A/N: Thank you so for the reviews and follows - feedback is love.x

Emma (guest): Thank you, and your wish is my command.

Isn't it obvious?

Mary Watson folds the tea towel, once, twice, then deftly threads it over the rail. Cups are lined in serried ranks, handles all at the same angle, and dishcloth and rubber gloves are nowhere to be seen, squirrelled away neatly behind closed cupboard doors. Not one movement is wasted or without purpose, and Molly Hooper simply marvels at the efficiency of it.

"It's just washing up, Molly."

No, it was more. It was systematic; methodical; adept. Mary was adept at the mundane, and the not so mundane, and Molly sometimes liked to watch her in action.

They drank coffee, did a little fantasy shopping via the internet and ate most of the carrot cake Mary had made that morning (Molly hadn't seen her make it, but she guessed it had been beautifully executed; bowl to tin, to plate, to mouth- so efficient).

"I might beg you to make my birthday cake."

Mary`s eyes light up as she gathers the crumbs, balling them into squidgy pellets at the plate's edges.

"I absolutely will. What do you like? When`s your birthday?"

"Soon."

"You should have a party."

"No-o-oo."

"A gathering, at least. I need a night off from motherhood on occasion. C`mon Molly, we can do tequila shots…"

"Double no-o-oo! Tequila is my mindswipe. It's literally a lobotomy situation the next morning… it just wouldn't be safe, Mary."

"Ah, who needs safe?"

Later, Mary runs her fingers across Molly`s lucky jade green Buddha and contemplates the random clutter that people collate over their lifetimes. To her, most ornaments seemed… well, pointless. She pushes back a glassy-eyed kitten climbing out of a pottery basket and retrieves a small, folding penknife with pearlised handle and brass rivets lying behind it. With one expert flick, she unfolds the blade and notes a tiny engraving at its base- `MH`. And yet, the knife does not seem like something Molly would own. Knives were her craft, not her hobby.

"You`ve taken up whittling?" She holds it up as Molly emerges with two, brimming glasses of Sauvignon Blanc from the kitchen (cake is fine, but so is wine).

"It isn't mine," she confirms, placing the glasses carefully lest a precious drop should be wasted.

Mary points to initials, yet her friend shakes her head.

"You would notice that. Yes, but still not mine. Sherlock left it here. He must have nicked it, from Mycroft I`d guess."

Mary`s brows are raised as she lifts her glass, but she corrals her interest and takes her time. No point startling these innocents.

"Sounds like him. Does he often drop in? You should be strict with him, Molly. He shouldn't be bothering you at home with his bits and pieces and stuff he`s fished out of the Thames."

Molly swallows a gulp of wine, but merely shrugs.

"Occasionally he drops in. He's no bother, actually. It's quite nice when he's finished talking through the case and we watch a bit of telly together. He likes Strictly Come Dancing, but usually falls asleep before the final scoring."

Mary Watson stares but keeps it casual. She musters all she knows about poker faces.

"He sleeps here? John says he rarely sleeps during cases."

"Yeah, sometimes on the sofa, or the spare bedroom… well, my bedroom. We agreed that he needs the space. Messy, you know."

Mary finds she is unable to trust to a comment, since she is unsure how the timbre of her voice might emerge from her mouth. She contemplates texting John in her pocket (wouldn`t be the first time) but is a little too unnerved. Molly picks up a peanut from the bowl on the table and observes her friend with a slightly analytical tilt of her head and the ghost of a smile at the corner of her mouth.

"You mustn`t worry, Mary. I can handle him. He`s ok with me now," she bites through the peanut, crunching it. "He's a mate, like he is with you. We're good."

How strange, considers Mary, smoothing her finger across the pearlised handle again, that people who observe - who are paid to observe for a living, and pretty good at it too- can be so piss poor at seeing what they really should be seeing.

"You're as good as gold," she says.

~x~

We've found our clothes, for all the good it will do us.

"Soaking wet." Sherlock lifts his purple shirt from the dripping pile that populates most of my kitchen floor. Even his Belstaff (at the very bottom of the pile) is sodden and utterly unwearable.

"Please tell me it's water," I poke at my favourite black party top with my bare foot, saddened by its limp and twisted vulnerability. Arms pulled inside out, all labels showing. Undignified, really. Sherlock is sifting through the pile and I know he's thinking. I'm praying he can deduce us a way out of this bizarre and frightening situation. Snipers. I'm imagining red dots appearing across our sheet-togas at any given moment.

"Molly, stop immediately."

I haven`t spoken.

"Directionless fretting is pointless. We have very little data, therefore a fearful (and consequently unproductive) state is less than helpful at this moment in time."

"Data, Holmes! - never mind the pep talk - you said `very little`... What you got for me?"

He glares up at me over his (naked) shoulder (has that man ever let his skin see the sun?) rolling his bloodshot eyes and failing entirely to mask a deep sigh. I have never seen Sherlock Holmes even a little inebriated, so Hangover!Sherlock is a less than appealing predicament. For the both of us. Sherlock drops the purple sleeve which slops pathetic and flaccid back into its soggy aggregation. I know exactly how it feels.

"The arrangement of fastened and unfastened buttons on my shirt; the arrangement of the sleeves of your blouse (right inside out, left the right way); my balled up socks; your half undone press-studs on your trousers provide us with excellent markers as to deducing what happened to us last night."

I feel a wash of queasiness, coupled with a fresh outbreak of sweat on my upper lip, so I decide to sit down abruptly next to him. He looks as pale as I feel. I am close enough to see tiny beads of moisture across his usually flawless brow and I decide to cut Sherlock Holmes a little slack.

"And… this means?"

"That we obviously undressed ourselves. Observations of both mine and your hurried undressing habits clearly indicate our favoured methods of disrobing. You habitually miss the third and fifth button, whilst I always pair up my socks, no matter how exhausted I might be."

Sherlock has made actual notes (mental or otherwise) regarding the way I undress? I don't quite know whether to be affronted, or… just horrified.

"Where? When?"

He sighs, running a slightly shaking hand through inexplicable curls.

"Here. At Bart's. Everywhere. When you take off your coat, adjust your blouse, your cardigan. Changing into scrubs in the lab when you couldn't be bothered to repair to the lockers…"

"It was midnight! I was alone."

"Clearly, you were not."

Oh god.

"I would have spoken out, but John advised me it would have embarrassed you."

"John was there!?"

A pause. Neither of us has strength for speech.

We sit, defeated, deflated and slightly nauseated on my cold kitchen tiles, surveying the wreckage of our combined wardrobes and I have a sense of missing the point of the conversation amid a plethora of overpowering and unwelcome information. I take a deep (and hopefully cleansing) breath and pull my toga more tightly about me as I rearrange my features into what I hope and pray is a more amenable disposition.

"Sherlock - no-one else undressed us. That's good, isn't it? It means we weren't stripped naked by a bunch of vengeful criminals who wish us harm."

But he looks at me and I realise my faux bonhomie was perhaps a little bit previous. Drunk as we obviously were, we wouldn't have stripped off, then soaked our clothes in water and hidden our shoes, phones and the entire remainder of my other clothes in a place that neither of us could recall. Some malevolent forces were clearly at work here, and as soon as I find my keys, I'm going to unlock my front door and go and find them.

~x~