A/N: The third and final part after Knowledge, and Truth. There might be more but I really should stop getting distracted with one-shots and get my act together for The Admirer. Sigh 3


Molly was fast asleep on her sofa. She had thought that she would have been able to manage reading one more neuroscience journal but the migraine robbed her of any chance of that. So deep was her sleep that she barely heard her phone buzzing noisily on the dining table.

Sherlock was just outside Molly's door as he tried calling her. Normally, he would have just made his way in but he had miraculously remembered John's words about, well, forced entry. So Sherlock hesitated and remembered his manners, patiently waiting with his phone pressed to his ear.

"What could she be doing? Why isn't she picking up?" Sherlock muttered to himself. He stopped the call and now pressed his ear to her door. No, she wasn't in the shower, she wasn't cooking either. There was no telly on or any music. It was dead silent. How could she have not heard her phone?

"Is she not in?" Sherlock wondered aloud. He stepped back to observe the door. No, the fresh streaks of having wiped her shoes on the 'welcome' mat and the fact that her umbrella was damp and lying beside the door frame were obvious signs she had already come home.

"I guess I have no choice," Sherlock stated quietly to himself, as he begun to expertly pick her lock, clicking the door open with ease.

The moment he stepped in, he saw Molly, worn out and draped across her sofa.

Treading quietly in, Sherlock walked towards her sleeping figure. He could tell from her breathing that she'd entered a rather deep sleep cycle. Sherlock realised then how right she was when she had said she needed rest. No amount of herbal remedies could stave off such fatigue. He knelt beside her and gently rested two fingers on her wrist, taking her pulse. It was nice and steady and her skin was cool and smooth. The sensation of her pulse was that of tiny drumbeats that travelled through the skin of his fingertips right into the centre of his own heartbeat. And like a spanner in the works, her pulse had thrown his own vascular rhythm out of order. Her quiet, regular pulse was now drowned by his heart that wrecked itself against his ribcage.

His hand gingerly reached to touch her hair, eventually tracing the side of her face gently. Sherlock's deft fingertips skimmed lightly across her skin, from her brow bone to the final point of her chin. Sherlock hated to admit it, but Molly was alluring. Her face registered such peacefulness and it gave him such reprieve that he hadn't known he needed.

For a man who claimed to know everything, the truth was that he really didn't know himself very much. Which was why even he could not explain why he suddenly leaned over to kiss Molly gently on the forehead. When he had done so, she woke, staring bewildered at him, and he too, at her.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" Molly asked, sitting up frantically. Her eyes were wide in shock.
"I'm sorry…I-I…don't know." Sherlock answered, barely coherent.
"Why are you…stuttering?" asked Molly, surprised at this unusual version of Sherlock.

Clearing his throat, he stood up and sat himself next to her and took a deep breath. He took out the folded papers, placed them on his lap and began sorting them. Sherlock was not enjoying this little slip into vulnerability and tried to shake it off by focusing on the reports.

"I need help with the blood work analyses."
"What?" Molly said, incredulous, "You came all this way, to ask for help?"
"Yes." What else could he say?
"Sherlock," Molly said, taking the papers and lifting them to his face, "You don't need help with this. You can manage on your own."

Sherlock took the papers that now obscured them both and returned them to his lap.

"Why can't I just come to see you then?" he asked, looking directly at her.
"Because…you don't do that. You don't just…see people."
"Yes, I do."
"No, Sherlock," Molly laughed gently, "You don't."
"I'm seeing you now, aren't I?"
"Maybe you are…" Molly said, leaning back against her sofa. She did not know what to make of his visit.

"How's the headache?" he asked quietly.
"Terrible. But I am feeling a little better." Molly answered, shutting her eyes.

Silence filled the room as Sherlock ran out of words to say. Molly had no reason to speak. She was curious as to why he had lingered around and kissed her, but she was too tired to figure anything out at this moment.

"I'm sorry I…kissed you…" Sherlock said, suddenly.

Molly's eyes popped open and she turned sharply to face him.

"Why would you be sorry about that?" she asked him gently.
"It was an unexpected and therefore, I imagine, a terribly impolite thing for me to do. Especially while you were sleeping…"
"You silly fool…" Molly said with a soft laugh.
"A fool? Me?" Sherlock asked, turning to face her now.

Molly's face lit up with a beautiful smile as her hands reached for Sherlock's face.

"Why do you think I feel better?" she asked him softly.

Sherlock's perplexed frown only served to amuse her more as she chuckled to herself.

"Here," she said, drawing her face close to his, "Let me explain."

The stack of blood work reports slipped off Sherlock's lap as his hands found their way to Molly's waist, just as Molly's mouth found its way to Sherlock's.