Molly jerked backwards on the headboard in surprise as she heard the sound of – dishes breaking – in the kitchen, which was a sordid relief, but that didn't stop the onslaught of curses that streamed from John's lips apparently, as he was muttering loads in the kitchen. She calmed down a notch, feeling overly alert, and she'd expected to be told off from Sherlock any minute. Except Sherlock took two quick strides with his long legs towards the bedroom door, and seemed to be listening keenly to the sounds beyond.

It is only plate's…right?

That's when the sound of John's muttering stopped entirely, and they could plainly hear a pair of heels tottering into their general direction. Molly's jaw dropped – no – no – no – was it a client? It was definitively not Sherlock's brother Mycroft, since he wore solid shoes, and not a pair of heels, though Molly found herself almost laughing at the visual – Mycroft in a pair of high heels. Somehow that thought didn't seem too disturbing, but she bit her laugh at the serious expression Sherlock bore, when he gave her a look. Some woman was still on their way, making a clear path to his bedroom – "Oh – hell – wait – wait – hold on a minute!" said the voice of John who was obviously taking to run, sounding a bit breathless and close by too.

Sherlock's eyes were all alertness now, losing all the softness they had only some few seconds ago, as he took a step back from the door.

Molly's eyes widened slightly, her shoulders tense, as she too listened intently. For a minute it seemed silent, until the bedroom door opened, only to be slammed shut a second later, "No – he's not – he's still asleep," said John, giving to laugh a bit, which apparently was supposed to make the other intruder believe him, which Molly seriously doubted they did. The lie was evident in his voice.

It was then the other voice spoke, "He should be up for breakfast at least, some food will be a good mercy this morning after all that trouble he went through last night – you have a bit of lie down, dear. You look awfully tired," said another voice, belonging quite obviously to the only other resident in the building who'd willingly be up at this hour, and female for that matter; Mrs Hudson.

Oh God.

Prim-proper Mrs Hudson who'd made quite the spectacle out of Sherlock's rude text-message-alert, when that first popped up – the sort of woman who'd read gossip-magazines, and convey that she didn't care about that – yet knew enough about everyone else. A woman who didn't exactly keep her mouth shut if she were to see this sort of thing, which was probably why Sherlock seemed a tad bit mollified. It was like being caught in the act by ones mum, but they hadn't done anything. Not that they could actually explain the situation to her. Molly was now just a naked woman in his bed, in the middle of the morning, it wasn't like they were having an experiment, and she could almost hear John coming with a lewd comment if that was suggested.

"No, I'm fine – brilliant – in fact – I'm actually sorting out his breakfast," said John obviously stalling. Thank God.

"You better tidy up the mess dear – get the sweeper," she said cheerily, obviously John had neglected the plates.

"You couldn't? I'm a bit – (an overly extended yawn was uttered) – tired."

"I'm not your housekeeper, you know."

"Right, well - I'm not in a rush anyway really, but you couldn't just wait a minute – maybe – give him some time. I don't think he's up for breakfast exactly," said John – that was the understatement of the year - Molly could easily make him out in her head; standing right in front of the door, shaking his head a bit, and giving one of his most charming smiles in an attempt to dissuade his easily distracted landlady.

Maybe he'd succeed. Maybe.

Sherlock's jaw was clearly clenched, before he took to stand in front of the bed again in an imposing stance; hands folded behind his back, a furrow burrowed deep into his brows, while Molly only raised her eyebrows in alarm.

He wasn't going to do anything?

He was just going to stand there?

Mrs Hudson had to be pushing boundaries obviously - obviously? The fact that the man in his late thirties didn't seem to run crazed around the room, appalled that his landlady was taking liberties was beyond her, and she was wondering why she in fact wasn't on her way out of the window. Not that she could climb out of it exactly dressed only in a duvet, without either dying, or dropping the sheet. Stark-naked clinging to the outside of a building wasn't exactly her way of going out of this world. She'd certainly be remembered.

Why didn't he have locks on his bedroom door? Normal people had locks on their bedroom door. She had a lock on hers - a quick twist, and nobody could enter.

