Chapter Text
She’s never been one to throw a door closed behind her, but considering the time of night, Molly takes even more care to shut the door quietly, pushing it firmly until she hears the click of the bolt sliding back in place. It’s the same ritual after every afternoon shift: she tosses her bag onto the chair a few feet away, toes off her shoes and places them on the mat, and hangs her coat on the hook behind the door before padding quietly through her unlit apartment. The dim orange light from the street lamps outside casts enough of a glow that she can see the dark shape of the heavy wool coat tossed over the back of her sofa. Of course he’s here.
It’s mostly habit and courtesy that have her creeping through her own home to avoid waking him. When she reaches her bedroom he’s exactly where she expects him to be, curled up under her duvet facing away from her with Toby snoring in a ball beside his head. The alarm clock on “her” side tells her it’s just before one in the morning; only ten hours until she starts all over again. She throws on her pyjamas and slides into bed, leaving enough space for her guest and her cat and still finding a comfortable spot in seconds.
It’s nice when this happens, she thinks, already dozing off. No need to use her imagination to fall asleep. Just the rhythmic hum of her own breathing, Toby’s, Sherlock’s…
“Do you think he knows he’s a good boy?”
Molly snaps upright with a curse, clutching her chest as she turns to glare at the man who dared to scare the hell out of her in the middle of the night. “I thought you were asleep!” she hisses, feeling another stab of annoyance when Sherlock sits up not to look at her but to watch the startled cat flee the room. “To be honest, I don’t particularly care if he knows he’s a good boy because at least I know he’s the good boy out of the two of you!” To run it home, she picks up her pillow and whacks Sherlock with it before throwing herself back down onto it with the grumpiest expression she can muster.
Her guest follows suit, lying back down with his hands tucked underneath his own pillow.
“Do you think he knows, though?” he insists, asking more quietly this time. “You say it to him quite often, but it’s not as if cats understand English.”
“Yes, Sherlock, I do think he knows,” Molly grumbles.
“Why?”
“Because he’s a cat and cats already think they’re the best, just like certain unnamed detectives.”
“Mm, I understand.” He’s quiet for a moment and Molly starts to hope he’s fallen asleep when he adds, “Dimmock really does fit the criteria, doesn’t he?”