John was happy. He was happy to be alive. Happy to be married. Happy to be back in London. Hoping to hell Sherlock had it in him to be happy for him, too. Six months of unopened, unanswered emails suggested that might not be the case. But, in spite of all life had done to cure him of it, John suffered from chronic, inoperable optimism.

He was surprised to see Sherlock standing on the pavement, carrier bag full of boxes and envelopes in hand.

"I've your post." Sherlock said, smiling. It was the smile that usually meant someone had died in a truly violent and gruesome way. He looked young and unworried and positively delighted.

"What? No 'Hi, John, how was the honeymoon? Glad to have you back'?"

"Hmm. What? Oh, were you away? Sorry, hadn't noticed. Do forgive me. Hello, John, how was the dysentery, sleeping rough, and questionable drinking water? Happy to be away from the wife yet?" Sherlock grinned.

"Git," John said affectionately. That was actually milder than what he'd been expecting. Sherlock was handling being on his own fairly well, then. Or he'd found a new flat mate. Which was fine with John. Really, it was.

Absolutely fine.

"You look well," John said. "I think - is that - are you actually tanned?"

"I am well," Sherlock replied. "And tanned, yes, a bit. For a case. Well, result of a case. I was in Egypt for about a month not long ago."

"Oh. I see. Interesting case?"

"Interesting enough," Sherlock replied. "Lucrative, as it turned out."

"Good, good."

Well, this is awkward, John thought. That was the problem with going away for an extended period - you mentally packed the people you knew in bubble wrap and stored them in some boxroom in your mind, expecting them to be just as you left them when you returned. The world didn't work that way, though; they just went on having lives without you.

"So, you texted," he said. "Finally. Which was a relief, mate, because I'd been worried you'd lost your thumbs in some horrible accident. Is there a case?"

"There were. I solved them all." He handed John the carrier bag. Sherlock was still smiling but not quite the same smile. John knew this smile; it was his 'sod off' smile.

Ah. Oh. "Right then, I'll just pop in and say 'Hi' to Mrs. Hudson and I'll be off," John said.

"She's not in," Sherlock said. He didn't exactly block John's path but he'd positioned himself so that it would be very awkward for John to get around him.

"Oh?" John said.

"Women's Institute or whatever it is she does Tuesday mornings, I should imagine."

"It's Thursday," John said.

"Is it?" Sherlock asked. "Well, not that, then."

John scratched the back of his neck and assessed the situation. They were standing outside Sherlock's flat, but Sherlock hadn't invited him in, and was actively, well, inactively, blocking the door. At the same time, he wasn't dismissing John or trying to make him leave, either. So - what was happening here?

John looked at Sherlock again, carefully looked at him, searching for some clue. Then, what was so odd struck him. Sherlock looked like he had been on holiday. Apart from the tan, which was odd enough, he looked well-rested and happy and - and -

Fed.

"You've put on weight," John said. "You've been eating!"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "I do eat, John."

"Sure you do." John couldn't help but smile.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked, his face turning dark.

He didn't want him in the flat. Sherlock was looking happy and fit and for some reason, did not want John in the building or the flat. Which meant -

Well, that's where it fell apart for John. It meant something, but he could only guess what, and each guess was stranger, less likely, more ridiculous, than the last.

And maybe it - whatever it was - was just none of John's business. Sherlock was his friend; if he wanted John to know, he'd tell him.

"Nothing," John said. "I just missed you, you great idiot, and I'm happy to see you."

"Ah, well, yes. As I said, I hadn't even -"

"Shut up, Sherlock, or I swear to God, I will come over there and I will hug you."

Sherlock cracked a grin. "You'll do no such thing."

"I might."

"John -"

"Nah, you're right, I won't." John sighed happily. "You got anything on right now?"

"Not immediately, no. Why?"

"I'd kill for a coffee. We could just -" He gestured in the direction of Speedy's.

"Their coffee's vile," Sherlock said. "What about Angelo's? It would do him good to see you. He asks after you all the time."

"Does he?"

"Oh, yes," Sherlock said. "He still can't believe you threw me over for some" - he shuddered theatrically - "woman!"

John chuckled. "Sure, why not?"

They headed off toward Northumberland Street. "So how was Australia, John?"

"You know perfectly well it was Africa," John corrected. "And it was great. Terrific. And how were things around here? What's new?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Not much."

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Living downstairs from Sherlock was, like most things, not exactly as she had imagined. She knew Sherlock would say that was a failure of imagination on her part, and she'd have had to agree with him.

Mrs. Hudson turned out to be a lovely, jovial, motherly woman, who seemed thrilled to have Molly installed in the basement flat. She assured Molly that any friend of Sherlock's was a friend of hers, and to be sure to ask if she ever needed anything, anything at all. She also deemed it important to tell her Mrs. Turner had married ones, whatever that meant, so she'd fit right in. She half-wondered just what Sherlock had told Mrs. Hudson, but not enough to actually ask. He'd probably lie, anyway.

That first week, she couldn't count the number of texts she got from him. As soon as she came home from work, COME UP appeared on her smartphone screen, and as soon as she did, he actively ignored her, returning immediately to his book, or experiment, or phone. She also discovered he had no boundaries whatsoever; he used her computer, her phone, her books, her bathtub - his was apparently full. Once or twice, he tried to store medical waste thinly disguised as experiments in her fridge. And if she failed to respond to his demands that she appear in order to be ignored, he'd text that he was coming down so he could, in essence, ignore her there.

He never had food in his flat, either, beyond perhaps a tin of beans or a jar of nuts. He never asked her for food, but the minute she turned on the cooker he was there, like she'd rung a bell. Of course he thanked her; his manners were as lovely and uneven as ever.

She also discovered he bit his nails while watching telly, which was strange. He'd have his head in her lap - although how that first transpired, she couldn't say - relaxed and boneless otherwise, and he'd be gnawing away at first one thumbnail, then the other. She was forever gently easing his hands away from his mouth.

If anything, the sex was even better, though she wasn't sure how he managed that. Some mysteries were best left unexplored.

Still, she didn't get the full effect of living so close to Sherlock Holmes until about two weeks in. She was woken by music pouring into her bedroom from the fireplace. It was awful, shrill, modern orchestral music played by a single violin, horrible noise really, like something you would have to listen to in Purgatory while your sins were being burnt away. And it was coming, without a doubt, from Sherlock's flat.

Lovely. She was going to have to complain to Sherlock. She could just imagine how well that was going to go over. Screwing up her courage, she put on her dressing gown and climbed the stairs to his door.

The sneer he gave her dressing gown was like the sneer from which all sneers had been derived.

He had a violin in his hand. Oh God. It wasn't a CD. It was Sherlock. He boxed and played the violin? How did that go together?

"I have to work in the morning," she said.

"I don't," he said.

"It's late."

"Is it? I hadn't noticed," Sherlock ushered her into the room with a bow. It was one of his odd habits, bowing, and it had a way of seeming polite while forcing her to go where he wanted her.

"So you're going to stop until morning?" she asked.

"No, I'm thinking. I play the violin when I'm thinking. It helps order my ideas," he said.

Molly could not imagine that music helping anyone do anything other than perhaps plan, and then commit, an axe murder.

"What are you thinking about?" she asked. Maybe if she talked him through it, he'd stop abusing that instrument.

"A murder," he said with a happy smile.

"Oh," she said. "I'll get back to bed, then. Perhaps I'll invest in ear plugs."

"Good thinking," he said. "Mrs. Hudson does. And John may have left some. He bought them by the ton."

"Really? I wonder why." She turned to go.

"No," he said and poked her in the back with the bow of the violin. "On second thought, stay. I need someone to listen to me when I talk."

