From a prompt from geekyangie: "Molly lingers at 221b's xmas party too late & gets snowed in for the night. ;)"

"Sorry, was that the fourth or fifth glass?"

Molly burped guiltily. Staring at her wine glass, she tried to focus on Mary's question. Her face felt flame-hot and the lights from the Christmas tree blinked eerily bright in the periphery of her vision.

"Only four," Molly said stubbornly, focusing on pronouncing the words correctly. "But I…may not have had much to eat beforehand. Nerves…and all."

"We've got to get to the gift exchange. Don't want to get caught in the snow, it'll be impossible to get a taxi," John added, sitting down beside his wife.

"You're right. Just checking in on Molly. She'd had a few."

"I'm fine," Molly protested. She squinted over at Mary. "Are you my Secret Santa?"

"Oh I can't say!" Mary replied just as John answered, "No."

"John!" Mary said, eyeing her husband.

"Sorry. I can tell you who I've got for the Secret Santa if it makes you feel better." John shrugged. "We've got to do the gifts soon anyway."

"Fair enough."

Molly looked at the brightly bowed gift bag she'd prepared for her person. Not Sherlock, thank God. She'd picked John's name from the hat for the gift exchange, as it happened. Mary told her he needed a new watch, and so shopping had been easy enough. No angst over presents this year, dammit.

"Are you sure you're alright? You should eat something."

"I'm just not hungry now. Maybe later," Molly said, wishing she'd stopped at two glasses of wine. She smoothed a hand over her red velvet dress. She'd told herself that she was buying it strictly for her because she genuinely loved Christmas and parties celebrating it, but when she donned the dress, it was Sherlock's hand she imagined sliding the zipper up in the back. His eyes she imagined following the curves of her breasts (small! Not invisible dammit!) as she moved from person to person, chatting at the party.

Stupid man, she thought. At least he behaved this time.

And so he had. The Christmas party at 221b was a resounding success this time around, with a dozen friends milling around the flat happily, despite Sherlock having been forced to throw the party by Mrs. Hudson. She was seeing a Greek fellow from the market and her romantic spirit demanded a celebration, and an opportunity to show off her new "lover," as she insisted calling him.

"He's very enthusiastic, you know," she told Molly coyly. "But he's got diabetes. Sugars, you know," she whispered. "Anyhow we must see the baby too! It's been too long, Sherlock, since we've had John and Mary stop by for long with the little one. Is she crawling now? She must be." Mrs. Hudson had rambled when Molly visited for tea. For some reason she winked at Molly every time Sherlock's back was turned. She was starting to wonder if the older woman had developed a facial tic, it was so persistent. Finally Sherlock gave in: as long as Mrs. Hudson did all the planning and shopping (with his credit card, of course), and swore to leave him in peace from Christmas Day until New Year's Day, he would go along with it.

She and Sherlock had come a long way in their friendship since the devastating Christmas a few years past, Molly knew, but there were still times of late when Sherlock regarded her with such an assessing gaze, such an unnerving pale-eyed stare, that she wondered if he hadn't grown tired of her friendship.

They had been on unsteady ground for a few months after he'd tested positive for drugs but something had shaken him out of that dark period, and he was clean next time he presented himself to her at the lab. She insisted on testing his urine on random days once a week for three months until she trusted him again. She decided enough was enough when he started unzipping the moment he walked into the lab, and her coworkers took notice.

The quiet flow with which they worked together returned, and the rhythms of their days, his cases and her post-mortems, came back with ease. By the time Christmas rolled around, Molly was chagrined to find that she looked forward to his whirlwind visits to Barts as much as she ever did. When he agreed to throw the party and invited her ("Of course," he said with a frown, "Mrs. Hudson would never forgive me otherwise."), her stomach had jumped and she blurted out yes before he finished his little speech.

At least this time she felt more herself. Her dress was red and form-fitting, but her lipstick a more flattering rose pink that she knew didn't feather around her lips. She skipped fussing with her hair, and simply wore it down in waves. She brought along a green cardigan with bells for buttons, just in case she got cold. It was a proper Christmas outfit and sod Sherlock Holmes if he didn't like it.

