"Sherlock?" Molly's voice quavered, and she hated the way it still did that, even after all this time.

"Hm?"

"Could you please get off my shoulders? You're rather heavy."

He harrumphed, but stood up, releasing her as he did so. Breathing a small sigh of relief, she looked down again, and started petting Toby. It was odd, how calm her cat could be when Sherlock was around, but then again, Toby did have interesting taste. "I still don't understand," he said, irritated. "Why would I pick you? Why didn't I pick someone else?"

Molly shook her head. "I asked you the same thing. You said something about loyalty, that you needed a face for your work, and that John and I were the only ones who weren't bribable." She smiled a little. "Good thing for John he's married, or I'm sure you'd try to rope him into your mad plan first."

"I noticed the ring, rather recent wedding, I take it," he said, and she nodded. "I suppose his wife's just as dull as he is."

"Mary's not dull!" Molly glared in defense of her friend. "You were his best man, you said the most lovely things about her and John!"

"I was?" he frowned, confused. "That's odd."

Molly's starting to miss the old, no, this is the old, so, the post-John Sherlock. This one is even more horrible than the one she first met at the morgue when he used the riding crop on Mr. Jenkins' corpse. "Does that mean that our engagement is off, since you can't remember?"

He frowned. "No. I'll continue as usual until I recover my memory. Wouldn't want my enemies thinking something had changed, or that I was faking my illness."

As if insanity could be faked, Molly thought despairingly. "Care for some tea?" she asked, getting up and carrying Toby.

He blinked. "Did I choose you because of your very accommodating nature?"

"Ah, um, no," she stuttered, holding Toby closer to her chest.

"Because I don't think 'loyalty' is a suitable excuse," he said, suddenly in her face again. "Now tell me, why are you pretending to be my fiancée, and why are you even here?"

"Honestly, I don't know," Molly shook, not sure she can deal with this Sherlock. He seems infinitely more irritable and dangerous without his recent memory. "You told me to be your flatmate, I needed a place to live after losing my flat, and I accepted. You asked me, no, kept demanding that I act as your fiancée to throw off your family, who clearly aren't buying it, by the way, and I did. I know I'm repeating myself, and that you hate people repeating themselves, but you just won't seem to listen!" And to his surprise and her mortification, she burst into a noisy storm of tears. "I'm sorry," she sniffled, turning to leave for her bedroom.

"Don't apologize, it's useless for a flatmate," he said, and she turned around. "I've said that before, haven't I?"

"Yes," she says, and takes Toby up with her. She knows she's running away from the situation, rather than facing it head on, but dealing with Sherlock like he is right now is like dancing over a minefield.

However, she only has about seventeen minutes of peace in bed, getting into a fluffy Mills & Boon paperback with Toby on her lap, when Sherlock bursts into her room. She squeaks in surprise, but he ignores that and marches up to her.

"Molly Hooper?" he said, his face and voice deadly serious.

"Y-yes?" she asked, unable to hide under her blanket how she wants to because that would dislodge Toby.

"Get dressed, we're going on a date," he announced, and flies out of the room as suddenly as he came in.

"What?" she gasped, but he's gone. How utterly bizarre.

Dutifully, however, she changes her clothes yet again, this time into something with a skirt. She'd long ago donated the skimpy dress she'd worn for that first Christmas party, not wanting to invite that kind of scorn again, whether from him or any other man. Not sure where they were going, she only applied a dark lipgloss and tied her hair to the side.

When she came down, he eyed her critically, then pursed his lips. "No."

"We're not going on a date?" she raised her eyebrows.

"No, you're not wearing that," he said, "sweater's too casual, you must have a jacket of some sort, do you have any, no, you don't wear heels, hair looks good, you should tighten the left side of your bra strap, do you have at least a white cotton blouse that buttons up?" Honestly, if he isn't gay, he would make a smashing fashion consultant, she thought vaguely as he pushed her back up the stairs. "Black flats, if you don't mind," he added, "do you always wear brown trainers on a date?"

"They're pennyloafers, not trainers," she frowned.

"They're dreadful," he corrected her. "Black flats. New blouse." Then his eyes narrowed. "No, wait," he said, grabbing her wrist and practically flinging her backwards on to him. She forced herself to relax and allowed herself to be dragged to his bedroom. This was the first time she'd stepped into his room, but she barely had time to look around before she was propelled toward his closet. Of course, his clothes were neatly hung and pressed, in spite of his tendency to not do any housework or chores whatsoever. His priorities were mad, just like the rest of him. "Here," he said, pulling a shirt off one of the hangers. "This should fit you."

Her eyes widened. "Are you sure? You're taller, and-"

"Tuck it into your skirt," he said impatiently, "roll up the cuffs and hide them under your jacket. Hurry." He started to reach for the sweater she'd buttoned up, but she stepped away.

"I can manage," she scooted out of there as fast as she could and ran upstairs. She hurriedly changed into the shirt, which of course, was long and broad, but under what she termed her black business jacket, it was fine. And she kicked off her comfortable brown loafers and put on her black flats, the ones she wore to go out with Meena and the girls.

When she came downstairs, the critical eye was no less sharp than before, but he gave a brief nod. "Let's go," he said briskly, taking her arm in his, which surprised her. "What?"

"Your arm," she said, looking down.

"I know how to approximate proper social rituals," he sniffed, practically hauling her downstairs.

"That's so romantic when you say it like that," she almost rolled her eyes, but for her safety, didn't.

A corner of his mouth went up, and he hailed a cab with his usual supernatural speed. "Romance, you say?" he murmured, opening the door for her, and he gave the name of a very expensive, very well-known restaurant.

Oh my God, Molly thought, he's going to kill me.