Molly turned and glared at the bow. "Don't do that again. Ever."

"What? Oh. No," he said. "Just sit for a moment?"

"I'm sleepy." She tried not to whine.

"Have my tea," he said. "I haven't touched it yet. You can sit in Joh- this chair, or you can lie on the sofa. You don't have to do anything."

This was not the plan at all, she thought as she dropped into the arm chair. The plan was to sleep, at night, before going to work, in the morning, the way people did. Molly suddenly foresaw a life where there wasn't much use making plans. It made her even sleepier.

Sherlock handed her his mug. "Right then," he said.

She placed the tea on the side table and closed her eyes.

"Why do people kill?" Sherlock asked, putting the violin under his chin and making an infernal sort of screech.

She opened one eye. "Because someone plays horrible noises at them at 1 a.m.?"

"A possibility, I suppose," he said, then did it again. "Why else?"

"What happened to the part where I don't have to do anything?"

Sherlock scowled. More violin.

"Fine." Molly rubbed her eyes. "They feel they've more to lose by not killing?"

"Possibly." Sherlock stood before the fireplace. "But people generally kill for revenge, for personal gain, to protect themselves, to protect their families and sexual relationships, money, status, people kill for fun, people kill in fits of anger, though fewer in that last group than you might imagine."

Molly tucked her arm under her head and curled up in the chair, looking at him. "So what's the story? The case, I mean."

"As per usual 'the story' as you refer to it, varies wildly depending on the teller." he said. "The players are these; a two year old Papillion named 'Bunky,' now deceased, Emma Sommerlott age 25, occupation - professional girlfriend, also now deceased, Grisha Cervenka, age 27, occupation - chauffeur, and, currently in the custody of Scotland Yard, is Pavel Andreivich Andropov, age 43, occupation - gangster."

"So let me guess," Molly said, sipping Sherlock's tea. It was very good. And not decaf. Oh well. "The chauffeur was having an affair with the girlfriend, so the gangster killed her and her dog? It sounds like a bad police show."

"Very astute. That's exactly the conclusion the usual gang of idiots down at Scotland Yard have come to."

"And they're wrong because?"

"Their explanation doesn't fit with the evidence. Point one: Grisha Cervenka is strictly homosexual. Andropov hand picked him as Emma Sommerlott's chauffeur for precisely that reason. Not much chance he was tapping the boss's bottle blonde. Point two: everyone, from The Yard to Interpol to the FBI has been trying to arrest Andropov for years, and now he gets sloppy and kills his girlfriend in a fit of jealousy? Highly unlikely. No matter what, or whom, she was doing, I doubt, from Andropov's perspective, Emma Sommerlott was worth killing."

"Maybe he paid someone?" Molly suggested.

"Again," he said, "the evidence doesn't support it. Next, the wounds. Emma Sommerlott's dog was not shot defensively, as one would expect were it bravely trying to fend off his mistress's attacker. No, Bunky was shot execution style in the back of the head," he said, pantomiming the act of shooting a small dog. "Look."

He handed Molly a series of postmortem photos and notes. "Yes. Looks self-inflicted. Not necessarily, though." She looked at the bottom of the notes. "Dr. Rayburn did this? He does excellent work, Sherlock. He's very thorough."

"He does adequate work," Sherlock dismissed. "Excellent work would have been allowing me more than cursory access to the body."

"Right," she said. "Go on."

"Emma herself was shot with the same small caliber handgun, a woman's gun, the sort of weapon a gangster might give his kept woman for personal protection. It was placed firmly against her right temple, not at point blank range, but like the dog, with an actual contact shot. The barrel was placed up against her temple and the trigger pulled." He held two fingers to his own head in illustration. "Have you any idea how difficult that is to accomplish on an unwilling subject?"

"Not from personal experience, no," Molly said. "So you think it was suicide?"

"I know it was suicide," Sherlock countered. He tucked the violin into its case.

"And why don't the police see things your way?" Molly asked. The way Sherlock put it was enough to convince her.

"Because they're stupid?" Sherlock said. "That, combined with the fact that if they can manage to bring in Andropov and make it stick, it'll be Christmas at The Yard."

She couldn't think of the last time she knew Sherlock to be wrong about anything like this. Well, apart from Jim, and he'd been very wrong about that. Perhaps she sympathized with the police a bit. You couldn't just take Sherlock's words as gospel, because when he did get it wrong, he really got it wrong.

"The chauffeur, Cervenka, he said Andropov didn't love her. He said, and I quote 'He wears her on his arm like jewellery'. That means something," Sherlock said.

"So what do you have to do?" she asked. "What do you need to prove?"

"Two things. I need to explain why Emma Sommerlott would kill her animal, which, by all reports, she doted on to excess. And I need to find the weapon."

"No idea about the weapon," she said, placed the now empty mug on the table. "I can answer the first one, though."

"You can?" Sherlock asked, clearly surprised.

"She loved the dog, right? She probably couldn't stand the thought of leaving it behind. There was probably no one she trusted to take care of it. And she was probably afraid to die alone." Molly explained. "And, well, look. She was going to kill herself, right?"

Sherlock nodded. "Yes."

"And that takes nerve. But if she killed the dog first, it would have been so horrible, she would have done something so awful, that she'd have to go through with it. I mean, once you've killed your dog, how do you live with yourself?"

"Oh. Oh, of course. OF COURSE! Get up, put your shoes on," he ordered.

"What? Why? No."

"Yes. We're going to Scotland Yard.

"It's raining and cold and - and - 1:30 am. I'm wearing my pajamas, Sherlock," she told him. "Let me get dressed."

He was texting like mad. "No time," he said rushing her along. "It doesn't matter, put on my coat, no one will know the difference."

"I can't wear your coat," she protested. "Your coat weighs more than I do."

"Not at present, it doesn't," he said.

"Sher-lock."

"Please," he said, draping his coat over her shoulders. "They'll believe you."

"Why would they believe me?"

Sherlock all but rolled his eyes. "You're a pathologist. You see suicides all the time. They'll assume you have some special insight."

"But -"

He grabbed her by the wrist and tugged her toward the stairs. "Our cab is here. Come along."

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

It was wet and cold, and Molly would have felt sorry for Sherlock, his lips and nose cherry red, if he'd hadn't been the idiot who dragged her out in her pajamas in the first place.

Scotland Yard. Molly had never been to Scotland Yard, and she certainly hadn't foreseen going in her flannel drawstring pajama bottoms and an old chip shop T-shirt, one of the dozen or so she had kept for sentimental reasons. She was glad she had at least removed that ratty dressing gown. She pulled Sherlock's coat tight.

"Hello, Freak." It was a beautiful, perfectly made-up, perfectly dressed woman and she seemed to be talking to Sherlock. "Should've known you'd show up."

"Good evening, Sgt. Donovan," Sherlock said, hardly seeming to notice. "Lestrade's arrived? Would you like to let him know I've solved your case, or shall I?"

Sgt. Donovan looked Molly up and down. "And this is?"

"She's with me," Sherlock said, impatiently.

"Did he abduct you?" the Sergeant asked. "Follow you home?"

"Sally, you are as repetitious as you are tedious. Where's Lestrade?"

"All you have to do is call and we'll see that he leaves you alone," she said. "Ask for Sgt. Donovan."

Molly was stunned. No one she worked with, even the ones who hated Sherlock, would talk to him this way. "Excuse me?"

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Detective Inspector Lestrade did not especially enjoy being at the office after midnight. Nor did he especially enjoy being at the office because a case was about to be torpedoed. When Sherlock Holmes was the one torpedoing it, he liked it even less. If Sherlock said a case was off, it was off.

