Molly took a deep breath. The door to her flat was an unimposing white slab with two simple panels engraved into it, and a small peephole that sat at just about eye level. Her keys hung from the lock, her hand in the process of twisting the handle open, when she decided to stop and take a few minutes to compose herself. It had been four months since Sherlock had appeared on her doorstep, a bright smile on his face and a bag in his hand, telling her how becoming her new haircut was, and, oh, did she lose weight? She had gladly stepped aside; after all, how could she refuse him lodging? She was giddy at the prospect of having the enigmatic man back in her life. However, even clouds with silver linings tended to rain occasionally, and while it was a dream come true to wake up and see Sherlock every morning, his antics were quickly wearing on Molly's nerves.

Lately, Sherlock had been inventing "mysteries" that Molly was supposed to solve upon returning home. Depending on how bored he was during the day dictated just how elaborate the mystery was; once she walked in and nearly fainted upon finding Toby suspected in a cage over a kiddy pool filled with some sort of noxious green substance. She had berated Sherlock until she was blue in the face, demanding that he remove her cat from his contraption. He did as she asked, somewhat grudgingly, before gleefully explaining to Molly how it worked.

Sherlock was also not keen on cleaning up his 'mysteries,' and so the kiddy pool had remained in her apartment until Molly had the time to clear it away. This irked the pathologist more than anything; she was a meticulously neat person, believing that everything had its place and, contrary to Sherlock's belief, that place was not in a pile on the floor.

She pushed the door open and groaned. It appeared as though today was no different; a mystery was at hand. Streams from last years' New Year's Eve party line the walls of her kitchen, and led into the small hallway that opened up into the living room. Removing her coat, molly placed her bag on the kitchen counter, moving some cultures Sherlock had left out, before heading into the living room. A scene of absolute chaos lay before her. Every pillow she owned had been up rooted and carefully scattered around the room, each dressed in an article of Molly's clothing, and each saddled with a party hat. Her coffee table was covered with a magnificent spread of appetizers, and a large bowl of punch sat in the center, surrounded by more streamers and noisemakers. Sherlock reigned over it all, his arm wrapped around a mannequin bust she used for sewing, and his other petting a sleeping Toby. He smiled brightly at her.

"Ah, molly! You're just in time! A wonderful mystery has sprung up!"

"Can we not-?" but Molly's plea fell on deaf ears as Sherlock teleported to her side and pulled her into the pillow massacre.

"A curious thing has happened," he said, leading her through the 'crime scene.' "I had just arrived to Mr. Body Pillow's party when, much to my surprise, I found all the patrons dead! The only survive was Miss Mannequin, and she can only testify that, around midnight, the guests began to drop off like flies."

"Fascinating," Molly muttered. Sherlock didn't sense her sarcasm, and simply beamed at the 'enthusiasm' she was showing.

"What would you say the cause of death was?" Sherlock asked.

"Sherlock, I'm very tired and…" Sherlock gave her a stern look, and with an irritable sigh, Molly bend down to investigate her pillows. The first thing she noticed was a rather sour smell coming from the fabric. "Sherlock, what did you do to my pillows?"

"Nevermind that," he waved it off. "What do you see?"

"Fine," she grumbled. She sniffed again. "They smell sour…and they're…" she placed her hand on the pillow only to discover that it was covered in something sticky. "Sherlock! What did you do to my pillows?"

"What killed them?" his expectant look made her realize he would never tell her what had befallen her poor pillows.

"They smell like alcohol…"

"Good, good!"

"But they're sticky, meaning the presence of sugar. The only thing like that in the room is the punch. Meaning the punch has been poisoned," she stood up and glanced at the punch bowl, wondering if it really was poisoned.

"Yes, good, but—"

There was always a 'but' with Sherlock's mysteries.

"—how is it, then, that Miss Mannequin survived? She arrived first, you see, and drank from the punch first. Decided it wasn't to her taste, she switched to soda, no ice. She should have been one of the first to die," he strolled over to the mannequin and hoisted it off the couch. "How did you survive?"

"I don't know," Molly said. "Maybe she has an immunity to poison, being a mannequin and all."

Sherlock's face fell, and he dropped the mannequin. He grabbed Molly by the shoulders and led her over to the punch bowl, forcing her back to bend so she could look at it closely. It was a simple, plastic bowl that had been stuffed in the back of her cupboard. She rarely used it, in fact, she was quite certain she'd thrown it out; she was mildly surprised that Sherlock had managed to find it. The punch itself was deep red with orange swirls on top, and smelled like sherbet mixed with fruit punch and alcohol. A few melted ice cubes bobbed in the frothy mix.

