*kneels* I am so sorry. I have only one excuse and that is called school (and me procrastinating, but that's not an excuse). If you are still reading my story, I am eternally grateful.

This chapter is taking a lighter tone, because, when you've reached the bottom, the only way forward is up. And this chapter also proves that I shouldn't write an angsty fic, because I can't stay serious. Enjoy!

CHAPTER 8: IF YOU HAVE AN OLDER BROTHER, NO MATTER WHAT HAPPENS, IT'S STILL HIS FAULT.

It was a Tuesday. Definitely a Tuesday. A day not worth remembering, a day like any other. Or was it? Sherlock Holmes had been finally granted access to the labs of St Bartholomew's Hospital by Mycroft. That changed a great deal for him. His landlord would no longer have the excuse to threaten him. He almost lost his flat a couple of times, after some accidental (or not so accidental) explosions. So you could say it was a day worth remembering.

He banged in the lab like he owned the place, startling a young woman, who dropped the folders she was carrying. An intern, Sherlock deduced, about to get her PhD.

She apologized, stammering, and asked who he was.

"Sherlock Holmes. And you must be Molly Hooper. Feel free to leave, there is no need to supervise me. I can tell the difference between a beaker and a test tube."

But she stayed. She sat down behind the table and observed him.

"Umm... Mr... Holmes? You shouldn't ... do that... please."

"Why?"

"Because... that reaction could do a lot damage... and you aren't wearing any protective gear."

He looked at her curiously and then back at his experiment. That young woman was quite intelligent. And without her interruption, he could have gotten serious damage.

"Sherlock."

"Wha-?"

"You can call me Sherlock."

She smiled and blushed."It's nice to meet you, Sherlock."

"Likewise, Molly. Now could you hand me those safety glasses..."

Things were still in chaos, but in organized chaos. The piles and piles of knowledge had taken their new order and had collected themselves like they used to be. With an exception.

The nasty pile that Sherlock had always tried to forget made itself forth. Sentiment. A chemical defect found on the losing side.

That must have been true, because in that moment the brilliant Sherlock Holmes was the biggest loser in the world. And he didn't even know that he had lost until it happened.

He was my friend. My best friend. My only friend.

But that wasn't quite true. He had Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade and... sweet Molly.

Sweet?

Yes. Sweet. And clever, beautiful, ever joyful and, even when Sherlock didn't like to admit it, funny.

She's not John.

Of course she isn't John. John was Sherlock's best friend, but he didn't catch himself thinking about his eyes in a non-medical way from time to time.

His eyes?

Her eyes. Chocolate brown. Deep pools of everything Molly.

Why am I thinking about Molly's eyes?

Even though Sherlock sees through everyone and everything in seconds, what's incredible is how spectacularly ignorant he is about some things.

He had never had much experience in feelings and suddenly he was overwhelmed. Grief, sadness, regret, guilt, enragement, the feeling of being powerless, helpless. And what added to the confusion was the utter need for consolation. And not from anybody. From her.

That was the moment when his brain connected with the reality again. He felt tingling in his fingers and toes and he was hot, he could feel the heat radiating from him. But he also felt a coolness on his forehead.

Painfully slowly Sherlock opened his eyes in a strange bedroom, which was lighted with the bright warm sun of the afternoon. He pushed himself sitting and the towel on his head fell off into his lap, as he looked around.

The room was in bright colours. There was a patchwork quilt underneath him on the light brown large wooden bed in the middle of the room, sided by two low nightstands. Sitting up on the bed, he could see his reflection in the mirror above the dressing table, which was covered with jewellery boxes, perfumes, make-up and other feminine beauty products. In the corner by the window was a Victorian style chair, that was covered with some articles of clothing.

Every little detail in this room spoke about its owner in volumes. Especially since the owner herself was standing in the closet's doorway, wearing nothing but... Well... Absolutely nothing.

Sherlock's breath hitched and he felt a warm stirring in the pit of his stomach. He was frozen in place and couldn't take his eyes away from the soft curves of the woman who awoke those strange elations, so out of place in his grief stricken mind.

Sunday: 2 p.m.

Molly's morning was tiring. Not physically (she only went on a quick grocery shopping tour and came right back home), but mentally. She was beginning to have a headache, because of all the worrying in the last couple of days.

Before Molly went out, she made breakfast for two, still carrying hope that Sherlock would wake soon. But the detective lay still on the bed, the only sign of him being alive was the slow rise and fall of his chest.

So Molly decided to have a shower and get at least some of the tension out of her shoulders.

Two doors lead to her bathroom: one from the living room and the other from her bedroom through the open closet with sliding mirrored doors. Her oldest brother had made that accommodation for her when she had moved in the apartment. The bathroom itself was in beige, white and burgundy colours, with a bathtub for which Molly was really grateful.

She would have liked a good long soak in the tub filled with bubbly water, but she was still anxious about Sherlock. So she went for a simple shower.

As soon as the hot water hit her bare shoulders, she felt some of her muscles start to relax. She shampooed her hair and washed throughly until she noticed her wrinkled fingertips. Molly turned off the water and pulled off the shower curtain. She automatically reached out to her cupboard for a towel, but her hand stopped halfway there.

"That's just great," she muttered. She stood in the bath for a second, water dripping off her body, with nothing to dry herself with. She twisted her hair a little dryer and carefully stepped out of the bathtub on the warm tile floor.

With a deep sigh Molly opened the door to the closet and to her great discomfort the doors on the other side were open as well, revealing the still unconscious (Phew!) form of Sherlock. Molly tiptoed in her small closet and started searching for clean towels on one of the shelves. On exactly the same moment she succeeded in pulling out one, she heard a small gasp behind her. Acting purely on reflexes, she sharply turned around and accidentally dropped the towel (Way to go, Molly!).

Previously very much unconscious detective was now sitting up on the bed, staring at the very much naked Molly with large eyes and the woman herself was standing still as a statue, staring right back at the resurrected man. Seconds passed, neither of them moving, until Sherlock finally blinked and moved his eyes to her face. Only then Molly remembered her state of undress and she stumbled back to the bathroom with a loud yelp.

Not much of a chapter, I know *facepalm* My muse is just not working with me on this story. Don't expect the next chapter anytime soon. Aaaaaanyway... Happy Christmas! Or if you celebrate anything else Happy *insert what you celebrate*! I hope the year 2014 will be awsome for you! And oh mey gawds Sherlock is sooo soon.

Love,

Ave