The Domestic Analysis

A/N: Helllllooooo everyone! I'm back! I'm sorry this new story took so long to launch, but I spent so much time trying to figure out how to start it, and then the words just wouldn't come. But I was in the shower this morning planning it out and I sat down and wrote this out! I was so busy today with schoolwork, and it just snowed here so my friend and I did a photoshoot. Very fun!

I just wanted to also give a thanks to all the reviewers on my last story, particularly the anon "MissKingAtYourService" and "jessspider" - who practically yelled at me through review to keep writing. :) I love you all and I cherish each of the reviews, you guys keep me writing. 3

Disclaimer: Oh how I wish I could call myself the Great Scottish Troll Steven Moffat, but then again... no, no I'll stick with myself.

When Sherlock Holmes burst through the lab doors he was carrying a packet of crisps in one hand and a riding crop in the other. "Molly," he said but paused when he saw her, head resting on her arms, slumped uncomfortably over the lab table. He gave a small smile and dropped the crisps on some counterspace and hung his crop up on one of the wall hooks, so this would not be night for desecrating corpses.

She looked positively tiny curled up on the stool, her slightly upturned nose resting on her forearm, mouth ajar with the occasional audible breath slipping from her lips. Sherlock pulled the evidence bag from the pocket of his coat and set it on the lab table, a cut swath of stained and fraying fabric was wrapped up in the plastic. He shrugged off his coat silently, removing his mobile from the pocket and crossed the lab to where Molly slept.

She had her earbuds in which, he noticed, she often wore while she worked to keep herself company in the large empty morgue. He could hear the faint sounds of strumming guitars and he turned the volume down slightly on her phone and laid his thick coat over her shoulders which ellicted a small sigh from the pathologist's sleeping form.

He prepared himself a little station with all the necessary supplies and began to go to work. Fibre samples, sweat stains, copper residue, blood droplets - all were observed and mixed in solutions to discover their origns. He vague shorthand notes on a legal pad beside him, the kind of frantic writing that only the author could comprehend.

Periodically as he worked in peace he would glance up at Molly, her slumber apparently undisturbed despite the uncomfortable position she must have been in. The computer gave a satisfying ding "Search Complete" for the unknown substance the fabric had been doused in.

A tiny groan escaped Molly and her eyes opened, "Bloody labs, cold as..." she grumbled but catching sight of Sherlock she grinned, "Hello stranger,"

It had been six days since she had seen him, a case had called him away from her for the first time since the fall and he was finally back. He looked back at her, "Hello Molly,"

She noticed that he was finishing work and texting - probably his results to John. She pulled his coat off of her and over her arm as she stood, crossing the lab to stand by his side and look over at the results, "So is that it, then? Solve the case?"

"Yes," he put the phone down and turned to her, his attention rapt on Molly now the case was over, "Quite the scandal,"

"Really?" Molly shrugged off her lab coat and hung it on the nearby hook, ignoring the prescence of the crop, "You'll have to tell me about it,"

"I will," he nodded, "but not tonight,"

She looked him over: hair mussed, two-day shirt, slight circles under the eyes - still shockingly gorgeous, but tired nonetheless. "How long has it been since you've slept?" she asked.

"Not too long," he lied, which she saw straight through.

"And eaten?" she raised an eyebrow as she pulled on her coat and the scarf Sherlock had given her so long ago.

"Few days," he admitted.

She sighed, "Come back to mine and I'll cook you something,"

Sherlock smiled and stood, pulling on his own coat and scarf and heading towards the door. He paused and took her hand as she was starting through the door, "Oh, and Molly,"

She turned and he continued, "I missed you,"

She grinned, "Good," she kissed him gently, "because I've missed you too. Now let's get home, it's been the most horrible day,"

"How?" he asked as they walked along the corridor.

"Body of a woman was brought in, half decomposed, oozing practically everywhere," she gave a disgusted noise, "took ages to put her back together."

"That explains the slightly horrid smell," he noted.

"Oh, God you're joking," she lifted the sleeve of her jumper to take a whiff, "Christ, it is awful, isn't it?"

"It's alright," he shook his head, "I hardly see you for the smell,"

"Still," she cringed, "it's quite the bonus. Date a pathologist and get the added smell of death and decay," Her eyes slipped closed, morified that she had leveled the "d word" already - she wasn't trying to rush him, or do anything to him, really. But for Sherlock Holmes she feared that the overhanging label might just drive him off.

"Mmm," he murmured in reply.

There was a silence between them for a few minutes before she said, "What do you want for dinner?"

As he ate his sandwich she decided to get a shower and scrub off the scent of the day, pouring a saved bottle of lemon juice over her hair and washing it twice. If that didn't purge the day from her body she didn't know what would. When she came out of the bathroom, hair half dried and wearing shorts and a tank top Sherlock was already in bed.

His eyes were closed as he rested back in the familiar sheets, the blankets hastily pulled over his half dressed body. She sighed a little and clicked out the lights, resigning to talk to him tomorrow as she slipped onto her side of the bed and rolled on her side to sleep. It felt so comforting being near him again. After almost 5 months of sleeping together every night, either at Baker Street or her flat, the six day abscence was a particularly difficult one.

She felt the bed shift and a warm hand on her waist, "Molly,"

She rolled onto her back to look up at him, "Yes, Sherlock?"

"What you said earlier," he began and she mentally chided herself for being so careless, "that we were, that we are dating,"

"Yes," she murmured, "I know we didn't talk about it, didn't decide to date or anything, be exclusive or any of the... other," she was floundering.
He interrupted her, "Isn't that what we've been doing already?"

A smile crept across her face, "Most people would call it that, yes,"

He hummed and continued, "Being exclusive will not be a problem, I trust," he looked down at her, "I believe I fulfill your sexual needs well enough,"

She laughed, "I'd say so, and even if you didn't I wouldn't be looking elsewhere,"

"Why's that?" Sherlock gave her a puzzled look

"Because that's just the way I am," she rolled her eyes, "A one man at a time girl,"

He nodded in comprehension and then said, "I should think being with more than one woman at once would be highly unenjoyable,"

She held back a snort, "Most men would disagree," she quipped quietly.

There was a pause as Sherlock worked out what she meant, when the wheels finally clicked together he murmured an, "Ahh," of understanding and gave a small laugh too.

"So, dating then," she tried the words out on her tongue.

"I would like it if you would refrain from calling me your boyfriend, though," Sherlock noted.

"What would I call you, then? Lover?" she remarked.

"Surely not!"

"Joke, Sherlock, it was a joke!" she laughed and sighed, "That's fine, I won't call you my boyfriend,"

"Good," he murmured, "it would seem a bit..."

"Domestic," she supplied.

He hummed his agreement and pulled her close to him, her back to his chest.

"Glad that's sorted," she murmured.

"Molly, go to sleep now," he instructed, his voice deep in her ear.

"Good night Sherlock,"

"Good night Molly," he pressed a gentle kiss to her hair.

"I love you," she slightly added before shutting her eyes and allowing herself to drift into dreamless sleep.

A/N: I know it's rather short, but it just had to end there. I would expect at least one more chapter tonight, I have a plan on how I'm writing this story out, and I know exactly what's going to happen in chapter 4 and on, but until I get there... it's all a little fuzzy.

For the record, I hope you all don't hate me for what I'm going to do in Chapter four... as I'm thinking about it in my head, it feels very typical and obvious, but I think it has to be done. I have a reason for making this decision and I promise the idea is fleshed out and (hopefully) won't seem rushed. And I know all this is vague and means nothing yet, but it will. 3

Please review! I love you!