Obviously I don't own any Sherlock characters or much of anything at all. Enjoy!

Chapter 1

Molly jumped as the doors to the lab swung open. She was particularly on edge because the day before she had got the fright of her life when Moriarty's cackling visage was broadcast all over the tele. She clicked her teeth together and watched as Sherlock strode in with an air of impatience. His Belstaff flapped in his wake. John followed behind him and skipped every second step as he tried to keep up. She took a deep breath as relief washed through her. Still, it was several moments before her drumming heart slowed to a steady pace. Maybe that was due to the fact that Sherlock looked more abominably handsome than usual in a charcoal shirt and grey and black plaid scarf.

Oh what she could do with that scarf . . .

"A-afternoon, Sherlock. Hi, John," she said with a nod.

"Hello, Molly," John smiled.

Sherlock paused and appraised her.

His head tilted to one side. "What's wrong with you? You look as if you've aged two years overnight."

Molly pressed her lips together, brushed a hair from her face and stuck her hands in the pockets of her lab coat as she glowered at his perfection. It wasn't fair that he had such touchable ebony curls and arresting green eyes.

"I'm tired, that's all," she said softly. "I was up all night worrying about things."

He laughed in his signature high pitched, incredulous manner. "What do you possibly have to worry about? You work in a unionized position at a government institution at a rate of pay most women your age can only hope to make . . ."

Her brows drew together.

She felt a frown pinch her entire face. "Moriarty was all over the television yesterday! Um, you know, the psychopath I dated who had a kill-Sherlock fetish?"

He rolled his eyes. "Oh, that. Never mind. It's nothing. Besides, I wouldn't stay up all night worrying on my account. You see, I am perfectly fine. Also, I can take care of myself."

Only Sherlock could make her radically shift gears from wanting to engage in unmentionable, dirty acts to having an insatiable urge to belt him. Of course he would think it was all about him. John looked as if he was on the verge of hysterics as he shook his head.

"I don't think that was what she meant, Sherlock."

Sherlock sputtered a sigh from his lips and looked up to the ceiling. "This conversation is so tedious."

Molly bit her lip and spun away from them. Unexpectedly, her throat constricted and her eyes burned. Would it kill him to worry about her a little bit? After all, if Moriarty was alive she could potentially be one of his targets. She wasn't sure what hurt more, Sherlock's complete disregard for her feelings or the fact he still thought her so inconsequential that Moriarty would have no cause to do her harm.

His deep voice reverberated behind her. "Molly?"

She plastered a smile on her face and whirled back to face the two men.

"Ack!"

Sherlock was almost on top of her with eyes so intensely focused, she could see her reflection in them.

"Um, w-what brings you here today then?" She asked.

God, she hated the feebleness of her voice. His eyes flicked back and forth over her face. Then they narrowed and softened. She clenched her teeth. No, no, no! Not this again! She was powerless against his wicked sex appeal. A knowing smile spread across his face.

"Molly, I am desperate for you," he murmured.

Air prickled her lungs as she forgot to breathe. That was so totally not what she thought he was going to say.

"W-what?" Both she and John asked in unison.

He tugged at his scarf and loosened it as he continued to stare down at her. Her stomach flip-flopped and she felt tingles all the way down to her toes. His gaze followed as she licked her lips nervously. Something darkened his features for a fraction of a second and then he either flinched or blinked, she wasn't sure which.

He snapped his head back. "I need you to move in with me."

"M-move in? You mean, to Baker Street?" Her eyes flew to John with a question momentarily.

John turned his palms to the ceiling and shrugged. "This is the first I've heard of this."

Sherlock nodded once slowly. "I have need of a girlfriend."

Molly lifted her hand to her temple and hen scratched at her brow nervously. "Um, well, I'm confused."

John popped up beside Sherlock. "Yes, so am I. What's this about?"

Sherlock glanced quickly between the two of them. Molly was certain she appeared as utterly confounded as John by the numb feeling in her face. Sherlock's eyes and then his lips twitched. He gave his head a half-shake and then groaned.

"Oh, you're both ridiculous. I don't want a real girlfriend. I have need of another faux relationship and would rather not employ Janine in that position again," Sherlock shuddered, smoothed his hands over his jacket and stretched his neck. "God, it was like fighting off an octopus sometimes. No, I need someone who understands I have zero interest in a relationship with them. That makes you the ideal candidate, Molly."

He smiled and wagged his brows when she didn't immediately respond. "So? What do you say?"

Molly's fingers jittered in her pocket. Her face had gone from numb to ice cold. John's grin had completely disappeared and he winced. She closed the gap between her and Sherlock and stepped just close enough that he had to sway back. Normally, she would have fallen apart and tripped over her tongue responding to his tripe but his cluelessness made her want to spit. It was time to turn the tables on him.

