CHAPTER 9: ONE MAKES TEA WITH THE INTENTION OF DRINKING IT, BUT FINDS SOMETHING MORE USEFUL TO DO, SO THE PLANS ARE CANCELLED.

Sunday, 2 p.m.

After promptly closing the door behind her, Molly sunk to the warm bathroom floor and supported her head on the wooden surface of the only thing hiding her from the ever observant eyes of Sherlock Holmes. It was just her luck that he had woken up that very moment. It was like a scenario of a cheap movie. Only instead of him swiping her off her feet, he stared at her with an open mouth.

Was he... looking? Oh my god! I can never look him in the eye again. And he wouldn't even want to look at me anymore. But was he... looking? Oh my god he was! He saw everything!

A quiet sob escaped her mouth.

Her naked body, still dripping water, had nothing to cover herself with. The laundry basket was empty, as well as the washing machine. Not even a tiniest piece of cloth was lying around.

For a moment Molly had even thought that she has to stay in her bathroom until the day she dies, but she dismissed that thought right away. One moment or another he will leave my bedroom and then I can go.

So she listened carefully to the sounds from the next room. For a while she couldn't hear anything, but then the recognizable squeak of the bed pierced the silence, then slow quiet footsteps and then the sound of the door opening and closing behind someone.

Molly stood up and opened the bathroom door again, first carefully peeking to make sure the room really was empty. Having confirmed that fact, she stepped in her closet and closed the slide doors. The light from the open bathroom door illuminated the shelves, where her clothes lay. She picked up the towel she dropped before and dried herself with it.

Then she took a pair of matching underwear, a pair of leggings and a comfortable tunic with red and blue stripes and put them on. Going back to the bathroom, she hanged the towel on a hook to dry. Then she combed and blow dried her hair, so it would stick straight instead of going frizzy.

She could no longer postpone the inevitable and she exited the bathroom again, opened the sliding doors and stepped in her bedroom. Sherlock had left the wet towel that was on his forehead on the cupboard, so she grabbed it to take it to her kitchen.

She quietly left her bedroom and saw right away Sherlock standing next to the window, looking out on the street, a solemn expression on his face. He lifted his eyes for a second, but they moved back to the window again. Molly's cheeks were glowing red, as she went to her kitchenette to put the towel hanging on the oven door's handle.

Without asking if he wanted any, she put the kettle on for tea. While waiting it to start boiling, she took out two colorfully patterned mugs and placed two teabags in them. Then she waited. Molly didn't turn her face towards Sherlock nor did he move from his position from the window. The flat was dead silent.

They could hear the car engines roaring on the streets and the clock ticking on the wall, counting past seconds. The silence was pierced by the whistle of the kettle and Molly, who had been supporting herself on the counter, looking at the wall, turned the fire off. She poured the tea in the mugs and watched as the black tea integrated with the hot water, changing the colour in fascinating swirls. As soon as the liquid was dark enough, Molly took out the bags and threw them in the bin.

She took the steaming mugs in her both hands and, still without looking Sherlock in the eye, handed the man one of them, fully expecting him not to except it. He carefully took the offering and turned his gaze from the street. Molly went and sat down at her sofa, pushing the sheets she'd been using in one corner. She tucked her legs safely underneath her, holding her tea with both hands, one elbow supported on the armrest.

After another moment of quiet, Molly heard movement by the window. Sherlock made his way next to her and sat down on the sofa, leaving plenty of room between them.

Molly was staring at her mug, Sherlock the black-screened television set in front of him. His gaze slid on the coffee table and the cheque under the remote caught his eye. Having placed his tea down, he grabbed it and read what was written on it.

Molly never found out what Mycroft had left her, when Sherlock crumpled it in his fist. He rose and threw it in the rubbish bin under the sink. Then he sat back down and gulped down his tea all at once.

Suddenly he felt warm hands wrap around him. Normally Sherlock despised physical contact, but he had been missing human touch for so long now. He hid his face in Molly's hair, put his hands to her waist and pulled her closer.

His head was pounding, ears were ringing, heart was aching. He felt sick and dizzy. The only thing which was able to keep him sane, was Molly's quiet soothing voice, although constantly cracking, it was helped him to keep a part of his mind clear.

After some time, Sherlock was able to calm his erratic breath by breathing in the familiar lavender scent of Molly's shampoo. Her fingers were combing through his messy hair and her left hand was rubbing circles on his back.

Finally after collecting himself fully, he let go of the woman he had been gripping almost painfully. Molly released her hold on him and shifted back to give him some room to breathe, carefully observing Sherlock's facial expressions.

He was deeply frowning and his eyes were closed as he pinched the bridge of his nose between his index and thumb. Opening them, there was a second when Molly could see all the pain and sorrow reflect from the ocean coloured eyes, but a moment later his features turned cold.

Molly's reaction was quick. She grabbed his face between her hands and made him look at her.

"Don't do it, Sherlock. Don't keep it in. It won't get better like that. You need to let go. Please, Sherlock. I've been there, I know."

Her words had an effect on him. His shoulders slumped down in surrender and his head bent down. Molly could see big drops of tears fall on his hands that were lying in his lap.

"I'm so sorry, Sherlock. I really am."

Sunday, 5 p.m.

Somehow the two of them had ended up lying together on the sofa, Sherlock's arms protectively wrapped around Molly. She had fallen asleep after a while, but the detective lay eyes open, looking at her sleeping figure.

"Look what sentiment does to you, Sherlock. You're weak. Weak and pathetic. If you hadn't befriended John, you wouldn't have to go through this right now," a voice strangely similar to Mycroft's sounded in his head.

Shut up!

"You are no better than ordinary people, Sherlock. You're pointless."

SHUT UP!

"If Molly Hooper finds out that you are boring, she wouldn't want to do anything with you."

... She knows me. She knows what I'm like. She helps me. She helps me to deal with this. She helps me think. This is sentiment and this is helping me pull through. It's not a weakness. It's a strength.

"Finally, Sherlock," a soft feminine voice sighed in his mind.

Sherlock nuzzled his face deeper in the sleeping woman's hair and breathed in her scent. The texture of her skin was soft and smooth, his cheek touched hers. He thought he could lay this way forever, listening to her slow heartbeat.

Soon though his moment of peace was interrupted by the doorbell.

Sherlock wrapped himself from around Molly and got up, pulling the sheet, that was crumpled in one end of the sofa, over her. He made his way to the flat door and opened it, just because he didn't want the annoying sound of the doorbell to wake Molly up from her much-needed sleep.

"Brother dear. How nice to see you back on your feet."

Helloo there!

Have you got any idea how grateful I am that you read my story even though I am a really crappy updater? Thank you so so so much! You keep me going! And sorry again for the late update...

Love,

Ave