He could hear the row from the corridor. When he rounded the corner, he saw them, almost nose to nose, Sally Donovan and Dr. Molly Hooper.

What the hell?

"Molly? What are you doing here?"

"The Freak dragged her in," Sally said.

"This officer, her conduct, it's - it's - very unprofessional," Hooper said, indignantly. She turned back to Sally. "He's not a freak, and even-"

"Sherlock? Where is he?" Lestrade asked. "He texted me -"

"He texted everybody," Sally said. "I woke up my whole bloody family trying to sneak out. How often do I have to change my bloody mobile number?"

"Sergeant - " Lestrade warned.

"He said he needed to talk to um, a - a Russian gangster," Dr. Hooper said.

"Andropov?" Sally asked.

"And you're here because?" he asked Dr Hooper.

Molly rubbed her forehead. "I've no idea, honestly."

"The Freak abducted her," Sally said.

"Sally, honest to Christ -"

"Yes, sir," Sally replied grudgingly . "I'm sorry, sir. It won't happen again. Sir."

Chance would be a fine thing there, Lestrade thought, and a damned good thing Sally was excellent at doing her job. He should leave Dr. Hooper here with a desk sergeant, but she was a pathologist, and if Sherlock brought her along, he must have done so for a reason. Not necessarily a reason that made any sense, mind -

"All right, Mol - Dr. Hooper, if you'll follow me, please. Sally, I could murder a cup of tea. See that I do, yeah?"

Sally scowled, but gave one sharp nod, and headed off.

He hadn't spent more than a minute in passing with Dr. Hooper since they'd danced at John Watson's wedding. It had been months since Sherlock had dragged him down to Barts morgue. He'd had no idea Molly was expecting. And why was she wearing Sherlock's coat?

"So, I see congratulations are in order," he said, as they walked to the lift.

"Thank you," she said.

Lestrade had to puzzle this out. If Dr. Hooper were working the night shift, Sherlock might have dragged her from Barts without her coat. Except -

Except she was wearing flannel drawstring trousers with yellow ducks all over them. He didn't think anyone had a dress code that lax, even a mortuary.

For the first time all day, Andropov disappeared entirely from Lestrade's thoughts.

Sherlock Holmes had dragged a pregnant woman who had no bearing on the case whatsoever out of bed in the middle of the night to see a Russian mobster. What kind of arse did that? Had it been anyone else, he would have assumed the bed Dr. Hooper had been dragged from belonged to said arse, or that said arse had been in her bed, but as far as he knew, Sherlock wasn't interested in humans, let alone girls.

"So," he said as the lift bell rang, "what brings you out tonight?"

"Sherlock?" she more asked than answered.

"Yeah, I gathered," Lestrade replied. "Why'd he do that?"

"We're, um, we're sort of neighbors," she said.

"Baker Street? Yeah? How's that working out?" Lestrade said, half to himself.

"Not bad, really," she said. "Turns out he likes to play the violin at odd hours, though."

"John bought earplugs. Lots of them." He grinned. "Sherlock can be a git," he said conversationally.

"He doesn't try to be, I don't think," she answered. It was a little too quick and a little too defensive, to Lestrade's mind.

"He doesn't try not to be, either," Lestrade answered. "Here we are."

There, big as life and at least twice as ugly, was Andropov. And leaning against the wall across from him, was Sherlock. They were both speaking rapidly in Russian. Going by the two of them, you never would have noticed there were bars between them.

Sherlock turned his head with a little shrug. "Ah, good morning, Inspector," he said. "I'm afraid you're going to have to drop this charge. He's innocent, in this one instance, at least. Your case will never hold up."

Lestrade grimaced. "Damn it."

"Maybe next time," Sherlock said airily. "It's not as if the man isn't involved in everything from drug running to prostitution to weapons smuggling. All you lot need to do is find some real charges and make them stick. How difficult can that be? Oh, wait, very, apparently."

Lestrade noticed Sherlock's eyes flick over Molly. He seemed, for half a second, to be asking for her approval. But he didn't speak to her.

Curiouser and curiouser.

Lestrade shook off the distraction of whatever was going on between Sherlock and Molly and got back to Andropov. "Fine. Explain it to me."

"Oh yes, please do," the Russian said in his heavy accent.

"Emma Sommerlott committed suicide. Grisha Cervenka blamed Andropov's treatment of her and sought to frame him for the crime that, in Cervenka's eyes at least, he was responsible for," Sherlock said. "Andropov hired Cervenka not only because he was gay and therefore had no interest in sampling the goods, as it were, but, if I am not mistaken, because he is Andropov's oldest sister's grandson." He turned to Andropov. "Da?"

Andropov nodded once. "Da."

"The fact that a man prefers sex with other men doesn't render him incapable of developing tender feelings for a woman. Cervenka had been her driver and minder from the time she was sixteen. Sommerlott's acquaintances, as few as they were, told me Cervenka and she were very close. They assumed it was an affair, but I think you'll find it was simply a case of a very lonely woman having no one else with whom to talk, and a close bond of friendship developing over time."

"Which proves what, exactly?" Lestrade asked.

"Sommerlott had been depressed for an extended period, was becoming more and more so. Cervenka knew this, went to Andropov with his concerns about Sommerlott, only to discover Andropov didn't really care. Sommerlott was only jewellery, after all, and Andropov was ready for something new."

"Okay," Lestrade said. Nothing new there.

"Sommerlott finally reached her limit. Using a very delicate small-caliber handgun that Andropov had given her, and which she always kept in her handbag, she shot her dog, then herself. End of story."

"But what about the evidence?" Lestrade asked. "There was no gunpowder residue on her hands. With suicide by gun, it's nearly always present."

"That's often true, but look here." Sherlock produced his phone, called up the crime scene photos, zoomed in. "Sommerlott wasn't expecting a visit from Andropov the evening she killed herself, and hadn't had a visit from him in ages. She knew what this meant; she was almost 25, after all, and her best years as a mobster's girlfriend were over. She was in her unalluring but no doubt comfortable bedclothes when she was found - a short sleeved cotton tee-shirt and matching pajama bottoms. Had she been expecting Andropov, she'd have dressed better. Had she not been expecting him and had him show up anyway, she most likely would have been naked, or some variation thereof."

"But if it was a hit -"

"The shooter would have killed her when she opened the door," Sherlock said, impatiently. "They'd have found her body there instead of on her bed, obviously. Now, the nightclothes; notice the tiny discolorations on the leg of the pajama bottoms, where the colour has faded?"

"What of it?"

"Come," Sherlock said and waved Molly to him. She walked over and Sherlock positioned her so she was standing in front of him, her back to his front, turned away from Andropov. "For our purposes, this is Sommerlott." He formed her right hand into the shape of a gun. "She shoots her dog, bang, then shoots herself in the head, bang."

"Right."

"Cervenka comes in, finds her. He's upset. Family or not, employer or not, he thinks Andropov should pay for using Sommerlott up and throwing her away. He's watched entirely too many American police dramas, and thinks the most important thing he can do is clean up the gun shot residue. So he goes to Sommerlott's bathroom, retrieves a bottle of hydrogen peroxide, and very carefully cleans her right arm up to the edge of the sleeve. What he doesn't realize is that some of it got on that same sleeve. It doesn't discolour immediately like bleach. No, it takes a few hours. The other thing he didn't count on was, once he placed her arm against her leg, the tiny bit remaining on her arm would discolour the pajamas here, here, and here. See?"

Lestrade nodded. "Go on."

