After I gave Sherlock his food, he played with it for about 10 minutes; mashing it up the pancakes with his fork and pushing it around in the syrup. I stared at him, my eyes scolding him for his childish behavior. When he noticed my glare, he scooped up of his torn up pancake on his fork and slowly put it in his mouth. "Mmmm." He hummed, immediately scooping up another bite and putting it in his mouth. I smiled and started to eat my pancakes as well.

"So, Sherlock," I start. "Are you going to come with me? You know, to buy what ever you need?"

He swallowed and said, "Yes, I suppose so."

"So, um, when is it you want to leave?" I ask.

"Hmm?" He hums, taking another bite. He's clearly more focused on his food then what I'm saying.

"To go to the store." I say, rolling my eyes. "I have some errands I need to run anyway, so we might as well go today."

"Oh. Whenever you're ready is fine."

We left about an hour later and took a cab to the closest market. We split up in the shop; Sherlock getting what he needed, and me getting what I needed. While on the dairy isle, I saw a familiar face.

John Watson.

I know I couldn't talk to him, Sherlock was probably waiting for me at the front of the shop by now, but I couldn't leave without saying something either.

"John." I say, approaching him. He spun around, and looked at me for a moment, almost like he didn't recognize me.

After a moment, he finally spoke. "Oh, Molly." He said, exhaustion showing in his voice. "I didn't recognize you for a moment. It's, err, probably just shock. It's the shock, I guess." He looked terrible. His eyes were puffy and red from crying. He was also dark under his eyes; obviously didn't get any sleep last night.

"I'm so sorry, John," I say sympathetically. "How are you feeling?"

"Not that well," He says, fighting off tears. "He was my best friend. No one will ever convince me that he told me a lie. I just…" He trails off, and neither of us talks for a few minutes.

"Um, are there…arrangements yet?" I ask.

"Yeah." He takes a deep breath. "Tomorrow, it's– the fu–…" He stops himself from continuing that sentence. After a moment, he continues. "It's tomorrow at 3:00."

"I'll be there." I promise.

"Thank you, Molly." He says. Before I leave, I give him a hug, and then I hurry to the front of the store and use a chip and PIN machine. Sherlock was waiting at the door and spotted me. He walked over, carrying two bags.

"Finally." He muttered as he reached me.

"Sorry," I apologize, rolling my eyes and scanning items as fast as I can. "You might want to be careful. I ran into John." I warn.

"What?"

"He's here. Just go get us a cab, I'll be out in a minute." I tell him, motioning to the door. He leaves and I continued to scan the last items. I paid, grabbed the bags, and went outside where there was already a cab waiting outside with Sherlock in the backseat. I opened the door and climbed in next to him. The cab took of and the ride back to my flat was silent.

"God, Molly." Sherlock whined. " Your dying my hair, not pulling weeds." I rolled my eyes.

"Oh shut up. I've seen children tougher than you." I tell him. He winces as I pulled at a knot in his hair. "It might've helped if you would have combed your hair before."

"Where am I supposed to get a comb from?"

"I've got tons in the bathroom."

"Oh." He said, as if he didn't expect me to own combs. I felt offended, but I tried not to show it.

"Alright," I said, rubbing the last bit of hair dye into his hair. "We have to let this sit for a bit and then I can wash it out for you.

"Thank God." He said. "What's that smell?" He asked.

"The hair dye."

"Oh God, that's horrid."

I laughed. "Yeah. It is isn't it?"

An hour later we were in the bathroom. He was leaning over the tub and I was using the showerhead to wash the dye out of his hair. I could already see the difference. The tub water was full of color, as if all of the dye had been washed out.

"That is a lot of color in the water," Sherlock started. "Did you wash it all out?"

"No. There's still some dye in your hair."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, trust me. I'm sure." I removed my hands from his hair and stepped back, grabbing a dark towel from the sink and handing it to him. "There."

He grabbed the towel and rubbed his hair with it. After a minute, he took it off and tossed it in the hamper. Turning to me, he said, "How does it look?"

I took a minute to find the right word, which never popped into my mind. It was like the hoodie. Not necessarily good or bad. It was just different.

So that's what I told him.

"Different." He repeated. "Good different, or bad different?"

"I dunno, it's just… different."

"What color is it?"

"What do you mean?"

"What color is it?" He repeated.

"You don't know what color you got?" I asked him.

"I was just trying to get out as fast as I could. I hate shopping."

"Well, that explains why you picked this color." I said, laughing.

"What?" He asked, starting to get a bit worried about the color he chose.

"Look for yourself." I said, pulling him over and steadying him in front of the mirror. He took a moment to look at himself.

"Oh my…"

"Yes."

"Out of all the colors…"

I started laughing. I never would have imagined Sherlock like this.

"It's…"

"Ginger."

"That's not even ginger, Molly!" He exclaimed. "That's red!"

"Well it's close enough!"

"But it's not! Its as red as a telephone booth!"

"You know Sherlock, some people can actually pull off hair that bright," I told him. "You are not one of those people." He gave me a horrific look and I laughed. Maybe that one wasn't as bad as some of the things he tells me, but at least he knows how it feels. "Come on," I told him, pulling him towards the door. "Let's go watch crap telly."