Vertigo

Chapter one

"I trust you will acknowledge the terms of our agreement, Mr. Holmes."

Despite the comical Russian accent, Sherlock knew these - shady businessmen - as he would refer to them as, were not to be ridiculed.

"You mean, the terms of your agreement; I agreed to no such part in your little charades," Sherlock sneered, slipping on his gloves.

"Ah, but you see, Mr. Holmes, we do not require your participation for our go-ahead, only the one word which will set it in motion."

Really, thought Sherlock, these 'businessmen' were becoming tiresome.

The man who was currently talking (Sherlock had tuned him out) was Chakov, not the head of this particular branch of Russian hitmen, but a much-trusted individual nonetheless. He had an easy charm about him, but Sherlock could also detect the aura of mistrust that radiated from his steel-faced cohorts. They didn't seem to like being the ones having to listen to all his orders, and Sherlock wondered if Chakov knew this. If he did, he wasn't showing it.

Sherlock wasn't afraid of these gentlemen; but he was weary of their involvement with Moriarty. He wasn't a man to become tangled with, and Sherlock doubted Chakov knew what he was signing up for. Whatever the outcome, Sherlock didn't want any of his own... associates to become involved, especially John. Although he also pondered whether Molly would be able to hold her own when it came to Russian hitmen. Probably not.

Sherlock knew about the word that Chakov required, but he didn't know it. That would have been too much of a foolish notion, and would have made it easy to be revealed. No, Sherlock had instructed a trusted member of his homeless network to bring it to John, by safe means, and he would give it to someone who could keep the best secrets.

By that, Sherlock meant someone who had minimal involvement with himself, or John, or Molly or Mrs. Hudson, and so would be an adequate human 'safe'.

John had probably given it to that woman. Hm.

"We know who has the word," Chakov said menacingly, and Sherlock inwardly laughed at the ridiculousness of that sentence.

"Oh really?"

"Yes. Your pathologist; the mousy one. Sergei has knowledge of her whereabouts, and will be paying her a visit tonight," Chakov grinned, and raising one gloved hand, waved a silent adieu to Sherlock before swiftly departing with his suited minions.

Sherlock paid them no heed, only pulled his scarf tighter around his neck and quickly found his mobile phone.

Only one thought was going around his head:

Shit. Molly.

Molly Hooper had a date. Well, that was what a romantic dinner for two was usually defined as, except this wasn't really romantic. Therefore, she had doubts about regarding it as a date.

For starters, her 'date' hadn't even bothered to dress up for the occasion. Now she wasn't asking for a tuxedo, but turning up in a raggedy old jumper and turn-up jeans wasn't really the most romantic thing.

No one could pull that off at a date, she thought, Well no one but Sher-

That was where she had to cut herself off - to mentally slap herself, before that damned man infected her mind and reduced her thoughts to those of a blithering idiot, like always.

This was her chance at having normal social interactions with someone who could be... a potential boyfriend. Or if not, a chance to relieve her boredom at the very least, since Sherlock hadn't even bother to turn up at th-

There she was again. Bloody idiot. It didn't help that every time her date, (what was his name again - Jake? James? Why did men have such annoyingly common names?) opened his mouth, or scratched his head, or ate, she was... deducing him. Going through every one of his stupid motions like she was on autopilot; to figure out every aspect of his life.

Honestly, what had she become? His protegee?

She internally sniggered at this thought, to which her date - who had been anxiously picking at his salad for the last ten minutes (now that was easy - judging by his waste line - practically non-existent - he hadn't been eating too well recently - job stress? Molly was willing to be kind) - smiled unsurely and offered something along the lines of:

"You wanna go back t'mine luv?"

Molly, barely listening, smiled blearily at him and he went back to swirling red cabbage around his plate.

Molly particularly liked this new, snarky side of her. She wondered what would happen if she tried it out on Sherlock. He'd probably raise one eyebrow, and say,

"Well, Miss Hooper, you appear to be finally (patronising emphasis on that) growing a backbone," in that infuriatingly condescending baritone that nevertheless always seemed to set her heart off like a piston.

"Hey, are we going back t'mine or what?" grumbled Molly's date, who had finally spoken up loud enough to break into her thoughts.