"You're desperate for me?" She asked huskily.

His lips parted slightly and his breath hitched. He seemed at a loss for a moment.

He blinked a couple times. "Ahm, yeees?"

Molly huffed out through her nose. She tapped him on the chest. Anger welled up in her and she felt her lips tremble.

"And I'm your ideal, am I, Sherlock Holmes?"

His eyes flitted to her lips. He bobbed his head.

"Then how about you . . ." Her voice trailed off.

"Yes?" He prompted with a flick of his tongue over his teeth.

"… fuck off!"

His head recoiled and his eyes went round as saucers. "Molly Hooper!"

"Aah, ha, ha, ha! Oh, my God, that was good!" John doubled over laughing.

Molly glared at Sherlock one last time then shoved him, lifted her chin and walked straight towards the lab door. She flexed her hands. She could still feel his muscular chest beneath her fingers.

"Where are you going?" Sherlock called after her sharply.

She didn't turn around. She did not want him to see the tears welling up in her eyes.

"Away!" She replied as she yanked open the door. "Try not to make a mess."

"Hmm, that went well," John said with a chuckle.

"Shut up, John," he pinched his nose.

"What was that all about? Why do you need another girlfriend? Why Molly?"

Sherlock looked towards the door Molly just exited through. "I have need of her as a distraction and she must be believable. No one else will do, John. No one else is as . . . authentic."

John rubbed his hands through his hair. "Yes, but this is Molly, you insensitive git. She has feelings, you know."

Sherlock fiddled with the buttons on his jacket. "Yes, I am counting on them."

John pressed his lips together in a thin line. "Dick."

Sherlock frowned. "Excuse me?"

"You're a dick. If I had known what you were coming down here for, I never would have tagged along. My wife is a zillion months pregnant. I have better things to do than watch you toy with the emotions of one of the nicest people on the planet."

Sherlock huffed and stroked his cheek absentmindedly. "Nicest? Have you ever been on the receiving end of her temper?"

"Yes, well, righteous slaps always sting the most. Anyways, I'm going home. If you know what's good for you, you'll go beg her forgiveness and forget whatever shenanigans you're plotting."

"Yes, well, do go on and tend to the missus. I'll see to saving the world and all that pesky nonsense."

John let out a noisy breath. "Christ, goodbye then, Sherlock. I'll give you ring tomorrow."

"Don't bother, I won't answer. Try the day after."

"Yup, later."

"Laters!"

Molly slipped her phone from her pocket and checked the time. She'd left the lab over an hour ago. It should be all clear.

"Nope," she thought as she tip-toed into the lab. "He didn't get the last word."

She felt her heart rate quicken as her eyes scanned Sherlock's lean form. He sat with his back to her at the bench in the middle of the room pouring something from one beaker to another. He'd taken off his jacket. His close fitting shirt stretched over his broad shoulders and trim torso. She chewed her lip. His fingers were so long and elegant. There was such fluidity and purpose in the way he moved. How could such exquisite human design be so maddeningly flawed?

"I don't have time for this," he mumbled, not looking up.

She sighed and made a flourish with her hand. "Yet, here you are."

He put the beakers down, stood up from the bench and turned in her direction. She could see every ripple of movement under the fine fabric of his shirt. Her fingers itched to divest him of the garment and run her hands all over, everywhere . . . she shook her head. She was so depraved. The last time she'd had sex was with Tom and it hadn't been fun. That sad episode had heralded the end because she'd realized then she'd rather get off to daydreams of Sherlock Holmes than a real, live man in her bed.

"John thinks I should beg your forgiveness," Sherlock drawled.

Molly raised a brow. "O-oh? And y-you don't?"

She cursed inwardly. Damn stutter!

He poked his lips out. "Erm, no. I wouldn't want to insult your intelligence."

She smiled and looked down for a tick. "Well, that would be a f-first."

He lazily strolled around the lab bench towards her with eyes focused like lasers on her face. She felt her skin flush and heat creep up her neck.

"You didn't sleep last night. You were afraid," he observed. "Come stay with me and rest easier. All I ask is for a little theatre."

Molly clenched her hands at her sides. He made it sound so easy, logical even. Stay with Sherlock. Pretend to be his girlfriend. A very naughty little voice in the back of her head started giggling out of control.

"Yeees," it goaded. "Doooo iiiit!"

She sucked in a halting breath. This was an incredibly bad idea.

"Sherlock . . ."

He leaned against the bench. His fingers drummed its surface. She felt like a fish nibbling on a worm. Then, the line jerked and she was caught.

"Come on now, Molly. Don't act like you don't want to."