this has been sitting in my writing folder for too long and I cannot remember who gave me the prompt oops

Sherlock comes home to find Molly asleep on his sofa. John is nowhere in sight to give explanation, so he tries to deduce it himself.

It was late. Sherlock was irritable. No one had been of much help at the Yard, with Lestrade on holiday and Dimmock in charge. Anderson was getting cocky, and he didn't have the patience to deal with that, especially after being awake for two straight days.

John had retired hours ago claiming exhaustion and the inability to stand. That was fine. Sherlock finished the case by himself with ease, the hard part far over. But the paperwork always made him tired, so tired, made him realize just how sleepless he was. As he unlocked his door at Baker Street, the only thing he wanted was to throw himself in bed for a few hours and wake up to his first meal in…in a while.

Slight snag in that plan.

There was a body on the sofa. Not John's body. Molly's body.

She was asleep, her chest rising and falling slowly. She was curled up in his dressing gown and pajamas, his shirt far too big on her. There was a pang in his chest, seeing her like that. Vulnerable, but protected in his clothing. It was a curious sensation.

He sat on the coffee table facing her. He wasn't about to wake her up—that was rude and, as John had reminded him so many times, more than a bit not good. What could she be doing here? John probably let her in hours ago, expecting that Sherlock would be home before the small hours of the morning. Was she waiting very long? Maybe. She was in his pajamas after all. Which wasn't too okay, but he'd let it slide. She looked comfortable in them, and he hated to admit it, but he sort of liked the way they fit her.

He rose and checked her coat pockets. Nothing of interest she would have brought to him. Her trouser pockets were empty. She didn't bring a purse—Molly never brought a purse.

He was stumped, too drunk-tired and sleepless to make a conclusive deduction from this. He sat back down on the coffee table and sighed loudly, raking his hands through his hair.

She stirred and he held his breath as Molly's eyes opened. "I didn't know if you'd be back any time soon, sorry. I figured you wouldn't mind," she said, pulling at the shirt she was wearing.

"I do not."

"Good." She smiled and propped herself up on the pillows.

"Just a question, but Molly, what are you doing here?"

Her smile dropped. "Sherlock, you don't remember?"

He eyed her suspiciously. "…no?"

She sighed and sat up, reaching to flick him in the forehead. "This is why I don't let you plan anything, if you were wondering. What's yesterday's date?"

"The nineteenth?"

"The twenty-third. What did you do last year on the twenty-third?"

"I was working?"

"No. You proposed to me."

"…oh."

"And since we're still not married yet, you said you'd take me out on the anniversary of your proposal. Guess what you didn't do?"

"Take you out…"

"Congrats, Sherlock."

"I'm an idiot."

"That you can be. So what are you going to do?"

"I'm going to take you out tomorrow night. Somewhere nice. But now, we're going to bed." He picked her up and threw her over his shoulder.

She burst into laughter. "Sherlock!"

"You said yes, Molly! You said you'd put up with me!"

"I wasn't expecting this!"

"You can't expect anything about me, ever," he said, flinging her (gently) onto the bed. He lay down beside her, kicking off his shoes. "Now let me sleep or I'll be taking you out for dinner two nights from now."