Molly looked at him with disdain. Is that all men nowadays wanted? A quick shag?

Where had she met this man?

Oh yes, now she remembered. She'd met him in the pub after work, and absent-mindedly agreed to a date because he'd seemed nice, (if a little dim - but you'd tend to think anyone was dim after spending time with the 'World's Only Consulting Detective') and might serve as a distraction from Molly's hectic mind. It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that he had the same hairstyle as someone she knew.

"Would you excuse me for a second?" said Molly politely, and stood up from the table, nearly tripping over her cashmere scarf, which was draped haphazardly on the back of the chair. Her date stood up abruptly and caught her by the arm, stopping her from making a show of herself.

She smiled gratefully, and he grinned, but when she had thanked him and went to adjust her dress, she found he wouldn't let go of her arm.

"Do you mind?" she squeaked, but he only tightened his grip and pointed towards the door of the restaurant.

"We best be making headway back to mine," he said, leering at Molly's face, or rather, her cleavage. Molly felt a shudder pass through her; she had forgotten just how insistent some men could be.

"I don't think so," she insisted firmly and withdrew her arm. He frowned at her lack of enthusiasm, and clattered closer round the table.

Just as she was beginning to get flustered, a flash of grey caught Molly's eye. She turned round to see someone tall, in a trench coat, approaching her.

"Sher-" she began hesitantly and blanched when her date interrupted gruffly, "No, it's Joshua."

The man approaching her turned out to not be Sherlock, but a man in a similar-style coat, who flashed a rather dapper smile in her direction. Despite him being handsome, she couldn't help the drop of disappointment in her stomach, and the physical pain that accompanied it - at the realisation that she was becoming emotionally tethered to the one man she could never have.

The man in the grey coat came right up to her, and viewed Joshua with the same look she had moments earlier. He turned his head at the gaping man and flicked his fingers, as if dismissing a servant.

"You may go." He had a slightly Russian or Slovakian twang at the end of his words, and a tone which thrilled Molly, seeming to capture the attention of whoever was listening.

"'Scuse me?" said Joshua incredulously.

"You heard me. Off you go," commanded Mr. Trenchcoat (Molly had to distinguish them somehow), and leant close to Molly's ear.

"You are Miss Molly Hooper," he said in a low tone; it was a statement rather than a question. Molly couldn't help but admire the way his tongue rolled off the r of her name.

"Um yes," Molly replied, and cringed when Joshua lumbered forward, looking like his aim was to jump in front of her and Mr. Trenchcoat in a bid to win attention. Molly felt sorry for him - he had only wanted a date, even if his needs were a little... basic.

Mr. Trenchcoat leant casually across the table, nearly knocking over Molly's wine glass. She saved it from spilling and took quite a few gulps self-consciously, before setting it back down. Joshua looked at her in surprise, probably wondering what had caused her to drink so suddenly. To tell the truth, it was something she did when she was embarrassed; like how some people suddenly burst into song to try to diffuse awkward situations.

Mr. Trenchcoat appeared to be doing arm stretches across the table, but Molly didn't dare question his odd behaviour. When he straightened himself out, he had taken her scarf with a quiet movement and handed it to her. She took it gratefully and wrapped it round her neck.

Then, she tapped Joshua on the arm.

"Thank you for a lovely evening, Joshua," she said kindly, and he grumbled, "At least you remembered my name now; I dunno where you got Sherlock from."

"Huh?" she squeaked, and he replied,

"Well you was gonna call me that, weren't you? I dunno why everyone is so obsessed with some stuck-up detective block in a stupid hat..."

While Molly slowly stopped listening to his ramblings, Mr. Trenchcoat had leaned towards her in interest at the mention of Sherlock Holmes.

"May we talk privately?" Before Molly could inquire why such a dashing man would want to speak to her (she hoped he wasn't after any body parts - that usually seemed to be the reason that handsome men spoke to her) he had laid a gentle hand on her bare arm and begun to steer her away from the table, and a still-muttering Joshua.

Molly felt like a mouse trapped between two warring bears, and it didn't please her to think that way. Here she was, trying to strike out after some, quite frankly, embarrassing incidents - and she had already been caught up in something. For once, she just wanted a normal, quiet evening - not including being dragged away by tall Russians in trenchcoats.