No, his was apparently open to all.

She couldn't exactly expect him to barricade his door either, and he could hardly expect her to hide (not that she wasn't sorely tempted to that, but she'd have to drop the sheet in that case – and she was not going under the bed again – or the cupboard).

Sherlock seemed to notice her distress, mouthing "Stay," to her, which didn't make her any less anxious exactly.

Why on earth did the landlady need access to Sherlock's bedroom in the morning? People weren't even awake. Well, they were obviously awake, but they were certainly not dressed. John was still in his robe, and she was pretty much tied to Sherlock's bed – not literally – important to point that fact out, as she found herself turning crimson by the sheer idea. At the end of this she might tie him to his own bloody bedpost just out of sheer aggravation with the man. She regretted the imagery, for only a split second this time.

John was apparently still protesting on their behalf though, despite his half-attempts the bedroom door bounced open once more, remarkably smacking shut again, "No – just - give it an hour!"

"He woke me up four in the morning, I think he can stand being awoken – now if you don't mind."

John sighed, obviously giving in at last, as he most likely sympathized. Molly found herself a wee bit confused, she'd come round at midnight, not four in the morning – Sherlock had gotten up during the night? Obviously he had more than one adventure during the night.

The doors opened now, an unusual sight almost, and it included a polite little knock, "Morning – oh, you're up," said Mrs Hudson who'd stepped in, while Molly momentarily hoped that if she shut her eyes no one would spot her.

"Mrs Hudson – good morning," said Sherlock pleasantly with a smile. It was remarkable, for a second she wondered why she didn't hear the woman tutting in disapproval.

Oddly enough, the woman took three quick steps deeper into the room, with John standing in the doorway, and she did not at all see her.

Molly opened up an eye out of surprise at not being spotted quite evidently in the man's bed, as John gave her a quick look, clearly trying to supress his impending laughter.

Mrs Hudson was rather busy taking in the sight of the obviously non-drugged Sherlock - "Woke me up in the middle of then night, then? Just so I could do some washing for you – I'm not your housekeeper, dear, but you were so worried last night that your lady-friend's blouse was in tatters. Well – I've sorted out the worst of the blouse after your request of course – sewed on some new buttons -," Blouse? Buttons? Lady-friend?

Oh. OH.

Mrs Hudson had her clothes!

Sherlock had given her clothes to Mrs Hudson.

To Mrs Hudson?!

"Oh – did I?" said Sherlock whose eyes flickered towards Molly, before hurriedly returning to the woman.

Molly's mouth flew open, as she stared gobsmacked at her own blouse in the hands of the landlady.

"I've got the trousers in the wash, so they'll be sorted out - at least – well –," and that very minute Mrs Hudson turned around, "It's a very nice-," stopping entirely, when she finally saw her on the bed, under the sheets, obviously without her clothes, as the woman were keeping them hostage.

She should have hidden under the duvet, but honestly – she was just glad her clothes were with Mrs Hudson. Mrs Hudson who obviously didn't question why Sherlock had woman's clothing apparently, but the fact that she hadn't mentioned her underwear was disconcerting. Still – lady-friend? He had the sense to mention that apparently.

Mrs Hudson was now just staring.

Molly didn't exactly know what to say, unsure if she should say anything, and finally managed a surprisingly chirpy squeak of, "Good - err - morning," though that seemed itself to be the wrong thing, at the face of the perturbed Mrs Hudson.

"Morning," said Mrs Hudson faintly for a moment, slowly taking in the sight – holding the blouse she'd previously clung to at the edge of her fingertips – obviously now quite filthy with knowledge of what – or who was in Sherlock's bed. The fact that John had protested against her entrance certainly gave the woman the wrong idea.

Molly was screaming internally – nothing had happened – at all, but considering John's smirk, and Mrs Hudson's exclamation of,

"Oh dear," it was certainly starting to look like it, at least to the landlady who had her clothes, which by all means was highly suspicious. Sherlock didn't exactly have lady-friends who needed their clothes stitched up and cleaned.

