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When he turns the key in the front door of his flat, Greg is glad to be home. Not just because the heat that surrounds him as he walks in and hangs up his coat which had been sod-all use tramping around London in the wee small hours of a January morning, trying to keep up with a consultant detective who grew steadily more insufferable as the hours crept past and Greg's access to both heat and a cigarette vanished further and further into the past. Nor is it the promise of a cold beer from the fridge or a hot shower.

No, the real reason he's glad to be home is lying snuggled up on the sofa, a book resting on her knees that she can't actually be reading, being as her eyes are closed. There's a thick woolly blanket covering most of her body but he knows that if he could peek underneath it, he'd see flannel pyjamas in some variation of pastels with farm animals printed on them, Primark's finest, Molly's favourites. The sight of her there makes him smile and she must have heard the door because she lifts her head, blinks lazily at him.

"You're home." The smile she gives him makes up for any amount of Sherlock induced rage. It's pure happiness, joy, just because he's there and he can't remember the last time anyone looked at him like that.

Still though, he asks her, "What are you doing up? It's the middle of the bloody night..."

He's not angry, and she knows that from the grin that's on his face. Her cheeks darken and she shrugs one shoulder as she sits up properly, swinging her legs onto the floor. The blanket slips, displays kittens on pale pink flannel. "You know I can't sleep without you," she says primly, crossing the room to stand beside him.

As she approaches, he considers pointing out that based on what he saw when he walked in, she'd been giving it a pretty good try. When she slides her hands up his chest, however, when she tilts her head, looks up at him with a look in her eyes that he recognises, he decides that such a statement would be counter-productive in the extreme. "And what if I don't want to sleep?" he wonders, his hands settling on her hips, fingers squeezing experimentally.

She actually giggles. "Then I'd say you're home just in time."

She kisses him then and suddenly thoughts of Sherlock and the night from hell are far, far away.