"Sommerlott also had a bracelet, 17.22 carats of diamonds, set in platinum, which she habitually wore on her right arm. She was never without it, and yet it was not found on her body, it was not at the crime scene, it was not in her jewellery box, ergo, it was removed after she killed herself."

"Because it was valuable?" Lestrade asked.

"Because it was valuable, and because it was filthy. It would have had gun powder residue as well as canine and human blood, perhaps fur and hair, under the ornate findings. Cervenka would have seen the mess and either removed it with the intention of cleaning it and returning it to the body, or, more likely, with the intention of selling it. It was, obviously, worth quite a bit."

"Or he might have taken it as a keepsake," Molly supplied. "They were friends, according to you. He might have realized he couldn't get it clean and just kept it to remember her by."

"Also a possibility," Sherlock conceded, but not easily, Lestrade noticed. "Whatever the truth, he removed it from the body. Odds are you'll find he still has it."

"And the suicide weapon?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Thames?"

"Great," Lestrade said. "Thanks for nothing."

Sherlock turned to Andropov. "You should be free in no time at all, Andreivich."

Andropov rattled off something in Russian.

Sherlock frowned. "Nyet," he said. He turned to Molly and Lestrade. "Let's go, shall we?"

They reached the hall past the holding cells. "Damn it, Sherlock -" Lestrade began.

"Spare me," Sherlock said. He was googling furiously. "You knew your case was rubbish or you'd have brought me in a great deal sooner. That murder charge was never going to stick. However, consider this an anonymous tip: if you go to this address -" he held up the screen - "you'll probably find an enormous cache of illegal firearms. The name over the door will probably be some variation of Magda or Magdalena."

Lestrade looked at the screen. It was in the docks, warehouses mostly. "Magda?"

"His mother's name," Sherlock supplied. "Andropov is, as they say, all about family."

"You worked this out, how?"

"Speaking to him. Andropov thinks he's very clever. He's not."

"And Cervenka?"

"If he isn't dead already, he will be shortly. Andropov is not THAT concerned about family." Sherlock's attention was back on his phone. "Really Lestrade, you should get some people on that." And he strode away.

Clearly, he was being dismissed. Lovely. And he realized Sherlock's last shift of the eyes meant Lestrade should take Molly with him.

Molly stood next to him, in Sherlock's enormous coat, looking equal parts bedraggled street kid and furious wet hen.

"I mentioned he could be a git, yeah?"

"Yes," Molly said. "Yes, you did."

"He'll be back," Lestrade said, hoping he was right about that. "Come up to my office, I'll get you a cup of tea while I try to get this sorted. Or would you prefer I got an officer to take you home?"

Her phone chirped, signaling a text, before she could answer him. Within seconds, so did Lestrade's.

"It's Sherlock," Molly said.

"I'm to keep you in my office until His Lordship returns," Lestrade said.

"How does he do that?" Molly asked.

Lestrade waved the way forward. "No one knows."

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Molly had known Geoff Lestrade in a vague sort of way for years before The Jim Business. He'd come with Sherlock to the mortuary at least once a month. And then, after The Jim Business, Lestrade had been one of the dozens of coppers who had questioned her, seemingly for days, about her non-existent involvement in the bombings.

He was very nice, really. She always thought of him as a nice man. Before.

Lestrade had made four or five phone calls in the space of an hour or so, and Sergeant Donovan had brought her tea, biscuits, and a disapproving look. Molly hadn't listened to the details of the calls Lestrade made, not, she realized, because she wasn't interested, but because she was growing steadily more cross-eyed with exhaustion. It was nearly 3 am. She was supposed to be at work in 5 hours.

"Right," Lestrade said, ringing off one final time and startling her out of her stupor. "That's that sorted. So, again congratulations. You must be very excited. It's your first, yeah? When are you due?"

"Yes, my first, and yes, very excited." she answered. "I'm due about the end of December."

"Really?" Lestrade said. "I'm sorry, I just thought, well, you look a bit further along."

"Big baby," Molly said. She was starting to wonder if there might be someplace she could curl up for a bit. Maybe a cell? They had beds, right?

"Father's a big bloke then, is he?"

Molly nodded. Maybe there was a sofa somewhere. "Well, not big really. Tall."

"Is he?" Lestrade asked. "He a doctor as well?"

"No, he's, he's -" Something in her sleepy brain switched on, suddenly sending her to full alert. "No," she said more forcefully. "Not a doctor."

"What's he do, then?"

Molly blinked at him. "Why do you ask, Inspector?"

Lestrade shrugged. "Just making conversation until Sherlock returns. If he remembers."

"I'm sure he'll be back," she said.

"He used to forget about John all the time," Lestrade said. "One minute he'd be standing there, prattling on about something, the next, John and I'd look up, Sherlock had disappeared. He does that - disappears."

"Does he?" she asked. Her hands were shaking. She wanted to believe it was the result of sleepiness, but she knew better. She clutched her mug tighter to try to quell the tremor.

"Not the most reliable of blokes," Lestrade continued. "Brilliant, yeah, and my wife tells me he's very good looking, not that I see it, mind, but reliable, he's not that, is he?"

She took a sip of her room-temperature tea. "You seem to rely on him quite a bit."

"Fair point," Lestrade conceded. "But we can't count on him, you know? If it's not interesting enough or challenging enough or weird enough, he usually just leaves us hanging. He's gets bored so easy. And paperwork? Forget it. He's bollocks when it comes to follow-through."

Molly closed her eyes. Anger and exhaustion were a bad combination, and she had both to spare, now. She was afraid she was about to say or do something she'd regret. She took a deep breath and said nothing, hoping Lestrade would take the hint.

"You know what I noticed?" Lestrade said. "I noticed Sherlock was moving around a bit when we got down to the holding cells. I couldn't figure it out at first, but I realize now that he was trying to keep Andropov from getting a good look at you. Why would he do that?"

Molly set her mug down carefully. "I don't know. I've no idea," she said, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Well, I suppose if it was Lana - you met Lana at John's wedding, yeah? 'Course you did - I remember introducing you - if it was Lana, I'd have done the same thing. I mean, I wouldn't want a dangerous criminal getting a good look at my wife. But then, you aren't Sherlock's wife, are you, Molly?"

She inhaled slowly. She was furious, now. Sherlock was her secret and she didn't want to share what was between them, whatever it was, with anyone else. It was no one's business. "Are you trying to say something, Inspector?"

"Nope." He shook his head. "Not at all. I just hope you know what you're doing."

The office door swung open then. Sherlock looked first at Lestrade, then at Molly, then at Lestrade again. His demeanour shifted suddenly, from cocky and arrogant to annoyed, very annoyed in Molly's opinion. "I take it you're finished with 'us', Inspector?" he said, a hint of real anger in his voice.

"Yup, all sorted," Lestrade said. "Thanks for your help, Sherlock. Nice seeing you, Molly, and congratulations again."

Molly, too furious to speak, simply rose and gave a short, sharp nod.

Sherlock gave Lestrade a final withering look. "Come along, Molly," Sherlock said, leaving the tiny office and clearly expecting Molly to follow.

"Good night," she said, out of habit.

"Good night to you too, Dr. Hooper. Oh, and, nice coat."

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

When Sherlock's next interesting case materialized, it seemed only natural to him that he go to Barts to collect Molly.

"A body has been found without head, hands, or feet!" he called as he entered the mortuary. "It's Christmas, New Year, and the day Mycroft broke a tooth eating a Jaffa cake, all in one!"

Molly sat at her desk, filling out paperwork. "I'm sure I'll see the poor dear eventually."

"Why wait? You can come to Kensington Gardens with me and see it right now."

She looked up, pen poised. She tapped it against her lower lip three times. "No," she said. "Thanks, but no."

