Note: Hi, me again. Back to writing. Hello and welcome to all the new Sherlollians that have been reading and commenting on this. Thanks so much! You guilt tricked me into finally getting this story to an end.

Sherlock spent the following two days sulking in his bedroom, only leaving when he'd made sure John wasn't around. He simply denied his thoughts to wander in the direction they wanted to. Instead, he re-visited and re-catalogued his knowledge on bugs; then rocks, then hair growth of dachshunds. The colours of a dachshund hair can vary from dark maroon to-




At the end of day two, he needed to sleep. Even though it came as a welcome distraction, he feared his dreams…

And sure enough, he awoke from a vivid dream four hours later. With a situation.


On day three of his self-prescribed solitary confinement he gave in.

The realisation came suddenly and with a shocking clarity. He wasn't going to be functioning properly again; not if he didn't do something about it. About the Molly thing. So, something had to be done. Once he allowed himself the thought, it seemed remarkably easy to come up with a plan.

Practical thinker that he was, Sherlock accepted that he had to scratch this itch. He wanted to feel like himself again and, apparently, a step forward was due. Forward… in the direction of his pathologist. He would explain his situation (as dull as explaining was, he had a feeling that some sort of talk was needed), she would (of course) be amenable, then they would have sex. Afterwards, he would be done with it and have more processing power to deal with everyday life and cases again.



No, not like that.

Sherlock found himself unsure of how to approach Molly. And, even more frustratingly, he was unsure of how to deal with her. In a sexual situation…

So, naturally, he spent day four in his room doing research.


On a Friday almost two weeks after the conclusion of the case, just after noon, Molly left Bart's, having just had the stitches in her leg taken out. It'd hurt only marginally and she was glad to see that no big ugly scar would remain. By now the former cut was nothing more than a thin red line in the slightly tender flesh of her thigh. Walking was no problem anymore and after the weekend she would start working again. Finally! She was going crazy at home with nothing to do but dwell on her bleak thoughts. Even though she had developed a slightly sunnier outlook on life in general and had managed to stop pitying herself so desperately, she didn't want to be alone anymore.

Of course, she hadn't had any contact with Sherlock. Or rather, he hadn't instigated any contact with her and she was sure as hell not going to bother him anymore. Her plans for dealing with him in the future included being friendly and happy when he solved crimes. Nothing more.

During her time at home she had come to the (first bitter, then somewhat freeing) conclusion that she deserved and wanted someone in her life; someone who was willing and able to be with her. She would always have a soft spot for Sherlock, no doubt, but he wasn't going to be that someone and she was strangely fine with it.

She contemplated the start of her 'new' life while queuing in a coffee shop when she heard her name being called. She turned and saw a familiar face.

"Oh, hi John!"


Sherlock wasn't in the best of moods. Sitting at the kitchen table, he scanned his ongoing experiments, hoping something interesting would catch his eye.

He had been so sure about his plans to go to Molly. Why was he spending day after day hiding in his room, then? After truly extensive amounts of research (magazines, internet forums, porn) it should be easy to just go and do it. He just didn't seem to be able to leave the house and hail a cab. But he wanted to so much.

He heard John coming up the stairs; steps slightly quicker than usualhe's in a good mood. Sherlock didn't want a happy John around now. Seeing people enjoy life when he was miserable and not even sure why was not acceptable.

When the doctor entered the flat and his face came into view, Sherlock knew it was worse than he'd thought. John was not only happy but female-induced happy. Self-satisfied grin and upright posture. Spent afternoon flirting with some girl at the supermarket. Has a date with her some time next week.

"Oi, Captain Miserable! Good to see you out of your room for a change. Want a cup of tea?"

While his flatmate started preparing the cuppa without waiting for his answer, Sherlock turned on his chair, grumpily staring him down.

"I will not listen to it, so don't bother."

"You'll not listen to what?"

"John, please. To the story of you meeting yet another 'woman of your life' at Sainsbury's or the Coffee Shop or wherever. I'm happy that you'll soon be sexually satisfied, really, I just do not want to listen to the grand story behind it all…. Thanks."

"What are you talking about? I didn't meet a woman. I mean, I didn't…, I just..." John paused, pouring water from the kettle in his flatmate's favourite cup, "never mind."

Another pause. Sherlock frowned. Something was off.

John put the cup in front of the detective and quickly turned around, heading for his room.

"What do you mean, you just-?" It was definitely not like John to be secretive around him.

John stopped, not turning around though. "You just said you don't want to hear about my afternoon."

"That has never really stopped you. Also, now I'm curious. And would you rather have me start deducing now and go through your text messages, dirty laundry and emails for the next two weeks? Something is not ordinary. Tell me."

"It's really nothing, Sherlock. You don't want to hear it. And even if you… anyway, it's not even what you think it is, so-"

Sherlock jumped up from his chair, quickly striding over to where his friend still stood between the kitchen and the door to the flat. About two feet were separating them when he inhaled sharply. John turned around.

Sherlock did it again, quicker and harsher.

"What is that smell, John?"

The doctor got fidgety. "I don't know what you mean, I don't smell anything special."

"Lavender. With a tinge of disinfectant." Sherlock's eyes turned to slits.

After a stretched silence, Sherlock took a step back. He stared at his flatmate without showing an emotion.

With a weak voice, John started an explanation. "Like I said, it definitely is not what you think. We just met by chance this afternoon and talked for a bit; but I really don't plan to-"

"You won't."

Sherlock did not care to elaborate. He was sure that John got the barely hidden threat in his venomous voice.

He turned and stiffly walked to his room, quickly changed into one of his suits and came back out to find John still standing where he had left him, looking worried.

"Don't wait for me," was all Sherlock said before he jogged down the stairs. He didn't catch his flatmate's badly concealed grin.

Another note: One more chapter after this. And then another M-rated extra one. I will tell you where to find it.