"Well -," said Mrs Hudson hastily directing her eyes to Sherlock, "The rest are being dried, but this one – it's – it's fine," she finished off settling it at the end of the bed by Molly's feet, avoiding giving her another awkward glance. Obviously she didn't know what to say, and they could hardly expect a comment on the situation at hand, though there'd certainly be plenty of those later on, when the woman brought it up at every other inconvenient moment. She could almost suspect that she'd read something into this, for any onlooker it was certainly confusing, and for John it had to be too. His mind was most likely in the gutter.

Sherlock pursed his lips, blinking ever so slightly, as John gave him a vague tilt of the head, and he remembered to, "Thank you, Mrs Hudson," for the woman was certainly looking for an excuse to leave, and she soon went off without another word casting Molly one last look of absolute surprise, while John stood alone in the doorway trying not to laugh outright at the pair of them.

He continued to stand there, after Mrs Hudson was long gone with his arms clenched at his sides, giving Sherlock a furtive look, but his friend only raised his brows in mild annoyance, "A word," John said with a jerk of his head, as Sherlock was clearly not taking the hint.

Unfortunately, this sentence made Sherlock aware, especially by John's body language that he didn't in fact know that she was supposed to be in his bedroom, and his sharp eyes glued her frozen to the spot. It wasn't exactly like she could leave; her clothes were being dried, and a blouse was certainly not enough to get on with.

"Not now, John," Sherlock said rather coolly.

"I think now's the bloody time, Sherlock," said John a bit more persistent this time, and with a sigh Sherlock followed him out of the room, the door slamming shut in their wake.

It was perhaps not the best idea of both men to be standing right outside the door, as she could hear them talking quite clearly – despite everything being whispered through apparent gritted teeth.

"What the hell is going on?" John spat, as Molly leant against the headboard, trying not to listen, but she couldn't exactly resist.

"Sorry?" said Sherlock attempting to sound baffled.

"Why is Molly in your bed?" said John rather slowly.

There was a minute of profound silence, she almost wondered if Sherlock was slowly miming out his answer, until - "I have no idea what you're talking about."

"Sherlock – I left you in bed last night – alone."

"Are you entirely certain of that fact?" drawled Sherlock.

"Yes," snapped John in return, "Nobody was there, except you."

"Well, then, obviously Molly isn't in my bedroom as we speak. Can I return?"

"No – you can't just – have you – did you?"

"Did I what?"

There was a moment of hesitations, before John spoke the words, but wasn't in fact saying it, "You know what I'm talking about."

Sex, Molly countered in her head.

"No, John – I certainly don't know what you're insinuating," in such an innocent manner, as to almost make it believable.

"Mrs Hudson has her clothes for god's sake!"

"Which I gave to her, yes."

"Well, you had to have taken them off at some point."


More silence followed that, it was clearly a tense moment for the two grown men, and Molly was glad she was in the bedroom for once – a tiny surprise in the midst of the chaos. The worst was really over, except when Sherlock would finally return to the bedroom that was.

"Fine, then, right – don't tell me anything – I told you not to drink that mess, but you did – look where that got you."

"Yes, a naked woman in my bed. Isn't that usually a scenario you wish for yourself?" said Sherlock his voice dripping in sarcasm, as Molly bit back a snort.

"Oh shut up," said John who was now laughing, "Fine – breakfast in – you know what – you'll sort it out yourself – and do give Molly some clothes, will you?"

"I'll get to it, John," said Sherlock, who at that returned to the bedroom, and Molly pretended to be fixated on the duvet.

He gave her a look, knowing fully well that she'd been eavesdropping – it was difficult not to. The doors there were spectacularly thin, not exactly soundproof, so she could imagine Sherlock had to go through many dreadful nights having to listen to John with whoever woman he was currently dating.

