The flight from London to Nashville was twelve hours long and involved multiple layovers. Sherlock spent the time researching Tennessee's capital on his phone and voicing his boredom. An hour in, half of the passengers were glaring at him. Two hours later, everyone had put on headphones to drone him out. Molly, who was used to his erratic behavior whenever he had nothing to do, became engrossed in her book and said 'mhmm' whenever he asked her a question.

"Molly, you're not even listening to me!"

"What? Oh, of course I am!"

"Then what did I just say?"

"Something about the case?"

"Wrong."

"The incompetence of Scotland Yard?"

Sherlock gritted his teeth together. "Lucky guess."

"Look, Sherlock. We have nine hours of flight time left. You're going to have to occupy yourself somehow. Analyze the other passengers or something."

"I already did. The priest is from Brussels, had porridge for breakfast, and is on his way to see his secret girlfriend. Avoid the blond woman sniffling two rows back—she has a nasty sinus infection and is emotionally unstable due to a recent divorce. Shall I go on?"

"I'd rather read." Molly buried her nose in her book. Sherlock glanced at the title. It was a collection of medical notes written by an obscure but well-educated Indian surgeon. He felt a twinge of pride at this.

On the next plane, a man across the aisle suddenly caught Sherlock's attention. He was young, somewhere in his thirties, with sandy blond hair, a well-trimmed beard, and hazel eyes. He was dressed professionally in a gray suit and blue paisley tie. At first Sherlock thought he was looking at him, but then he realized the man had his eyes trained on Molly. There was an idiotic smile painted on his face. For a moment Sherlock puzzled over what was so interesting about her.

The final conclusion didn't sit well with him. What business did this man have ogling his fake wife? He wasn't even a suitable candidate for her. The slight pooch in his stomach indicated limited exercise; he probably held a desk job. The tie had a small stain on it—he wasn't very neat when he ate. He'd been too lazy to iron his shirt before heading to the airport that morning. Sherlock narrowed his eyes. He scratched an imaginary itch on his cheek, making sure the wedding band flashed in the light, and closed his hand around Molly's. She jumped a little and looked up at him, confused.

"See that man in the paisley tie?" Sherlock whispered in her ear.

"Yep. Is he a criminal?"

"Worse. He fancies you."

"Really? He's kinda cute."

"Molly!"

"What? We're not really married, you know."

"No, but I don't need you blowing our cover."

"Married women sometimes flirt with other men. It's not out of the ordinary."

"Immediately after tying the knot? That reflects badly on me as a marriage advice columnist. Paisley over there is American; he might have connections with the Cumberland Chronicle."

"Paisley?"

"That's what I've elected to call him."

Molly rolled her eyes.

Paisley was still looking. A sudden image of an iron door with a padlock flashed in front of Sherlock's eyes. It was located somewhere in his mind palace, but he couldn't remember putting it there. The lock had scratches on it, like it had been tampered with. He resolved to figure out how it had gotten there and what its purpose was later. "Just laugh as if I said something funny."

"Key words: 'as if'," Molly replied, but she did it anyway. Paisley stopped staring, and Sherlock felt an odd sense of accomplishment.

It was pitch-black outside when Sherlock and Molly boarded their last plane. Molly was looking worse for wear—she was seriously regretting wearing a dress and full makeup on this trip—but Sherlock was as alert as ever. He'd been strangely quiet for the past several hours, which was relief for everyone involved. Little did they know he was hard at work trying to unlock a door that didn't physically exist; the door in his brain. No matter what he did, the lock held secure, and there was no way around it. At some point a flight attendant offered him peanuts, but he waved them away and went back to concentrating. He did notice that Paisley had joined them on this flight, but he was seated much further behind them this time.

When Sherlock finally exited his mind palace, it was due to the presence of a dead weight on his shoulder. He looked down and saw that Molly had fallen asleep, her head resting comfortably on the black wool of his suit jacket. Reflexively he tried to nudge her off, but she only curled a hand around his arm and snuggled closer. Her hair was an absolute mess, but her face was completely relaxed, a pleasant smile plucking at her lips. She'd seemed in a bit of a fog ever since the wedding, and Sherlock assumed she must have slept very little the night before. He allowed the continued use of his shoulder as a pillow and stared out the small window at the darkness, lost in thought.

Molly didn't stir until the plane started its descent and the announcement that they would be landing soon woke her up. She was groggy and disoriented, and it took a full minute for her to realize what she was lying on.

"Sherlock! I'm sorry, I just dozed off and…Oh dear, I got your suit all wrinkled." Molly colored. She tried to smooth out the material of his jacket.

"You drooled a bit too," Sherlock noted, drying the spot with his sleeve.

Molly's blush deepened. "Why didn't you just push me off?"

"I tried. It didn't work. I gave up." Sherlock shrugged. "Sleep well?"

Molly nodded, but she was too embarrassed to say anything else about the incident. "Where are we?"

"Coming into BNA now. It's 2 in the morning."

"No wonder I'm so tired." Molly stretched. Her hand brushed her unkempt hair, and she gasped. Quickly she ran her fingers through the frazzled strands, attempting to tame at least some of it before she pulled it into a ponytail. What she would give to have curls like Sherlock; they looked good no matter what state they were in. "How do I look?"

