He knew that she thought she didn't matter to him in fact he'd made sure of it. But nothing could be further from the truth.
Sherlock Holmes spent another restless night, with the lights of Baker Street shining light on the empty pillow beside him. His body ached with need, the need for her, and no matter how much he tried to not think of her in the passing hours, his thoughts always returned to her, her, Molly Hooper. Finally he got out of bed and raked his hands through his dark curly hair.
The light starkly sketched the sharp angles and planes of his face, while the shadows hid the piercing blue eyes. It was his eyes that gave away the methodically logical mind that was as sharp as a blade. That mind was struggling with the new and foreign thought that he had feelings true feelings for a woman. He tried to sort out how this had happened, how a pathologist whose feelings for him were so transparent had come to mean so much to him. It truly panicked him in two different ways, first he had to admit he was actually capable of caring for another, and secondly that he could never let her know about his feelings. If he did he would place her in danger. That was why he always pushed her away for her and his own protection.
Molly Hooper had numerous tasks to complete in the morgue, but her mind kept drifting back to what John Watson had told her in his text, Sherlock wasn't acting like himself. She'd forbidden herself to think about him anymore but her love-starved heart couldn't stop her. Anytime she'd tried to impress him he always slapped her down—hard—with his harsh words as effective as a whip. Anytime she dated, Sherlock somehow managed to ruin it with the whip of his tongue. Molly had promised herself to never spend a moment thinking about that hateful man. Even if she had promised herself that she wouldn't think about him she was still worried by John's text. She had to find out, try to see if he needed her help in any way. She wouldn't be able to sleep at night until she had done her best to talk to him and help him.
Molly made her way to her locker and as she put on her coat, scarf, hat and gloves to trudge to 221B Baker Street she found herself staring at her own reflection. She didn't have bad skin and she had a happy disposition. She had plain brown eyes and her hair looked scraggly to her critical eyes. How she ever thought that a man who was as attractive as Sherlock Holmes would find her remotely attractive was such an obscene idea that she couldn't but help wonder at why she'd thought of it in the first place. She slammed the locker shut and headed out the door.
As she rushed down the streets she found all thoughts running through her head about how Sherlock wasn't acting like himself. If John was worried enough to text her it had to be bad. She nearly turned around several times but determination kept her going. "Maybe he had trouble with a body, and that's why he wanted John to text me. To get me all worked up to come see him only to answer a question for him. That's probably all it is."
She was so intent on considering on all the possibilities that she didn't notice man following her. She had no warning of the attack until a steely arm caught around the middle and she felt the prick of a needle in her neck.
"Sherlock" was her last thought as the darkness enveloped her.
