Chapter Text
He had vehemently disagreed with the idea from the moment it was suggested. Yes, he had changed much since he had met John, and even more since his great fall, but he had to draw the line somewhere. And involving Molly in this case? That was where he was going to draw the line. She was already involved, but further involvement would only put her at risk, and she was his friend. The fact he even considered her a friend spoke volumes. And he didn’t want her to get hurt. But he was doomed to lose the argument before it even was an argument. Lestrade insisted, John supported the idea and Molly was eager to help beyond just conducting the autopsies. There was no helping it: she was going to be helping him whether he liked it or not.
The killer was striking couples in London, those who were at the top of their fields. Obviously he was superb at what he did, and Molly was one of the best pathologists in the city. Theoretically they should be perfect bait. It would not be hard to convince others that they had a romantic relationship; now that John was married off and no longer living at the home they had shared Sherlock had spent more time with Molly. While most of the time it was just talking over coffee, discussing cases and theories, it could be construed as dates. And they had been doing it long enough that the idea of them living together would not seem too far-fetched. Everyone thought it was a brilliant idea. Only Sherlock had his doubts.
The killer had not struck often enough for his pattern to be noticeable at first; it had taken months for the pattern to emerge, and it had been Sally Donovan who noticed the connection. Sherlock had to admit it had escaped him entirely, and Sally had been dumbstruck when he congratulated her on catching the pattern. They were both trying to readjust to his return and the changes in his demeanor. Her and everyone else in Scotland Yard, to be more blunt. It meant more cases for him, and anything to get his mind off the hell he’d been through in two years was good for him.
And so it was a week later he was hauling boxes into his home. Molly was not bringing much, for which he was eternally grateful, especially since they were to share a room. It was the only way for the ruse to work. As he brought the last box in he saw Molly moving around the kitchen, putting food away and humming to herself. It was strange seeing her there, making herself comfortable. But he would have to get used to it, he supposed. No one knew how long it would take the killer to snatch up this particular bait.
“I have the last box,” Sherlock said after watching her for a moment more.
“Thank you, Sherlock,” she said, turning to him and flashing a smile. “I saw you cleared off some shelves for me in the sitting room. I appreciate it.”
“If you're to be here for any length of time it is not fair to ask you to not have anything here,” he said. She had not taped up the top of the boxes so he opened one. Inside were books and framed pictures. He pulled out a picture and stared at it for a moment. It was Molly with an older woman, and both of them were smiling.
“That’s my mother,” she said quietly from his side. He had been staring so intently at the photograph that he had not heard her leave the kitchen. “She died not long after my father. I think she died of a broken heart, but the actual cause of death was heart attack.”
“I'm sorry for your loss,” he said, handing the photograph to her.
“What about you? Are your mum and dad still alive?” she asked, putting the photograph back in the box before picking the box up and taking it to the empty shelves.
“My mother is. My father died when I was young.”
“You’re quite lucky,” she said. She began to pull out the photographs and set them on a chair to get to the books underneath. “I would love to have my mother around. I miss her greatly.”
He watched her for a few minutes. He was not good with emotion, still not terribly good at picking up social cues, but even he knew that this was a topic they should avoid for the time being. “I thought we might talk about what's expected,” he said, moving closer to her.
“Like rules?” she asked, turning to look at him for a moment.
“More like guidelines.”
“Oh, this will be like when I was a teenager again,” she said, but there was a ghost of a smile on her face. “What are the guidelines, Sherlock?”
“Leave my experiments alone. Do not bother me when I am thinking about a case. And stay on your side of the bed at night.”
She chuckled slightly. “Is that all? I thought there would be a longer list.”
“I’ll probably have more things later, after we have resided together for a bit,” he said in a slight huff. She was amused. She thought it was amusing. He had not expected that, but knowing Molly he should have.
“I toss and turn at night,” she said. “So staying on my own side of the bed might be a problem.”
“Well, try your best. It's not as though I sleep much anyway,” he said.
“How often do you sleep?” she asked, pausing in what she was doing.
“Three or four hours a night. I only sleep longer if I have not slept the previous night. And I do that frequently.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” She looked at him. “I fully believe we can share a bed and nothing has to happen.”
“Nothing will happen,” he said. “I don’t do relationships.”
“I know you don’t,” she said quietly, going back to what she had been doing before. “I learned that well years ago.”