Fancy bastard, she thought, watching him fiddle with his violin, seated in his customary chair. Dashing in his black suit and burgundy shirt, the effect was almost ruined by his headwear. This year, he had agreed to wear the reindeer ears for the baby's amusement. He grumbled, but she saw his eyes light up as Maddy shrieked with glee over his felt antlers and grabbed at him with her chubby fingers. Setting aside his violin, he scooped up the crawling baby and tipped his head to her grasping hands. Maddy yanked the reindeer ears from his head, cooed and slid down off his lap to find her father.

"Oops, oh no she took them from me, that's terrible," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes good-naturedly. Picking up his violin, he added, "Ohhhh well."

"Oh, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson sighed.

Beside her, Mary and John laughed, and Molly giggled, the warmth of the wine relaxing her anew.

Sherlock drew his bow across the strings, and stopped to tune his instrument. His gaze rose to meet hers, and Molly tilted her head. She wrinkled her nose and smiled across at him, but Sherlock's expression didn't change.

"Is something bothering you?" Molly asked.

"What? No. Why do you say that," Sherlock's eyes darted away. He set his violin against his chin, the bow rose and a few silver notes bled into the air.

Molly knew a musical change of subject when she heard one, but she let it pass. It was Christmas and everything was lovely, and it was snowing. Goodness it was snowing. The window panes of 221b were piling high with drifts.

"Let's get to it, shall we?" Mary called out.

Mrs. Hudson hurried around the room with the Christmas exchange list, getting everyone's attention. "Time to make your exchanges, loves! It's time! Cheers!" Her cheeks were flushed, and Molly suspected she'd lost count of her own wine intake.

Gifts were passed from hand to hand, and names on tags revealed. John laughed when he realized Molly's gift bag was for him, and he kissed her cheek in thanks. Across from them, Sherlock watched while idly plucking at his violin. It wasn't until the unwrapping frenzy was dying down that Molly realized she was still empty-handed, without anyone approaching her. She shifted awkwardly in her seat, and scooped up a handful of nuts from the dish on the table to nibble. She was afraid to ask, but who was left for her, with everyone already gifting to someone?

"Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson set her gift for him in his lap, and hovered as he opened it. Molly hid a smile when she saw the deerstalker-covered knee-high socks.

Mrs. Hudson held her belly, laughing. "Perfect, isn't it? I couldn't believe it, when I saw them! They're just so…" She broke into laughter again, with her new companion joining her. "You can index them under D!"

Sherlock smiled tightly, holding up the socks like lab specimens. "Wonderful." He hopped up and kissed Mrs. Hudson on the forehead. "Thank you. Excuse me."

With that, Sherlock departed the gathering and disappeared into his bedroom.

The others shrugged at his eccentricities as usual. The party was tapering off, as the snowstorm outside blew harder against the windows. One by one, guests of their small party made their goodbyes and Christmas wishes before trudging down the stairwell to chase down a taxi, until there was no one left but Molly, the Watsons, and Mrs. Hudson. And her new "lover" of course.

John scanned his mobile for an update. "Forget about the tube. They're shutting them down. It's worse than they thought."

"Are you serious?" Molly asked.

"Worst storm they've seen in five years, according to this." John shook his phone. "We can get back but there's only enough room in the car for us and Maddy. I think you should stay here, Molly."

She stared. "Oh. Oh no I can't do that."

"Why not? My old bed's still upstairs. Don't worry, I've washed the sheets since then." John smiled. "You're not sober enough to be out wandering anyway. I wouldn't feel right."

"He's right."

"But Sherlock-" She hesitated. Her head was swimming and she was too tired to think hard.

"Sherlock's had his fill of people, and won't be coming out of there until morning most likely. Being around this many people and not being an arse, it's more exhausting for him than a marathon. He has to recharge." Mary gestured up to John's former room. "Please, Molly. I don't want to worry."

Her shoulders slumped. The snow was blowing hard outside, and when the guests had left, opening the door below, the gusts of wind up the stairs had been shockingly strong.

"I…." Molly shook her head, knowing the wine was wearing down her resistance but that it was the right thing also. "Alright. I'll stay."