Molly hoped her trousers were soon neatly folded in front of the door, thank you very much please, before Sherlock could manage to interrogate her to pieces that was. Not that her mind didn't try to figure out where her knickers had gone, since that was just absurd, since at least – a blouse and a pair of trousers were innocent, but her underwear would have caused Mrs Hudson's eyes to have gotten wide as saucers. The drugged-Sherlock had obviously hidden those from view, taking that into consideration at least.

Molly directed her own eyes to the blouse that she reached for, her fingertips grazing the new buttons, as she tried to calm herself down.

Yes, well – it had gone from worse to horrifying.

Regarding Mrs Hudson's way of keeping secrets she was surprised that the whole of Scotland Yard didn't come bursting into the bedroom any second in sheer disbelief over the scenario.

Very carefully she raised her head and meet Sherlock's unnerving blue eyes, as they blinked rapidly at her, "You lied?" he said as he repositioned himself in front of the bed, his voice now fully returned to it's usual sparkling form, but he seemed genuinely surprised.

She tried speaking, fiddling with the blouse in her hands, as a means of distracting herself, "Not – exactly," she finally managed to utter, "John didn't know last night, but he learnt that I was here this morning."

Sherlock almost seemed impressed, which deftly caught her off guard, but his mien soon evolved into an impatient look. He seemed resolved however to take everything in a rather slow pace, which didn't help her – it unsettled her that he wasn't a bit more dramatic about it all, as if a part of him expected this to happen.

"Molly," he said fully embracing what she felt was disciplining her every time he said her name in that tone of severity, besides reminding her of last night. She fully expected him to bend her over his knee – and – don't think about that now. It wasn't exactly long ago he was pressed against her with intentions, even in his sleep his body worked against him, and now she was just licking her wounds with the recollection.

"Yes?" she said questioningly folding the blouse in her hands, pretending that she needed to clear it off.

The next question was asked in a gentle, yet still demanding tone, "Why did Mrs Hudson have to sew new buttons on your blouse?"

Her fingertips were gently tugging at one of the buttons, the mere minute he'd said that, and she stopped her fiddling. There was really no good way of saying it, was there?

It was too late to pretend anything else at this point, but she wasn't going to be blunt about it, at least, "They got - ripped off," she said dropping the blouse on her lap, nervously playing with her hair now for relief, except Sherlock just seemed to be scrutinizing her every movement, so she stopped the action entirely.

"How?" he said very slowly.

She looked at him ruefully, "You – err - ripped my blouse open." Oh dear lord, his expression was complete pale-faced disbelief.

He seemed to grabble with the idea for a minute, taking in every aspect of her face, by the look of it, as he with a disgruntled expression said, "Why exactly did I do that?"

An absolutely good question, which she'd love to pose herself, but he was the only one who had the answer to that one really, "Because you wanted me out of it, I suppose," she said in a rather small voice, fixing her eyes anywhere remotely not close to the man himself.

He blinked.

She drew a slow breath, as he tilted his head to the side in clear contemplation.

"Oh," he only said, as his eyes took yet another sweeping glance at the room that obviously had more secrets to reveal.

Her heart was in her throat at this point, thudding powerfully through her chest, as she felt she was more or less wilting in his presence. He was not saying anything, not even a single word that would send her out of his room, as she fully expected really. She was genuinely surprised that he hadn't done that yet, as it was to be expected. She didn't have any reason to be there any longer, except to wait for her clothes to dry, and grabbing some clothes off him seemed like a better idea now. Of course, after this she'd most likely not speak with him for at least a week, or maybe a month, or even a year.

But what exactly did she have to be embarrassed about? Well, there was certainly a list. First of all she'd seen him naked, secondly she'd seen him having at it on his own, then he'd tried to have his way with her, without her uttering any complaint, and now she was facing the third degree. So, there was possibly quite a great deal to turn several shades of red over really, and there was nothing wrong with that. Why couldn't she talk about it – at least to some extent, really? Since she couldn't exactly go on without him somewhat in her life, and trying to avoid the topic would only worsen the aftereffects really.

"I'm not going to embarrassed about it," she said ending the mutual silence.

He appeared to be genuinely stupefied, "Sorry?"

