The living room. Darkness. Molly is on her sofa, curled up on her side, wrapped in a tartan blanket, her head on a lacy cushion. She is very still, but she has her eyes wide open, looking into the darkness before her with an expression of mixed content and regret. The small green numerals of the digital clock on the TV receiver across from the sofa show that it is 1:42 a. m. Toby is nowhere to be seen.

The bedroom. Darkness. Seen from above, Sherlock's dark sleeping figure on the bed is in ludicrous contrast to the exuberant roses on the bedspread. He doesn't seem to have moved at all so far, but he's moving now, eyes still closed, fingers twitching a little, on the edge of waking up. Then suddenly his eyes pop open, staring up at the ceiling, and he blinks rapidly a couple of times. Grimacing, he rolls over and heaves himself up into a sitting position at the edge of the bed. A glance at the large red numerals on Molly's clock radio shows him that it is 3:19 a. m. He kicks off his right shoe, then bends down, slowly unties the laces of his left shoe and starts working it off with small, carefully movements. He hisses with the pain of it when the shoe finally comes off. He then rolls up his trouser leg and peels off his sock, revealing a badly swollen ankle, angrily red in colour. He inspects it with a detached look on his face, running his fingers tentatively across it. Then, with a sudden impetus, he stands up, attempts putting weight onto the injured foot, thinks better of it with another grimace, and ends up hopping over into the en-suite bathroom on his good right foot. He switches on the light, squinting a little at the sudden brightness, opens the mirror cabinet and quickly sorts through the little bottles and packages in it – soap, shampoo, make-up, perfume, sun-screen – until he finds what he's looking for. He takes out two small white pills from a little plastic jar, swallows them, washes them down with water from the tap, then stands still for a moment (still only on one foot) with closed eyes, then opens the jar again and takes out a third pill, swallows it, washes it down, hesitates, then takes a fourth. Next, he picks up a white towel from the rack next to the washbasin, soaks it in cold water from the tap, wrings it out and hops back to the bed with it. He sits down again, folds it neatly and winds it around his bad ankle as a makeshift cold pack. That done, he sinks back onto the bed, and both he and we black out.

The bedroom. Grey morning light. Sherlock is sitting up on Molly's bed, his back propped comfortably against the plushy bed-head, one of the magazines from Molly's bedside cabinet open on his lap. He's taken off his jacket and shoes and has made himself as presentable as possible with the limited means available. He's washed his hands and face, tucked in his shirt and even put some plasters on the worst grazes on his palms. The wet towel is gone, as is the first-aid kit. There is a knock on the door. He raises his head. The door opens, and Molly stands in the doorway, still in last night's clothes, her hair tousled, looking apologetic, but no longer twisting her fingers in nervousness. Sherlock holds up the magazine he's reading. It is an issue of the Journal of Clinical Pathology, with a brightly coloured photo of a nondescript electron microscope sample on the cover.

SHERLOCK: Is it really true your liver can regrow from less than 25 percent of its original substance when damaged?

MOLLY (with a shrug): To be really sure, I'd say you need about 35 or 40 percent. It would depend on the type of the trauma, not just the extent. (Conversationally) Why, are you planning to get your liver damaged, too?

SHERLOCK (unperturbed): Just something to keep in mind, I thought. Good morning, by the way.

MOLLY (suspiciously, not quite sure whether he's making fun of her): Good Morning.

She glances at the bedside table. The food tray is the ruin of its former glory. Apparently Sherlock has eaten literally everything on it. Nothing is left except a small mound of muesli bar wrappers, tangerine peels, apple cores and empty yoghurt cups. Sherlock follows Molly's gaze.

SHERLOCK: Sorry. Couldn't help myself.

MOLLY (quickly): That's alright. Listen - (embarrassed) I just need some things. And the bathroom.

SHERLOCK: Yes. Yes, of course.

He swings his legs over the edge of the bed and starts fishing for his shoes. Molly walks over to her wardrobe and takes out some fresh clothes. Returning with a bundle of clothes in her arm, she makes to pass Sherlock, but then hesitates and watches him furtively. He's put on his right shoe and is now trying to get into the left one, very gingerly, his lips pressed together. Molly takes a deep breath, gathering all the courage she can muster.