"Excuse me," she hissed to Mr. Trenchcoat, "I don't know who you are, but if you don't mind, I'd prefer it if you introduced yourself before trying to steer me away like a donkey."

Mr. Trenchcoat blinked and murmured apologetically, " I am sorry, Miss Hooper. I am Sergei; an... acquaintance of Sherlock Holmes."

Molly stifled a giggle; as well as having the accent, he had the same name as one of those endearing CGI meerkats off some advert. However, she doubted he had the same personality. There was something sinister lurking under his polished manner... And was that a a splattering of blood under his thumbnail? Molly had noticed a hint of red when he had layed his hand on her arm. Now all she needed was Mr. Holmes to tell her he was actually a part-time children's entertainer. She'd believe anything that man told her.

"Why do you need to speak to me? I'm sure Sherlock would be happy enough to discuss anything you wanted."

There went another muffled giggle. Honestly; what was wrong with her? She'd only drunk half a glass of the cheapest red wine Joshua had bought. She was beginning to feel weird now; drowsy, and her muscles beginning to weaken. Before they gave way altogether, she clung to the arm of Mr. Sergei-Trenchcoat.

His face was spinning slightly, but she could make out a weird satisfied smirk on his face - she wanted to get away from this odd fellow. Even the company of bland-and-basic Joshua seemed tempting, compared to some sketchy man who kept insisting on talking to her.

"Miss Hooper, as I am aware, you are a colleague of Mr. Holmes. And, therefore I-"

The obnoxious prat never got to finish his sentence. For one, Molly could barely hear him, as all sounds were gradually muffling into white noise, and although she was still clinging onto his arm, she was beginning to stumble back to her table.

For seconds, the object of her affections had just strode into the restaurant, a gust of wind sending his navy scarf billowing. Sherlock flicked the collar of his Belstaff up, still managing to appear suave even though his wet hair was plastered to his face, and rivulets of water were making their way down his neck. If anything, Molly thought, it made him even more attractive.

John hurried in after him, looking a great deal more wet-doggish, and quickly caught up to Sherlock with a placid tread. He sneezed conspicuously and raised one eyebrow at the oblivious Sherlock, who was busy questioning, or more interrogating the waiter at the front desk.

Molly had noticed all of this, even in her jumbled trance, and was eager not to alert a thunderous-looking Sherlock to her presence, or John either, since at this moment she couldn't stand to be on the receiving end of one of his kicked-dog sympathy looks.

Mr. Sergei-Trenchcoat, meanwhile, had also noticed their arrival, yet was still herding Molly along. She resisted by dragging her heels in like a stubborn mule, but Mr. Sergei-Trenchcoat was quite insistent in his movements. So insistent, that he failed to notice Joshua standing like a half-wit in his and Molly's path. Molly noticed him of course, and she also felt him once they had all crashed to the ground, resulting in a Molly-sandwich.

Molly yelped in pain and indignation. No one wants to be squashed between a 6-foot something Russian with protruding bones, and a similarly-tall bloke with a massive belly. Molly could feel her insides being contorted, and in her weakening state, couldn't even find the strength to struggle.

This also happened to be the point at which Sherlock and John's voices rapidly approached, and then stopped, and although Molly couldn't see the pair, she could imagine the look of shock on John's face, and the resigned interest on Sherlock's.

"Is that... Molly?" came John's worried tone.

"I believe so," Sherlock stated, and then lightly snorted, "I never envisioned her doing something as foolish as engaging in a game of Twister on a restaurant floor." Despite his mocking tone, Molly could detect a hint of... worry?

Molly weakly struck out her hand at any angle, and was pleased when someone responded with a deft grasp. She hoped it was Sherlock.

Unfortunately, in trying to gather a better hold onto the person's hand, Molly succeeded in somehow dragging them off their feet, and onto the growing pile of tangled men - and woman, which responded with an oomph.

"Ow." Molly muttered and registered a chuckling from up on high.

"Well, Sherlock, seems you've joined in on the game too."

No answer.

Oh, so it had been Sherlock - how odd of him to lose his footing like that, Molly thought, before she blacked out.

Please R and R, and offer constructive criticism.