It's a quiet night in 221B Baker street. It's winter, and there's a cold draft blowing through the apartment. Not powerful, but just enough to make the hair stand up on Molly's arms and produce goosebumps.
A protective arm is latched around her waist. The hand belongs to her newlywed husband of six months. The grip tightens as Molly shivers from the bitter cold that suddenly hits. Molly leans upward and reaches to the end of the bed where she and Sherlock had nearly kicked them off in their sleep, and dragged them up toward she and him.
The motion caused Sherlock to stir beside her as his grip loosened.
"Are you alright?" He asked, as he sat up, suddenly startling his wife. He placed one of his hands to her side and the other to wrap around her neck and chest to give her a hug, planting a kiss on her cheek.
"Yes, just cold." She responded. She knew he'd have a fit as soon as she told him. He always tried his hardest to make his Molly comfortable in the best way possible.
"I might have some extra blankets, let me check in the closet." he announced, releasing his grip entirely and stood to exit the room.
She watched him leave as he made his way into the closet in the hallway.
He soon returned with a large wool type blanket of sorts and shook it out to cover it over Molly.
He stood next to her, hugged her, then moved his arms up and down her back to produce some kind of friction to warm her up.
She giggled at the sweet gesture and casually responds "Yeah."
He climbs back into bed and he returns to his dominant spot as her protector, wrapping that same protective arm around her wasit again as they both drift fast asleep.
The next morning he awoke, his arm still protectively around his wife. He silently slipped out of bed, as he did most days. The clock in the kitchen said 9:23. He perused around the kitchen looking for something to make for breakfast. Sherlock was about a good a cook as he was an idiot. He decided to wait for Molly to wake up.
He thought it strange. Someone in his home, in his bed. His wife. It still all seemed so surreal, of course he hadn't thought of it much, everything became such a habit and a routine that he didn't notice how strange it was.
But it was a good strange, he thought. Not being alone, not having to worry about falling asleep in a cold bed with nobody to hold; to make him feel alive. She, Molly Hooper- Holmes, rather- made him feel alive. Without her he was nothing.
As he exited the kitchen, he peeked into the bedroom to catch a glimpse of molly yawning and stretching.
"Good morning." Sherlock said with a grin.
She jerked her head and smiled to see him standing there in the archway.
"'Morning to you too, want some breakfast?" she asked sweetly.
Molly got out of bed and made her way towards the kitchen, and grabbed some eggs and bacon.
Now that Molly and Sherlock were married and living in the same apartment there was no longer any disguising body parts to be found in the fridge. He did miss it, but it all came with the price of being with Molly, and he wouldn't change that for the world.
He observed as she reached to grab the pans out of the cupboard. She was still in her pajamas and had thrown on one of Sherlock's old sweatshirts from university.
He grinned "Is that my sweatshirt?" he asked.
Molly stopped and forgot what she was wearing and checked.
"Oh, yeah. I found it in the drawer. You don't mind if I wear it, do you? I still need to do the laundry..." her voice trailed off as Sherlock made his way over to Molly to link his arms around he waist, hugging her tightly.
"It's perfectly alright. You look cute in it."
She smiled as he released her to continue making their breakfast.
----
Sherlock was sitting at the table in the kitchen, as Molly gave him his plate of food, and brought hers over and sat down across from him.
He hadn't had proper breakfast since he was a child until Molly moved in.
He honestly did appreciate the effort that she put into it, even if he wasn't all that hungry for a big meal anyways.
He just appreciated her. Molly. His Molly at that. And she was his as he was hers.
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