Bit of a delay on this one; sorry guys. I'm going to be visiting my sister in Salt Lake City soon, and I'll be working more over the next several weeks as a result. Them airline tickets ain't cheap!

P.S. Please disregard errors. I finished writing this at 3 in the morning and my eyes are currently attempting to cross.

Sightseeing with Sherlock wasn't quite what Molly expected it to be. There were very few cabs in the city, and the roads seemed to wander wherever they wished, so they spent a good portion of time in the car. The rest of Broadway held little interest for Sherlock—too many souvenir shops and cowboy memorabilia. He did take a quick look around the Frist Center for the Visual Arts and peered into the windows of the Ryman, however, and insisted on walking up and down the stepped banks of Riverfront Park while a steamboat chugged lazily by on the Cumberland River. Next they visited the Capitol, Metro Courthouse, Nashville Public Library, Schermerhorn Symphony Center, and the neighborhoods all around. Molly trotted along as fast as she could to keep up with Sherlock's long-legged gait, which never slowed no matter where they went. Thankfully she was used to this pace, and the sights distracted her from complaining.

"I just don't understand what sort of idiot would name a coffee shop 'Frothy Monkey'," Sherlock remarked. They'd just left the 12 South neighborhood, where Molly had managed to grab a beverage at said coffee shop before being whisked off to West End. At the present moment they were in Centennial Park, sitting on the cement steps of a towering Parthenon reproduction.

Molly shrugged. "For the umpteenth time, I don't know. But they make a good cuppa." She took a sip of her tea, mildly regretting having gotten a warm drink when it was so sweltering hot outside. Her feet were killing her, and she was glad for the chance to sit down and enjoy the green landscape and dazzling blue sky. A small breeze came along to cool her brow.

"Why is the primate frothy, exactly? Is it rabid? What message are they trying to convey about their product?"

Molly looked at Sherlock. Even though they had traversed nearly every corner of the city, he was still restless, his toes tapping on the cement as if they'd rather be chasing down a criminal. The breeze ruffled his curls, and for once Molly was jealous of the wind. "The man with the beard and round glasses in the corner of the shop looked a bit shifty. What was his story?"

Sherlock's eyebrows lifted. "So you noticed that, did you? The glasses weren't prescription by the way; just part of his hipster disguise. He skipped bail—domestic assault charge—and was on the run. I called the police while you were reading the menu. They intercepted him shortly after we left."

"How do you know it was domestic assault?"

"The tattoo on his bicep was of two hearts with 'David and Karri Forever' written on them. Not a design a man would get just for a girlfriend, no. So he lives with, or rather lived with, Karri, and has for the past ten years judging by the color of it. There were scratches around his wrists, too big to be from an animal, more likely from human fingernails, manicured ones. So David was angry with Karri—maybe she cheated on him, perhaps he just thought she did—and he tried to strangle her. The scratches are from her attempting to pull his hands away. He didn't succeed in killing her, however, or he wouldn't have been let out on bail."

Molly shook her head in disgust. "What a terrible thing, almost murdering the person you claimed to love."

"Yet another example of why love should be avoided altogether. People lose all sense of reason because of that chemical defect."

Molly sighed inwardly. She ventured a small grin. "Just don't try to choke me anytime soon, alright?"

Sherlock glanced at her white neck, imagining finger-shaped bruises. Without warning, the iron door with the padlock slipped into his mind again. He screwed his eyes shut, giving the lock another go, but it wouldn't break open.

"Sherlock?" Molly had grown used to his many different looks of concentration, but this one was especially intense, as if he was trying to hold on to something that was fading away. "You alright?"

"Fine, I'm fine. Just some mind palace…construction issues."

"How can a mind palace have construction issues?"

"Well it is a building, isn't it?" Sherlock stood up. "Shall we be going?" The sentence was barely out of his mouth before he jumped down the steps of the Parthenon and strode across the lawn.

"I don't think I'll ever fully understand you, Mr. Holmes," Molly muttered. She drank the last of her tea, chucked the empty cup in a nearby trashcan, and ran to catch up. She glanced at her watch. "It's suppertime."

"Depends on the time zone and a person's habits, not to mention work schedule."

Molly rolled her eyes. "Let me rephrase, then. This person's habit is to eat now, hang the time zone and the work schedule. I'm probably going to be down a dress size after all this walking."

Sherlock surveyed her figure. "I wouldn't count on the dress size, but two pounds, yes."

"Good to know."

"Although you'll probably gain it back from supper."

"Where are we going?"

"Jason's Deli. It's just down the road."

"Sandwiches?"

"Amongst other things."

"Sounds perfect."

At the restaurant, Molly easily tucked away half a sandwich, crisps, and a bowl of soft-serve ice cream. Sherlock didn't order anything.

"You don't have to pay for my food, you know. I do have my own money," Molly told him. Breakfast had been no charge—Sherlock's acquaintance had made sure of that—but he had paid for her tea.

"It's what husbands generally do. Or so I've observed."

"Husbands also generally order food for themselves. You haven't eaten a crumb all day."

"As you are well aware, it interferes with my work."

"And fainting from lack of nourishment won't? Besides, the case doesn't technically begin until you go to work at the Chronicle tomorrow." Molly nudged the other half of her sandwich over to his side of the table. "Here. I don't really want the rest of this anyway."

"Only because you wanted to be able to fit in that bowl of ice cream."

Of course he bloody knows that. "Eat the sandwich, Sherlock."

Sherlock would have refused the offer, but he was beginning to feel slightly dizzy. He made quick work of the sandwich half and then went back to people watching. Molly counted it as a triumph.

By the time Sherlock and Molly returned to the hotel, it was 10:15pm, and Molly was musing over if she'd ever get past being dog tired when a large piece of furniture suddenly reminded her of a very uncomfortable fact. She groaned. "We forgot to ask for a room with two beds."

"Oh I didn't forget; I was just too busy. And Mr. Dubois doesn't text." Sherlock dropped into the armchair, his fingers flying across the keys of his phone as he spoke. "He's asleep by now. Usually turns in around 9. Last night he only stayed up to make sure we got checked in alright."

"So what do you propose we do about the sleeping arrangements?"

"Share the bed again."

"I'd rather not."

"Honestly, Molly, I don't see what the problem is. There's an ample amount of space, and we only need it for sleeping."

"There didn't seem to be quite as much space last night."

"Well if you want to take the sofa this time around, be my guest."

Molly glared at him, but he was too absorbed in his phone to notice. She scanned the room, trying to think of a solution, when an idea popped into her head. She grabbed the pillows off the sofa and laid them in a line right down the center of the bed. Then she gathered every other pillow and throw blanket they wouldn't be using and piled them on top. The cushioned wall was about two feet high.

The flurry of activity caught Sherlock's attention. Amusement glinted in his eyes. "Hmm. Not the sturdiest barrier I've ever seen."

"It'll do." Molly left to wash her face and brush her teeth. When she returned, Sherlock was already on the other half of the bed, snoring softly. "Now just see that you stay there," she said.