If she could have slowed down time, Molly still wouldn't believe that she had been chosen to help Sherlock Holmes. It was akin to passing Princess Kate in a dress store. Or even her sister, for that matter. Reminders of slow, deep breaths came often. Still, in the quiet of her own flat, she couldn't suppress the sheer joy of hearing him tell her that she counted. A sly grin crept across her face and she replayed his words, his voice, in her mind.
As much as it thrilled her to be part of his plan, she was terrified. There was no doubt that the plan would succeed, as Sherlock had mastered it himself. But what if she failed? What if her hand waivered at the moment she had to react? She let her eyes close and sighed.
She would never fail him.
That is why he had picked her. He didn't choose her for her matching lipstick and Christmas bow. It wasn't because she gave up dates for his research. It certainly wasn't for, God forbid, his sentimental reasons. "No," she thought as she let her eyes open and stare at the ceiling, "it would never be for that." He picked her for her own maudlin and obvious attraction, coupled with her skills; skills that would keep him alive. And she knew, that no matter what happened afterwards, no matter what the papers or telly blared, that he was never a fraud.
Molly shoveled the cat from her lap and plodded to her room. A hot shower relaxed her body, but her mind continued to outpace itself. As sleep eluded her, a sense of dread tiptoed into her thoughts. Tears flooded her eyes and she didn't even try to keep them from running in little paths. "Better to leave them on my pillow than lose it in front of anyone and blow the whole thing." She rolled onto her side and wished there was a different way. But the world needed a villain and she was extending the offer of her hero. She begged her mind to shut up and prayed for sleep.