Molly Hooper woke several hours later to the throb of her ankle informing her that her painkillers had worn off. With a huff she rolled over and stuffed her head underneath the pillow to try to block out the light seeping through the curtains, resigning herself to trying to fall back to sleep. Wait. Raising her head from beneath the pillow she allowed her eyes to slowly adjust to the light of the room-the room that was not hers.

Thinking back to the night previous, she remembered falling asleep in the cab and Sherlock carrying her up the stairs into the flat, but after that her mind was an unhelpfully blank. He put me in his bed. Molly flipped herself over immediately to find the other side of the bed empty then inwardly chastised herself for being ridiculous. Sherlock had obviously not been asleep last night, as was his typical fashion while on a case. He must have carried her to his room to avoid having to heft her up another flight of stairs.

She flopped back down on the pillows and began to survey the room of which she had never before seen. She was lying in a queen size bed with simple white linens; the duvet lay crumpled on the floor, though whether she did that or it was there to begin with, she wasn't sure. A framed print of the periodic table and an engraved rapier donned the walls, though the rest of the furniture all reeked of normality. Molly wasn't sure what she expected of the detective's bedroom; perhaps mad scientist equipment or pickled organs in jars lining the shelves, but this certainly wasn't it. Peering to the digital clock on the bedside table, she saw that it was nearly midday, and decided it was probably pertinent to get up.

Untangling herself from the sheets, Molly saw that she was still wearing the outfit from the night before, albeit with her shoes removed and the wrapping around her ankle. The bathroom was right outside Sherlock's bedroom, and provided he wasn't sitting directly behind the door, she figured she would be able to make it without being seen. Right. Phase One. Initiate. Opening the closet door she quickly found exactly what she wanted. That damn purple shirt. Taking it off its hanger, she quickly turned toward the bureau. This part would be trickier. Taking her chances with the top drawer, she opened it silently and was greeted with the most ridiculously organized sock index she had ever seen. Closing it, she opened the second. Jackpot. Taking the top pair of black boxer shorts, she began to close the drawer, but something bright red caught her eye. Stopping momentarily to check over her shoulder just in case Sherlock had managed to teleport behind her, she shifted the contents of the drawer to reveal a small red box. My Dearest Sherlock XOXO. It was the box from the disastrous Christmas party nearly three years ago. Why had he kept it? Not wanting to get caught snooping through his underwear drawer, she quickly closed it and headed for the door. Taking a deep breath and willing herself to be brave, she opened the door just a crack to reveal Sherlock's back to her in the kitchen, allowing her to sneak into the bathroom unseen with the bundle of borrowed clothes.

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Sherlock had been in his mind palace for several hours, trundling through the same information over and over. He just barely missed Molly going from his bedroom to the bathroom minutes earlier before returning to his experiment in the kitchen. Adjusting his goggles, he reclaimed his spot kneeling on the kitchen table and adding acid to the inside of the toaster. If someone had asked him what he was doing, he would have begrudgingly replied with his standard "It's an experiment," but the truth was that he was honestly not paying the slightest bit of attention to what he was doing as his mind filtered through everything he had experienced in the past two days.

It was due to his deep thoughts that he was completely unaware of Molly Hooper silently approaching behind him, which was why when she bid him "good morning" he nearly fell off the table in surprise.

"I don't suppose that can still make something akin to breakfast?" She asked, in mock horror, staring at the now slightly steaming toaster.

Sherlock went to remove his goggles as he hopped off the table, only to have them snap back onto his face painfully as he caught sight of her full figure. Molly Hooper stood before him wearing his purple dress shirt, unbuttoned dangerously low, with the sleeves rolled up and the hemline hitting somewhere in the middle of her thigh, which was covered only by a pair of his own pants. Her hair was wet and fell over her shoulders freely as she toweled it dry. Every thought that was currently in Sherlock's head was suddenly gone. Instead, it was all he could do to concentrate on basic functions such as breathing and blinking. One at a time. Both at once was proving too difficult at the moment.

"Hope you don't mind, I borrowed some clothes."

The sound that emerged from Sherlock's mouth was intended to be "Not at all, help yourself," but sounded instead like a cross between a cat being strangled and someone that had just been punched in the gut.

"And thanks for letting me sleep in your bed last night, I can't imagine how awful it must have been to lug me up all those stairs."

Shake your head, Sherlock, you can manage that. Sherlock shook his head to indicate that it was not a chore to place her in his bed, though he didn't care to relegate that the real chore had been not climbing into it with her.