She hurried upstairs before she did something stupid like try to sneak out and face the storm. It was a shame there were no extra rooms in Mrs. Hudson's flat, but she honestly didn't think she could handle listening to the woman and her new beau "enjoying" each others' company. John's old room was clean and sparse, and John mentioned there were even a few old shirts of his he kept up there for when clothing got ruined on cases and he needed a quick change. She dug a long t-shirt out of the bag in the closet and slid under the quilt. She thought she would be too uncomfortable in the strange environment, but between the wine, the anxiety and the comforting whir of the storm outside, Molly was asleep within minutes.

Her uncharged phone battery died sometime in the night and so Molly didn't know what time it was when she was woken to the bouncing strains of a violin.

It only took a few seconds for her to connect the oddness of her location with the sound of a violin, and she remembered.

It took another minute for her to realize how desperately she needed to pee, after having drunk all that wine before going to bed. Her head was clear now, and she was left only with an annoyingly full bladder that she needed to empty. But instead she laid there, almost afraid to move and disturb the honest, pure sound drawing forth from the instrument below.

The music rose and fell in waves, beginning with a playful pulse, a curious beat, before shifting into something steadier and warmer, the mellow notes drawn out. The sound crested into a darker place then, and the rhythm picked up; the bow must be moving too fast to track, she imagined, but the notes flew until she was breathless just listening. The beats turned staccato and high and reckless and then- they stopped for a second, before sliding, falling down to dense, ominous low notes. They were jagged painful sounds, and the anxiety rose in Molly's belly until the sound rose again to burst free into joy. He was free once more, she heard it in the music, the way his hands moved- longing and light in the corners of the song, an adventure in tones, a story being told, and she knew at once that this piece was one of Sherlock's own creations.

She found herself standing at the doorway, with her hand on the knob.

"It doesn't have an ending."

Hovering in the doorway, far from the sofa, at first Molly didn't realize he was speaking to her. She'd been so quiet, tiptoeing like the cat burglar she used to joke she should be in uni when playing pranks.

It wasn't until he stood up, leaned over toward the door, and his blue-green eyes met hers that she understood he was aware of his audience.

"How…?"

"You think someone could ever stay here without me knowing? Also you snore." He flashed a smile. He flopped back down onto the sofa and set his violin in its case.

Molly wandered into the sitting room and sat on the sofa beside him, tugging John's oversized t-shirt over her knees. "So you always wake up your guests with a serenade?" She joked awkwardly.

"I didn't finish it in time." Sherlock said morosely, staring at the window covered in snow.

"Is there a deadline for a composition?" Molly asked. She rubbed her arms, shivering. "That is one of yours, isn't it? It sounded like you."

"It shouldn't." Sherlock frowned. "Not entirely. It's not just me." He looked up at her. "It's you too. It's everything we-"

Their eyes met, and the silence drew out. Only the ticking of the clock on the wall accompanied them. 2:10AM. Christmas Day, she thought fleetingly. Molly's mouth opened but there were no words.

After a moment, her eyes fell to the violin. "Play it again?"

"But there's no ending. It was supposed to be your gift for Mrs. Hudson's bright idea of an exchange, but I couldn't finish it. I hate Christmas." He sulked into the sofa.

"Oh." Molly felt as though she were hanging on the precipice, not sure whether or not she wanted to hang on. "Sherlock?" She touched his hand, still hot from playing. "Do you want me to go?"

"You can't go. Don't be ridiculous, you're snowed in." He snapped out of his sulk and grabbed the violin from the case, setting it on his thighs. "I'll play it again. Finish it somehow. I can do that much."

"Do you want an ending?"

His eyes fell to her and she felt again the sensation of him assessing her, the bald stare she'd felt so often in the last few months.

This time, however, she stared back, and held his gaze so long that she understood.

"Oh. Oh."

Molly picked the instrument up from his lap, and set it aside. She crawled onto the sofa, t-shirt hiked high up on her thighs, and was rewarded with a pair of startled eyes- and a pair of warm hands tight around her waist when she straddled his lap.

The anxiety that had plagued her all night melted away, and she felt light-headed with joy. Molly leaned in and said softly in Sherlock's ear. "Maybe you can't finish it because the story isn't over."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "No, that sounds like poetic rubbish."

She laughed and was halfway to agreeing when his mouth closed over hers, and then the only music heard throughout the flat was their own.