"Think, Molly, think!" Sherlock urged. "She arrived first, and was not poisoned. How?"

Molly's blank look caused Sherlock to groan.

"The ice cubes!" He cried, gesturing wildly to the bwol. "The ice cubes were poisonous! As they melted, they poisoned the punch. Miss Mannequin arrived before a lethal dosage had seeped into the punch, yet as the party wore on, the ice cubes released a lethal amount of poison, which is why everyone else died and she remained alive. Really, it was all right there in front of you!"

"Well, congratulations, Sherlock," Molly smiled. "You've solved another case."

"Hardly," he replied. "We still have to determine who the murderer is."

"I shall call this the Pillow Party Poisoner," she grinned despite herself. "A title even John would be proud of."

Sherlock glared at her before flopping onto the couch, crossing his arms, and pouting. Molly laughed lightly; a full grown, handsome man pouting because she hadn't been able to figure out his game. IT was very much like a child whose parents didn't understand the rules to some board game that the kid had made up, yet were expected to play regardless. Molly sat beside him and reached over to the tray of appetizers, grabbing a bacon wrapped scallop and plopping it into her mouth. She shut her eyes and moaned, savoring the taste. Sherlock's amazing culianary skills never ceased to amaze her.'

"He should have figured it out by now," Sherlock said suddenly.

"Who should have figured what out?" she asked.

"John!" He stood up suddenly, stalking around the coffee table and irritably kicking a pillow clad in her best evening dress. "I don't understand it. I have given him his mourning period, he should be past this by now! He should be analyzing what I said to him! He should have figured it out!"

"Sherlock, your clues were clever," Molly said. "Very clever. I could only understand how genius they were after you explained them to me." She saw Sherlock smile before turning away. "But you have to thinka bout where you were when you told him. He was more concerned about your leaping from the top of St. Bart's, and not your word choice."

He fell into a contemplative silence.

"Is this really poisoned?" Molly motioned towards the punch.

"What? No, no it's not," he muttered distractedly.

Molly helped herself to a cup.

For the past few days, the fact that John had yet to decipher Sherlock's well-worded code had been eating away at him. At times he had convinced himself that John had actually figured it out, and continued his silence as a way to annoy Sherlock. Molly had walked in on him several times, rehearsing what he would say when John finally showed up on her doorstep. Oftentimes he'd stop halfway through, muttering things like, "No, no; he'd hit me for that," or, "Come on, Sherlock, think!"

Molly was convinced that John had yet to figure out the clue. Sherlock had told her that as he was about to jump, he'd call John. "I'm a fake," he said. "I'm a fraud. It was all a magic trick." He'd been telling John that what he was about to see wasn't real; it was all an illusion that he and Molly had crafted that, upon being viewed from the right angle ("John, don't move! Go back!") would make it appear as if he were dead. John had been too wrapped up in grief to notice this, something that Sherlock seemed unable to understand.

"If you're this beaten up over it," Molly said as Sherlock moodily kicked at another pillow, "why don't you just go to his flat? You know where it is."

Sherlock remained silent. IT wasn't the first time she had suggested this straightforward approach, and it wasn't the first time it had been rejected. Sherlock enjoyed his games too much, and with Moriarty gone, he had very few people he could truly flex his brain around. The primary one was Mycroft, whom Molly quickly learned had a deduction power far greater than Sherlock's, though he was lazy to the point that it crippled him. The other was Irene Adler, and Molly could not stomach the woman. Both of them had discovered quickly that Sherlock was alive, and they texted often. Molly hated when Irene texted him, the throaty moan bothered her more than the flirtatious context. Really, Sherlock had gotten a new phone; why hadn't he replaced her ringtone?

It appeared as though Sherlock had retreated to his mental palace, and so Molly took her fill of the appetizers and headed off to shower. She would clean put the mess he'd made when she got out; she assumed all of her pillow cases would need washing. Perhaps she might even need new pillows. Leave it to Sherlock to destroy her belongings in the name of boredom.

The shower did wonders on her frayed nerves. Work had been rather tedious; a family had been brought into in the morgue today. They'd been found dead in their home. Molly had been the one to figure out it was carbon monoxide poisoning. A search of the house concluded that there were high levels of CO in the area, and that the family lacked a proper carbon monoxide detector. It was unfortunate.

