had ever seen him. "I sleep when I can."

Molly set down her cup. "I know your thing about sleeping and eating on a case, but you're not exactly working a case right now, Sherlock. I - I've seen you up at night. It's not healthy, you'll get sick."

"I'm fine, Molly."

Molly shooked her head, bending down to pull Toby onto her lap. "Don't lie to me. Please."

Sherlock set his cup down on the table, hard enough to make Molly jump. "And what am I supposed to do? Depend on your bloody cat to let me know if anyone enters your home while you sleep?"

Molly sighed, reaching across the small table to rest her hand on Sherlock's. "You don't need to try so hard to be the hero."

Sherlock quickly withdrew his hand. "Let me make it very clear, Molly Hooper, that I am no hero, not by any standard. But I would like to one day repay my debt to you. And allowing you to be killed in your sleep would not seem like a good way of doing that."

Molly let her head fall back, shutting her eyes and inhaling slowly. "Fine. Then sleep when I'm at work. It's not as though I'll come home to Jim Moriarty hiding under my bed."

Sherlock stared at her dead on for a moment before his lips curled slightly up and he, to Molly's surprise, let out a short snort of laughter.

"Sherlock! There's nothing funny about you killingyourself over this."

Sherlock let out another laugh. "There is something incredibly funny, however, about the most dangerous man in London - possibly the world - hiding under your bed. And have you forgotten? I've already killed myself over Jim Moriarty." He let out a third laugh before falling silent, staring into his coffee.

"That's not funny."

"No, no it wasn't." He looked back up at her. "I know how to handle myself regarding Moriarty, Molly. It's you I'm concerned about."

Molly stood up, grabbing her bag and jacket from the counter. "Save some concern for yourself. And if you want to repay whatever debt you think you owe me, you could just stay healthy, sleep, eat, do people things." She shrugged. "I've put a lot of effort into to keeping you alive."

"And I am grateful, Molly. I hope you know that." He took a sip of coffee, bringing his hand to his forehead. "I've a terrible headache. Do you have anything?"

Molly shook her head, walking past him towards the door. "Try sleeping."

She held the scalpel firmly in her hand, running it smoothly along the pale sternum on her table. At least it wasn't a murder victim this time. She smiled softly to herself as she examined the body. She knew it wasn't necessarily right to be smiling beside a corpse, but she felt calm in her morgue, she felt safe. It was silly, Moriarty had invaded the glowing white tiles of her sanctuary once before, who was to stop him from doing so again? But she told herself he wouldn't. It was her morgue, her safe place. She could concentrate on her work, on the eerie serenity that came with examining the human body once void of life.

"Molly?"

She turned with a small shout of surprise. "Christ, Max! You scared me." Taking a deep breath she turned back to her work, prying open the chest.

Max smiled, watching the back of Molly's head as she went back to examining the body. "I didn't mean to. It's not my fault you get so immersed in your corpses." He smiled teasingly, but Molly was too preoccupied to notice. "I haven't finished the reports for you asked for, I'm just waiting for a test to finish up."

Molly barely glanced up as she removed her hand from the open chest. "Oh? Well, I'll probably be here for a while, so you could just drop them off whenever."

"Right." Max leaned back against the doorframe. "Listen, do you want a coffee or something?"

Molly froze, her hand resting lightly on the exposed heart. She kept her eyes focused on the table, mind racing. She liked Max perfectly fine, but she didn't want to deal with the whole dating thing. She couldn't. And, given the way Sherlock had reacted to her going on a date with Greg, she worried how he would react if she started dating some hotshot doctor he had never met. Anyway, she was fairly certain she could never happily date anyone as long as Sherlock Holmes was living in her flat. Breathing deeply, she tried to recount all the ways people had let her down gently in the past. Come to think of it, Sherlock never really flat out rejected her, he normally just didn't realise what she was asking. Her mouth opened slightly as it hit her. He was no idiot. He just didn't want to say no.

