Sherlock and John entered their flat, both exhausted, after a night of surveillance outside of a French restaurant, which yielded no results. "I'll put the kettle on", John said with a fatigued sigh as he trudged to the kitchen. As John dug through the cabinets for some teabags and two mugs, Sherlock casually walked over to the living room and saw a thin, elongated object laying on the couch with a gray, wool blanket covering it.
"John? What's this on the couch?" Sherlock said, with his brows furrowed in uncertainty, as he ducked behind a chair and started to study it, carefully, from a distance. "Hm."
John walked out of the kitchen, wiping his hands on a dishrag, oblivious, "Hm?" John lightly smacked Sherlock on his shoulder, "What?"
"What's that?" Sherlock said as he pointed to the object.
John quickly noticed the object on the couch and cowered behind the chair with Sherlock, "What is that?" John asked as he peeked from behind the chair. "If it's another dead body, I'm going to be pissed."
Sherlock sniffed the air, "It doesn't smell bad; it smells pleasantly", he loudly and obnoxiously sniffed the air again. Sherlock, still studying it, gently slapped John on his chest, and said to him, "Go see what it is."
"What?" —John snapped at Sherlock—"Why do I have to?"
"Well", Sherlock started as he continued to look at the object, "if it's a bomb and it kills you at least I can find out who killed you", Sherlock glanced at John and lowly pointed to himself, "But, if I checked it and died, my death would never get solved."
"Fine", John sighed heavily as he stood up and pointed to Sherlock, still cowering, "but if I die, I'm going to haunt you for the rest of your life."
"Oooh sounds interesting", Sherlock muttered with his eyes widened in curiosity as he nodded. John slowly tip toed to the couch as Sherlock followed John with his eyes. John held his breath as he inched his hand towards the blanket, "Hey!" Sherlock yelled as John quickly snatched his hand back to his chest.
"What?" John whispered fiercely as he stared at Sherlock, cradling his hand to his chest like a mother does to her baby.
"If it explodes, use your body as a shield so I won't get injured", Sherlock said nonchalantly.
"Shhhut up", John hissed as he stared down at the object. "This is a very...delicate...matter", he gradually inched his hand towards the gray blanket again. The kettle wailed and both men jumped about two feet in fright. Sherlock shrunk behind the chair, his hands over his ears, his chin on his knees, as John held his breath and quickly snatched the blanket away. "Molly", John said, in breathless anticipation, his face fallen. She lightly moaned in discomfort and annoyance as she leisurely turned her head away from John; her brown hair tousled and her cheeks reddened from sleep, her brows intertwined in soreness, and she attempted to stretch to relieve the pain, but she couldn't move her arms or legs as she was bounded by silky red ribbon.
"What?" Sherlock's voice came loudly from behind and below the chair.
"It's Molly!" John yelled excitedly. "Molly!" he yelled again as he pointed to a sleeping Molly—her arms, hands, and legs tied up with red ribbon and a big red bow where a white tag with black letters met at her chest—"Molly, Molly, Molly!"
"Molly?" Sherlock said breathlessly, but still in a puzzled tone, as he stood up. "Molly!" he said in a thrilled voice (that John could swear was the first time Sherlock sounded excited that didn't involve a murder) with a relived look on his face and his arms open in embrace. It only took him two strides to make it to the couch. "She's alive!" he exclaimed, his arms in the air like he finished the marathon.
"There doesn't seem to be any explosives on her", John said gently, a grin plastered on his face, as he carefully hovered his hands over her body, searching her body, "She looks healthy, although she's a bit thin and pale"—
"But, she's alive!" Sherlock interrupted John by grabbing his shoulders.
"Yeah, yeah", John gushed as he wiggled out of Sherlock's grip, "What does this note say?" he said softly to himself, his brows tangled in confusion, as he leaned over to examine the tag.
"I have to call Lestrade", Sherlock declared as he grabbed his mobile out of his coat pocket and walked towards the door. Sherlock dialed his number and held the phone to his ear as he continued to pace around in exuberance.
"A gift to you", John read slowly and quietly, "Love, Moriarty", John straightened himself and muttered to himself, "Of course, of course, who else would it be?"
..."No, no", Sherlock said into the mobile, "This isn't a joke. You have to get over here", Sherlock paused and quickly added with a joyful look, "and fast!"
John crotched back down and stared at Molly as Sherlock got off the phone. 'She pretty much looks the same as she did over six months ago' John thought and smiled to himself, 'I'm glad she's not dead.' His face fell in terror and realization, 'Oh crap. How are we going to tell her that her husband's dead?'
"Lestrade's coming over right away", Sherlock said cheerfully as he stood next to John and placed his mobile back into his coat pocket. "I can't believe she's alive! Who saw this coming?"
"Sherlock", John said softly as he turned his head to Sherlock.
"I didn't even see this coming", Sherlock said animatedly.
"Sherlock", John continued.
Sherlock started to rub his forehead as if he had a migraine, "What?"
"Moriarty did this", John said as he turned his gaze back to Molly.
Sherlock's smile vanished, "I figured as much", he muttered in a somewhat gloomy tone as continued to massage his brow and leisurely walked towards the door.
John stood up and followed Sherlock to the door, "There's something else", he still said softly. "How are we going to explain this to Molly? How...how are we going to tell her that her husband is dead?" John asked in a hushed, bothered tone, and then added quickly, "That's she dead, too?"
Sherlock turned around to face John, his mouth open in mid-thought, and then shut it when nothing came to mind. "I...don't...know", he said slowly in a light, bewildered tone. And for the first time in their friendship, John saw general confusion and pain on Sherlock's face. Sherlock's distant, dazed look—coupled with the thought of explaining to Molly that her husband is dead—made the once blissful, joyful situation depressing and heartbreaking.
Molly gently sighed in content and dream.
That's it for a while. I'm mostly out of ideas.
And sorry for the somewhat gloomy chapter. I was watching a Holocaust special during it.