Sorry for the delay; I just got back from Salt Lake City Saturday night. Enjoy!

First thing in the morning, Sherlock went to see Mr. Dubois about changing rooms. Once again he'd woken up on Molly's side of the bed, and once again he'd had to unravel himself without waking her up. He decided it was because the room grew colder in the middle of the night, and his subconscious naturally sought out the warmest object available. Regardless, Molly would surely scold him harshly if she caught him at it again, and he needed her attention to be focused on infiltrating Bliss Outfitters.

"I'm sorry, Mr. Holmes, but the hotel's mighty booked up this month. There isn't a room with two beds in it to spare," Mr. Dubois said. His wrinkled face was sincerely apologetic.

"Are you positive?"

"Absolutely. But I can let you know if a cancellation arises. It happens from time to time."

Sherlock groaned inwardly. "If it does happen, please inform me as soon as possible." With that he marched back upstairs.

Mr. Dubois chuckled quietly. "Crazy Brits. Imagine being afraid to sleep in the same bed with your wife," he said to himself before returning to his work.

"So I've just been down to speak to Mr. Dubois about the bed situation."

Molly turned from the mirror, where she had been buttoning her coffee-colored blouse. Sherlock noted that it matched her eyes exactly and that a flush rose in her cheeks at the realization that he could have easily walked in while she was changing clothes. Blushing didn't look half-bad on her; he mused that it made her skin look less like death. "What did he say?" She asked.

"All the twin-bed rooms are booked, unfortunately. But he will contact me immediately if someone cancels their reservation."

"Well that's rubbish." Molly started pulling her hair back in a ponytail.

"Don't do that."

"Do what?"

"Put your hair up. It makes your face too angular."

Molly raised an eyebrow. "Since when did you care?"

"I don't, but Ralph needs to see you at your best."

Molly rolled her eyes. "He's just a kid, Sherlock."

"Appearance makes an impression on anyone." Sherlock sighed as he watched her try to flatten her hair out around her face. "Stop it; you're only making it worse. Here." He grabbed the brush and drew it through her brown locks, removing knots and parting it a little further to the right. He was mildly surprised to find that it wasn't quite as mousy as he'd originally thought; up close, thin streaks of natural gold highlights could be seen. It was also soft to the touch, and became glossier the more he ran the brush through.

Molly was too stunned to speak or move away. Instead she watched as her hair transformed into something that was actually presentable. It seemed to like his capable fingers more than hers. Traitor.

"Ah, that's better. You don't look like you got caught in a violent gale now."

There was the Sherlock Molly knew and…well, tolerated. "Victor Bliss doesn't seem to mind."

Sherlock's face darkened. "Victor Bliss is an imbecile. He's enamored merely by your nationality, remember?"

Molly shrugged, satisfied that she had struck a chord. The consulting detective and the newspaper tycoon's son were far from being on good terms with each other.

Sherlock tossed aside the brush. "We should be going now. I'm sure Sir Silver Spoon Boy would love to report my lateness to his daddy, and I'd rather not give him that opportunity."

Molly stepped into her flats and led the way into the hall. "Did you get started on that article last night?"

"Article? Oh, that. No, but I'll get around to it when I have time."

Molly laughed. "If this case isn't solved by next Monday, you never will have time, knowing you. I'll help you with it tonight."

"It would be simpler if you just wrote it for me."

"No way. You'll be doing the writing. I'm just doing the advising."

"Have I told you how pretty you are with your hair down?"

"You must be desperate if you're trying that old trick again. You're not getting out of this one, Mr. Holmes."

Sherlock sulked all the way to the Cumberland Chronicle.

Molly sat in the parking lot of Bliss Outfitters, wondering if it was too soon to return after having been there the day before. She already knew Ralph was working; Sherlock had bypassed his privacy settings on his Facebook page and discovered a status update that mentioned he'd be clocking in at 9am. Molly had been against this breech at first, but it was the fastest way to get information, so she eventually conceded. She now knew that Ralph's last name was Chan, he was seventeen, and he wanted to major in—ironically—criminal investigation after he graduated high school. Sherlock had stated that he would make an ideal sidekick and was instantly chided for it.

At long last, Molly pulled the key out of the ignition and got out of the car. It was drizzling gently outside, and she felt a small twinge of homesickness, but it was pleasant to feel the cool drops on her skin. She left her umbrella behind and went inside.

"Mrs. Holmes! Did you forget something?" Ralph was folding shirts near the front of the store.

"Oh no, I just wanted to ask for a job application," Molly responded. She'd come up with the idea in the car. Sherlock had secured a work visa for her at the same time as his—another favor called in—and she figured it would be much easier to keep Bliss Outfitters under surveillance if she was employed there.