"Tired, and a right mess."

"Sherlock!"

"It's the truth. But so does everyone else, so I don't see why it concerns you."

"You wouldn't understand. You could care less what everyone thinks of you."

Sherlock grinned. "Neither should you."

As soon as they got off the plane, Sherlock and Molly went to collect their luggage. Paisley crossed their path on their way out, and Sherlock put an arm around Molly's waist for good measure. It was just as well; there was a chance she might collapse in a slumbering heap at any second.

The weather in Nashville was chilly, but only because of the early hour and not at all comparable England. It was the end of summer, and in the day the temperature would hover around 32 degrees Celsius, or rather 90 degrees Fahrenheit now that they were in America. At the moment the night air was refreshing, and Sherlock took a deep breath of it before leading Molly to the metallic-gray Ford Flex that he'd paid a good sum to rent for their lengthy stay in the city.

"Other side," Sherlock said as she started for the door on the left.

"Crazy Americans." Molly changed direction and got into the passenger's seat on the right side.

Sherlock finished stuffing the last bag in the trunk and jumped into the driver's seat. He adjusted the temperature inside the vehicle, slipped a cd of classical violin—his own composition, of course—into the stereo, and drove away from the airport. He merged onto Interstate 40 West and then took a ramp to 65 South, pleased that there were few cars to slow him down.

"There's the skyline, Molly."

Molly jerked awake. The leather seat was far too comfortable and Sherlock's music incredibly calming, but as soon as she saw Nashville for the first time, she sat up straighter. Although this city was a great deal smaller than London, it pulsed with a new energy that she couldn't wait to experience. Sherlock had informed her that the oldest buildings dated only as far back as the 1800s. There were a lot of newer ones as well, scraping the sky and blazing with electric lights. The tallest structure rose in two points, like ears. A sign just under these ears bore the logo of the telecommunications company AT&T.

"New façade, but you'll find that Nashville is teeming with the usual sort of criminals. Transportation is a little spotty; there isn't a tube and taxis aren't commonly used. They have buses, but I'd rather avoid those at all costs," Sherlock said. "I've arranged for us to stay at the Union Station Hotel indefinitely. Called in another favor."

"Convenient," Molly muttered. She was rather impressed with the hotel, however. Once a functioning train station built in 1900, it was a magnificent stone structure in the heart of Downtown. The front door led into a great room with a high arched ceiling set with stained glass, and intricate sculptures adorned the walls. Laden with luggage, Molly stood there taking it all in while waiting for Sherlock to collect their room keys from the man who owed him yet another favor. A porter came to load their bags on a cart.

Molly dropped what she was carrying and almost fell forward, her fatigue returning. Sherlock appeared next to her and grabbed her arm to steady her. "Just an elevator ride to the third floor, and I promise you can pass out then," he told her.

"Well, Mr. Holmes, you really know how to treat a girl on her wedding night—er, morning." Molly giggled. The lack of sleep was starting to get to her.

"Fake wedding night," Sherlock corrected.

"Whatever you say."

Once they walked into their room, Molly sobered up a little. There was only one bed.

"Didn't you tell your friend that you needed a room with two beds?" She asked.

"Yes I did. It appears he stopped listening immediately after hearing I was bringing a wife along."

"Can't he fix it?"

"Perhaps, but not tonight. I'll speak with him about it when I get the chance." Sherlock unbuttoned his suit jacket and threw it over the back of a chair. "In the meantime, you can sleep on the sofa."

"Excuse me? I did not just fly across the Atlantic and drag myself into this hotel to sleep on an uncomfortable sofa. If anyone gets the sofa, it's you."

"It's merely a matter of height, Molly. I'm too tall for it. And it looks like it has some padding."

Molly was going to argue, but at this point she just didn't have the strength for it. Instead, she launched onto the bed and burrowed under the covers. "Mine," she stated simply. A moment later she was fast asleep, wrinkled dress, smudged makeup, bird's-nest hair and all. She even had her shoes on her feet still.

"Molly!" No response. "Molly? Molly, come on. Molls. Molly Charlotte Hooper. Molly Charlotte Holmes." Nothing. Sherlock sighed and started pacing. He considered picking her up and carrying her to the sofa, but with his luck she'd wake up and discover she had just enough energy to continue the disagreement. He could sleep on the floor, which was covered in plush carpeting. That would be sure to give him a crick in the neck and sore limbs, however, which would ruin his entire day. There was only one option left. He stared at the tiny sofa, sighed once more, and went over to curl up on it.

THUMP.

Sherlock groaned and cracked an eyelid. He'd fallen off the sofa and was sprawled out on the floor by it. His watch informed him that he'd only been asleep for five minutes. He glanced over at the bed, where Molly was still dead to the world despite the loud noise he'd made, and was instantly jealous. Suddenly an idea dawned on him. If she was in that deep of a sleep…

Sherlock got to his feet and headed for the other side of the bed. It was a king-size mattress, big enough for both of them to lie on without even touching each other. As long as he got up before her, she would never know. Careful not to disturb her, he slid under the covers and closed his eyes.

Shout out to the Batman Building! One of the most memorable structures in Nashville, the AT&T Building has been affectionately called the Batman Building by locals for years. I'm pretty sure the architects regret putting those ear-like spires on now ;)