MOLLY: You know this is getting a little ridiculous.

Sherlock abandons the attempt, straightens up and exhales audibly, but doesn't look at her.

MOLLY: So what are you going to tell me now, that that shoe maliciously shrank overnight, or that you just happened to buy them three full sizes too small?

Sherlock turns his head to meet her eyes, thin-lipped, not at all amused, but still silent.

MOLLY: I'm not as stupid as that, you know. I know a sprained ankle when I see one.

SHERLOCK (sarcastically): People ever die of sprained ankles?

Molly puts the bundle of her clothes down at the foot of her bed. She's calmly professional now, no longer embarrassed or insecure at all.

MOLLY: If it's as swollen as that, I seriously think you should have it looked at.

SHERLOCK (annoyed): You've been looking at it for a full minute now, what good does that do?

MOLLY (unfazed, fishing her phone out of the pocket of her cardigan): You're not walking home on that. I'm calling you a cab. And I'm calling your doctor, if you won't listen to me.

SHERLOCK: What doctor? You're a doctor.

MOLLY (after a short pause, quietly): Yes. But you want one of those that can put things right. Not one who only tells you what went wrong.

Outside Molly's house. Sherlock and Molly are sitting companionably side by side on the low garden wall, facing the road. He is in his coat and scarf, his right foot – shod - on the ground, his left leg up across his right knee, that foot in a black sock only. The left shoe is placed next to him on the wall. On his other side, Molly is in a warm jacket, her bag at her side, ready to go to work. A cab turns the corner at the far end of Molly's street, approaching her house. It stops outside at the kerb, its back door opens and John Watson gets out. Molly stands up while Sherlock remains seated. John looks from one to the other in slightly puzzled amusement.

JOHN: So, erm -

MOLLY (cheerfully): Good morning, John. Thanks for relieving me.

John raises his eyebrows. Sherlock picks up his shoe and wordlessly holds it out to John. John automatically takes it and, turning it in his hands, looks at it from all sides.

JOHN (with a frown): Size eight and a half, Italian, expensive, well-worn. What is it? A clue?

SHERLOCK (standing up with a grunt): No, just my left shoe.

He walks past John towards the open door of the cab, limping so heavily it's a wonder he's still upright when he reaches it.

JOHN (turning to watch him, shoe still in hand, appalled): Oh my good Lord.

SHERLOCK (holding himself up by the edge of the open car door): You coming, or what?

JOHN: Er, yes. (To Molly) Ruptured ligament, d`you think?

MOLLY: Partially ruptured at least. Anterior talofibular, second grade, most likely. But get it X-rayed as soon as you can. If he tries to walk even one more step before it's been properly cared for, tie him down.

JOHN (with an amused glance in Sherlock's direction): I love life far too much to try that, Molly.

SHERLOCK (peeved): Can you two stop now?

MOLLY (to John, with a smile): Yes, I know. Good luck.

Later. The living room, 221b Baker Street. Sherlock is in his armchair, his bad leg up on the low coffee table between his chair and John's, his foot resting on an untidy stack of old magazines, newspapers and general clutter. He's still in the same suit, the left trouser leg turned up neatly to reveal that his calf and ankle are now encased in a brand-new bright blue Aircast over a rigorously professional snow-white bandage. John is walking around the room, opening the curtains.

SHERLOCK: You know, about last night.

JOHN (over his shoulder, in a non-committal tone): Yes?

SHERLOCK: What Lestrade has been telling me about it is all rubbish. I think he's approaching the whole thing from a totally wrong direction.

John returns to where Sherlock is sitting, and picks up the Union Jack cushion from his own chair.

SHERLOCK (impatiently): Yes, maybe he's had to handle this sort of thing so much more often than I have, but -

JOHN: Leg up.

Without interrupting his discourse, Sherlock obediently raises his injured leg a few inches into the air.

