"Sherlock," Molly whispered into her dark apartment. "You didn't leave again, did you?"
She stumbled through the dark to her desk lamp, gasping as she turned it on at the sight of Sherlock in the seat before her.
His palms were pressed together with his fingertips on his lips, in his familiar thinking position.
Molly sighed nervously. "Would you fancy a drink?"
He remained so still he seemed to be playing dead again.
"How about a spot of tea, hmm?"
He broke his form to scold her. "Molly, you must stop being nervous around me, it's quite annoying."
"Yes. Well." She stood silently, defeated.
"Tea, Molly."
"Oh, right," she murmured and left for the kitchen.
Sherlock returned to his thoughtful position, not stirring when Molly set his cup in front of him minutes later.
"I, uh, recorded some -"
"No," he said, eyes still closed.
"Just a few clips in case you -"
"I don't."
She sighed and whispered, "Sherlock." Thinking she might cry, she waited before continuing. "I know this must be very hard."
Sherlock let he hands fall and stared at her. "Yes Molly, let's talk about what we know. I know you spent hours at 221 Baker Street, rummaging through my things – what a fun after party." His speech picked up its pace. "Thankfully, you, unlike the rest, drank very little – makes keeping our secret easier. John spilled his drink on you, giving you a fine excuse to leave, all too quickly, as you have forgotten my violin. Tell me – were you all able to occupy yourselves with Silly Sherlock Stories for an entire hour or did you run out well before then?"
Sherlock picked up his feet and dug them into Molly's seat cushion.
"No one came with me to Baker's Street," Molly spat, still fighting tears, but from frustration. "I got to stay there alone in search of your bloody violin while everyone went to Greg's for drinks."
She turned to leave, but thought better of it and continued, "I looked for two hours through a mess of boxes before John came home. And yes, he did spill a drink on me as he politely offered it. He'd hardly had a thing to drink. No, he was just…shaking."
Softly, Sherlock asked, "Shaking?"
"Yes, normal people are quite shaken after their friend's funeral."
Molly threw her coat on the sofa next to him before storming to her room.
"Mycroft has your stupid violin!" She called before slamming her door. For minutes she sat on her sheets, crying softly as the weight of lying to her friends and watching them grieve, rested on her, finally.
A soft wrap came at her door.
"Molly," Sherlock said quietly.
"What?"
"You are right."
She waited, dejected.
"This is…hard."
He waited outside her door another minute before turning to leave.
She found him staring out the front window.
"At funerals, people always say what they should have said before." Lightly, she slipped her camera phone into his limp hand at his side. He took it. "Since we're discussing what we know."