Sherlock paced the length of 221b as fast as his long strides would carry him. He was worried, an appropriate emotion considering the possible, if not probable, return of Moriarty. No, it was not the emotion itself that was troubling him. It was the source of his worry: He was worried about Molly.

"You're not a psychopath," he reasoned to himself. "Of course you should worry for her. She's your friend."

And yet, for once, logic did not soothe the world's only consulting detective. Instead, it left a hollow ringing somewhere in his chest.

A knock on the door woke Dr. Molly Hooper from a dead sleep. As she stumbled towards the door blindly, only thinking of stopping whoever it was from waking her neighbors, the days events came crashing back into her consciousness.

"Did you miss me?"

Molly froze, fear creeping in to her rapidly clearing mind. "He wouldn't knock," she told herself. But just to be sure...

"Who is it?" Her voice sounded small and frightened to her own ears, and she despised herself for it.

"It's me, Molly." replied Sherlock's voice. "It's Sherlock." He added the last, almost as an afterthought, his vanity probably making him believe everyone would know him by voice alone.

Molly quickly unlocked the door, to find a slightly disheveled Sherlock standing on her doorstep in his ever-present Belstaff. Not waiting for an invitation, he shoved past her into the apartment, barely giving Molly a glance.

Usually, Molly would let this go. Normally, she was so infatuated with the brilliant detective that her mind would already be teeming with romantic reasons he could be there, rather than acknowledging his rude behaviour. But, today was not a normal day. Today, Molly was tired, and scared, and he was here at - she checked her watch quickly - 2 AM waking her up by pounding on her door...

And now he was staring at her. He stood across the room, next to the sofa yet not sitting on it, staring straight at her, a crease between his brows. Not saying anything.

"What is it, Sherlock?!" Molly asked, on the verge of yelling, throwing her hands in the air to punctuate the frustration and exasperation she felt. "What brings you to my flat at 2 in the damn morning, and makes you just stand there staring and not saying anything?!"

Sherlock opened his mouth, as if to speak, and promptly shut it again. He didn't really know why he was here...he had been thinking, and pacing, and went out for walk...

"Molly," he started, trying to act as a friend would, even if that was not how he normally would have acted "Are you okay? I was worried, after the television broadcast..."

He trailed off, and Molly looked at him in confusion. This was not going well.

"Do you need a place to stay tonight? To hideout?" Molly asked in confusion, obviously not believing his concern was the reason he was here.

That struck something in Sherlock. He knew he wasn't a normal friend, that he didn't show concern and compassion in normal ways, but the thought that Molly completely disbelieved his concern...

He crossed the room in three long strides, reaching out to grab Molly's arms just above the elbows. "Molly," he repeated, searching her face. "Are you okay?"

Molly Hooper's heart began to pound in her chest, and she felt a tell-tale flush in her face. She would NOT cry in front of Sherlock Holmes. She would NOT cry in front of Sherlock Holmes. She would NOT-

"Molly?" his voice interrupted her internal struggle, and she quickly pulled away to hide her treacherous face, hoping he hadn't already deduced her weakness.

"I'm tired, Sherlock." she replied lamely, hoping it would make him leave and save her pride. Because she didn't want him to leave. Not for any silly, romantic reasons, but because she really was afraid. He had been here, in her flat. Jim from IT. Moriarty. Her boyfriend. The crazed criminal mastermind. He had slept in her bed. He had- she couldn't suppress a sob now, burying her face in her hands, shame and sadness and anger filling her heart.

Sherlock was unsure. He was no good here. He had no idea what to do. He took a step towards Molly, reaching out a hand and placing it on the top of her head, in what he hoped was a comforting way. He couldn't tell, her face was still buried in her hands.

Molly took a shuddering breath. Oh God, she was crying in front of HIM. He was going to think she was weak, pathetic, illogical. He was stroking her hair as one would a dog, that was probably what he equated her to. "Okay," she thought to herself "Just get out of this with some dignity intact."

