A/N: It's exciting to see people reading my work, never really thought about writing for people to read it before! This will be a multi-chapter fic, realizing I didn't put much description on it. Hoping y'all enjoy it, as I've enjoyed so many of your wonderful works!

As always, I own nothing, and any and all errors are mine.

Chapter 2

Molly exited the cab, still feeling a little woozy. She gingerly picked her way along the sidewalk until she reached the door to 221 Baker Street. She took a breath and rang the bell, steeling herself for the onslaught of questions she expected from Sherlock.

Silence.

She rocked on her feet, waging a war with herself before shaking her head and pushing open the door with resolve. She began to climb the stairs when she met John on his way down.

"Oh, hello Molly. I'm sure you've seen...well...anyway, it'll be alright, we'll get it sorted. No way it can actually be Moriarty anyways, hm?"

With that John nodded goodbye and headed out. Molly continued up the stairs to the door and gingerly pushed it open. Violin music flooded her ears and she took in the imposing form of Sherlock at the window. Feeling something catch in her throat, she looked away, unable to deal with the sudden mixture of emotions she was hit with.

Sherlock turned, and, seeing her, ceased playing. He turned away again before he began to speak, firing out his thoughts in rapid succession.

"Ah, Molly. Come to inquire about the Moriarty business, I presume. No need to worry too much, likely just a copy cat. That being said, Mycroft will surely want to up your security, over abundance of caution and all, plus he does love a flair of drama. Only reason is the involvement you had in my 'death', however, it's all rather unnecessary, I watched Jim Moriarty die myself, following which I pulled apart his spiderweb piece by piece until there was nothing left, so, you see," he paused, glancing at her once more, "nothing to worry about."

With that he turned around and continued to play. Molly said nothing, simply staring at him, wondering how such a brilliant man could be so thick. Surely he knew? Surely he couldn't think Moriarty to be dead, and surely he knew that she would be number one on the kill list if he sought vengeance. Molly gathered her wits, praying she wouldn't stutter as she was so prone to doing in his presence.

"Sherlock."

He gave no indication of hearing her, so she slowly crossed the room, and carefully stretched her arm out until her fingers rested lightly on the tip of his violin.

"Sherlock."

He froze, turning to stare at her, his eyes cataloging her, before an odd look crossed his face.

"Molly, you didn't need to panic so. Overreacting."

She stared, dumbfounded. "Pardon?" she asked.

"There are clear signs of overindulging on you, hangover, written everywhere. Your eyes, red, puffy, your clothes, same ones you wore yesterday, your hair is unwashed as is your face, you're walking as though your equilibrium is off, add that to the fact the the very air around you reeks of a stale pub and I'd say it's pretty clear what you got up to after yesterday's...excitement. What's not clear-" he continued, fixing her with a piercing stare, "is why you're here."

Molly stepped back, shocked. All of his deductions, usually so concrete, and he thought drinking as well? She stared at him, feeling a flush crawl up her neck, licking the faint lines that she could still feel there.

"No, it...I didn't...He's...not dead." She finished lamely.

"Not dead? Well of course he's dead, I saw him, he shot himself, he's dead."

"People saw you jump off a building," she threw back heatedly, "and we all know that wasn't exactly real."

"Yes, but-"

"He was there," she cut him off and he fell silent, "last night, he was...he showed up in my office. He...attacked me, drugged me, brought me home."

Sherlock was quiet before looking at her from the corner of his eye.

"Molly, that makes no sense. If Moriarty were alive, then had you run into him, you most certainly would not be. Perhaps the drinks gave you a bit more in the way of colorful dreams that you bargained for."

Anger and humiliation hit her in waves.

"He choked me. I have marks on my throat."

"Also easily explained as you were drunk and clumsy."

She was breathing heavily at this point, attempting to stave off the tears that were currently trying to escape. Her throat burned with the effort of containing them. She stared at the ground, wishing it would swallow her up.

He took the slightest bit of pity on her as his voice softened by a fraction, and he continued "Molly, we are investigating, and you will be watched, but there's nothing to get to worked up over just yet."

Molly mutely nodded and turned to leave.

"I'll just...head back to my flat."

There was no response. Molly walked out without another glance, not noticing the queer look Sherlock followed her out with.

Molly reached her flat, and trudged up the floor. Unlocking her door, she flung her coat carelessly onto the floor and she marched toward her bathroom. She turned the taps on in the tub, filling it with water that was nearly scalding and adding salts to it. Standing, she stripped off the wrinkled mess of clothing she had been donning for over a day and dropped them on the floor.

She sat on the edge of the tub naked, watching the opaque water level rise, filling it nearly to the top before shutting the taps off and stepping into the steamy warmth. As she sank into it, the water sloshed over the edge, saturating the floor. She closed her eyes and allowed the tears to begin to fall, streaming down her cheeks and mixing with the bathwater.

She loved Sherlock, it was clear to everyone that she always had and apparently always would, but she was also furious with him. With how quickly he dismissed her.

With how it always came back to him, every trouble.

She remembered the shame she felt when Jim was revealed to be gay. The humiliation and fear when Jim was revealed to be Moriarty. Years in the past, and it still made her feel ill to think of it. Sherlock had never given it much thought, she knew, but the memory of his hands on her would always drag chilling goosebumps down her arms and cause the hair on the back of her neck to prickle.

A knock at the door startled her out of the morose thoughts. Toweling off, she headed to see who it was, stopping by her room to grab her dressing gown. She threw it on and rushed out of the room, leaving the door open. She opened the door of her flat to find Mary looking concerned.

"Mary? What are you doing here?" Molly questioned her.

"Just checking in. I heard you had a bit of a fright, wanted to make sure you were alright."

Molly realized that Mary, who, as it turned out, was more than a little badass, was to be part of her security detail, and saw through her words immediately. "Meaning Sherlock sent you to make sure I wasn't out of my mind?" she asked bitingly.

Mary had the decency to look sheepish and Molly softened slightly. "You may as well come in for a cuppa, Mary. No sense in stalking my door." Molly said, gesturing inside her flat.

Mary nodded and smiled, following her in. "Now then, what's this Sherlock's been telling us of you going batty?" she asked, a hint of teasing in her voice.

Molly could tell she was trying to stay light hearted, but the undercurrent of concern that ran through her friends eyes was hard to miss. "Mary, I know Sherlock thinks I'm imagining things, but I swear, Jim Moriarty is alive. I've seen him. I wasn't drinking last night."

Mary regarded her for a moment before replying. "Molly...I want to believe you, I really do. But the facts remain. We've spoken with Mycroft, he swears that Moriarty's body was recovered. And I've spoken to some of your friends, they said you were meeting up with them for drinks, but by the time the arrived...you were pissed. Loaded you into a cab and sent you home."

Molly's mind was reeling. Sherlock, the Mary, and now this? Was she truly so insane?

Somehow, she doubted it.

"Look, I'll be around, we all will. Just...try to get some rest, yeah?" Mary offered with a wane smile, before checking her watch and announcing "I've got to be off, John's expecting me."

Molly walked her out, shutting the door and bolting it. She slowly wandered back to the kitchen with the dishes, before grabbing a bottle of wine. "Sod it," she snorted, "may as well be the drunk they think I am." She quickly drank a glass before pouring a hearty second. There was scarcely a glass left in the bottle.

She walked back to her bedroom door, pausing. Could have sworn I left that open…

Pushing open the door, she looked across the room to her vanity, dropping her wine glass.

On the mirror, the message taunted her: Have a fun one last night?

Molly promptly fainted.