Swallowing, Molly nodded, still not taking her eyes off the cadaver. "God, yes. I've barely slept all week and, well," she held up a gloved hand, wiggling bloody fingers. "Well, I haven't been able to get any myself. Um, a splash of milk and two sugars?" She glanced up, flashing Max a smile. "You're a lifesaver, you know."

Max smiled sadly, putting his hands in his pockets. Perhaps she still was as hung up on Sherlock Holmes as people made her out to be. Shaking his head, he turned and made his way towards the door. "I'll see you later, Molly."

"Bye."

As soon as the door shut, she let out a breath she wasn't aware she had been holding. Subconsciously, she wrapped one arm around her waist, placing her other hand on her forehead.

"Molly?" Someone's voice came through the door, followed by a knock.

She ignored the interruption, taking a moment to stand in her perfect silence. He was never oblivious, she repeated to herself. He was just turning me down. She could feel the tears welling up in her eyes, but refuse to let them flow.

The door opened, but she continued to stand still in the middle of the room. She just wanted to go home and sleep. And for Sherlock not to be there.

"Molly!" Someone ran over to her, gripping her arm tightly. "Molly, are you okay?" Sally's voice sounded worried, panicked. Molly shook her head.

"I - I was working," she choked out. "And - and Max, he...he..." She trailed off as Sally led her over to the chair.

"Max?" Sally pulled out her mobile. "The new toxicologist? I knew there was something up with him. If he hurt you -"

"No!" Molly extended a hand to stop Sally from whatever call she was making. Why would she think Max had - oh! She looked at her extended hand and then back up at Sally, letting out a short laugh and shaking her head. "It's not my blood." She froze, the meaning of her own words sinking in. "It's not my blood!"

Molly stood up and rushed to the sink, pulling off her gloves and washing her shaking hands before throwing handfuls of water on her face. Oh god. In a matter of months, it felt as though her life had completely deteriorated. Turning off the water, she dropped her face into her hands.

"Molly?"

"I'm so, so sorry. I don't - I don't know what's come over me I just..."

"Hey, it's alright." Sally placed a hand on Molly's shoulder. "Don't panic. We all have our days."

"Yeah."

The two women sat in silence for a while, Molly staring at the wall opposite her. She let out a low sigh, rubbing her now clean hands through her hair.

"I'm just, like, really failing at professionalism today."

Sally laughed, a sad expression briefly gracing her face. "Yeah, we all have those days."

Molly shifted in her seat. "So, um, was there something you needed?"

Sally stood up, tucking a loose curl behind her ear. "New case. Man probably murdered in his garage, but apparently no clear sign of death. Thought it might be a good idea to bring a pathologist along with, to examine the crime scene. But if you-"

"No!" Molly pushed herself off the chair. "Just let me grab my jacket. I'll come along."

Sally reached out, grabbing Molly's wrist. "No offense, Molly, but you kind of look like shit. I'll find someone else. Clock out. Go home. Sleep all night. You need it."

Molly shook her head. "But you said you needed - "

"Stop worrying, Molly. Trust me, you're not the only pathologist in London. The best? Sure, why not? But not the only. If you want the case, we can always go later in the week. Don't worry." She released Molly's wrist, looking sadly at the other woman. "Put the body away and go home."

Molly nodded, waving slightly as Sally left. Inhaling slowly, she made her way back over to the body and began closing the open chest. She should get home soon, anyway, make sure Sherlock slept at some point.

The moment she parked the car, Sally locked the door.

"Really, Donovan?"

Sally undid her seatbelt, turning off the car. "I just want to make sure you know that I'm the lead detective here. This is my case."

Lestrade let out an exasperated sigh. "I'm the bleeding D.I."

"Yeah, who should be on desk duty. The only reason you're here is because I asked for you."

"And why did you do that, exactly?"

Sally shrugged, unlocking the car. "A prestigious doctor was found dead in a locked garage with no clear cause of death."

"And..?" Lestrade asked, climbing out of the car.

Sally smirked, heading towards the house before them. "You could use some fun after all this desk duty. And, you know, Molly Hooper dumping your sorry arse."

Lestrade stopped in his tracks. "She didn't dump me. We weren't even together."

