Author's Note: Hiya! (Read this in Mary's voice, because, why not? And also, I freaking love her!) Thank you thank you thank you for all your wonderful comments and kudos. You have no idea how much I adore all of you. Your kind words and thoughtful reviews really inspired me to finish this chapter early. So if you haven't already caught on, I do parallels between Molly and Sherlock's life. I'd like to draw out some of their similarities and branch out from there. So, this is the katzenjammer that occurs right after a night out with the Baker street boys. Our beloved characters are going to go through some sh*t and it ain't gonna be pretty. As always, I appreciate every small gesture that you guys send my way! Truly wouldn't have completed this chapter without you!

MOLLY

When Tom woke up and blundered his way into the kitchen, Molly pretended like she had slept through the night. She placed a mug of coffee in front of him and gave him a worried look. He took a grateful sip and leaned across the counter to give her an affectionate kiss on her cheek.

"Never again. Never doing that again."

Molly snorted as she went back to flip the bacon.

"You should be glad it's the weekend."

Her mild observation earned her a groan as Tom clutched his hair in despair.

"How did I even get home?" he asked her through bloodshot eyes. Molly chewed on her bottom lip as she turned back to the stove again.

"Sherlock brought you up."

"Jesus."

Molly chose not to comment. She instead plated the bacon and eggs she made and passed one to Tom. He grunted a thank you as he plowed his way through his breakfast. They both sat in silence, each ensconced in their own thoughts and Molly's mind kept revisiting last night for reasons she didn't want to understand. Sherlock had barely said a word to her since the engagement and only spoke when asked or deemed necessary. Otherwise, he pretty much shunned her out of his life. So why make an effort now? Did John put him up to this? Molly chewed on a piece of bacon uninterestedly. She really didn't want to think about it. She didn't want to think about him.

"You are not going to ask me about last night?"

She jumped up in fright, her heart thundered guiltily beneath her sternum and she rubbed the heel of her hands in between her breasts. Tom gave an easy laugh.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to startle you."

"I.. uh, sorry. I was zoning out. Sorry," she cleared her throat. "So what did boys' night entail?"

Tom's demeanor brightened immediately as he regaled last night's story animatedly. Molly only half-listened as she cleared their plates. She nodded when required and laughed when it seemed appropriate.

"So then, John and I get sloshed and that's where I'm blanking out!" he finished with a flourish and a theatrical sigh.

"Tom, you know you can't drink more than one beer without getting tipsy."

Tom exhaled and shook his head.

"I know. Just when Sherlock was finally warming up to me, I went ahead and made a right fool of myself." He screwed up his eyes in concentration. "I vaguely recall us talking about love…" Molly almost dropped the teacup she was holding in her hand. Her heart gave a hard jerk as she looked at Tom with wild eyes.

"What?"

Tom neither noticed her hand tremble nor did he look close enough to see the panic in her eyes. He rambled on without looking at her.

"John was talking about his wife Mary and I was talking about you," he glanced at the wall in front of him and blinked, "I think... Well, I think I asked Sherlock if he had ever been in love?" Tom paled and shot her a rather pained look. "Sweet Jesus, of all the things I could have possibly asked him, I asked him about his love life?" He gave a devastating groan.

Molly was swirling in her own nightmare to pay any real attention to Tom's words. With great difficulty, she stopped the tremor from shaking her entire body. Making a show of pouring milk into her cup, she asked,

"What did he say?"

Tom scratched his head as he came to stand beside her. He poured some milk into his own cup and murmured, "I don't remember."

Molly gave a sharp nod as she gulped her tea. The hot liquid burned her esophagus but she welcomed the pain; anything to distract her from blubbering like a fool, she thought. She had no idea why she felt so anxious. For all she knew, it could have been nothing. It had to be nothing. She firmly wanted to believe that she was overthinking as usual. Sherlock Holmes didn't entertain notions of love, and even if he did, Molly Hooper wouldn't be on his radar. Maybe he would have said something about Irene Adler. Yes. Molly huffed a small sigh of repose. Yes. That made perfect sense. Didn't he compose a piece of heartbreaking melody just in her memory? Did Molly not witness his despair in the morgue when she laid out the fake Adler? And didn't she hear the rather inappropriate moan alert on his phone ever so often? So yes, she had nothing to worry about. She knew she was simply losing her mind over nothing. This was definitely not about Sherrinford.

Distantly, she heard Tom telling her that he was going to take a shower. She gave him a vague nod as she stared out the kitchen window. The sun was out painting the world in a magnificent golden hue, and the park that was right in front of her flat was humming with life. Trees that lined the cobblestone pavement dappled and swayed and the balmy summer wind flitted past the open window to gently ruffle her hair. Molly squeezed her eyes shut. She knew her mind was too twisted to appreciate the simple sweetness of a weekend morning and her heart too dark to treasure quaint whimsies. Staunchly she turned away from the pretty sight and went back to her life.