Ralph's face lit up. "Sure thing! Just give me a sec." He headed to the back, returning with a sheet of paper. He handed it to Molly. "You came in at a good time. Someone quit last week and Danielle's been looking for a replacement. It'd be cool if we got to work together."

"Thank you! Mind if I fill it out here?" Molly asked.

"No prob. Here, you can use my pen." Ralph fished a ballpoint pen out of his pocket. Molly took it and used the end of the counter as a hard surface. When she was finished, she handed the application and the pen back to Ralph.

"Danielle will be in tomorrow. If she likes what she sees, she'll call you for an interview sometime after 2pm. I'll put in a good word for ya."

"Thanks again, Ralph. You've been very helpful." Molly smiled and left the store, hoping Danielle wasn't overly picky.

"Hmm. Not a bad idea. Quite good, actually," Sherlock said that night when Molly told him about putting the application in.

"I reckoned it was better than pretending to shop there every day. I can keep a closer eye on Danielle this way. If she hires me, that is." Molly bit her lip. "What if Victor comes in? Or if she finds out you work for her father-in-law and draws her own conclusions?"

"Victor has never set foot in Bliss Outfitters. He and his wife barely talk; they're too busy cheating on each other. I highly doubt your identity will come to light." Sherlock exhaled sharply and deleted the entire paragraph he'd just finished typing on his laptop.

"Is that the advice column article?" Molly asked.

"No, it's a recipe for figgy pudding. Of course it's the dratted article! What's left of it, anyway. Daftest subject I've ever attempted to write on."

Molly peered over his shoulder. There was only one word typed: Marriage. She shook her head in disbelief, the fine hairs in her ponytail tickling his neck. He would have brushed them away, but the shampoo she used smelled like some sort of Indian spice, and he was rather fond of it. Not that he planned to divulge that fact, however.

"Were you given a topic?" Molly asked.

"Yes, I'm supposed to explain why infidelity happens and how to prevent it. I wonder if ole Oscar Bliss is trying to tell his son something. The answer that appeals to me is 'don't get married to begin with', but there's a chance that's not what they're looking for."

"What a suprise." Molly's eyebrows knit together in deep thought. "Maybe write something to the effect of 'the grass is always greener on the other side'? I think people quickly forget that they're supposed to be contributing to the relationship, not just gaining from it, and end up searching for fulfillment through alternate channels."

"Or the faithful party could simply shoot the unfaithful party and be done with the business altogether. In Victor and Danielle's case, it would have to be a double killing."

"Sherlock!"

"I'm merely presenting a viable option."

Molly glared at him.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Fine, we'll go with yours. Sugar-coated though it may be." He typed a new paragraph, which was thankfully void of murder.

"You should add a bit about remembering why you fell in love with that person in the first place, and renewing that emotion."

Sherlock wanted to gag, but he wrote this down too. The sooner they finished, the better.

"Compare it to a fire that needs constant rekindling. They'll like that."

"Because it's entirely plausible that the same fire could be burning for decades on end."

"It's a metaphor."

"Everything in love is a metaphor. For example, why exactly do people call each other 'honey'? Or 'baby'? What sense does it make to refer to your lover as sickeningly-sweet flower nectar or a slobbering adolescent human?"

"It's just how they show their affection."

"Completely pointless."

"Tell me, Sherlock, is there a chance you're actually a robot?"

"No, robots can glitch. I do not."

"I don't know why I even try." Molly started to walk away, but Sherlock grabbed her wrist.

"I need a hundred more words."

"Well then I suggest your non-glitching brain should start assembling them. I've said my share."

"Perhaps…I could say something about the importance of apologies?"

"Is that your indirect way of apologizing?"

"Possibly."

"Your delivery needs work, but it's a start. Go ahead and address that in the last paragraph."

Sherlock pulled together a passable sentence on forgiveness being a major building block in a relationship—most likely something he'd read in a book—and then scanned for typos and grammatical errors. Once he was done, he saved it online so he could print it from his work computer the next day. He put his hands behind his head and stretched. His nostrils flared as he caught a stronger whiff of Molly's shampoo, and he realized she was brushing her hair out. As he watched her, the notorious indestructible door in his mind palace made a reappearance. His hands flew to his temples, as if he hoped to physically grab ahold of it.

"Headache?" Molly stopped brushing her hair. Her face flooded with concern.

"If only it was as trivial as that." The door faded away again, and Sherlock sighed. He glanced at his watch. "It's past midnight. I'm going to turn in."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"That won't be necessary. Good night, Molly." Sherlock dropped onto his side of the bed, flipping over so that his back was to her.

Molly didn't pursue the subject. "Night," she said, turning off the light.