"What? Why not?"

Molly frowned. "I'm at work, Sherlock. It's the middle of my shift. I can't just leave."

"You're doing paperwork. Paperwork's boring."

"It most certainly is," she agreed with a sigh. "But it's got to be done and I'm the one they pay to do it."

"Why? Can't they hire a mindless drone for that?"

Molly lifted one brow. "I'll pretend that's a compliment, shall I?" she replied, then bent back to her task.

"Are you afraid one of the corpses will get up and run away before you can catalogue its organs? The forms will fill themselves out improperly if you leave them on the desk unattended?"

"I said no, Sherlock."

This was not going according to plan at all. Molly was supposed to accede to his request without question, and by now, they were supposed to be in a cab and well on their way. Why was she being difficult?

Sherlock looked at her carefully. He could tell from the way she held herself that she was still experiencing lower back pain, and that it had probably intensified over the past few days. He knew first-hand her sleep was being regularly interrupted by more and more frequent trips to the loo. Her wrists and ankles were swollen and tender, but had been for months. The slightly pinched expression suggested a headache. So it was reasonable to assume that these were contributing factors to her less-than-acceptable refusal to accompany him. Perhaps he needed to approach this from a different angle.

"Look, Molly -"

She looked up, jabbed the pen in his direction "Don't even try it, Sherlock."

"Try what?"

"Harassing me. Bullying me. Insulting me. Worse yet, flattering me," she said. "Just do not try it. I have not had caffeine in months. I'm not in the mood for any of it."

"But -"

"Can I see your phone?" she asked before he could form a proper reply.

"What for?"

She held out her hand. "Please?"

It was such an odd request, he did as she asked.

She scrolled through the contact list, found what she was looking for, sent off a brief message. "There," she said a few moments later when she handed it back.

"What did you do?" he asked.

"Texted John Watson on your behalf," she answered. Even as she said it, Sherlock's phone vibrated in his hand.

His eyes narrowed as he read the message. "He's now on his way to Kensington Gardens, apparently," Sherlock said.

"Good. You should be, too, then."

Sherlock agreed. He should be. This nonsense was a waste of valuable time.

But -

"Direct question, Molly: Is this because of, or in some way related to, Lestrade's ham-fisted attempt to interrogate you as to the extent and nature of our involvement during the Andropov case?"

"Oh. Caught that, did you? What am I saying? Of course you did." Molly put down the pen, stretched, then leaned back in her chair. She interlaced her fingers, then set her joined hands on her belly, thinking. After a moment, she said, "No, not, um, not directly. That was a bit, um, uncomfortable, though. But everyone wondered why I was there. I wondered why I was there. Why was I there, Sherlock?"

"You were there in the event that I needed your expertise." He sniffed. "Obviously."

Molly shook her head. "I don't think so. I think I was there because you like having someone on your side."

Sherlock's scoff was entirely reflexive. "Please."

"No, I think I'm right about this. Lestrade's got his people, as useless are you claim they are; why shouldn't you have yours?"

Sherlock did not like the turn this conversation was taking, not in the slightest. Molly had to be joking; the last thing Sherlock needed or wanted was 'people'. "You're very much mistaken, I assure you," he replied icily.

"Oh, don't be like that," she cajoled. "It wasn't an insult. I'm not angry, and I'm not trying to start a row, either. My point is that John is much better suited to the job. He's keen, he's fit, he's available, he knows you're brilliant and usually right, and he's not currently almost 8 months gone. You know I'm right, Sherlock."

Sherlock considered her words. Given those criteria, she was right, he supposed. On the other hand, he was still annoyed with John, although he sometimes had to remind himself why, and even then, the answer didn't always come easily.

John was cool in any number of situations. John liked the challenge. John loved the danger. And he had missed John's company.

Perhaps John had been punished enough.

"Fine. I'll go with John, then. But you're going to miss out."

"It's a burden I can live with," she said, with a bright smile. "If you're in at a reasonable hour, I'll make you a sandwich and you can relate all the gruesome details."

"Why would I want to do that?"

"So I can tell you how brilliant you are, of course," Molly said. "Now go."

Sherlock, entirely bored with the whole matter, went. John was a better marksman, anyway.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

She didn't see him again for four days and three nights.

On the fourth night, a little after 3 am, Sherlock appeared in her bedroom. He switched on her bedside lamp and gently shook her shoulder. "Is this a reasonable hour?" he asked. "I'm starving."

Molly glanced at her alarm clock, then squinted up at him, prepared to tell him just how unreasonable the hour truly was, when she noticed the cut on his cheek. "What happened?"

Sherlock rubbed his forehead. "The Chinese place is closed and -" He grimaced.

Suddenly wide awake, Molly sat up as quickly as 8 months of baby would allow. She patted the bed. "Sit. What happened?"

Sherlock rubbed his forehead harder, sat very carefully. "There's no food upstairs."

"There never is. Is it your ribs, Sherlock?"

"John's - John's in hospital."

"Oh God, what happened? Is he okay? Is he going to be all right?"

"Stab wound," Sherlock said. "Leg. They say he will."

"Good. That's, that's good. Are you okay?" Molly said, touching his side and watching him cringe. "I think your ribs are broken."

"Not all of them," he assured her. He made a move as if to remove his jacket, but hissed in pain.

"Let me help you," Molly said. She crawled to the far side of the bed, trying not to jostle him as she went. She tugged at first one sleeve then the other, easing him out of the garment. "Sherlock, what happened?"

"The murder case," he said. "Decapitation, dismemberment, Kensington Gardens?"

"Yes, I remember," she said, unbuttoning his buttons, carefully, one by one. His ribs had been taped, professionally, so that was something. Angry plum-coloured bruises showed beyond the borders of the tape, though. She winced in sympathy, not wanting to hurt him any more. "Did they give you anything for the pain?"

Sherlock shook his head. "Just paracetamol. I didn't want - just paracetamol "

"Here, let me take this - " She eased his shirt off next.

"The murderer, Eliot Clark, had suffered from a delusional disorder for years, not quite schizophrenia, from what I understand, but close enough. Drugs worked effectively for the past twenty years or so, but recently, his medications were discontinued. It appeared that his new prescription was working. Then, for some reason known only to himself, he concluded that his wife was having an affair with the neighbour. Mr. Clark's solution was to chop said neighbour to bits. Ouch, careful."

She tapped on the side of his right foot. "Shoe," she said, and proceeded to remove it and its mate. "So, he stabbed John?"

Sherlock closed his eyes, exhaled noisily. "He did."

"Stand up," Molly said. She tugged at his waistband. "Take these off. Do you need help?"

Sherlock shook his head no, but he was wrong, and Molly helped him, leaving him stripped down to his boxers and bandaged ribs. "So he stabbed John and attacked you? Is that what happened?"

"No," Sherlock replied. "I walked in front of a cab."

"You what? Sherlock!"

He cast a glance at her. "It wasn't deliberate," he said as if she wouldn't have been able to work that out on her own.

"Oh my, God." Molly rose. "You could have been killed."

Sherlock blinked at her. "Yes. I wasn't."

She put her hand to his cheek, meaning to check him for signs of concussion, or to kiss him, perhaps both. But Sherlock wrapped his hand round her wrist. "I'm fine, I'll be fine. You -" He paused.

"Me? What about me? I was asleep in my bed," Molly said.

"Not if I'd had my way earlier," Sherlock said. "It would have been you in John's place."

It didn't seem worth arguing the point that, no, it would not have. She had a baby to think about. She would not have followed him so far into this case. She wasn't that brave or that stupid.

"I'm fine, Sherlock. John's going to be okay, you said. So everything's going to be fine. Lie down, yeah?"

