Notes: Just a quick little something that popped into my head today. Hasn't been beta'd so any mistakes are completely my fault. Concrit and general comments are always appreciated! I mainly just couldn't get the picture of Sherlock cuddling with Molly out of my head. :) Nothing you see here belongs to me…sad really.


Eventually, the adrenaline of the day wore off and they fell into bed together, literally. The flat they were in was something that Mycroft arranged – apparently at some point between leaving her in the morgue and waiting for John in the lab, Sherlock had found the time to call his brother and ask for his help. He'd hidden in her office while she prepared the decoy body and while she attempted to console an inconsolable John Watson. It had taken all of her strength to not fling open the door to her office and reassure him that Sherlock was safe.

He'd explained to her what would happen, what Moriarty was planning. He knew that Moriarty was convinced he had won this twisted game, thought he had all of Sherlock's moves figured out. But Sherlock knew, somehow, that she wasn't a pawn anymore. She wasn't sure if it was because Jim – no, Moriarty – had some sort of affection for her or if he believed that she had served her purpose in his plot and had no further use. To be honest, she didn't really care what Moriarty thought of her. Sherlock told her she counted and after that, anything else didn't even matter.

They'd plotted for half the night, figuring out what to do about the body that would need to be passed for Sherlock's, how exactly Sherlock would avoid becoming that body himself, how to make everyone believe their lie(and it'd taken every ounce of strength she had not to start crying right then and there as they planned exactly where John would have to stand to watch his best friend fall to his death), how to smuggle him out of the hospital without anyone seeing, and any and all of the little details in between.

By the time that everything was over and they made it to the safe house, it was practically a miracle that they were still standing. Molly could feel her limbs growing weak and sore, and she knew that if she didn't get some rest right then, she'd start to really lose it. She was certain that Sherlock was in worse condition than she was. Without a word, she'd pushed him into the bedroom and they'd both stripped down to their underwear (mismatched bra and panties for her, boxer briefs for him) and barely got under the covers before sleep claimed them.

She woke nearly 6 hours later, incredibly disoriented. The room had been outfitted with blackout curtains so she didn't know what time it was until she caught sight of the clock across the room. She knew that she hadn't gotten nearly enough rest, but she also knew that she wouldn't be able to get back to sleep right away. Carefully, she turned to the other occupant of the bed, who she was just now noticing had an arm slung loosely around her waist.

He was fine. He was breathing and alive and fine, which was remarkable, considering she had signed his death certificate about 9 hours ago. Resisting the urge to trace his relaxed features, Molly took a deep breath and carefully slithered out from underneath his arm. She picked up Sherlock's shirt from the floor and buttoned it up, blushing intensely from the perceived intimacy of the action. Just transport, that's what he would say though, right? Quietly, she slipped from the bedroom and out into the rest of the flat.

It was a nondescript flat in Bromley somewhere, but that was really all that Molly knew about it. Sherlock assured her that they would have nothing to worry about there and that everything they needed would be provided. She wandered out into the kitchen and rifled through a few cabinets until she found the kettle and tea. Letting her mind wander as she completed the familiar task, she couldn't help but wonder what was next. Sherlock had to leave eventually to dismantle Moriarty's network, she knew that much for sure. But he had said that before he could do that, he had some ends that he could tie up in London. Would he stay here while he did that? Would…would he want her to stay with him?

She fixed her cup of tea, putting in the right amount of sugar and milk, and wrapped both hands around the mug as she went to go sit on the couch. She supposed she could have foregone the tea and gone back to bed, but it seemed awkward somehow. Sherlock didn't like to be touched and she was sure that he would be embarrassed and lash out if he discovered he'd been holding her while they slept. Yawning, she leaned back against the back of the couch. She'd stay out here until he woke up and then maybe she'd retreat into the bedroom again.

She'd sat in silence then, going over the events of the last 24 hours and trying to figure out what happened next. Her tea was nearly gone when she heard movement from the bedroom. Before she could think to call out, a rumpled Sherlock burst out of the bedroom, his eyes frantic as they scanned for something. Molly panicked, thinking that something had happened, and was taken by surprise when he immediately relaxed once he registered her presence on the couch. The fright that had been clear as day faded into slight annoyance and his lip curled up in almost a sneer. "You weren't in bed," he stated.

Unsure of where this conversation might go, Molly simply nodded as she set down her mug. "Woke up and couldn't get back to sleep. Made some tea if you want some."

He shook his head. "No. My body still requires rest, as I'm sure yours does as well. If my touching you while you were asleep is what is bothering you, I will stay here on the couch while you continue to rest."

At that, Molly jumped up and made her way over to Sherlock. "No! No, that wasn't it at all…you knew that you were holding me?" He didn't reply verbally, just gave her a quick nod. "I didn't… didn't want to make you uncomfortable."

He snorted this time and Molly quirked her lips in amusement at the noise. "I need contact right now, Molly. Some sort of primal, human," he nearly spat the word out, "need, if I had to guess. Except I don't guess, I know, but my brain is not exactly in prime functioning shape because I still require at least four more hours of sleep and will not be able to achieve it without your body beside me." He huffed as he finished his little speech and looked at her expectantly, before turning on his heel and walking back into the bedroom.

Molly stood in shock for a moment, looking blankly at where Sherlock had been standing. Her brain sluggishly processed what he'd just said…and a small smile bloomed across her face.

Sherlock Holmes had definitely just asked for – actually, make that demanded – a cuddle. She rolled her eyes and ventured back into the dark room. Sherlock was sitting on the side of the bed that he had claimed as his own, just watching her as she reached behind to close the door. Her hands came up behind her and unclasped her bra, pulling it off without removing his shirt. He watched in fascination and Molly nearly giggled, before carelessly throwing her bra aside and going around to her side of the bed and pulling back the covers. Sherlock finally lay down and waited patiently for her to climb in, pulling the covers up to her shoulders.

She was tense for a moment, unsure of exactly what Sherlock needed. But she didn't have to wait for long, as Sherlock gently tugged on her shoulder and pushed her onto her back. Much to her surprise, he then all but draped his upper body over her, his head lying over her breast, pressed against her heart, and threw an arm over her stomach. "You look nice in my shirt," he murmured, his words already slurred with the promise of sleep.

Smiling, Molly tentatively brought a hand up and sunk it into his lush curls, just like she'd always dreamed about. Sherlock grunted in pleasure and pushed his head further into her ministrations and her smile grew. "Thank you, Molly," he whispered, already half asleep.

Molly hummed absently and looked down at the man lying on her, his face completely relaxed once more. "Always, Sherlock," she replied in a soft murmur, continuing to stroke his hair until her own heavy lids finally closed.