I'm working loads this weekend, making what should be easy - take a lot more time.

Alas this is not a happy chapter.

I promise more cheer for the next chapter at least! Or well, I'll try.

Do comment, I really love the comments! 3 You're all extraordinary for those wonderful feedbacks!


Truth be told of all the impossible scenarios I'd ever envisioned taking place during this year I had never imagine myself in car with Sherlock Holmes. I had never imagined myself in a car with Sherlock Holmes driving said car with a couple of brainy specs, as his disguise. The fact that we were on our way to Hull - of all imaginable places. Hull, a place I had made excuses, and all imaginable sorts of work-related business found myself heading towards – with Sherlock Holmes pretending to be Martin. You're wondering aren't you? How did we come to this? Why are we heading to Hull? Oh, gosh, it's luckily not a very long story.

Let me set the scenario for you. We're back in my flat, it's still yesterday morning – I haven't brushed my teeth, I'm pushing food into my mouth slowly, grasping bits of egg and toast, avoiding all forms of communication, except that of occasional raised brows. I'm sitting squashed between the handsome detective with his double-act as Benedict who works with computers apparently, and my boyfriend Martin who's a painter. I'd like to add the fact that Benedict has yet to have put on proper clothes, for whatever reason, and is currently sitting still with a towel around his waist. I'm trying to keep my eyes on the telly, which I've turned on – to drown out their conversation.

At this point I don't see any point with staying, while these two have their silly pretend-conversation. We've got Martin who's just swallowing every word Sherlock is saying as the cheery Ben, who despite his real struggles in his relationship with Nigel – will find a way, despite this Alan. Come on - just come on - seriously? I just keep my tongue in my mouth, and focus on the real issue. Did he have a key? Did the man who'd locked himself to my bed last night accidentally – plan that? There's just something too odd with the fact that he had them on him, and even more odd that he'd loose them in Toby's food. The same cat, which is just running around happily, before resting himself on top of Sherlock's lap or towel or – well, don't look.

I checked Toby's cat sand too; there was no key to be found (OK, I didn't properly rummage, but Martin might have found it odd if I had). Of course I don't know if his bowl movements are slower than ours, or if keys like that sort of disintegrate due to their tininess.

Good lord, who am I kidding?

He didn't willingly handcuff himself to my bed.

That's madness.

Who does that?

Sherlock Holmes does that.

Our shoulders are touching; I ignore his musky freshly cleaned smell, trying to fix my eyes on the telly, when Sherlock leans too close causing my face to be inches from his neck. Bastard, is he doing this on purpose?

Martin just keeps holding my hand happily, fiddling with it, and holding onto me without a care in the world it seems. He does think Ben is gay, or well thinks Sherlock is. The fact that he hasn't recognised the man still astounds me, but then again Martin doesn't even own a telly – he's not a great reader of papers either. His obliviousness is amazingly convenient to be honest. It's lucky, because he seemed to regard that as Ben being basically untidy. This reminds me of Julie who didn't know whom Sherlock even was before I told her. She's not very interested in reading people's blogs. The key is still the biggest mystery though, besides the red mark around his wrist, which almost looks bloody even – and of course last but not least – my open pyjama top. I wonder if that just opened accidentally. Yes, eight buttons had managed to open themselves entirely on their own. I've never been one for opening my buttons in my sleep either, no.

"Molly," says Martin attentively. I look at him.

"Yes," I say in a daze.

"Have you slept well?" he asks me. I probably look dreadful, I have not put on any makeup, my hair is unkempt, and I probably look cross due to all of this overthinking. Some times things are simple. They might not always be with Sherlock Holmes, but then again they've got to be at some point.

"She made an awful lot of noise," says Sherlock, before I've opened my mouth to answer, causing me to gape at him.

"Did I now?" I say with perched lips. The conversation had been up to now a numerous amount of falsehoods piled up on another. Now, what was he trying to do?

Martin just laughed.

"Loads of muttering in your sleep. Almost felt like I could hear it right in my ear," says Sherlock shaking his head gaily with mirth. I just stare at him frowning.

"Well, it took me some time to sleep when you were practically chained to the phone with Nigel," I say putting on a terrible bright smile, marvelling that of Sherlock's false personality. Sherlock just looks at me, and for a moment he looks intrigued. He seems ready to retort, but the doorbell distracts our attention entirely. I stare at the door.

"Are you expecting someone?" Martin asks.

"Not at all," I say surprised. Sherlock eyes me, and I end up going to the intercom.

"I better grab some clothes, if companies coming," he says disappearing into the bedroom.

I hope it isn't John Watson, and then I press the button on the intercom "Hello?"

"Yes, excuse me Miss. Is there a Benedict Fisher in the residence? There is quite the large package, with instructions of it being delivered here," says a young man's voice. I blink several times, before saying "Yes, of course. I'll let you in," buzzing him in. A package? How the hell does he get a package under my address – he doesn't even exist? Soon enough the young man appears, and asks for a signature on a clipboard, as he's set a big cardboard box on the doormat.