"You tried – err - well – I saw you were drugged – I tried to get you into bed, but you wouldn't let me leave when I tried – so I just stayed –," she mumbled.

"You said," he said impatiently.

"Yes, well John didn't know I was in here."


She avoided frowning at him, trying to continue her story without any more fumbling, "I didn't really know how I could explain it to him, so I was sort of hoping I could sneak past him this morning – but -," she drifted off, gesturing to herself in the duvet.

"Your clothes, yes," he said with a brief nod.

"Yeah, Mrs Hudson seems to have had them all this time," not including my knickers that is.

"I wanted to rectify the situation apparently," he said grimacing, disbelieving his own actions.

"That's – well – that's nice of you," she said attempting her first proper smile, giving a wee snort even, since it was after all quite naïve of him to think that she couldn't sort her own clothes herself.

Sherlock looked confounded however, "Did I ruin any of your other clothes?"

Obviously, still not entirely getting it.

She coloured, "No - no – you didn't."

"Then your blouse was the only thing in need of being fixed?" he said taking to walk a stretch in the room, which she was grateful for, since him standing in the stoic position made her insides crawl.

"That's right," she said with a nod.

She could see the cogs slowly turning for him, as if the whole idea was so preposterous, that he'd attempt to do something to seduce her in that state, or seduce anybody at all. He took a deep breath, "What exactly did I say last night?"

"You didn't really talk – that much," she said, and a giggle burst out before she could stop it. She pressed her lips together hurriedly stifling it to death.

He looked shaken by her laughter, and she felt like laughing more, hysterically even, but he looked rather grave.

"I didn't?" he said when she'd quieted down again.

"Not exactly no, but it's fine. I'll just get my clothes back, and I'll leave," she said firmly, resolving to drop her spare keys there, and never attempt to get anything back from him, maybe even not giving him anything to begin with.

That would perhaps make it easier…

Sherlock seemed to be hesitating however, "I apologise," he said, and that made her feel terrible, "For last night, for whatever I might have done."

He shouldn't exactly be apologising, she shouldn't have been there at all last night. It was she who caught him with his kit off, in fact she should be apologising for staring that long, but she wasn't going to mention her being under the table without it being necessary.

He'd probably figure out that bit – his mind worked in such intricate ways; as to always catch her off guard. Only he could make sense of last night really, and she suspected that a part of him already had, but he was obviously being nice – by interrogation? No, the drugs had certainly muddled his brains a bit.

"Oh, it's – not – a problem, really. I wasn't actually bothered by it," she said with a strained smile.


"No," she said shaking her head with a laugh she allowed to release, "It's not often I have a naked man trying to get off with me."

Oh god.

No don't – too late.

He blanched at that, while she continued to colour. Her skin was prickling madly, her mouth drying up, as she just gaped profusely at her own stupidity.

"I was - naked?" he said looking at first particularly amazed, then actually amused.

Oh, right, he didn't know that bit.

Idiot, "Well, of course you were, or you'd – well – be wearing clothes now," she said gesturing to his blue robe.

Hopefully he didn't think she'd personally seen to it that he got out of his clothes, as he had her. She was glad he was dressed now, and that he wasn't in fact still out of his senses, since that would most likely make the situation even trickier. Like the situation could at all become more difficult at this point!

Sherlock's eyes grazed her briefly, "You aren't wearing clothes," he said pointedly.

Well, you saw to that, didn't you? Or her nails wouldn't be digging into the duvet, or she wouldn't in fact still be in his bed.

She hurriedly tried to salvage it, speaking quickly, "You were drugged, Sherlock – you did things out of character and, you were just babbling most of the time."

"You said I didn't say anything in particular," he said meaningfully.


She was continuously putting her foot in her mouth; it was too late to take it back exactly, "OK - so you spoke - a little."

"About what?"

Sex. About sex! You spoke about sex!

"Oh, just, you know – dreams," she said feeling faint.

It was the truth, however navigated it was from the actual thing he was asking about, but nonetheless it was completely true.