"I don't want -"

"Sherlock, just lie down, please."

Sherlock complied. He very gingerly stretched out on the bed, let Molly tuck the duvet up to his chin. The light was more direct here and she could see pale purple bruises on his cheek and under his eyes, cuts and scrapes to his left cheek, and to his chin. His hair was a matted mess. Her heart stuttered. He looked awful.

"Sarah's livid." Sherlock said as he closed his eyes.

"I think that's understandable," Molly said. "She'll forgive you, though."

Sherlock snorted, then winced. "Will she?"

"Of course she will," Molly assured him. "You're irresistible when you want to be. I should know."

Sherlock smiled without opening his eyes.

"Besides, John loves it. If he weren't tearing about with you, he'd find some other trouble to get into."

"You think?" Sherlock asked like a boy who wants to know if his best mate will be let out to play after his piano lesson.

"I know," Molly said. "Now, you said you're hungry. Is there something you'd like?"

"Anything would be welcome at this point," Sherlock said. "Anything."

"Okay, I'm sure I can scare up something." She turned to go.

"Could I have the remote?" he asked. "You know, the point of a remote control is lost when you store it atop the telly."

Molly rolled her eyes. "For a man who claims to hate watching television, you watch an awful lot of it," she said and handed it over.

"I'm just whimsical," he said, his voice as dry as bone-meal.

Molly chuckled and headed for the kitchen.

Fifteen minutes later, she returned with a cheese and tomato sandwich and a mug of tea, only to find Sherlock sound asleep.

Well, that was new. Sherlock never deliberately slept in her bed.

She set the food on the bedside table, perched as gently as she could on the edge of the bed. She had an almost overwhelming desire to run her fingers through his hair, but she feared she'd discover tender spots on his scalp and wake him. He probably hadn't slept more than a few minutes in days.

Molly had noticed scars, of course, small burns on his fingers and wrists, no doubt the result of experimental precautions not taken or gone awry, knees and elbows that had been skinned and scraped permanently pink. But there were others, too, like the remnant of stitches just below his lip, and a faint line across his left palm that she'd deliberately not noticed looked like the sort of scar someone received when they grabbed a blade. There was a mark on his left shoulder, too, which looked too much like a bullet graze for it to be anything else, and two tiny punctures to the front and back of his right calf which, now that she gave it some thought, might have been the entrance and exit sites of one wound. And the thin pink vertical line on his abdomen, the one he didn't even like her noticing, much less touching.

Molly closed her eyes. He'd been punched. Cut. Shot. Stabbed. Christ alone knew what else.

She carried the sandwich back to the kitchen, wrapped it in cling film, put it in the fridge. Wiped her tears on a tea towel.

She crawled back into her nest of pillows, curled onto her left side, and refused to think about any of it.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Molly woke up some time past ten with Sherlock's head resting just below her belly. Her Quick Eddie's Chip Shop shirt had been bunched up around her clavicle and Sherlock was literally sucking her breast in his sleep.

Molly blinked. Yes, that was exactly what was happening.

He must have done it in his sleep, because she couldn't imagine him doing it while he was awake, not his meaning to do it. He was sleeping so hard, and sucking slowly but intently, curled up smaller than she ever could have imagined possible.

Well, this was awkward. Bad enough he'd spent the night in her bed - without sex, mind - and he'd probably streak out of there like his hair was on fire once he realized it. But this?

She looked down at his bruised cheek. The last thing she wanted to do was embarrass him. Carefully, she closed her eyes and pretended to sleep. Then quickly, she rolled, jerking her nipple out of his mouth.

She could feel him startle and sit up but she kept pretending.

It was an odd thing to pretend to someone who knows you're pretending, made worse when you know he knows you're pretending. But she kept on pretending anyway. What else could she do? The status, as her father used to say, had to remain quo.

She continued pretending as Sherlock climbed out of bed and shut off the telly, but almost gave away the game when he pulled the duvet up to her chin, and ran his forefinger the length of her thumb in the process.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Molly was in her flat after work a week later, looking at baby things online, when Sherlock stood behind her chair and put his hands on her shoulders.

Oh God, was it always going to be like that? she wondered. Was it always going to be like she'd stuck a fork in an electric outlet when he touched her?

The sensation only got worse when he bent down and kissed just below her left ear.

Before her brain could make sense of that particular anomaly, he purred, "A bacon sandwich would be lovely."

Ah. There it was.

"You're trying to manipulate me," she said without turning round.

"And?" he said. "I want a sandwich."

"You could try asking nicely." she said.

"I thought I just did," he said. "Oh. Please and thank you."

She shook her head. "Have you any bread?" she asked. "I'm out and the last time I looked all you had in your fridge were things you nicked from the lab."

"I went to Sainsbury's," he said, studying the ceiling. "And if you watched me take it and didn't say anything, it wasn't actually 'nicked,' was it? I could just as easily have taken them without you noticing."

"Did you get bacon?" she asked. Sherlock was a genius, but sometimes he forgot things like bacon being an indispensable part of a bacon sandwich.

"See for yourself," he said.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Molly was finished cooking up the bacon but hadn't started the sandwiches when Sherlock walked up behind her and shoved all the bacon in his mouth at once.

He swallowed hard. "Change of plans; no time for sandwiches."

"Um?" she squeaked.

"Going to Texas." He took a slice of the bread she smeared with brown sauce and made it disappear in two substantial bites, and followed it with a slice of Wensleydale. She wondered, vaguely if they even had Wensleydale in Texas.

"Wait. What? Texas?" she asked.

"Case," he said.

"Well, obviously there's a case," she said. "What is it? Murder?"

"There have been deaths involved, but the crux of the matter is a rather large rock," he said, heading toward his bedroom.

"A rock? Oh." She felt herself relax. A rock probably wouldn't try to stab him. Or shoot him.

"Yes, a rock. A meteorite. Would you make yourself useful and bring me my passport from the mantle?" he shouted. "It's a meteorite of some contention. Apparently a Native American tribe has a suit filed against a certain museum for this meteorite's return, which is problematic since it's gone. The museum would appreciate it being located before the tribe secures evidence that the meteorite is missing and decides the state has been acting in bad faith, a conclusion that is not without precedent."

"I see." She didn't, not entirely, but it didn't sound dangerous.

The mantle was covered with papers, books, cds, a flash drive, various keys, currency and coins of several nations, and three wet mounted slides, all arranged in various stacks and piles. There was also a stack of envelopes pinned to the wood with a jackknife. Underneath a book on skin diseases associated with syphilis, she found his passport. Sherlock Vernet Holmes.

Vernet? Well, it wasn't going to be Fred, was it?

Then she noticed three more passports peaking out from under a book on public sanitation in 18th century Rome.

"Found it," she called. "Or them, rather. Who do you want to be - Sherlock, Richard, Nigel, or Sigerson? Sigerson?"

"Long, tedious story," he answered. "Sherlock Holmes will suit my purposes this time round." Suitcase in hand, he took the passport and was heading for the stairs.

"Is that it?" she said. "You're off, just like that?"

Sherlock wrinkled his brow. "Good evening?" he said.

Molly felt like she had to say something. "Do they have cabs in Texas?" she asked.

"Yes?"

Molly nodded. "I was afraid of that."

Next thing she knew, she was kissing him. Not a peck on the cheek, or quick meeting of the lips, but a full-on snog. And he was kissing her back.

Heart racing, she pulled away long before she wanted to, but long after it was a good idea to have done so.

Sherlock frowned at her. His expression fell somewhere between perplexed and annoyed.

"What?" she asked.

"That was not a greeting or a parting, per se. That was foreplay," he said dourly.

