Firstly, the residual deposits on the bed sheets. Most definitely hair gel, and most recognisable as a well-known (lime-scented) brand worn on a daily basis by DI Gregory Lestrade. Party guest number one identified. His proximity to the scene of the crime confirmed.

Next, the condition of the kitchen. Apart from the pile of soaking clothing, the tidiness was (apologies to Molly Hooper) a little more proficient that was usual. Who does that whilst worse for wear at one`s own party? If there was any doubt remaining, the signature folding of the tea towel and regimented cups (handles all rallied in the same direction) pointed clearly at party guest number two: Mrs Mary Watson, and by association number three, Dr. John Watson.

Following on, the discovery of a drug-tainted punch in the U-bend of one`s sink (just the correct amount to avoid long-term illness and encourage a fulsome level of short-term amnesia) coupled with rare seeds brought in on a shoe from a very select location, serves to shine the spotlight on the fourth party guest at Molly Hooper`s soiree: Billy `the Wig` Wiggins.

Any residual drowsiness still holding Molly Hooper in its clutches was dissipating rapidly, as Sherlock sits opposite, cataloguing an increasingly incriminated bunch of friends.

"Additionally," he continues, adjusting his shirt for the umpteenth time, "flashes of memory are gradually beginning to emerge directly preceding the event. I had, as you might imagine, no intention of attending your birthday party last night-"

"Naturally."

"Not my-"

"Area?"

"Precisely."

Sherlock shifts incrementally in his seating arrangement across Molly's bed. Although no stranger to it`s lumpy mattress and unpredictable springs, he was suddenly aware of his proximity to her slightly ruffled, sleep-addled face. This was not how he usually disseminated his findings at the summation of a case. He sits back a little further.

"Yet, it was Mrs Hudson who insisted I leave the flat, for fumigation purposes."

"Fumigation?"

He cocks an eyebrow and contemplates how this might now sound to a third party.

"An infestation. Woodworm."

Molly mirrors his contemplation, nodding as if to add gravitas.

"Unusual. Sudden onset?"

"I recall pointing this out, her comment being that insects were no respecters of the seasons."

They look at each other, in the sure and certain knowledge of being the victims of duplicity.

"So, we must add accomplice number five to this merry band: Mrs Hudson," intones Molly Hooper, leaning away from Sherlock Holmes, since a glint of gold was reflecting from the lamp deep into his eyes, and causing her some small distraction.

"We-ell," she folds her arms leaning back into her ancient bedstead, rattling it`s brass fittings. "Isn't this a risky little game? Playing with us- what the hell are they thinking? Poisoning us, Sherlock!" She sits up, indignant righteousness fuelling her words. "I remember telling Mary what a mindswipe tequila gave me, and she still adds it to the punch! Come to think of it, I wasn't even going to throw a party before she pushed me into it…" She stares at him, as though a momentous realisation has suddenly taken hold.

"Sherlock, she's ruthless!"

"Well- yes. Didn't you know?"

Molly Hooper, however, is standing, beginning to pace.

"Sherlock, they were all in on it - our so called friends - making idiots of us! Mocking us! Just because, at one ridiculous part of my life, I- I had some kind of …" She looks down, humiliated. Sherlock looks at her, but he barely hears her words, merely senses her anger. Sherlock is thinking… freckled shoulder wrapped in a white, crumpled sheet…

"... they are mocking me, mocking our bloody friendship, that we've worked so hard for …"

Sherlock is thinking … Molly, leaning over the microscope late at night, her lashes brushing the eyepiece …

"... stealing and ruining our clothes ..."

Sherlock is thinking … Molly`s gloved hand, cutting the string on the parcel of intestines- deft, swift, decisive, beautiful …

"... even Sally was here last night, and she hates you ..."

Sherlock is thinking … Molly laughing with Wiggins in the lab; he, himself, seething like an infant for days …

"... locking us in here- what if there had been a fire?"

Sherlock is thinking … enough.

"We both have spare keys."

His deep voice shocks her rant into silence; she watches him, her mouth still open.

"Mine is under the umbrella stand by the door." He tilts his head at at her, waiting.

"Er… mine in the spare sugar caddy, in the back of the cupboard by the window." Her voice sounds small and faintly ridiculous to her own ears.

They look at each other, honesty burgeoning, plucking around their edges, but unable to go further, until-

A click and clatter from the front door has Sherlock leaping like a cat, across the bed and out of the bedroom door in an instant. His throwing open of an newly unlocked front door mere seconds later serves to display an empty hallway, populated only by a large cardboard box next to the door jamb, appearing full of of clothes, phones, laptops and wallets, with a buff manila envelope sellotaped to it. After Sherlock rips it loose, Molly struggles to see it over his shoulder. It bears the legend:

`We regret nothing.

You had it coming.

Why are you in there?

You know your methods?

Apply them.

-Your Friends. x`

~x~

Epilogue

As my consciousness floats, both nebulous and increasingly sentient towards the surface, I inhale deeply, luxuriantly, stretching my left foot in my waking from a dreamless, endless, euphoric state. It is then, with a heart-stopping jolt of the purest of joys that I detect the solid undeniable warmth of another limb, snaking around my own and pulling it closer.

And it is not my own.

It is the foot and (surprisingly icy) toes of Molly Hooper, thus I allow myself to be pulled, and to be closer. Despite my criminal lack of research into the matter, it seems that body heat increases exponentially in accordance with degree of proximity, and (surprisingly) level of emotional attachment.

I turn my head, sleep leeching away into the early morning light which sends pale shafts to ignite the tarnished brass bedstead in Molly's bedroom, and I find I am millimetres away from her brown eyes, her pale freckled skin, her arched (perfect) mouth, and it is still too far.

"Hello Sherlock," she whispers, warm, comforting, everything. "Have you solved it yet?"

My mouth crooks up at the side. She knows how I love a puzzle.

"S`simple," I drawl, a tongue still coming into its own. "It is so simple a puzzle, Molly Hooper, yet it has been so complicated for so very long."

"Hmm." Her arms (soft, speckled like plover's eggs) trace my shoulder, draw circles across my scapula; her cheek rests across my sternum, rising and falling as I breathe. She smiles up at me. Waiting.

"So many clues I have missed, so many observations I drew nothing from. We have existed, inside a bubble of us, for so long, we couldn't see what they could. There was an empty space, a void, an echoing chamber within the life we built around ourselves… we ... I made mistakes, Molly."

"We all do silly things." Her small chin digs into me as she speaks, eyes glittering, sparkling (enchanting).

"I have always loved you, Sherlock," she says, clearly (wonderfully). "What d`you think about that?"

And I wrap her tightly within my arms (in lieu of a white sheet) and settle my chin atop her soft, lavender scented hair.

"Isn't it obvious?" I say, smiling.

THE END

A/N: Thank you all for following this little tale. Your reviews have been lovely to read.

See you again soon. :)