There had been some few moments in her life where she'd caught Sherlock properly unprepared, and this was conceivably one of them, "I spoke to you about my dreams?" he said startled.

She avoided his eyes again, pushing some hair behind her ear, as she tried to find a way of saying something, without saying anything really, "In a way."

Now she was taking a leaf out of his book more or less, being mysterious, unintentionally of course, as she didn't want to say it.

She didn't want to open Pandora's box; it wasn't her job to pry, for he'd oddly enough tell her peculiar things at Bart's - without her ever needing to ask. Molly had always supposed it was because he didn't want her to speak. She never questioned why of all people he bothered divulging if John and him were having a row.

"What exactly did I say, Molly?" he said a bit more forcefully.

"That you had dreams – that you'd dreamt – about-," Me. You dream about me. I've got no idea why of course.

The sentence just fell apart there, and her eyes just stared into his startling blue ones, wondering if this would be her last chance to have a proper look, when he took to finish her sentence for her, "You," he said.


She didn't expect him to say it, and she wasn't surprised to feel a tug at her heart out of the mere mention, of his revealing this fact soberly to her, and she wondered if he was admitting it – or if that was his conclusion.

Another bout of silence crept over the pair, more still than the last, and she hoped he'd speak – that he'd laugh it away to ridiculousness, that he'd convince her that she was delusional, and he'd been out of his mind.

She tried her best, trying to cover it up, "People dream about people, it's quite normal you know, so it's not – don't worry," she said quickly.

"Molly," he said disapprovingly.


"Stop lying."

"I'm not lying."

"You are."

"Well, I'm not."

"When you lie – your nose twitches ever so slightly," he said in a rather bored voice, his hand gesturing to her face.

Her hand sprung upwards to her face in a jolt of surprise.

"So you are lying," Sherlock said pleased with himself.

She managed to look upset, as she dropped her hand down to her lap again.

"Would you mind telling me the absolute truth now, or do you intend to draw this conversation out – until - your clothes are dry?" he said with a raised brow.

"Until they're dry," she said anxiously.

He seemed rather disgruntled by this reply, and she was happy she dared say it. She was literally waiting for her clothes at this point, waiting for her happy escape from his quarters, but he seemed rather steadfast to have his answers from her now,

"Molly, when I step out of this room, I will determine quite quickly what happened last night," he said giving her a piercing look, which made her by reflex gulp.

She huffed, crossing her arms, but making sure the duvet hadn't bared all, "And you can't figure that out already?" she bit back.

He smirked obviously pleased that she knew him that well, as his eyes dropped slightly to the floor, before returning to her, "Why were you under the bed?"

Oh dear lord.

"Dust – there are traces of it having been shifted. I like to keep these areas dusty in case something like this happens," he said taking to point underneath the bed, as if the dust was obvious to anyone's eyes.

Since this happens often apparently.

"I wasn't hiding under the bed – well – I was – but not because I wanted to share a bed with you," she said feeling rather frantic that he believe her.

He almost looked affronted.

"You hid from John?" he said wide-eyed, as if she were demented.

"I've never been good thinking on my feet."


"I'm sorry - shall I talk less - like I do in your dreams?" she said rather angrily, regretting it instantly, for now she'd skirted back into that topic, but she felt somewhat justified. He wouldn't leave her alone for some odd reason, and she had all right to want to escape.

His brows furrowed, and he took to pace again, "You do - talk," he said with a distant expression, as he avoided her eyes now.

He didn't continue on that, and she could only wonder what she said in his dreams. Did she even resemble herself? Perhaps that Molly was more confident - more sure of herself, less nervous around him, but she defied anyone not to be – in her situation now.

She just felt like saying something, anything, as he only stood quietly in front of the bed not moving, "Oh," she said trying to fill the silence, not that it did much good, as it only made it more evident really.

Suddenly he drew his fingers over his lips, "I kissed you."

The moment he had done that; she could feel her own lips tingling, as she couldn't entirely remember the kiss with the same clarity that she wished. It happened so quickly, so abruptly, with his hands all over her, until she caught sight of him properly, and now she was faced with trying to not revive the images in her head.

