Sherlock was being… decidedly un-Sherlock. After she'd agreed to help him, on the night of his "suicide," upon entering and locking the door behind them to her small flat, Molly turned around to observe him scanning her house with his sharp grey eyes, darting from object to object. Whereas his usual bravado would necessitate rambling on and verbally dissecting everything about her from the two teak wood bookshelves crammed into the precious wall space near the window and the old, red lazy boy where she often fell asleep, to the Pathology encyclopedias that littered the sofa and coffee table, to a questionable dog-eared Mills and Boone paperback entitled, "The Detective and the Pathologist" that she hurriedly kicked out of sight under the sofa with a squeak. But even though he undoubtedly witnessed the abuse of the book, he spoke not a word. He was in a somber state, quiet, seemingly beaten. In his despair, he had lowered his guard and turned to her, the only person he could trust, and she was not about to let him down.

"Erm, there's not a lot of space to go on in here, I'm afraid," she rambled, "I need to go grocery shopping, clean up, and figure out where we're going to have you slee-"

"Your bed will be more than adequate." Sherlock announced, sweeping past her to show himself down the hall. She was mortified, not just from his comment and the implication that they'd be sharing a bed, but in trying to remember if she'd left her panties dangling on the dresser from hurriedly getting ready this morning. A niggling little voice in the back of her head told her he somehow had an instinct it would be there. He began opening doors, making small mutterings beneath his breath like, "Hm. Cheerful clean loo to the right, deep tub, candles that are overused with melted wax, Epsom salts, and ah, closet ahead," he opened her linen closet. "Neatly arranged with fresh sheets but not often used, which leads me to believe that you don't often bring home men, and ah, the bedroom." He strode straight into her bedroom like he had every right to be there. It was a fairly decent sized room with a queen sized bed and Victorian-style décor. "Hm. This is unexpected," he muttered.

"What?" Molly hedged nervously. Sure, she'd thought about what it would be like to have Sherlock Holmes in her bedroom on multiple occasions… okay, more than multiple, but now that he was here, she felt a weird sense of dread that he was going to unleash some kind of revelation about her eccentric habits and desires, and ultimately embarrass her. It was the definition of awkward. She spied her Marks and Spencer lace panties where she'd lassoed them this morning while rushing to get out of the house, but Sherlock blocked her point of view with his formidable presence.

"Merely," his eyes distracted her as he watched her with his head cocked at a bird-like angle, "That I wasn't expecting your bedroom to be so… lissome." Before she could register her shock that he'd ever thought about her bedroom or the half insult that she wasn't feminine , she noticed he'd stuffed something into his overcoat pocket, and when he moved away to inspect her decorations, she noticed that her panties had vanished from the knob of the dresser. He wasn't looking at her, merely walking around and surveying her things.

She gulped. "Can I, erm, take your coat? W-would you like some tea?" He paused, thinking, then began to take off his outer wear.

"Coat, yes, no thank you to the tea. I'd like to lie down and think, actually." He handed her his coat, then looked at the bed, slightly frowning as he inspected it.

Molly lifted an eyebrow. "Is something the matter with the bed? I can get you another pillow, if you like."

"Yes and no. It's a lovely duvet, I quiet like old country roses for a design and it fits in perfectly with the charming Victorian theme you've put to the room, which subsequently leads me to believe you have a gentler, more sensual side to your personality … but, has a man slept here before?"

Molly choked and shifted his heavy coat in her arms. "Excuse me?"

"A man, a homosapien, someone with a penis, more specifically someone with whom you've recently had a relationship or sorts?"

Oh, okay, she saw where he was going with this. She huffed, and though she was nowhere near his height, she drew herself up, "I'll have you know, Sherlock Holmes, that I never, not once, went beyond kissing with that evil-"

"That will do," he intoned, and with a slight smile, he threw himself on the bed, laying on his back with his hands behind his head. He closed his eyes. "If you don't mind, I need a few hours in my mind palace. Please feel free to go about your normal routine as if I weren't here. For all intents and purposes, I'm not. I sleep quite deeply, and as I've successfully conclude that you sleep on the right side of the bed, I'll remain here and shan't disturb you."

Molly's jaw dropped, and as odd as it was, she felt tears spring to her eyes. She knew he was barely hanging on by a finely woven thread, and it was at those times, much like her father, that he forewent decency and let it all hang out there, so to speak. She sighed, daring to take a sniff of his coat in her arms, before turning and pausing at the doorjamb. "I'll be here if you need me, Sherlock. I'll have a meal waiting for you on the table if you get hungry."

She'd made it a few steps when she heard him call her name. "Yes?" she called back, wondering what on earth she was going to do with him.

"Thank you," he said.

She smiled privately as she took his coat to hang up on the coat rack. Out of curiosity, she felt his pockets, and sure enough, the M&S panties were stuffed safely in the bottom of his left pocket. She left it there, and bit her lip, smiling nervously as she headed to the kitchen.