"Well," Sally shot him a teasing glance, ringing the bell. "You took her on a date and kissed her with the expectation of this being a recurring thing. In my book, what she did counts as dumping you."

"Look, I wasn't expecting anything. She's still in love with...Sherlock, if you haven't noticed. Anyway, who told you about -" He was cut off as the door opened.

A small, mousy woman in an old pink jumper stood before them, peeking through the slightly opened door. Pushing a strand of long, brown hair out of her face, she looked up at the the pair, wet brown eyes rimmed red.

"Can I help you?"

Donovan nodded, taking a deep breath. There was nothing she hated more than the families her victims left behind. "Yes. Mrs Richards, I presume?" The woman nodded. "I'm Sergeant Donovan and this is my partner, Detective Inspector Lestrade. May we come in?"

Mrs Richards nodded, opening the door. "I - I'm sorry it's so messy in here," she said, leading them into a small sitting room. "I haven't had time to tidy up and..." She trailed off, bringing a hand to her mouth.

"Don't worry about it, ma'am." Greg patted the woman comfortingly on the shoulder. "You, um, you have a beautiful home. May we sit down?"

She nodded, all three sitting. Donovan crossed her legs and looked around the room. Despite Mrs Richards's initial comment, the room was nearly immaculate: scarlet pillows on beige couches, healthy flowers on every surface. The far wall was covered with carefully spaced photos of Mrs Richards and her husband, the victim. With some effort, Donovan pulled her gaze away from the photographs and back to the woman before her.

"Mrs Richards -"

"Eileen, please."

"I'm sorry. Eileen, we don't want to bother you, we just have a few questions for you. For starters, where were you from ten to around midnight last night?"

Eileen slumped forward, her mouth opening slightly. "Am - am I a suspect?"

"Not at all!" Lestrade reassured her, leaning forward. "We just have to cover all the bases. We just want to find out what happened with your husband."

Eileen nodded, taking a shaky breath. "Of course. I understand. I, um, I was at work. At the hospital. London Bridge. I'm a nurse there."

Donovan and Lestrade exchanged a quick glance, nodding.

"Eileen," Donovan said softly, leaning towards the woman. "Can you think of anyone who would want to hurt your husband?"

Eileen shook her head. "It's - it's been years since he ever so much as disagreed with someone. Everyone loves him!"

"Maybe it's an old grudge, someone that wouldn't come to mind at first. Can you think of anyone?" The woman looked at Lestrade, still shaking her head. "Well, I - " he paused, pulling his ringing mobile from his pocket. "Excuse me."

Donovan waited until he left the room to speak. "Eileen, is there anyone, even from years ago, who would have any reason, any reason at all, to kill your husband?"

"No! There's no one! I -" She looked down, avoiding eye contact with Donovan. "Mitch and I...we keep...kept to ourselves."

Donovan nodded, staring at the woman. There was something oddly familiar about her. "I understand. Is there anyone who your husband may have talked to? Friends? Coworkers?"

"No one. Like I said, we...we mostly keep to ourselves."

"Of course."

"Sergeant."

Donovan looked up to see Lestrade in the doorway, nodding towards the door. She turned back to Eileen. "Thank you so much for your time, Mrs Richards. Again, we're so sorry for you loss."

Eileen said nothing; she simply stared at her lap. With a soft sigh, Donovan walked over to Lestrade and, together, they left the house, leaving the widow alone. As she turned on the car, Sally took a deep breath. The survivors were always the worst.

Molly kicked off her shoes as soon as she entered the flat. She didn't even care as she heard the bounce off the wall, clattering to the floor as a reminder that she would have to put them away later. Still in the entranceway, she leaned back against the wall, rubbing her face and sighing.

"We're ordering Chinese tonight." She paused, expecting some sort of argument. There always was one with Sherlock, although she was starting to believe that it had less to do with the decision she made and more to do with the fact that she had made an executive decision.

"Yeah, definitely Chinese." Still nothing. She opened her eyes, perplexed by the silence. "Sherlock?"

There was a soft scratching noise as Toby padded his was around the corner, pressing himself against Molly's ankle. Confused, she picked him up and made her way into the main room.