Molly felt herself blushing. "No, that was, that was 'don't step in front of any cabs.'"

Sherlock actually stood there and considered, pursing his lips. "Ah. I see." Like something out of a film, he dropped his luggage, reached out, took her in his arms, and kissed her. Thoroughly, tongue in her mouth, one hand tangled in her hair, the other behind her back. She had to grab fistfuls of his shirt to keep her balance.

"And that was 'no, I wasn't planning to'," he said and picked his bags up again.

Dazed, Molly shook her head. "Good," she said. "Good."

By the time that she realized this was the first time they'd actually kissed without it being followed immediately by sex, he was already gone.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Eight days later Molly received the following text:

IN THE US COCA COLA IS USED TO CLEAN BLOOD SPILLS OFF ROADWAYS

-SH

She had no idea what the point of that was, but she saved it, just the same.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Sherlock could easily have kept a list - a very long list - of things he had been called behind his back. He could have, but he didn't. As he allowed himself to be shepherded through the warren of offices, he heard a very specific set of syllables repeated over and over on the security radios, something along the lines of 'too-yuh-nigh-voe'. He would have been eighty percent certain they were referring to himself, had he not bought a Numic dictionary the night before. He was one hundred percent sure, now.

He wasn't even convinced that they meant it as an insult.

Finally, they reached their destination. Behind the regulation 'important person' desk sat a man with long black plaits and a very expensive, very well-tailored suit.

Sherlock bowed, just slightly, because it seemed appropriate, and sat down in the slightly lower seat. Mummy would have been pleased.

The Chairman thanked Sherlock for his fine work, his attention to detail, and a great deal more that Sherlock didn't bother to listen to. When the Chairman made a show of pulling out a chequebook, Sherlock smiled politely and said, "I was wondering if it might not be possible for you to transfer the funds directly to my account. It will save me the trouble of attempting to cash a cheque written out to 'All Neck'."

With a smile, the Chairman acquiesced.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Molly was online paying her bills when she noticed that her numbers were off.

There in the account were twenty-two thousand pounds that hadn't been there the day before.

She stood up, walked to the bathroom, washed her face.

She looked back at her computer.

Still there.

This could only be Sherlock's doing.

He'd been paid for the case.

Which meant he'd solved the case.

Which meant he was on his way back.

What was the point of being upset about the money, again?

He was going to keep giving it to her. He didn't mean anything bad by it. Maintenance, he'd said.

Fine.

Decision made, Molly opened up another tab on her computer, and bought a very nice cot for the baby, a rocker for herself, and rather a lot of nappies.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Molly was mid-way through a rerun of Doc Martin when Mrs. Hudson knocked about the over-paid rent. She was a wonderful tenant, quiet as a mouse, and very clean, and Mrs. Hudson felt she had excellent taste in decor, but, well, the poor girl was as animated as the average turnip. Mrs. Hudson supposed that had something to do with her due date being so near and her being so large, but still, it wasn't a good idea for her to just sit there.

"Molly, love, when was the last time you went anywhere other than work?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"If you don't count Tesco, I guess it's been awhile," Molly said with a rueful smile

Mrs. Hudson had heard enough. "Right then, put on some decent clothes and fix your face, dear, and we'll go out for a bit. I've just the thing."

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

It was, he was discovering, a strange and useless sort of frustration to want to give something you cannot name to a person who never asks for anything.

Back in the Barts-Only era of Molly Hooper, he thought it was a virtue of hers that she did things for him and never wanted anything in return. Now, it was something of a nuisance. Women stayed because they got what they wanted. But what did Molly want?

The child was nearly a fait accompli. She had a flat with which she seemed happy and could, thanks to him, easily afford. Her job was secure. Sex was not an issue. Materially, she was comfortable, and would be for some time to come.

So how was he to keep Molly from deciding she wanted something else? Or something more? Or something better? He was blindly stabbing in the dark, trying to keep her happy. The woman was an enigma.

Before he left London, Molly had, for the first time, asked Sherlock for something, specifically that he not step in front of a cab. In reality, she had kissed him soundly and asked that he sign a sexual promissory note, whereas none had ever been needed before. Why now? What had changed? Was it simply what she perceived, incorrectly, as his near-death experience? Or was there more to it?

It was a challenge.

He considered these questions as he made his way to Baker Street, only to find Molly resolutely not there. The one time he felt he knew what she wanted - repayment of said note in full - he was going to have to hunt her down.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

When, thanks to the concealed GPS unit in her phone, he found Molly, she was with Mrs. Hudson. At Mothercare. Looking at baby things.

It was like sitting in a bucket of ice water.

He went straight home and changed into his rattiest pajamas and dressing gown.

Two hours later, Molly and Mrs. Hudson came in with their arms full of bags, laughing. Not a thought in the world about Sherlock Holmes. Not, he reminded himself, that it mattered. All the things - sex, food, a willing ear - that Molly provided for him were mere niceties. If she was distracted enough to forget him, far be it from him to remind her. He'd done without those things for years; he could do without them until she remembered that he existed.

He went to get a book to read, and he did not step lightly. He sat in his chair, again, none too lightly.

He took his Strad in hand, but thought better of it. She should have heard him already, not that he cared.

He laid his fingers on the bridge and silently fingered the notes he would play if he wanted her to hear, keeping the bow safely away from the strings. He imagined the sound waves caressing her eardrums like spider webs floating in the clear air. The notes would wrap round her and cover her and clothe her and she would forget about silly things like babies.

He closed his eyes and imagined the sounds. He imagined them so clearly they cut through the disappointed air. Pure intention filled the empty space between them, Sherlock in his flat, Molly, in hers. Intention, drawing her to him. Intention was the difference between murder and manslaughter but it didn't make the victim any less dead. Intention so strong he could practically hear her now lumbering tread on the stairs. How much bigger could she get?

Honestly, it was a bit surreal to think he had made her change her shape so radically with a simple sex act. Technically, he understood how it worked, but -

"Sherlock! You're home!" Molly called cheerfully. "Why didn't you phone me?"

He opened his eyes. Oh, apparently he had been playing. And there Molly was. Not that he cared.

He shrugged.

She was still smiling. "I saw you got the museum its rock back."

"No, I didn't," he said.

"You didn't?" she asked. "Oh. Um, then why were you paid? Someone put a great deal of money in my account, so I assumed -"

"Oh yes," he said, setting down his Strad. "That was my fee, yes, but I wasn't hired by the museum. It was from the tribe. They were very pleased with my work."

"Goodness, you scared me," Molly said, hand to her chest.

Sherlock couldn't help it; he laughed. "You should have seen your face."

Molly looked startled, then laughed along, nervously.

Sherlock suddenly felt strangely uncomfortable, almost as though he were naked. He wanted to tell Molly to go away. He also wanted to grab her by the hand and keep her close. Kiss her soundly. And, he was quite hungry.

Perhaps that was the problem; he had been saving room for a chip butty, or some other nutritionally disreputable item, the sort of thing that would make his mother indignant. But he did not currently feel comfortable asking Molly to fire up the fryer. That didn't stop him from being famished.

"Mrs. Hudson," he called, as loudly as he could, and set off for his bedroom, "put your shoes back on. The three of us are going for Italian. Do hurry."

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

Sherlock read all his periodicals, online and in print. He read through his mail, both real-world and electronic. He took a shower. He went to bed. Then he laid there in his bed and quietly drove himself mad.

There was that thing again, that 'feeling' thing. That sensation that he ought to be able to do more to secure Molly's continued presence than provide her all the sex and money he had to offer. She could go; he knew it was possible. She could simply decide to leave in the morning and he couldn't help the feeling there ought to be something he could do or say that, like a key in a lock, could close the door out forever.