"Shouldn't he sign?" I ask the young man, who peers at Martin who sits on the sofa. I almost shake my head at him, but I resolve not to.

"It's alright Miss," he says giving a bit of a shrug, and I end up hurriedly signing his clipboard. "I'll just leave this here Miss if you don't mind," he says disappearing down the steps again, after I hand him the clipboard back. I stare at the package on the doormat, Martin shows up at my side, and soon he picks it up "Maybe it's from Nigel," he says amused, as he puts from appearances the heavy box on the table. "That or another admirer. Well, I've got to go, so I won't get to see opening of said mystery box," he says chuckling, before giving me a kiss on the cheek.

"Oh, right – work?" I say staring distractedly at the box.

Martin works part-time at a horribly quiet gallery, besides painting his own work. "Not much point in working in a gallery when nobody comes to see anything. I'll see you – possibly - later if you're shift isn't too long?"

"Remains to be seen," I say half-smiling; Martin cracks up over my extremely bad joke.

"We'll try to work in a lunch in there somewhere, then. Have a nice day at work at least, or well try. Bye Benedict!" says Martin who receives a muffled goodbye from inside the bedroom. He soon walks off, after another quick kiss, and I stand by the door, before walking towards the living room table.

I stare at the box, which looks quite innocent there it sits on the mahogany table. There were no special markings, except my address and "his name" – everything machine-written. The bedroom door opens, and Sherlock appears fully clothed, frowning at the box from the doorway.

"He let you sign it?" he asks eyeing me for a second as I nod. He takes the mobile phone he nicked from the dead man out of his pocket. He's texting someone, but he just pockets it after he's done. I hand him a breadknife from the kitchen, my breath hitching up despite itself, for I can only imagine what it can be. Another clue I suppose. The first clue being a dead man, the second -

He goes forward and silently opens it up with the knife. Cutting through the tape, and sliding up the cardboard. There's bubble wrap, which he tosses carelessly aside, and other form for plastic, which he breaks through with the knife. The most horrendous of smells appears after the cutting of the plastic – a horribly recognisable smell in my case. He peers inside for a moment, looks up at me, and snaps it shut.

"What is it?" I ask seeing that his face looks for a moment a bit stricken.

It passes as quickly as I saw it.

"A head," he says coolly opening the box again, letting the smell of rot sting our nostrils. I look inside, and see a recognisable face – one I'd never really expect.

"I thought she was dead," I say quietly for a moment, as he grasps a piece of paper that resides on the inside of the box itself.

"I helped her fake her beheading," he says almost a murmur, as he holds a piece of parchment between his fingers, and reads eyes narrowed on the slanted handwriting.

"Judging by the looks of her – this happened about a week ago," I say staring at the once pretty head of Irene Adler. Her expression is calm though.

"It is even written in her hand," he says frowning at the parchment. I'm just glad Martin wasn't here to see it – mystery box indeed. Sherlock just hands me the piece of paper, which is stained with some blood, and I read out loud "If chance will have me king, why, chance may crown me."

"Macbeth," I say putting the parchment on top of the table, before closing the box shut to hide away the smell even for a little. Sherlock seats himself in the sofa and stares blankly ahead.

"You should see me in a crown," says Sherlock quietly.

"Moriarty?" I asked.

"He was already king. I suppose we are dealing with his replacement. I presume you didn't notice the delivery boy," asked Sherlock.

"He looked yet 18, so I don't think he's involved."

"Don't be naïve Molly," says Sherlock with a smirk. I find it a bad moment to bring up the handcuffs or any of it to be honest. A woman who Sherlock might have had relations with turns up – her head – in a box on our doorstep. It was too early days to discuss any of the sort, which was at this point trivial in comparison. I pick up my bag, and stand awkwardly, before asking the more appropriate question "Are you OK?" Sherlock looks at me for a moment, his expression unreadable, and says, "I suggest you go to work. I'll dispose of this."

I bite my lip, before I reluctantly leave him to it.

The not-dead-then-dead woman haunts me. People have got to stop faking their deaths. This is obviously an on-going trend, which I've entirely missed out on. Whoever was behind all of this had a sick sense of humour, which wasn't entirely surprising when the person was supposed to be a successor to Jim. They'd already killed a man in the same manner of David, and now Sherlock got himself a reminder of someone in his past too. I dreaded to think what was in store next, and if it was going to someone important to me this time.

I stand at work cleaning out some of the utensils, as John Watson walks in looking frightfully apologetic.

"Hi," he says and I almost laugh – reminded of the night's events.

"Hello," I say still attending to the objects in front of me. He stands there uneasily, but oddly enough without his cane. Whoever this Mary Morstan was – she was obviously doing him something good.

"I'm sorry Molly. I shouldn't have barged in like that, and – err – well, it's your business what you do. I should have listened, before jumping to conclusions," he says chortling a bit.

"Oh yeah, not really a problem, you know. I just hope you weren't too startled," I say grinning despite myself. I should be chastising myself, except now I'll seem even weirder in John Watson's mind. At this point it's really too late for that.

