A/N: For the April 9th prompt - "You're asleep. You're not at home." Stand-alone. Rated T.
Molly woke up slowly, first opening one eye then the other, then lifting her head when she didn't recognize the sheets she was laying on. They were a solid pale blue and had a very high thread count, nothing like the run-of-the-mill yellow floral sheets that were currently on her bed. Sitting up, she looked around and didn't recognize a single thing in the room.
No, wait, is that Sherlock's aubergine shirt hanging from the closet door? Then … is this Sherlock's bedroom? Good God, how much did I drink last night? Looking down at herself, she was relieved to see that she was still wearing her royal blue button-down blouse from the day before. Pushing back the sheet, she was then dismayed to see that she was wearing her pink flower-print knickers but not the charcoal pencil skirt she had worn. Since I still have my knickers on, it's unlikely that Sherlock and I shagged, but where is my skirt? And for that matter, where is he? She got out of bed, belatedly realizing she didn't have any hangover symptoms. Okay, so if I'm not hungover, what the hell happened last night?
The sound of someone clearing their throat dragged her attention to the doorway, where Sherlock stood, fully dressed and holding a tray. He stared at her bare legs and his gaze was decidedly hungry, then he met her eyes, grinning. "Good morning, Molly. Breakfast?"
She was too confused to be embarrassed by her half-dressed state or wonder about how he stared at her legs, but she still slipped on his blue silk dressing down before addressing him. "What the hell is going on, Sherlock? Why am I not hungover? I don't remember how I got here, so I must have had too much to drink, but I don't feel like I did."
The infuriating man had the gall to chuckle. "You're not hungover because you weren't drunk, merely exhausted. What's the last thing you remember doing?"
Molly thought a moment. "You asked for help with a case. We spent forever in the rare books room of the London Library looking for some obscure 17th Century journal by some man whose name I forget. I remember being so tired that I couldn't keep my eyes open… Oh."
Sherlock smiled a bit. "Yes, 'oh.' You were dead on your feet. No wonder, considering you had put in a full shift yesterday and a double the day before. I decided to take you home."
"Your home," Molly pointed out, "not mine."
"Not yet, anyway," he said with a perfectly straight face, though his eyes were dancing.