It was after four in the morning when the fount door of 221 Baker Street was silently opened and closed as a petite black figure slipped in. From upstairs, the sound of a violin harshly playing the ending of the third movement of Mendelssohn Violin Concerto floated downstairs. Molly took off her pumps and carefully and silently climbed the steps in her stocking feet, trying to avoid the creaky, and the non-carpet spots on the stairs. As she cautiously stepped onto the landing, the violin suddenly stopped playing and she heard the soft moan of the sofa.

Molly held her breath in apprehension, but calmly breathed out as she heard the footsteps moving away from her. She slung his coat over her right arm and noiselessly tiptoed into 221B, to place his coat back on the wall hook. She calmly breathed out again as she snuck out the door.

"Have some coffee before you disappear again", said a low, dark voice behind her as she stood on top of the stairs. She turned her head to see Sherlock, with two mugs of steaming coffee in his hands.

"Sure", she mumbled, slowly, pushing a loose piece of hair behind her ear, as Sherlock gave her a mug, "It'll be nice to rest my feet."

"Sorry if the coffee tastes funny", he strolled back to the sofa, and "John or Mrs. Hudson makes the coffee."

"It's something called a coffee maker", she sat down in a chair and delicately placed her feet on the coffee table.

Sherlock scoffed, "John refuses to buy another one after I dismantled the last two and Mrs. Hudson doesn't have one anymore after I blew hers up."

"Of course", Molly said curtly, nodding. "I brought back your coat", she pointed to his coat with her left hand, carefully trying not to show her right hand.

"Yeah thanks", Sherlock sipped his coffee.

She frowned and bit her bottom lip, "Sorry about taking your coat. I just needed to get out and all"... She sipped her coffee and tried to keep a sour look from her face.

Sherlock shrugged, "I understand, I suppose."

There was a few moments of somewhat comfortable silence before Molly broke it by saying, "Oh, before I forget, I found some money in your coat pocket so I bought this coat"—she gestured to the red, wool trench coat she was now wearing—"I'll pay you back as soon as I get some money. I'm sorry."

Sherlock shrugged, "It wasn't my money anyways, but that'll be fine", he said with a bored tone. He noticed Molly's right hand, which had two small cuts and a bruise on her knuckles, "Fighting?"

"Um, no", Molly stammered out as she quickly covered her right hand with her left arm as she crossed her arms, "After I ran out, I punched a wall...in rage."

"Mm-hm", Sherlock said in a doubtful tone and nodded.

"You're not going to explore it any further? You're going to leave it at that?"

Sherlock shrugged and said in an uninterested voice, "The wall probably deserved it, besides", and his eyes flickered to Molly, "I don't want you running off again."

Molly blushed and shook her head in frustration, "You Holmes Brothers...I can never predict what you'll do next."

"You've met my brother?"

"Yes", Molly put the cup to her lips, but did not drink, "A few days after you started coming 'round the morgue, he kidnapped me—'cause that's what he does—and offered to pay me to spy on you. I told him that for the right price I would. He offered a hundred pounds a week; I declined, telling him that if he wants spies he's going to have to learn to pay some real money", Molly took her feet off the table and placed her mug on the table. "By the way, do you happen to know when Lestrade goes into work?"

"I'm not his babysitter", Sherlock said severely.

"Oh", Molly mumbled feebly, "I just assumed that you knew."

"He's usually in by six and if he's not in his office or in the loo then he's in the coffee shop across from the station", he drank his coffee.

"Then why didn't you say that in the first place?" she snapped callously.

"Why do you assume that I know Lestrade's schedule?"

Molly shrugged, "Because you're Sherlock Holmes...and if you knew my shifts it's safe to assume that you know Lestrade's."

"When you're going to see Lestrade, I think it would be best if John and I came with you."

"I don't think that would be the best idea", Molly mumbled. Sherlock opened his mouth to respond—"And if you only wanted to come along because you think that I'll talk about my six months absence, save your breath"—she titled her head up to glance down at him—"I don't remember anything."

"Nothing? Nothing at all?" Sherlock asked his eyebrow cocked.

Molly leaned forward—which caused Sherlock to lean towards her as well—and purred to him, "I don't know...why don't you figure out what happened", Molly leaned back; "Now that sounds interesting."

"It sounds very interesting actually, but that would involve you being around me"...Sherlock finished his coffee while Molly's face turned as red as her coat and held her breath..."I've been getting the feeling you're not my biggest fan."

"You did that to me on purpose!" ...Molly cried to shrugging Sherlock..."And let's have this discussion when I'm not being fueled solely by caffeine. Our banter will be more exciting and clever. I don't want to resort to 'your mom' and 'your face' jokes."

"Yeah because those are the lowest form of wit."

"Face, face, face, face, face! If we keep going the way we're going now, just imagine a bunch of those" Molly pointed to the floor, "You have a face of a saint...a Saint Bernard! Ooooooh!" Molly started laughing as she stood up, glanced down at Sherlock—who was frowning and had a look of pain—and then choked out, "I should get going before you kill me"; she slipped on her pumps and strolled to the door. "Oh", she spun around to see Sherlock, who intently looked at her, "Just because your violin tutor walked out on you during the basics does not mean you can take it out on Mendelssohn."

"What?" he asked harshly.

"You're playing it too severely. You're not slicing a piece of meat; you're supposed to be gliding through Mendelssohn", Molly winked at Sherlock as she spun back around before he could respond back, "Good morning", she said cheerfully to a sleepy, olive-green-robe-wearing John and then ran down the stairs.

John ambled in and pointed to the fount door, "Was that Molly or my sleep induced hallucinations?"

"That was Molly", Sherlock nodded, "and, John...you have a face of a saint."

John rubbed his face, a gleeful smile on his face, "Oh, well, thank"—

—"A Saint Bernard! Ooooh!" Sherlock spat out.

John nodded his head, a saddened look on his face, "I should have seen that one coming."