"Yes," she said cautiously.

He licked his lips slowly, "It explains the taste," he said, the corners of his mouth creeping upwards.

Molly was sure she had turned a new shade of red, an impossible one at that too, worse than last night's, worse than seeing him in that indelicate position; the heat flooding to her core, as a spark. It was idiotic, he was just remarking on it, yet there she sat utterly speechless.

"I – I suppose," she managed to say.

He gave her an odd look, one that she caught once in a while, that usually shifted to what she'd call indifference, but it didn't now, "The taste will fade," he said engulfing them into more silence.

There he was, always an enigma to her, and certainly one now, as his face resembled that of brooding. Was he in fact brooding, or was it wishful thinking on her part? Was she just seeing what she wanted to see? What she only dared to hope once in while? It was silly really, always such a silly idea in her head, and now – just maybe -, "Sherlock?" she said, her heart pounding.

He recovered swiftly, his expression shielded when he caught her eye, "Yes?" he said.

Molly bit her lip, "So - what kind of dreams are they exactly?" He'll never answer that.

"Good ones," he answered without missing a beat, and he was undeniably smirking, his eyes glinting, and she almost felt herself tremble there she sat.

"And?" she dared ask, not that it was much of a question exactly, but she could only hope he'd give an answer this time too.

"Do you want me to flesh them out?" he said with a smirk still plastered on his face. He was gloriously confident, almost too confident – there was something wrong – something she'd forgotten – it was important, quite important. It's just – he chose to use the word – flesh - "I assume I attempted to re-enact some of them last night – with - you," he said with a slight nod towards her.

She stared stupidly for a second, until she finally managed to say, "Yeah, err – you were convinced it was a dream."


She tapped her fingers on the duvet, contemplating her next words more carefully than usual, but she still managed to blurt it out rather quickly, "Do you dream about me often?"

He held her gaze with a haunted expression that tore her apart limb by limb - for what seemed to be minutes, ticking away so easily, as he finally drawled, "Yes - though you are much better than a dream Molly."

Oh, that certainly covered up the basics.

"Oh, right. Good – good - that's fine," she said in an uncanny cheerful voice, "Well – breakfast, then?"

"Breakfast?" Sherlock said with a raised brow, looking at her in sheer pallid disbelief, while she sat with a wide smile on her face now.

"I'm hungry," she said innocently, blinking up at him in surprise.

"Molly," he said quite severely, and that was the minute she threw the pillow on his head. Sherlock jolted in surprise staring at her in amazement, like she'd never thrown anything on him in her life – well, she hadn't, but he deserved it.

"You remember everything from last night, don't you!" she half-cried out in irritation, as he ducked from another pillow with a flummoxed expression.

It was right while she intended getting up entirely, duvet and all, that Sherlock threw himself on top her, pinning her down on the bed by her wrists, and looking at her with a half-smug half-apologetic expression, if it was even possible, "You lied!" she said disapprovingly, "You've been keeping me in here just so you can ruin everything!"

"Ruin – what – exactly?" he said, as she glared up at him, his dark curls falling rampant framing his face, "I only ever wanted you to stay."

Handsome idiot.

"Mrs Hudson told you I was coming last tonight – you knew – that I was coming, then why on earth did you drink the drug?" she snapped, struggling from his grasp, but he held on her tightly, as tightly as he did her waist earlier. She struggled half-heartedly, avoiding the smile that threatened to expose her entirely.

His expression was serious now however, "I hoped it would knock me out so I wouldn't take advantage of you – I barely let you have that emergency key to begin with."

"That didn't work out obviously," she said frowning up at him.

"Yes, it wasn't until I thought I'd woken up from yet another dream – but this time you were there – I – finally allowed myself to – let go," he said with a soft smile, looking at her almost nervously now, obviously hoping that she wouldn't really want to leave.


"Oh – so – you were yourself when you took off my clothes?" she said carefully, trying to still seem angry, though that was proving to be rather difficult.