"You're awfully quiet, this morning. Something new in the case?" Molly asked as she leaned towards Sherlock to look at the now more forcibly smoking toaster. She did not fail to notice his sharp intake of breath when her shoulder just barely nudged his chest.

"No!" he yelled, a little too loud, causing Molly to shrink back a bit. "I mean, no-nothing new with the case. This was just to keep me occupied while I went through the information in my head." He removed his goggles and leaned against the table near the toaster before continuing. "The Tower of London makes no sense. He's been there before, we know he can infiltrate it, so there's nothing to prove."

"Unless it's not him."

"What?" Sherlock looked up at Molly, confusion knitting his brow.

"You said before that you weren't even sure if this was Moriarty. He blew his brains out. Kind of hard to fake that, right? Even you would struggle with it." Sherlock tried not to smile at her macabre humor, but failed miserably as she continued. "Maybe it's just a copycat?"

"Or maybe it's a distraction. While I'm busy trudging around the Crown Jewels whoever this is blows up half of London." He ruffled his hands through his hair in frustration and replaced them on the table. Molly reached over and placed her hand on top of his.

"You'll figure it out. I know you will." She blinked and he could have sworn he saw her eyes flick once to his mouth and back. Grasped with sudden bravery he leaned in slightly, unable to see whether she returned the act due to the toaster choosing that moment to blow up directly in his face.

"Sherlock!" screamed Molly, running to his side of the table.

Sherlock stood in his exact same position; eyes scrunched shut, his face now black with ash. Giving a feeble cough, he brought his hands up tentatively to wipe his eyes.

"In hindsight, not one of my more successful experiments," he said as another series of coughs tried to clear soot out of his lungs.

Molly rushed to the sink to wet a dishtowel that she hoped was not contaminated with anything disgusting. "Hold still," she said as she grabbed his arm and turned him to face her.

Using one hand to hold the back of his head, she began gently wiping the ash off of his eyes, being careful not to irritate them even more. "Just another reason why we wear safety goggles in the lab," she said, his eyes starting to return to focus.

"I had them on until you came in," he said with a rough edge to his voice. He coughed once more to clear his throat.

"Sherlock Holmes, what am I going to do with you?" she asked as her free hand came down to stroke his cheek. His eyes widened slightly as he looked back up at her. This time, it was Molly who leaned slightly forward.

"Well, I don't suggest blowing him up. I tried that when he was two and as you can see he's rather disagreeable post-explosion." Mycroft's voice caused Molly and Sherlock to both jump and step away from each other, Molly smiling shyly and Sherlock's slight blush hidden behind his dirty face. Embarrassment quickly shifted to his normal irritation.

"You didn't try to blow me up. You put me in oven and convinced me you were turning it on." Sherlock rolled his eyes.

"Stopped you from coming into my room, didn't it?" leered Mycroft, raising one eyebrow.

"For a few days," Sherlock mumbled, snatching the towel from Molly's grip and using it to recklessly wipe off his face.

"I'm just going to pop upstairs, I need to get some of my own clothes," said Molly, deftly hopping around Mycroft and bounding up the stairs to her bedroom.

Sherlock spared a wistful look at her retreating form in his clothes before settling his face into its usual sneer reserved specifically for Mycroft.

"What do you want? I'm busy," he said as he picked up the toaster and began removing it to the bin.

"Yes, I can see that," Mycroft drawled, casually leaning against his umbrella and turning his nose up at the sight of the now slightly-smoking bin. "Do you think it wise, that you waste your time…dabbling," his eyes indicated in the toaster's direction, "when there is such an important case afoot?"

"I am not...dabbling. Whatever it is you mean by that." Sherlock used the towel to wipe what he could of the soot off his face before throwing it into the sink and slumping into his chair by the fireplace.

"I simply mean that you seem distracted."

"If this is some misguided attempt to get me away from Molly Hooper you can stop right-"

"Not at all, little brother. Quite the contrary," Mycroft moved to sit in John's chair, eliciting a glare from Sherlock before a flash of confusion passed his features. "As a matter of fact, consider this my blessing. I think Miss Hooper is a wonderful asset to your case."

"Doctor Hooper is not an asset, she's my…friend." Sherlock cast his eyes down on the floor, as though he had just made the most humiliating admission possible.

"Ah, yes, as we discussed. You still think that wise. Just remember what I've taught you, Sherlock. Caring is not an advantage." He made to get up and walk toward the door, but Sherlock's mumbled replay could still be heard.

"Sometimes it's not a choice."