Chapter 1

Breathing a sigh of relief, Molly dropped the last of the files into her outbox. She stepped back and slowly twisted to the side, cracking what seemed to be every vertebra in her spine. John watched her as she did this, the relief visible on his face as well. Four straight days of plowing through medical files, analyzing scraps of evidence that had led to nowhere, and having what Molly secretly referred to as "crisps for lunch" (in reality takeout Chinese food eaten at the desk while Sherlock paced furiously, seeming to survive on air and knowledge alone). But their hard work had finally paid off. Lestrade was accompanying Sherlock to arrest Melissa Finch, the accountant who Sherlock had definitively proved had poisoned her billionaire boss.

The news vans screeched away, following the sound of police sirens and the pale detective, just as they had been doing since Sherlock's name had begun appearing in the newspapers.

Not that the detective had even acknowledged Molly before tying on his scarf and striding away, leaving only silence in his wake. Lestrade had mouthed a quick "thank you" before hurrying to catch up to Sherlock.

Oh well. It's not like Molly wasn't used to all this.

Unfortunately, John had still not gotten used to it and felt the need to apologize the pathologist at every turn from Sherlock's blatant disregard for any kind of social mores. Turning to Molly, he now said,

"Thank you so much, Molly, we couldn't have done it without you. Sherlock knows that too, he just…" He trailed off, because there was nothing more to be said. Molly smiled brightly even though all she wanted to do was to take the longest, hottest shower of her life and sink into dreamless sleep on the freshly laundered sheets waiting for her at home.

"It's okay, John, we've all learned to adjust our expectations when dealing with Sherlock. But you should be proud of yourself too; you tracked down the tax records that really helped everything fall into place."

John shrugged modestly, the fabric of his familiar grey jumper straining against his shoulders as he slowly rotated his neck to work out all the kinks. He then smiled and asked,

"So do you want to grab something to eat? I know you're beat, but you need to get some food into you before you pass out where you stand."

"No, thanks, I think I'm just going to tidy up here and then catch a cab home. In the war between sleep and hunger, I think sleep is going to win this round. But you go home, get some rest. Don't worry about me."

John nodded and didn't try to argue, fighting the own fog in his brain. He said goodbye and disappeared through the swinging door. The emptiness and silence of the pathology lab now really echoed in Molly's brain, but she ignored it and went on tidying everything up, making sure all the chemicals were in alphabetical order and wiping down the frozen section machine one last time. After days of frenetic energy, these kind of mind-numbing tasks were suddenly comforting and soothing. She started to daydream, letting her mind wander over the events of the last half-week. One side of her mouth quirked up at the memory of John trying to explain to a very impatient Sherlock, hair sticking up on end, what the show The Bachelor was and why certain women (Melissa Finch included) were obsessed with it. A quiet laugh bubbled up in her throat as she remembered Sherlock's response: "And these women subject themselves to this rubbish of their own free will?!"

"I didn't realize that lab equipment was so amusing, Miss Hooper" a familiar, sing-songy voice said quietly from behind her. Molly's heart plummeted and her veins turned to ice. Praying that she was wrong, she turned slowly around.

She was not wrong, a fact that she would come to particularly lament in the next few days.

James Moriarty stood before her, watching her lazily. His suit was perfectly pressed, and there was even a handkerchief folded neatly in the breast pocket. But it wasn't the clothes that Molly was focusing on in numbed terror, but the eyes that were observing her every move. How could she have ever thought those eyes had been warm? Sharks expressed a wider range of human emotion than the psychopath before her.

"Molly, dear, is that any way to great an old friend? Come, it's been such a long time, let's go for a little drive and catch up on everything." He held out the crook of his arm, apparently deadly serious on her accompanying him. Fear surged through her, breaking through the numbness, and her breathing increased rapidly as her eyes darted around, searching for some, any way out of this nightmare.

Moriarty clucked his tongue.

"Oh Molly, if you think there is a way out, you underestimate your old beau. Now, come along like a good girl and we will go say goodbye to Nurse Lara upstairs together. I told her that I needed to borrow her locker to store some surprise flowers and chocolate for my sweetheart" (with this phrase he glanced coyly at Molly) "and being the sweet woman she is, she agreed. If we go say goodbye to her now, I might be persuaded to remove the detonation devices that are now planted in her locker and counting down as we speak. Now not another word from you, Molly dear, we've got lots to do and very little time in which to do it."

Molly swallowed hard. So this was it. She silently wished she was Sherlock, who would have come up with eight different plans in the time that Moriarty was delivering his monologue, but she had just stood, rooted to the ground. Moriarty once again held up his arm, more insisting this time, his fathomless eyes drilling into hers. She shakily took it, praying that someone, anyone, would notice something was wrong. They walked out of the room, and the door swung shut, and the only sound that could be heard in the lab was the slow, even tick of the clock overhead as the shadows in the empty room deepened in the wake of the setting sun.