He watched her. Yes, the crush. She had been infatuated with him, before the fall. He couldn’t fathom why, he’d never been able to figure that out, but it was not present when he returned. Yes, she had been a contact while he was away, one of the few who knew the truth, and they had talked extensively at points. She had even left the hospital for two weeks to patch him up after a particularly bad encounter with an assassin where he had been gravely injured. He had insisted on her care because, to be honest, he didn’t trust many others to not work with the enemy and ensure his death. She had stayed in the hotel room the entire time, making sure he stayed alive. He had been more grateful for it than she knew, and yet this friendship they had now had no remnants of the one-sided crush. Something had changed in the last few years. This was an intriguing mystery that he might look into when time permitted.
She finished her task with this box and moved onto the others. Soon her bookshelf was filled and she went into the bedroom they would share. He did not follow her, instead focusing on one of his other cases. She emerged an hour later and went into the kitchen again, pulling ingredients from the shelves and the refrigerator. He dimly realized she was doing it, and it wasn’t until he could smell the aroma of chicken that he looked up. “Did you make yourself dinner?” he asked.
“Yes, and you too,” she replied. He moved over to the table and saw there were two plates sitting there, filled with food. “John told me you forgot to eat a lot of the time.”
“A bad habit, I suppose,” he said, sitting down in front of one of the plates.
“If there are things you don’t want to eat, let me know and I’ll avoid making them,” she said, getting two glasses of water and bringing them to the table.
“I am not particularly fond of seafood,” he said as she set a glass in front of him. “And I believe salad is merely rabbit food.”
“Well, then I’ll just keep my salads to myself,” she said with a chuckle. “I’m trying to lose some more weight, so I’m eating more healthily.”
“You look perfectly acceptable as you are,” he said before taking a bite of his food. He had to admit, she was a good cook. Time would tell if she was better than John had been.
“Thank you for the compliment,” she said with a smile. She began to eat her own food and they both stayed relatively quiet. To be honest, he was not looking forward to this evening. He had never really shared a bed with anyone, never had any reason to. He enjoyed his space. But for this to work he needed to make adjustments in his life for someone else, and they needed to be the type of adjustments that made others think of a romantic relationship. They had already agreed upon going out together, and the idea of intimacy in public had made his skin crawl initially, but Molly had said she would never do anything he wasn’t comfortable with, and he was thankful for that.
He did the dishes for her, as a courtesy. She had not had to include him in her meal, and at the very least he could show that while he was still resentful at being outvoted on this scheme he didn’t hold it against her. No, only time would tell how it played out, but for now, he would at least make things a bit easier. John had been able to handle his quirks; he didn’t know if Molly would bear them as well, and he wasn’t in the mood to have the whole plan fail because they stopped being able to cohabitate together.
She had excused herself to get some sleep, telling him she had an early day the next day, and he went back to his case. It wasn’t until four hours later that he realized he had hit a dead end and there was nothing more to do on it for the night. Perhaps it was time to go to sleep himself. He went into his room and found her asleep already, and on the side of the bed he preferred. He had neglected to tell her about that, so a bad night’s sleep was going to be his own damn fault tonight. He would tell her in the morning. He stripped out of his clothes as quietly as he could. He was not a modest person, and it wasn’t as though he was getting completely naked. He was merely stripping down to his underwear before putting on more clothing.
“What a nice view,” he heard from the bed as soon as he was about to put his shirt on. He paused and glanced over sharply, watching her yawn before her face settled on an amused grin.
“I suppose that's a compliment?” he asked, looking at her, sleep shirt on his arms but not over his head.
“Yes, Sherlock, it is.” She sat up slightly. “I wasn’t completely asleep and the light woke me up.”
“I apologize.”
“I’ll shut my eyes if you want,” she said.
“It doesn't matter,” he said, putting the shirt on. “Though since you are awake I would prefer if you sleep on the other side.”
She stretched slightly and then nodded, pulling back the covers and getting out of the bed. He glanced at her. This was the least amount of clothing he had ever seen her in, as she was wearing a camisole top and a pair of sleep shorts. She moved around to the other side and pulled the covers back again. Then she paused. “My hair was wet. We should switch pillows.”
“It’s fine,” he replied, moving to pull on his sleep pants. “It’s been a few hours.”
“If you’re sure,” she said, climbing into bed. “I’ll get a sleep mask tomorrow so this doesn’t happen again.” She settled in and turned on her side, her back to him. “Good night, Sherlock.”
“Good night, Molly,” he said as he finished getting ready. He turned off the light and moved over to the bed, climbing in. The pillow wasn’t damp, but the fragrance of her shampoo had lingered. He had to admit it was a pleasant smell, light and floral as opposed to something heavy. He shut his eyes and proceeded to try his best to go to sleep. Even though he wouldn’t sleep for long, if he slept at all, he didn’t want to wake her up again. It was the least he could do.