But what, exactly?

If he were an idiot, he would tell her that he loved her. Wholly aside from the fact that romantic love was a staple of fools and fairy stories, that it existed only in the imagination, it wouldn't have been of any use; every day, women left men who claimed to love them.

He was definitely not telling her that he loved her. Because he didn't.

But he wanted to tell her - something.

!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!~!

It was very dark in her bedroom, so she felt, rather than saw, Sherlock beside the bed. The clock blinked 2:03 a.m. at her.

"What is it?" she asked, sounding more churlish than she'd intended.

"My room is cold," he said plaintively.

"It's November," she said. "Turn the heat up."

"I can't sleep," he said.

"And? You want in with me?"

Rather than answer, he climbed in and stretched out beside her, close, but not touching. She couldn't see him, but she imagined he was flat on his back, staring at the ceiling.

She sighed. She knew this point was coming eventually. She just hoped he didn't try to convince her to change her mind. "Look, Sherlock, I'm sorry but, well, it's getting difficult -"

"I know," he said. "It would be not unlike trying to have intercourse with a weather balloon."

Oh, yes, just what every pregnant woman wants to hear, she thought. "So you've been trying to have sex with a weather balloon? Where do you stick your -"

"No, of course not, I - wait, are you teasing me?"

"Not much."

"You missed your calling. You should have been a comedian. They never make me laugh, either," he said.

"Poor Sherlock," she said. They lay side by side in silence for a few moments. Something - perhaps the late hour - made Molly feel suddenly bold. "Um, can I ask you something?"

"You can and may. Strive for precision in speech."

Molly rolled her eyes. "No one enjoys the grammar lessons, Sherlock."

"I do," he said. "What do you want to know?"

It took her a moment. "Just - just everything," she said, honestly.

"Despite the rumours, I do not know everything," he said.

"Okay. Fair enough," she said. "Okay. What-drugs-did-you-take-and-how-bad-was-it-have-you-ever-had-sex-with-a-man-if-so-how-many-and-do-I-need-to-be-concerned-about-disease-and-have-you-ever-had-a-proper-job-and-why-don't-you-play-the-violin-professionally?" she said in two breaths.

Silence followed.

"Right," he said after a moment. "Let's work from the base up, shall we? I am not a concert violinist because I despise audiences."

"What's wrong with audiences?" she asked.

"Aside from everything? The fact that half of them are counting the minutes to the interval. That lot come to concerts not to hear music, but to look cultured or make connections or give themselves a chance to flaunt their sparse learning before those who are similarly ignorant. In a vast theatre filled with people, there will be perhaps ten or fewer who are genuinely interested in listening to the music performed. I find it hateful."

She never would have imagined music would have been the topic to make him foam at the mouth, but Sherlock was quite nearly to that point. She wondered if there was a story behind his reaction or if it was just one of those Sherlock things.

"And after you've played," he continued, "the result of years of painstaking practice and dedication, the sheer labour of performance, is anyone grateful? Never. Instead, the musician is expected to be grateful for the opportunity to break his back playing for people who don't bloody care."

"Not like being a consulting detective," Molly said. "People are grateful for that whether they like you or not."

"Precisely why I have refused to play for an audience since I was twenty, a few undercover instances aside."

"Undercover? What do you mean?"

"Here and there opportunities present themselves to use music as a convincing cover," he said. "One time I was able to fill in for a professor when I needed to gather evidence about an embezzlement scheme. And last year I spent a month in a klezmer band, playing at endless rounds of weddings and bar mitzvahs in order to locate a diamond thief."

Molly tried to picture that, and found she couldn't. "So, a proper job. Have you ever had one?"

"Depends upon your definition of proper. And job."

"You know, you show up every day, nine to five, pay packet, that sort of thing."

Sherlock moved just enough to rest his head against her shoulder. "When I finished uni, I had my choice of offers. I could have gone to work developing surfactants used in drilling for BP, or embarked on the equally scintillating task of analyzing rinse properties for Unilever."

"Doesn't really answer the question." She stretched, slipped her arm under his head.

"Does freelance chemist count?"

"And by freelance chemist you mean what, exactly?"

"Exactly what you think I mean," he said. "It was a long time ago."

"Okay, then," she said. "We'll consider that one a 'no'."

Sherlock took a deep breath. "As for your next question, you are the first and only unprotected sex I've had since boarding school, which should answer the question about homosexual activity as well. I haven't kept an exact tally, but I manage fellatio every two or three months, which averages out to four or five sex acts a year, sometimes less. Hardly voracious."

Giving or receiving? she wondered. "Men or women?" she asked instead.

"Does it matter?" he asked. "I tend to close my eyes."

When he put it that way, she wasn't sure how to disagree.

"What about, um - ?" she began.

"The drugs? Quetiapine and cocaine," he said, quietly.

"Oh." Molly's chest went cold. She hadn't known what she was expecting, but it wasn't that. She'd seen it in the mortuary, of course, too often. They said the antipsychotic quetiapine mitigated the descent after the rush from the cocaine, but in combination, the two caused hallucinations. Oh, Sherlock. "Intravenously?"

In the dark, he grasped her hand. "Yes. But I never shared a needle in my life, if that's what you're really asking. Never. I swear."

Technically, as a doctor, particularly as a pathologist, Molly was aware that intravenous cocaine use was the least physically damaging method of drug delivery, risk of disease from infected needles aside. Of course, it was all a matter of rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic in the end. Christ. Every junkie she'd ever autopsied ran through her brain, and there, jumbled up with them, was Sherlock Holmes, cold and blue, sores on his arms.

"Why, Sherlock?" she asked.

"Why what?"

"The drugs," she said. "You're brilliant and, and beautiful, and, and, why?"

"Am I?"

Molly kissed his forehead. "You are. You know you are. So why?"

Sherlock clearly his throat. "Because - "

He paused for so long she thought perhaps that was all he was going to say. Then he spoke again. "Something was wrong, or not right, and I was attempting to repair it. I was trying to make my mind, make my skin, a bearable place to inhabit."

"Did it work?"

"For short stretches, yes." He sighed. "The problem was that those stretches grew shorter every time, and then it ceased to be a relief at all. Then, I found the work. The work is the only thing that keeps me from going completely mad."

In the dark of her bed, he kissed her hand desperately, and all she could think was, What had she done? What had she bloody done? He was like a walking advert for condoms, and how many times had he come inside her? And this child, tying her to him like an anchor, oh God, was her baby safe?

It had all been so easy when he was an eccentric genius who wore clothes like a male model and strutted through Barts like some intellectual patrician, instead of, of, this mess, this horrible mess of a man who was the father of her unborn child.

This horrible mess of a man, with whom, it was finally obvious even to her, she was hopelessly in love.

She used the word 'whom' correctly; Sherlock and the nuns would be so proud.

"I have never endangered you, Molly, I swear it. You or your child. I - no. No." There were more kisses to the palm of her hand.

She kissed him on the forehead again and again. "It's okay," she whispered over and over. "It's okay."

In minutes, he had drifted off to sleep, but Molly lay awake, wondering at the difference between what she had imagined him to be and what Sherlock was, at the difference between how she pictured it would be to be involved with the most amazing man she'd even met, and the reality of a posh ex-junkie who shouted down the fireplace every time he wanted a pen or to borrow her phone. A man who gave her entirely too much money and was so absolutely brilliantly breathtaking that every time he walked into Barts or onto a crime scene, no one even bothered to look at the corpse.

She loved him desperately, and wondered if she had made the biggest, most lasting mistake of her life.