"I hate your bath." Molly Hooper stalked through the living room wearing nothing but a towel on her way upstairs. Sherlock ignored her. It was the fifth time in as many days that he had heard the pint-sized woman complain about the tub in John's old bathroom. Her bathroom now, he supposed, since neither of them knew exactly how long they would be cohabiting. She had a soaker tub at home and was resenting the downgrade. Sherlock watched her retreating back as she started up the stairs, balancing a can of coke, a package of biscuits and her e-reader while clutching the (not big enough) towel around her.

She had her quirks, just like him. Where Sherlock hid his cigarettes in a Persian slipper, Molly would laze for hours in water hot enough to turn her skin red and read on her e-reader while snacking.

Sherlock discovered her perchance for soaking in the bath that first day. He and John had finally returned from Molly's flat with the majority of Molly's closet in tow (though Sherlock had suggested they burn most of the unflattering and overly cheerful jumpers which earned him a rap on the ear from John,) and a couple boxes of other items. Mycroft was to send a couple men over the following day to box up the rest and put the furniture that didn't fit in her room into storage.

Sherlock and John exchanged looks over the boxes as they carried them up the stairs and set them outside the closed door. They had both been rather embarrassed boxing up her underwear but she couldn't go without it so it was a necessary evil. Sherlock blushed now, remembering some of the lacy bra and panty combinations. (Whatever her frumpy choices in outside clothing, he now knew that what was on the inside was very sexy indeed.) He briefly mused on the whys of that but tore his thoughts away before they could go into dangerous territory.

Anyway, after John and Mary departed, he had gone up to her room and rapped on the door with an offering of chocolate to help soothe her raging temper. There had been no answer and he called out, "Molly, please let me in. John made me buy you some chocolates." There was silence for a moment then he heard a splash come from the bath. He turned to inspect the door to the bathroom and heard a scuffling noise and the sound of a towels being taken from the rack. Abruptly, the door opened and Molly's head poked out. She held out her hand and Sherlock looked down at the bag of chocolates he grasped and walked over to her, holding them out. She snatched the bag and slammed the door in his face. He stood there for a moment, completely confused, and the door reopened.

"Tell John I said thank you." And the door slammed again.

Three hours later without a sound except the occasional running of water (which hadn't happened in a while,) he tapped on the door again. No answer.

"Molly?" Silence again. He began to worry. "Molly, answer me!" He sprinted downstairs and grabbed a lock pick and ran back up, picking the lock in seconds. He burst into the room and skidded to a stop.

The room was steamy, the mirror fogged, and Molly lay in the tub, covered in bubbles, with her feet propped up, candy wrappers all over the floor and her tablet in her hand. She glared up at him.

"Sherlock, what the hell do you think you're doing?!" He blushed to the roots of his hair, swiftly looking down at his hands and muttering something about making sure she was okay before backing out of the room as fast as possible.

And every day since then she had disappeared into the bath just like that. Always taking something to eat with her and staying for hours. He asked her what she had been reading when she finally appeared and she had just given him an odd look before replying, "A novel." She didn't elaborate and he didn't press, though he did wonder why he never saw her tablet left out even though she seemed to use it a lot. Oh well, question to answer another day.

So today, as she stalked upstairs, Sherlock knew to expect a few hours of alone time. Not that most of his time wasn't alone time. Molly was almost always at work or in her room. She was still angry with Sherlock for basically forcing her to live at Baker Street.

Well, she can fume all she wants, I'm not apologizing for trying to keep her safe.

The only exception was when she had taken over the kitchen on the second day, moving or throwing away his experiments (which he had sulked about) and cleaning it thoroughly before spending the entire afternoon baking delicious treats. Biscuits, a loaf of bread and a cake came together under her talented hands.

Confirming that Mycroft had surveillance in the flat, he dropped by to "check on them" that evening, helping himself to a piece of cake and subtly wrapping up a piece to take with him. Sherlock made a mental note to look for cameras when he got bored.

Today though, he was surprised when she appeared after only a half hour, dressed in a ratty, old, grey tee shirt several sizes too big for her petite frame and plaid pajama shorts, her wet hair caught up in a towel. She snatched up the remote control and turned on the telly. She flipped through a couple channels and found what she was looking for, an episode of Doctor Who.

Sherlock wouldn't admit it to anyone but he secretly liked the show. (He had been highly amused to see a TARDIS on the wall of theories Anderson had compiled.) He affected a look of pure boredom, pretending to work on his laptop but all the while watching out the corner of his eye. It was a new episode so both he and Molly watched the entirety in silence, with only the occasional gasp coming from the pathologist.

He was struck by how domestic it would look to an outsider and the thought disturbed him.

As soon as the credits rolled, he sprang up, startling her. "Now that you are finished with that inane show, perhaps we can discuss plans to find Moriarty or whoever is threatening us." She scowled at his description of her favorite show but kept her mouth shut about it, choosing instead to address the latter part of the statement.

"The more I think about it, the more I believe that it isn't Jim … Moriarty." (He had shot her a look that read disapproval of her use of his nemeses' name so familiarly.) "I know I recognized the man in the morgue. I just have no idea where I have seen him before."

"Well maybe if you weren't mooning about all the time, you would have a better memory." He shot out bitterly, still stinging that she seemed comfortable referring to a psychopath as 'Jim.'

She glared at him venomously. "Watch it, Sherlock. I know where you sleep."

"Obviously Molly, we are cohabitating…" he trailed off as he caught the implied threat. "Sorry."

"No you aren't."

"No, I'm really not," he acquiesced.

She rolled her eyes and heaved a long suffering sigh. "Anyway, I don't remember and being rude about it isn't going to change that. So do we have a plan?"

Sherlock's brow furrowed. "I have no idea what he wants. Besides myself of course. And I can only assume you as well." He studied her for a moment. "They must have deduced that you were involved in my previous brush with death and decided to go after you."

He wouldn't say it, but that bothered him greatly. If it wasn't for Sherlock, Molly would be in no danger. She would have a relatively normal life, (not completely normal, she did work with dead bodies, was painfully shy and dressed like a grandmother,) and wouldn't have to worry about potential hit men. Deep down though, he knew that she had a choice and had chosen to stay by his side. She was loyal. Like John. He depended on and trusted both more than he would ever admit.

"So what do we do?"

He eyed her. "Do? We go on as normal until we have more data. Mycroft's men, dull and predictable though they are, will eventually uncover information that I will find useful. Until then, we wait."

Molly's shoulders sagged. "Fantastic. I would like my life back at some point, Sherlock."

He shrugged, eyes on his computer. "Not like I wasn't present in your thoughts the majority of the time before. Now, it's a physical presence. Not much difference."

She nodded in sarcastic agreement. "And on that charming note, I'm going to bed." She rose from the chair and he grabbed at her hand as she passed by. She jumped and looked down at him in surprise as she felt his fingers close around her wrist.

He dropped her hand quickly, looking as if the touch had burned him and mumbled a goodnight. She stared at him for a moment as he kept his gaze on the screen in his lap before heading upstairs and closing the door.

Sherlock waited until he heard the door shut and hopped up, starting to pace the room with a frantic energy. What the hell possessed me to do that? Ridiculous, stupid sentiment. Ugh, sentiment is worthless and I don't indulge in it. I refuse. He mentally pouted. I'm already deep in it. Shit.