SHERLOCK: - but I don't think this is a case where the good old-fashioned textbook approach will do any good to the parties concerned.

While he speaks, John picks up the magazines and newspapers, and replaces them with the Union Jack cushion.

JOHN: And down again.

Sherlock lowers his foot onto the cushion.

SHERLOCK (frustrated): And yet, I can't see my way clear. I'm getting all those hints thrown at me, but then when the chance offers, all I get is -

JOHN (straight-faced): - a lousy breakfast?

SHERLOCK (taken aback): What?

JOHN (smugly): Never mind. Coffee?

SHERLOCK: John, are you listening?

JOHN: Not really. (He walks over into the kitchen, talking over his shoulder again.) You know you don't have to talk about it.

He picks up two steaming mugs from the kitchen counter and returns to the living room with them, placing one in front of Sherlock and sitting down in his own chair with the other.

JOHN: Besides, it's none of my business and I'm not sure I want to hear. It's for you to sort out. I won't tell anyone. (Nodding towards Sherlock's ruined trousers) I won't even make a snide comment about the state of your knees. You've never asked for my opinion on this, but if you want it now, I don't think it's fair to let someone get their hopes up -

SHERLOCK (hotly): I did nothing to let anyone get their hopes up. On the contrary, I said from the outset that I needed time to view the ground and get my bearings, there was never going to be a quick and easy answer, and that's what I told her, more than once. (He pulls out his phone, angrily punches a few buttons and holds it out to John.) And still she's tried to call me no less than four times in the last twelve hours to hear whether I'd made any progress, although I expressly told her that there would be no news until this morning. Do you call that letting her get her hopes up?

John frowns, beginning to realise that this conversation is not about what he thinks it is.

JOHN: Who called you four times?

SHERLOCK (annoyed): His wife.

JOHN (totally confused now): Whose wife?

SHERLOCK: The banker's! Silly cow. If she wants her man back in one piece she might as well let me work out how to do it and not pester me four times a day. (Aping a crying woman) Ooooh, Mr Holmes, please, please find him, I'm at my wit's end - like she's ever had any wits in that silly little head of hers. What?

John has only just managed to put down his mug without spilling his coffee. He's doubled over in his chair, bubbling over with badly suppressed laughter.

SHERLOCK: What?

John throws his head back and bursts into honest, unrestrained merriment.

JOHN: Oh, I can't believe it. This is hilarious.

SHERLOCK (annoyed): Is it?

JOHN (still laughing): Oh, brilliant!

SHERLOCK (drily): Thank you.

JOHN (helplessly shaking his head, wiping tears of laughter from his eyes): I'm a dork. I knew it would be too good to be true.

SHERLOCK: What would?

JOHN: Us having this conversation.

SHERLOCK: We are having this conversation.

John jumps up from his chair, walks over to Sherlock and pats him on the shoulder.

JOHN: Never mind me, Sherlock. You're doing well, I'm sure you are. Forget what I said, forget everything, just focus on what you do best, and don't let anything else get in your way.

Sherlock looks up at him with a raised eyebrow.

JOHN (encouragingly): You must have gathered some data last night to build on. Here. (He turns and picks up Sherlock's computer from the dining table.) Catch. (It lands neatly on Sherlock's lap.) Get working. Solve it from your armchair, like all your best cases. (Without waiting for an answer, he walks back into the kitchen, picks up his jacket from the back of one of the chairs, and puts it on.) And if you've got everything you need for now, I'll be out for a bit. You'll be insufferable for the next two to three hours, so I'd rather not be there.

Sherlock gives him a dirty look, then dutifully opens and starts his computer.

JOHN (patting his pockets for his keys): Back with lunch. (Sternly, pointing a commanding finger at Sherlock) Don't move.

He turns to leave through the side door.

SHERLOCK (calling after him without raising his head): John?

JOHN (popping his head back in at the door): Yes?
SHERLOCK (his eyes still on the computer screen): Just for the record - Molly's flat is all carpet. (He pops out the "t".)

John stares.

SHERLOCK (mock-cheerfully): Bye-bye!

THE END

September 2014