He wasn't aware of her extended absence until she had been gone eight hours. He retreated into his mind almost as soon as she left. He hadn't taken into consideration that attempting to get a reaction from her would elicit one in him, and he sure as hell wasn't going to take her advice about a wank and a bath. So he'd done what used to come so easily; he ignored it. He used the time to again go over everything he knew about Molly before she had kidnapped him and everything he knew about her now, examining the data from different angles.

Two things emerged. One, that she had suddenly started taking more personal days after the Jim from IT affair. Also, she had stopped dating after. If he'd noticed at the time, he would have dismissed it as a result of her latest love interest being a possibly gay criminal mastermind. But had it been when the plotting had begun in earnest?

A knock on the door drew him out. He assumed she'd come back while was occupied, but he didn't hear her anywhere in the house. He went to the door. One of the minions, a short, stocky blond whom he had seen several times (was he called Padraic?) stood on the stoop with a box of groceries and two carrier bags.

"She had 'em delivered," he said. "There's some books and things, too." He indicated another nondescript bag from the bookseller.

Sherlock opened the door wider for the man, who went straight to the kitchen.

"Why did she have the shopping delivered? She should be back by now. It's almost four."

"All I know is she sent a message with the shopping, said she wouldn't be back until tomorrow, and to keep an extra eye or two on you."

"She told me that she'd be back sooner than she was last time."

"One thing I've learned when it comes to that little slapper is that you'll never make heads or tails of anything she does. But her brother's the boss so we do what she says."

"Have you known her long?"

"Long enough. Well, I'm off. You'll want to be puttin' some of that in the fridge."

He pondered while he put the shopping away. It had to have been a last minute decision; otherwise she would have told Padraic and friends sooner.

Also, she hadn't taken much with her. Of course, that didn't really matter since she had unlimited funds and wouldn't have wanted to cause suspicion. She could be running, or making some other maneuver. No one would expect her back for another day, which would give her a substantial lead.

"Don't do anything stupid," he muttered. He tried to recall if there had been anything unusual about her appearance or demeanor, but all he could remember were her damned tits.

He laughed. Christ, she was clever.

He took an apple out of the box and bit into it. Perhaps she was just entering into further negotiations with her brother, on more neutral territory. It was somewhat frightening to think what else she might consider to be in his best interests, and what she might be bargaining with.

He shrugged and moved that line of questioning to the background. He would use this unexpected free time to finally have a good look around the house. If the boys in the barn had a problem with it, they'd surely let him know soon enough.

Her room was locked, but he scavenged a hair grip from the medicine cabinet and picked the lock in under a minute.

The room told him nothing about her other than her interests as a young girl (horses,biology,Jane Austen) and her current sartorial habits and reading preferences (medical journals, murder mysteries,biographies.) He picked the lock on her desk only to find a stack of cash and a passport in each of her names. So she wasn't planning on leaving the country, unless she had yet another alias.

There were no real clues in the rest of the house, so he spent the remainder of the day seething and playing his violin. He hated how familiar he was getting with this instrument and how his fingers could barely recall the curves of the one back home.

But on he played.

It was well past midnight when he put the violin away. He stretched and went upstairs, determined to sleep in her bed because it was more comfortable, and because she had locked her door. But lying in her bed, breathing in her scent, was too much like being wrapped up in her body. His own bed was a crime scene without any mystery. So he curled up on the sofa and dozed fitfully.

When she still hadn't returned by the next afternoon, he went to the barn. Padraic was standing outside smoking. A taller dark haired man was playing tug of war with one of Lucy's puppies, which seemed to have doubled in size since Sherlock had last seen it. While Padraic's role was mostly that of lackey, this man was obviously a sharp shooter. Some military training but mostly mercenary.

"Oi, Ian," the smaller man said. "His Highness has come to visit."

"Well, Sherly. To what do we owe this pleasure?" Ian straightened to his full height and lit a cigarette.

"She's not back and as my fortune seems to be tied to hers I'd like to know if that is any cause for alarm."

"Haven't heard from her," said Ian.

"Are you certain she said she would be back today?"

"Yeah, that's what the note said," Padraic chimed in.

"Do you still have it?"

Padraic rolled his eyes and fished a scrap of brown paper out of his jacket pocket. Sherlock recognized her sprawling medical school chicken scratch immediately. It looked to have been written hastily, but not under duress.

Paddy,

I've run into some unexpected business I need to take care of. Will be back tomorrow morning. Please make sure my houseguest is well attended to. He can get frightfully bored when left to his own devices.

-Mags

"According to this she should have been back by now."

"Beats me, like I said before, can't make heads or tails of that one."

"Mebbe she found a boy she don't have to tie down to shag," Ian said, elbowing his companion in the arm.

"Aw don't look like that, mate," said Padraic. "We don't get to see anything. The boss is pretty strict about that."

"Wouldn't have to tie me down," Ian continued. "You've seen the arse on her? Sherly, we don't know why you haven't had more fun with your current situation. She's completely mental but the crazy ones'll usually let you stick it anywhere."

Sherlock smiled thinly. "Thank you for your invaluable input, Ian. It's no wonder you've made such a stunning career for yourself with that level of intellectual prowess." He turned to leave.

"Don't need intellect to put a bullet in someone's brain, Sherly," Ian said. "You'd best remember that."

Sherlock stalked back to the house. He had a pretty good idea at what angle the blood would spurt from Ian's nose if he were to break it, but he couldn't risk his life testing that hypothesis.

He was surprised by his reaction. He'd engaged in that kind of banter before, on cases, and while he had found it distasteful, he wasn't personally affected.

But it had never been about a woman he actually knew. This had nothing to do with his ego or bashfulness and everything to do with the way they were talking about Molly as if she were an object.

He shouldn't care. She'd treated him like a trophy.

He sat on the stoop and lit a cigarette, staring down the lane to the horizon.