"Sorry." She said while simultaneously looking up and wiping the tears from her face. She flashed a weak smile, trying to play off her emotions. "I don't know what came over me, I must be more tired than I thought. I really should get some sleep..."

"Of course." Sherlock replied politely. "I'm sorry to have woken you, I didn't realize the hour."

Once again, Molly was confused. While it was not unusual for Sherlock to disregard the normal waking hours of people, or even to disrupt the sleep of those around him, an apology from him was...out of character, to say the least.

"Sherlock," Molly began, as he started to take a step towards the door. "Why did you come over here? You never said."

"I did say, Molly, if you were paying attention," he said, sounding more like normal Sherlock, "My intention was to check on your well-being considering recent events. Now that I've seen that you're fine, I'll leave you to your sleep. Good night."

Sherlock beat a hasty retreat to the door, anxious to get this strange incident behind him. They could just both forget he was here, it was just an anomaly, not even worth remembering, wouldn't even make it into the mind palace.

"Do you think he's really back?" A small voice reached him just as he touched the doorknob. He turned to see Molly sitting on the edge of an armchair, looking at the floor, unable or unwilling to meet his gaze.

"I did the autopsy," she continued in a voice Sherlock was not accustomed to hearing from his pathologist. Sherlock was unsure if she was even talking to him or just thinking out loud at this point. "It was him. I'm sure of it. And he was dead. I'm sure of that too. But today..."

"He could have filmed that ages ago, Molly. Paid someone to broadcast it after his death. I saw him die too." Sherlock had already thought through all the possibilities, of course. All the ways he could have faked his death, or set up today's broadcast before his death. But, in a moment of unusual sensitivity, he deduced Molly didn't want to hear all the options and their statistic probabilities. Instead, he crossed he room to crouch in front of her, a part of him hoping she would raise her head to meet his gaze. She did not.

"He was here." She said to the floor, so quietly he almost couldn't hear it.

Terror gripped the detective's heart. "What do you mean? Moriarty was here? You saw him? Molly," he paused, trying to calm down, feeling both an irrational fear for Molly and yet a small victory, like a hound who has been given a scent. "Did he threaten you?"

"No, no. Not today. That's not what I meant." Molly quickly replied, and Sherlock felt some of his fear ebb away. "I mean, when he was Jim from IT, and we were dating, he was here in my flat. Now it feels so...wrong. That I ever let him in here."

Sherlock felt a sense of relief at her explanation, but also a twinge of something he couldn't place...anger? But it wasn't Molly's fault. Moriarty had deceived everyone, even him, for a time. He said so to Molly, hoping to comfort her.

"I know, I know." Molly said dismissively, finally meeting his gaze. She offered a weak smile, a single tear glistening on her eyelashes. Sherlock was transfixed by the droplet glistening there. Slowly, he reached forward, placing his palm on the the side of her face. Using his thumb, he ever so gently removed the offending moisture as Molly blinked in surprise. He didn't remove his hand.

The silence stretched between them, increasingly awkward. Sherlock wanted to say something, anything, but he was baffled by the warmth he was feeling radiating through his hand where it touched Molly's face. And there was a fluttering in his abdomen which was not consistent with any medical condition he had ever heard of.

Without knowing why, he placed his other hand on Molly's face. Her eyes bored into his, confused, questioning, and...was that a tinge of hope he saw? That last bit gave him the push required, and he leaned forward, touching his lips to hers, softly, almost chaste.

She tensed. Shocked, no doubt. Yet, within seconds, she was moving her lips with his, causing him to smirk internally. He moved his hands into the hair at the nape of her neck, weaving his fingers through the dark strands. Molly let out a small noise against his mouth, which, to his surprise, sent a streak of heat straight to his groin. He shifted from his crouched position onto his knees, unconsciously trying to get closer to her.

Authors Note: Thanks for reading! I am open to having a beta for this fic, please message me if you're interested, not sure how that works.