"Sherlock?"

A grunt from the couch answered her. Sherlock was lying down, an old navy comforter wrapped around him, with his hand on his face.

"Are you alright?" He shook his head, curling onto his side. Molly walked over to him, kneeling down beside the couch and placing the back of her hand against his forehead. He was burning up. She couldn't help but laugh. "I told you you'd get sick."

Sherlock shook his head. "'m not sick."

Molly stood up, walking into the kitchen. "Yes, you are. You're hot as hell!" She paused eyes widening as she realised her words. "I mean...I just... If you had listened to me and slept, maybe you wouldn't be."

There was a shuffle on the couch. "Where are you going?"

Sherlock was now sitting up, blanket still wrapped tightly around him. He looked paler than Molly had ever seen him. Dark circles lined his eyes, which seemed void of everything that made him, well, Sherlock.

"I think I have a can of soup somewhere. I'll heat it up for you. Stay put."

"'m fine."

Molly shook her head, walking into the kitchen. Ignoring Sherlock's protests of his health, Molly searched through the kitchen, finally finding an old can of chicken soup. Yawning, she put the soup on the stove. It felt like one of those days in which the world was ganging up on her. All she had wanted to do all day was go to sleep. But nothing could ever be so easy, and thus she was in the kitchen. A kitchen, she noted, that was in desperate need of a paint job. She reached out, running her finger along a chip in the paint. How long would it be before she could have someone over to fix it without risking Sherlock's safety?

She was torn from her thoughts by the sound of Sherlock stumbling into the kitchen, leaning onto the wall for support.

"Molly," his voice shook as he spoke. "Why - why do you keep it so b-bloody cold?"

With a sad smile, Molly turned off the stove and walked over to him.

"Come on." She put an arm around his waist and pulled his arm over her shoulder. "Let's get you back."

Together, the two stumbled into the sitting room. After helping Sherlock onto the couch, Molly turned to go in search of extra blankets.

"No!" Sherlock reached forward, wrapping his clammy hands around Molly's wrist.

"I'm just getting you a blanket."

"Stay. Please."

With a resigned sigh, she sat back down beside him. "Look at you," she murmured teasingly. "The great Sherlock Holmes, brought down by lack of sleep."

To Molly's surprise, Sherlock, pulling his legs onto the couch, laid his head on her shoulder. "This has nothing to do with my lack of sleep. Now be quiet, you're frustrating me."

"Oh?"

Sherlock nodded against her shoulder. "You always are."

Molly raised an eyebrow, unsure if Sherlock was being serious or joking. "Frustrating you? How?" Apprehensively, she rested her chin on the top of his head. "It's not on purpose."

"Obviously. You-" he paused to yawn. "You confuse me and that frustrates me."

She confused him? "How? How do Iconfuse you?" It didn't make sense. "You're not confused by anyone." She smiled, hoping to turn this into something humourous. Because it was: Sherlock Holmes confused by Molly Hooper.

Sherlock shrugged against her. He opened his mouth, as though continuing to to speak, but immediately shut it again. Hesitantly, Molly brought a hand and slowly ran her fingers through his curls.

"Are you okay?"

"You're the one who said I'm sick."

"That's not what I meant."

"All you have done for me, Molly. I can never... I don't deserve it."

Molly bit her lip and pressed her chin against his head. "Don't say that."

"Why? I've never been kind to you. I've tried, but as John has told me several times, I'm not very good at it."

"But you try. That's what matters."

"It's not." Molly was shocked by the strain in his voice. "I've treated you horribly, Molly. For as long as I've known you. You've shown me more kindness than I deserve."

Molly's fingers were now still on his head. Of all the things he could have said, that was the last thing she had expected. Silently, she allowed her fingers to drift down to his forehead. "You're burning up."

"You've already said that. Quite suggestively, I might add." Molly felt her cheeks heat up as Sherlock lifted his face, looking up at her. Molly stared back at him. He looked so tired. Frowning slightly, she ran her fingers back through his hair. "Don't look at me like that."

She withdrew her hand. "Like what?"