"It was purely scientific, as I'm sure your staring was last night," he said with an almost pensive expression hadn't it been for the wicked grin that graced his features.

Molly almost started to giggle, but she was certainly distracted by the weight of him pressed against her, flushing at being so close to him yet again, since they'd been separated most of the morning, but she tried to be sensible, "Let me go Sherlock, or I swear – I'll – I'll -," she faltered.

"What?" he said breathing down upon her, as she felt the weight of him on her body, the duvet and his robe the only barriers between them.

Her brown eyes stared at his very present blue-green hued eyes - that were wondering, obviously asking for permission, as she didn't really want him to let her go at all – he knew the difference – which was why she'd always let him get away with things – always.

He looked genuinely bewildered, almost lost, slowly letting go of her wrists, but she did not push him away.

"You're not-," he said, as he clearly thought she'd leave the minute she had the chance, but she stopped him from talking the second she lifted her head to meet his mouth in a rather frantic kiss –biting into his lower lip, as he soon tasted her mouth in surprise. She pulled him closer to her, their kiss deepening with every movement, edging closer to completely bare skin, desperation burrowing through her every limb.

The robe was discarded – the duvet thrown upon the floor; he was pressed against her, hands clutched on her bare hips, while her legs were entwined around his lower back, as he kissed her mouth, her breast – taking in her nipple with one slow stroke.

Her hands were curled up into his hair, bringing him up towards her mouth once more - his breath ragged against her sighs. Tasting and teasing every bit of her he could, from her neck, to her breast; she begged for him to push inside, feeling his hardened length against her stomach, as she was certainly ready for him - dragging him closer to her centre with her legs.

He thrust himself inside; she threw her head back trying to silence her moan into the mattress, as he pushed in and out of her – languidly at first – to her extreme displeasure.

She clutched at his back, nails digging into his skin, as he started to move feverishly alongside her now undisguised moans – pounding against her flesh.

His hand gripping the bedrail that clashed against the wall brutally, resounding against their passionate moans; her hair flaring out on the mattress, perspiration appearing on his brow and bare torso, as he bit lightly into her neck claiming her skin, licking the spot, while he drove into her, his length filling her – as she bit back the shrieks that threatened to spill enthusiastically from her mouth.

"Oh God," she cried, the minute his mouth was yet against on her nipple, sucking it into a hardened pebble, as she drew his mouth in for another deep entangled kiss.

His movement quickened, speeding up with her moans, as he growled out, "Molly," repeatedly into her ear, and she lost it entirely – her body convulsing, her back almost levitating off the bed, while he clutched her desperately towards him, releasing himself entirely with a half-anguish – half-pleasured expression on his face – as she gave out a last cry of gratification, ecstasy coursing throughout her body.

Sherlock leaned his forehead on hers, breathing deeply, as he gave a soft kiss on her collarbone, upwards her neck, and a light peck on her lips smiling. She certainly couldn't meet his eye at Bart's without wanting to pull him into the nearest broom cupboard for a quick snog, or most likely, much more than that probably - and she couldn't wait.

He slowly drew himself out of her, ending on his back on the bed, and she half-expected him to leave, but he dragged her to him - her head on his chest listening to his pounding heart, as he heaved deep breaths – his fingers tangled in her hair.

They lay there for a while in silence; touching each other's naked bodies, and appreciating everything they'd seen the previous night in secret, or not so secret, as Molly smiled at him. Sherlock suddenly broke the silence and said, "I thought you said you were hungry?"

She licked her lips slowly, settling herself on top of him now, "This is breakfast."

A/N: I could have of course edited much more, but I was a bit - to hell with it - at this point.

And I hope you liked it?

I'm just really grateful for all the reviews and favourites and followers I've gotten for this story that was just a mad idea in the back of my head. It certainly got longer than I intended, and I thank you all very much! I hope this final bit meets your approval, since I was on the edge of my seat about that really. Still am, as I'm typing this.

Still, it's all good fun really. Now, I shall occupy myself with other pursuits - such as my other neglected fics. They sorely need attention, thank you for reading!