"No – no – no, of course not," he says, and I can see from his face that – yes, he was.

"I suggest you go and find your Mary Morstan," I say with an amused smile. John looks at me with raised brows.

"How'd you know about that?" he says.

Shit.

"People do talk, you know," I say chattily.

"You're probably right," he says for a moment, before he excuses himself, and disappears. I obviously got lucky there. I should learn not to speak, before I'm entirely sure I'm saying information I'm supposed to know. I was worried, to be honest, worried about Sherlock and the whole thing. I would almost do Martin a service of breaking up with him at the moment, as things apparently started to escalate. I couldn't know where this would go. Dead bodies and severed heads showing up at my flat - Honestly, what was going to be next? At this point nothing could surprise me anymore. If they sent a live one, maybe then I'd be a bit surprised, but I felt almost unfazed by the whole thing. The whole thing had a grim reaper sensibility to it. The worst being death, except I've always been surrounded by it, which was in itself possibly a clue? No, maybe not.

When I finally finished at work - after a rather lengthy amusing telephone conversation with mum, who went on and on about how she'd still not met Martin's mother "The woman's a bleeding enigma at this point. She's got her high-to-do-fancy-up-town-events, and I've got the kettle on, that's what I've got. Lots of things have changed, obviously." I went back to my flat, feeling tired, and it was luckily cleared.

Sherlock just sits by his laptop in complete silence, screen lighting up his face, as he says, "The slip of paper was from Hull - is Hull relevant to you?" I see his face, and I know he knows already.

"I lived there at some point," I say shrugging.

Well, I lived there my entire life, a sheltered horrible childhood. Not horrible, just dreadful, with taunting kids, and absolutely air-headed ex-boyfriends who sort of cradle that place. I got out, and I was happy to get out to be honest. After dad died there weren't many charms in that area, except possibly mum, who'd never left, despite always saying she would. I remember just promising myself I wouldn't become that person.

Sherlock looks at me for a moment, obviously thinking and considering.

"Can you take some days off work?" he asks.

"Not really," I say furrowing my brows.

"We will leave in the morning," he just says clasping his hands together and looking pensive. "I've already settled everything with Mycroft. He has sorted everything at work for you already."

I frown. Everything's settled already? Good lord.

"What about Martin?" I ask raising my brows at him.

He really is an idiot some times.

"What about him?" he asks looking at me in genuine surprise.

"I can't just go off on a bloody holiday with you in the middle of the week."

"Yes, you can – this is not a holiday – this is research. Martin will be easy to persuade. Use your womanly wiles. I suggest a nice sweet phone call. Tell him I've got to get away, and you're helping this - a sort of recreational road-trip."

"We're driving there? To Hull?" I say grimacing, before Toby takes to pawing at my legs "But I can't leave Toby," I almost screech out picking him up, and looking at him like he's completely helpless.

"Your neighbour next door," Sherlock just says with that odd quirky amused smile of his. I settle down in the chair defeated, glaring at him, with Toby in my lap. "What are we doing there?"

"Research Doctor Hooper. Research," says Sherlock putting the laptop aside for a moment.

"I don't think you'll find anything interesting in Hull."

"Our new crowned king begs to differ," says Sherlock who alludes to the box.

"Then what about the other parchment then. It was from Essex. I didn't see you running off to Essex exactly."

"I might give the impression of being house-trained. Doesn't mean I keep in doors at all times," he says, as Toby hops on the sofa resting right besides him. Sherlock doesn't shrink away from him, but quietly pets him to my surprise.

"Did you find anything, then?" I ask.

Sherlock just looks at me intently "When we're in Hull - I will be Martin."

Not answering questions, yet still managing to give me new startling information.

"What?" I say.

"Your mother lives there. It would be rather inappropriate if you were to go there with another man – don't you think? I couldn't go there being Benedict without some repercussions."

"Can't you go on your own?" I ask.

"There is a reason this piece of paper is from Hull. You might want to put aside your childish dislike for this place, and accept the fact that your life might as well be in danger as mine is," says Sherlock with a serious expression. "Already we have had a dead man and a woman's severed head in a box. I would be a bit more alarmed if I were you."

There was something quite unsettling with the fact that Sherlock Holmes was telling me off for not being hysterical.

"I don't know," I just say staring at my hands sighing loudly. "I'm not really worried for myself. I've never been really fuzzy when it comes to death. Some times I do wish I could be a bit more worried about it."

Sherlock laughs.

"Now, I've got to ask, and don't read too much into this. It's just because I'm a bit – well – curious, and it has to be asked. No better time than the related present, so – did you always have the key to the handcuffs?" I ask, blubbering on a little bit, despite myself, but still managing to meet Sherlock's eyes. The same blue eyes that hold my gaze, but Sherlock just smirks – before saying "Go to bed Doctor Hooper, I won't keep you company tonight," directing his attention to that bloody well lit laptop of his (technically mine, but at this point I might just give it to him).