#tinytinymoments

Sherlock was true to his word. He stayed and got busy while she slept. He ordered dinner and even managed to run to the neighborhood grocer to stock up her fridge with fruit, milk, eggs and bread.

It was almost nine o'clock when she was awoken by the door ringing and the subsequent smell of thai curry filling the room. Her rumbling belly forced her to get out of bed.

Sherlock, meanwhile, was busy getting plates out and setting it on the breakfast bar. She felt the now familiar tug at her chest when he is being utterly irresistible. Dang, she thought. Domestic Sherlock gets me every time. She knew she would never get over him. But at least he was here as her friend, right? That's more than she thought could ever be possible since their first meeting over 7 years ago.

Just as if he read her mind, Sherlock broke their comfortable silence with a question.

"Do you remember one of the autopsies you showed me when we first met?" he asked in between bites.

"How could I forget. Male, 28 years old. Homeless. But you knew his name and where he slept."

She could never forget that first encounter, actually. She was stunned by his sheer beauty at first: steely blue eyes; broad chest without being too buff; dark luscious hair. But then he opened his mouth and she was put off by his bluntness towards Lestrade. She was about to cross him off as another arrogant face when he surprised her with his humanity.

It should have been a standard autopsy. Cause of death was evidently an OD. But Molly found something suspicious about this homeless man's death, which was very similar to another homeless death she encountered a few months back. So, she asked Greg if he could take a look at the circumstances around this person's death. Sherlock just happened to be there when she told Greg that she thought he had been murdered, that she had seen a similar autopsy of an unidentified homeless man, and that perhaps, there was a connection. After all, they bore the same inconsistent needle marks for supposed heavy drug users, as the tox results seemed to show, she explained. When she revealed the body, Sherlock was able to identify the body and concur with her findings. Guy Richards was apparently afraid of needles and only ever smoked what he took in.

"I never did get to solve that one," he said sadly.

"Don't be hard on yourself. You can't solve them all. And in any case, it was tough to pin it to a serial killer with only two seemingly related deaths, one of the bodies unclaimed. Not to mention the met just got dealt with a series of high priority terrorist threat events. They needed you on those."

"Hmmm," he said wrinkling his nose, unconvinced. "It never sat well with me that there could be a murderer of the homeless on the loose." He looked absolutely dejected. "I've let you down. You did such thorough work. And I never followed up on it."

She had fallen in love with Sherlock back then, at that moment, when first, he took notice of the vagrants in the city, taking the time to know them by name even if he was using them as informants. Most people would just ignore them and pass them off as useless members of society. But Sherlock, he gave them a chance. That was noble of him.

The second moment was when he looked into her eyes and showed a sincere determination to get to the bottom of it. That was a long time ago. He hadn't delivered on that promise. But here she was, still in love with him.

She reached out to take his hand and gave it a friendly squeeze.

"Don't," she said gently but forced him to look at her. "Don't kick yourself while you're down. You've done many good things for people. You've saved many lives."

"But I-"

"You have saved lives," she said determinedly. "It's not your fault when some people decide to walk away from it."

She knew she had to choose her words correctly to remain truthful but not patronizing. Mary had at least once tried to walk away from her life to keep her family safe. Molly was there to pick up the pieces for Rosie when John and Sherlock spent a fortnight trying to track her down around the world. So, it was not a stretch of imagination to think that Mary knew that her days were numbered and that taking a bullet would be another way out.

It was moments like this that made her resent her friend for walking away from Rosie and John. For dying for Sherlock.

"It's such an unfair exchange," he said despondently, hoping she wouldn't hear. But she did. And it made her blood boil.

"Take it back," Molly said vigorously, disentangling their joined hands.

Sherlock was taken aback by her sudden change in demeanor.

"Don't say that," she spat out. "Don't ever say that. Do you hear me?"

Molly jumped off her seat and planted herself between his knees. She held his confused gaze and despite the loud thudding of her heart, she stepped even closer to cradle his face in her palms. She could feel the rough stubble on his cheeks.

"Do you hear me?" she said as she sucked in steadying breaths. "I need you."

He nodded his ascent, feeling wildly powerless under her fierce gaze but strangely turned on at what should be a somber moment.

"I need you," she whispered again, her breath sending wisps of air on his wet lips. It took all of his mental strength to keep him from leaning in and capturing her bottom lip. But he needed to be sure what she wanted from him. He wanted her to take the lead.

And thank goodness she did.