Molly stirred quietly, open eye opening before the other and tried to figure out if she was awake or not. She lay in the dark for a couple of minutes before the scratching and scuffling attracted her attention. She shimmied out of the bed, feet clad in mismatched fluffy socks, pausing to scratch the back of her leg with one. She blurrily took in Toby glaring at the door, the scuffling getting louder, followed by an inelegant thump. She looked through the peep hole trying to work out what was on outside her door. All she could see was a hint of dark brown, too vague to get an idea what it was.

She opened the door slowly, still hooked on the latch, and tripped over herself in surprise as Sherlock's head clunked against the gap between the door and its frame.

'Molly!' She winced as she sat back up and gaped blearily at the drunken face blinking widely at her. She was neither awake enough nor drunk enough for this particular chat. Sherlock's face twisted in confusion, looking down at his feet, at Molly, around what little he could see in her flat and up at her door.

'I dunno how I got here. How did I do that?'

'You got a taxi and gave him my address?' She shrugged, pulling her legs up and sitting Indian style on the floor.

'Coulda sworn it was mine.'

The look of confusion on his face could be classified as adorable in any other circumstance, but she just wasn't in the humour.

'So you kill a man, and this is how you react.'

'Cele-, cele-, enjoying that I still have a life here. You're mean when sleepy.'

'And you are surprisingly nice to me when drunk. Have you eaten today?'

'No, why?'

'Fine, less likely to vomit.' She stood up stretching, taking her time to walk over and open the door, despite her sluggishness Sherlock still managed to fall in her door.

'In the spare room.'

'Your room is nicer.'

'I am not sharing my room with a drunken buffoon.'

'Warm.'

'Goodnight Sherlock.' She headed into her room, ignoring the fact that he spoke in an oddly sad lonely way, she was not being booted out, or sharing her bed with his alcohol-riddled self.

'The spare room is just as warm.' She called out as she pulled herself back into her bed, burrowing into the bed. The door opened slowly and Sherlock poked his head in wavering slightly on his feet. He looked down at her thoughtfully; of course it was a drunk thoughtfulness that while at the time, seems to bear the most glorious fruit, but was typically was nothing more than a weed. A raggedy, threadbare, battered one.

'Not the warm I mean' He pointed at her with the intention of continuing with his point like he'd intended, but instead he slid forward onto his knees and then fell asleep on his face.

'Sweet dreams.'