A/N: a big thank you to ms-kensington on Tumblr for suggesting Holland Park. Thank you all for reading! Next chapter up Friday.

S&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS

Four hours after their meeting with Mycroft, Sherlock and John returned to the flat.

Well, returned was a kind word.

Sherlock stormed back, flung himself into his favorite chair and proceeded to sulk.

John sat at the desk, opened his laptop, and waited for Mount Sherlock to blow.

He only had to wait twenty-three seconds.

"Nothing!" Sherlock shouted into the air.

"It wasn't nothing, you found a clue," John argued.

Sherlock snorted, drawing the two pieces of paper from his pocket again. "Two hours, John. Two hours I searched."

"You?"

"Fine, we. The point is, all we found was… this."

He shook the papers in the air in John's direction. One said "Getting" and the other said "Warmer" and they grated Sherlock's nerves. The taunting, the teasing, and there was nothing helpful to deduce from them except that he'd been right and Moriarty had for some reason been there. But why? A dirty abandoned factory wasn't Moriarty's style.

Sherlock frowned. Maybe… maybe that in itself was the clue. But he wasn't sure yet what it meant.

"Sherlock, you know you always sort it out. If it only took a few hours, it wouldn't be Moriarty, would it."

"No," Sherlock conceded. "He does love his little games. Playing 'Jim from IT,' playing gay…"

Sherlock sat up like a shot, what little color he had leaving his face.

John stared. He knew that look. "Sherlock?"

"I am a fool," he whispered.

"What?" John asked, baffled.

Sherlock shook his head violently, turning in the chair to face John. "When is the first time we saw Moriarty?"

John frowned, thinking. "Erm, in the lab, wasn't it? He came in with…"

Sherlock raised his eyebrows.

"Oh, my God," John said faintly.

"He came in with Molly," Sherlock finished the sentence. "Molly went on three dates with him, John. Three. Then she broke it off, and I'm certain it was because I told her he was gay. But why. He didn't need Molly to get into the lab: he could've come in anytime under the pretext of looking at a computer. He'd been watching her, John: looking for an opportunity to find out things about me, get an "in" with me. He could've played Jim the Handyman for Mrs. Hudson, or a Sherlock-hating sympathizer to Donovan. He could even have been Doctor Jim, war veteran, and gotten to know you. But no. He chose Molly. Why?"

"Because she's quiet and unassuming?" John guessed.

"Close to me in a way, but not too close," Sherlock murmured. "But he didn't have to date her. He could've used a dozen other pretenses to be around. Instead, he dated her but played gay, knowing that I'd tell her and she'd believe me and break it off with him. No, he did it for very specific reasons. He wanted to know about me. And he wanted to know about her. And he wanted me to know that he wanted to know. Which means…"

John waited. Sherlock said nothing. "Which means what?" he asked.

"Which means that he's left a clue. Somewhere, somehow, he's given Molly information that she doesn't recognize as being significant."

John nodded. "Yeah, OK, that kind of makes sense."

"It makes perfect sense."

"But how are you going to find out, Sherlock? That was ages ago, and Molly doesn't have a… mind palace. How do you know she'll remember whatever it is?"

"I don't," Sherlock replied. "But I have to ask her."

John stared. "Ask her. You're going to ask her about her dates with Moriarty. On your date with her."

"Yes, of course."

"When? When are you going to do this? While you're having the picnic? 'Molly, please pass the prosciutto, and by the way, I need to know everything Moriarty did and said while he was with you?' Or are you going to be even more spectacularly classy and ask her while you're unbuttoning her top?"

Sherlock stared at John, bewildered. "What?"

"TIMING, Sherlock?" John reminded him in exasperation.

"Oh. Well I-" he broke off.

"Exactly," John said firmly.

Hmm. It was a bit problematic. Ask her too early in the evening and it might ruin their date. Ask her too late and it might ruin… after. No. Somewhere there was a window: the perfect time frame to question her. After eating dinner but before dessert? After dessert but before making out? After making out but before going back to her flat? At her flat but before more making out?

"I don't bloody believe you," John's voice broke into his analysis.

Sherlock frowned. "What?"

"You are sitting there PLANNING when the best time tonight will be to talk to her about him, aren't you?"

"Yes," Sherlock said. "Isn't that the best thing to do?"

"No, Sherlock, it isn't. The BEST thing to do is give it a rest for one night! If Moriarty is waiting on something, he'll keep one more night. Ask her tomorrow in the daytime, not on your bloody date!"

"With lives potentially hanging in the balance?" Sherlock asked acidly. "If it would solve the problem, I'd ask her about him in the middle of sex, John!"

John jumped up out of the chair. "Fine. Go ahead and ruin your date. Don't blame me if Molly starts crying and leaves you alone in the middle of Holland Park!" He grabbed his coat.

"Where are you going?"

"Out. I need some air."

"We just came from being out."

"I need more air."

"You're going to see her, aren't you. This Mary."

"So what if I am?" John snapped, looking for his keys. "Look, Sherlock, I know this is important, but it just doesn't seem like one night will matter. Is it really worth you and Molly maybe having a row?"

"It's worth you and I having a row, so I'd say that is a yes," Sherlock said.

"Fine, you know what? You're right. You usually are, aren't you? So just do your little deduction and coldly calculate when the best time will be."

"John…"

John found his keys. "I said, you're right."

"Then why are you still angry?"

"Because I don't like it!"

"Well neither do I, thank you very much!" Sherlock exclaimed.

"I'll see you later. I'm taking Mary to lunch." He headed for the door.

"Would you like me to advise you on what topics of conversation are appropriate at what times?" Sherlock shouted after his retreating form.

Once John was gone, Sherlock bolted from his chair, opened the box of chocolates, and ate four more apricot creams. He slammed the lid back on with a scowl.

Moriarty was right, damn him. Chocolate did make him feel better.