SHERLOCK

Sherlock woke with a start. Something landed on his back with a loud thump and was trying to pry the tangled duvet away from him. He groaned softly. Rosie. He buried his face into the pillow and wished for his goddaughter to leave him alone.

"Watson, I'm not a trampoline," he said in a muffled voice.

"Uncle Locky! You are up!" she screamed like only a three-year-old could, making Sherlock snivel pitifully into his pillow.

He blindly reached for his phone as Rosie continued to walk all over him. Once he located it, he screwed up his eyes and checked the time. Great. It was only a quarter to ten and he had probably got in a couple of hours of sleep. He saw there were several texts from Lestrade, his brother, and a couple from an unknown number. But before he could open and read any of them, Rosie scooted up to his face and gave him a loud kiss on his cheek.

"Daddy is not feeling good," she announced shaking her tiny head, and Sherlock watched her fair curls bob with the small movement she made. He turned to lay on his back and tugged Rosie closer. She tucked herself into the crook of his arm and placed her stuffed dolphin on Sherlock's chest.

"Where is your dad?" he mumbled, staring at the ceiling.

"Outside. He said not to disturb you." Rosie gave him a sly look that had Sherlock swallowing a chuckle.

"You really are your mother's daughter."

He smoothed the curls on her head absently as his mind flitted in and out of consciousness. He had been working all morning as sleep had simply evaded him. He had thrown himself into work to get rid of the sour aftertaste the prior evening had left in his mouth. Right from his idiotic confession to Tom, to Molly's quick look of shock when he had returned her keys, everything felt extremely moronic in broad daylight. He was rather annoyed with himself and had spent most of his morning reprehending his funny brain. Is this why humans so often failed in life? Because they simply couldn't shut off their emotional response to every damn thing? he wondered uneasily. A small, irritatingly sad part of him lamented over the loss of a beloved bolthole. While every bolthole held some form of significance to him, Molly's had always felt special. Like home. And now, well, he had done the right thing, he justified righteously. He mentally patted himself on the shoulder for handling it in a mature manner. Besides, he had meant it when he said Molly Hooper deserved the world and that world shouldn't be disrupted by him popping in and out of her flat, now should it? he thought resolutely. Well, except for the tiny little detail he had told Tom last night that might accidentally on purpose disrupt her life, in which case Sherlock truly deserves the arsehole title. He fervently prayed that Tom wouldn't remember any of it today, or any day for that matter. Seriously, what the hell had he been thinking?

He pressed his fingers to his eyelids and vaguely listened to Rosie prattling away in his arms and attuned his hearing to the more heavy tread of John's footstep's outside. After a few seconds, his bedroom door burst open and John stepped in with his hands on his hips.

"Rosie! I asked you not to disturb him," he reprimanded the child.

"But daddy, Uncle Locky was already awake!" she reasoned politely. Sherlock shot the child an impressed look. Maybe there was hope after all...

John sighed as he perched himself on the edge of Sherlock's bed.

"Why don't you go outside and play with grandma Martha? She brought up some breakfast, and you need to eat," he said ushering Rosie. "Besides, Daddy needs to talk to Uncle Sherlock."

Sherlock went still. He knew this was coming. He knew that the minute John walked in with a steely look in his eyes.

Rosie clambered off the bed and whispered to John.

"Uncle Locky looks sad. Are you going to make him feel better?"

Sherlock pulled the covers over his head and wished for his immediate death. Was he so obvious that a toddler could deduce him now? He didn't hear John's response, but he did hear Rosie giggling before she ran out of the room.

A long silence stretched between them as Sherlock tried his best to stay immobile. He heard John shuffling away, and after a minute or two, he let out a relieved breath. Cautiously, he peeked over the top of his covers and cursed himself immediately for making such an amateur mistake for John had simply taken his position by the window ledge and peered at him quietly.

"What the hell happened last night?" he asked him point-blank.

Sherlock gave up all pretense and went to his wardrobe. Pulling his dressing gown, he said, "You got pissed. I had to drag you all the way up the stairs and into the living room so you could plant your drunk face into the sofa."

"That's all?"

"Yep."

Sherlock stalked out of the bedroom and into the bathroom with John in tow. When he turned to slam the door on his face, John wedged a slippered foot between the door and the frame and halted his motion.

"So are we just going to ignore what happened last night?"

"Can I at least relieve myself before you start interrogating me?" Sherlock asked through gritted teeth.

John gave him a long look before he exhaled a "fine" and walked away.

Sherlock closed the door behind him and rubbed his temples dismally. He just knew that this was going to be a rather arduous day.

So... What did you guys think? Tom certainly doesn't seem to remember much, but John does. Hmmm... how very interesting... Keep your fingers crossed for the next chapter!

xx

Tumbleweed_professor