"Like you pity me. You...you are...I am not a good person, Molly. Not the way you are."

"Don't say -"

"I'm serious. You're...you're too kind. To me." He placed his head back on her shoulder. "I'm sorry to have placed such a burden on you. I never intended to complicate your life."

Molly shook her head, placing her chin back on his head, resisting the sudden urge to press a kiss on the top of his curls. "You didn't. Place a burden on me. And...and even if you had, what could I do? Let you live on the streets? Or...or die?" She shook her head, wrapping an arm around him, shocked when he didn't resist. "I - I wouldn't have it any other way, you know?"

"Why?"

Molly said nothing. Quite honestly, she wasn't sure why she had accepted him in the first place. True, she loved him, she had known that since she had first met him. Maybe there was no reason why she was helping him. For her to need a reason, saying no in the first place - abandoning him - would have to had been an option. And it wasn't. It had never been. When he came to her, months ago, in need of her assistance, saying no hadn't even crossed her mind. When you love someone, you do whatever you can to help them. Always.

But "Because I love you" didn't seem like an appropriate answer.

"You're scared to tell me." Sherlock's voice was soft. He sat up and stared at her, refusing to break eye contact. After a pregnant silence, Molly glanced away, down at her lap, fearful that holding his gaze any longer would tell him too much, more than she would ever want him to know."

"You should go to sleep."

Sherlock pressed back against her in response. They sat like that for what felt like hours, Sherlock's head resting peacefully between Molly's shoulder and breast, her hand running softly up and down his arm. This is how things should be, she thought, watching the shadows cast by Sherlock's eyelashes flitting against his cheeks. Molly listened as his breathing slowed, his head a dead weight against her, grounding her. Her worries from earlier in the day were now shadowed by her desire for time to just stop. All she wanted was to stay like this forever. No Max, no homicide, no Moriarty. Just her, Sherlock, and peace.

Stifling a yawn, she glanced at her watch. It was late; she should be getting to bed. Before she could stop herself, she dipped her head, planting a soft kiss on his forehead. As quietly as she could, she disentangled herself from Sherlock and turned around, spreading the dark red blanket over him. As she straightened up, he lifted a hand, intertwining his fingers with hers. After briefly running their interlocked hands along the warmth of his cheek, Sherlock pressed a light kiss into the palm of her hand. Eyes still closed, he released his grip and turned away from her, curling up on the couch as best he could. Hand trembling, Molly made her way back to her room.

It didn't mean anything. It was just Sherlock being Sherlock. He didn't care for her. Not like that.

But what if he does?

Molly shook her head, slipping into an old t-shirt. Of course he doesn't like her like that? The kindness, the reminders of her goodness, the respect. The kiss. None of it meant anything. The idea that he could like her was absurd! She would be less surprised to be told that she had killed someone in her sleep than if were she told that Sherlock Holmes actually cared about her. She turned to face her mirror.

"Idiot."

There were few things more blissful than when Molly woke up the next morning to the sun streaming into her room, glad to have the day off work, to have a day away from the hospital. A day at home with Sherlock. Slipping out of bed, she pulled an oversized jumper over her head and made her way into the sitting room. Sherlock was just sitting up when she walked in. She wondered if he would acknowledge the his actions or words from the previous night.

"Sleep well?"

"Mmm?" He looked up at her, blinking. Sitting up fully, he swung his legs over the side of the couch and ran his hand through his hair.

"Are you feeling better?" She sat down on the couch beside him, debating whether or not to rest a hand on his shoulder.

Sherlock simultaneously nodded and shook his head. "I must have been quite bad."

"Do you not remember anything?" Molly tried to keep her face neutral. Had he forgotten? Was their conversation as much of as dream as it had felt like? She watched as Sherlock eyes darted quickly past her into the kitchen.

"You made me soup."

She glanced over her shoulder, noticing the pot still sitting on the stove. "I'm glad you're feeling better."

With that, she stood up and walked into the small kitchen. She could feel Sherlock's eyes on her as she stood in front of the stove. Finally, with a soft sigh, she picked up the pot and poured the still uncooked soup into the sink.