Donning a cotton shirt and some shorts, she wrapped herself in a thin bathrobe and returned down stairs to begin cleaning. Sherlock had moved to perch on the windowsill, his hands pressed together and his index fingers touching his lips. He was thinking. Molly had learned quickly not to bother himw hen eh was thinking. What little social decorum he had disappeared when he was in this mode, and the things he was likely to say would wound her more than he would ever know. Sighing, she began to tidy up the area, ripping the punch soaked pillow cases off and grinning when, each time, it revealed another pillow case. So, she wouldn't have to buy new pillows after all!

Once everything was back in its place and her flat was looking slightly neater than when she'd arrived, she retreated into the kitchen to start on some paperwork she had been unable to finish at work. So engrossed was she in her notes that she didn't notice when Sherlock came right up behind her. She nearly fell off her stool when she felt his breath on the back of her neck.

"Invite him here," he said simply.

"What?"

"Invite john here."

"Sherlock, I haven't seen John in months," she spun around to face him, noting how close he was standing. She fought a losing battle with her blush. "Why would I call him out of the blue…?"

"Call him anyways," Sherlock gripped her shoulders. "Tell him you haven't heard from him in months-"

"I just told you I haven't—"

"—and that you're concerned. Ask him to come over if he has something on his mind. Tell him you can help."

"What are you getting at?" Molly said.

"He'll come," Sherlock said. "He's lonely. He hasn't been seeing anyone since I've died, very unlike the doctor who had a different girl every day of the week. You're special to him."

"What are you talking about?" Molly was bewildered. "I'm not special to John. We've barely spoken two words to each other!"

"Yes, but you know me," he let go of her shoulders and stepped back. Molly suddenly found it easier to breath. "You've known me as he's known me. Whether he realizes it or not, you've got a kinship with him. You have me in common, you've both lost me, it'll draw him to you when he realizes you were affected as well. You're the perfect candidate. If you were to invite him over, I doubt he would refuse. A pretty girl who knew Sherlock almost as intimately as he did; it's a bait he can't resist."

"And then what do I do when he gets here?" Molly crossed her arms, not liking this idea much at all.

"Well, then he'll see that I'm alive and well," Sherlock grinned, "and everything will return to normal."

"You can move back into 221b and stop harassing me," it was very hard for Molly to keep the grin off her face. "No more mysteries, no more torturing Toby…"

"I wasn't torturing Toby," Sherlock sniffed. "He was perfectly safe the entire time."

Molly sincerely doubted that.

"Text him now," Sherlock said. "And say these words exactly."

Pulling out her phone, she scrolled down to John's number.

"Say," he began, "Say, 'Hey, I've been thinking about you lately. How are you?'"

Molly did as he asked, frowning. It was as if she was trying to seduce him. She got a text back immediately.

"I've been alright. How're you? ;)"

"Oh God!" Molly held the phone away from her as if it were something foul, "he winked at me!"

"Wait for it, wait for it," Sherlock muttered.

Her phone rang again two seconds later.

"Oh, I'm sorry! I meant that to be a smile!"

"John is acharming man," Sherlock said, "I've seen him use that technique several times. He 'accidentally' sends a wink. Girls who like him will read into it, girls that don't will accept his apology afterwards."

"I see," she said. "Which girl shall I be playing?"

"The first," he thought for a few moments. "Tell him, 'Ha,ha, that's alright.' Then put a smile as well. Immediately afterwards, send another text saying, "Hey, I was wondering if you'd like to come over some time? I really need someone to talk to about…well…' Then leave it at that. He's lonely and upset; he gets a text from a friend who is also lonely and upset and wants his comfort. He'll get to play the hero; he will come over."

Molly sighed and did as he said, sending the two texts back to back. John didn't reply immediately, which caused Sherlock to grin madly.

"He's excited," he said. "If I know John, he's probably rushing about trying to look presentable; he hasn't shaved in days…he wants to look put together if you ask him over tonight."

"Is he coming over tonight?" Panic welled in her. Her apartment was a mess! She couldn't very well let John in here and think she was a big.

Her phone rang. 'Of course. When would you like to meet up?'

"Tomorrow night," Sherlock began. "Tell him to meet you here after work."

Molly complied, and received a confirming text.

"And that's that!" Sherlock said cheerfully, opening the fridge and frowning at its contents. "He'll be here, he'll get any ill feelings towards me out of his system, and things can go back to the way they were."

"Yes, the way they were," Molly muttered as her phone buzzed again. Another text from John. She smiled.

Molly and John ended up texting each other until they both fell asleep.

AN: So, what did you think? It's been a while since I've written anything, and constructive criticism is always welcome!