Molly paused, letting his words sink in.
"Why aren't you afraid?"
She felt an odd tingle in the pit of her stomach. Instead of answering him straight away, she returned the vacuum to the closet and then stalked back to him. Her insides were churning as she stared up into his face. Suddenly, she was very angry. He was hiding something from her, something he didn't trust her with, and that made her want to spit. At one point, he had trusted her with his life yet their relationship seemed to have regressed in the last few months. The realization of this lanced through her psyche. She scrunched her toes in her shoes.
"Afraid? Afraid of what?" She asked.
He looked down his patrician nose. His chin tilted up and he smoothed his hands over the lapels of his suit. He then tugged each one of his cuffs, shook out his hands and clasped them behind his back. She was mesmerized by every minutiae of movement.
"Four days ago, Moriarty appeared as a puppet on every screen in the UK spouting the phrase, 'Did you miss me?' Yet here you are, flouncing around Bart's as if not a care in the world. Are you so dense as to miss the possible messages conveyed?"
Further insults were headed her way. She braced for them as best she could.
"Oh, please do enlighten me, Sherlock."
He gave his head an almost imperceptible shake and let out a noisy breath. His hands raked through his hair as he paced the lab. So much for his practiced composure! She was momentarily distracted by his perfect arse as his blazer lifted. She shook her head.
"For once in your life, girl, focus. You are mad at him." She thought.
"Either Moriarty was the proverbial puppet, his strings pulled by someone much more nefarious, or he's alive and has issued a warning that my, erm, puppets are not safe. Either way, Molly Hooper, I believe you are in danger."
Molly's hands flew to her mouth to suppress a hysterical giggle. He stopped pacing and tilted his head at her in disbelief.
"You see, this is what I am talking about. You're touched, Molly. You should be terrified."
She shrugged. "Why? Why? Oh, Sherlock, I am so inconsequential in all of this."
His eyes widened slightly. "What?"
She held up her hands. "No, listen, just listen. Yes, I helped you outwit him a long time ago but I've served my purpose. That was a one-time thing, a one-shot bluff that can never be repeated because I've played my hand and they've seen my cards. I've thought about this, truly I have. I spent a night tossing and turning and wondering if my days were numbered but when I awoke the next morning, I realized I had nothing to fear. My death serves no purpose nor advances any game. The world is not affected by the passing of Molly Hooper save for the inconvenience of Bart's having to find a replacement pathologist. So why would Moriarty, who is most definitely dead by the way or they may as well take away my license, or his puppet master bother?"
Sherlock blinked rapidly a couple times and shook his head. He seemed to be at a loss for words until something sparked within.
"For revenge!"
She smirked. "One doesn't take revenge against a mosquito, Sherlock. They just swat it. There will be no elaborate plans made for me. One moment I'll be walking down the street, the next I will not. That could happen tomorrow or fifty years from now. Death only matters to those who one leaves behind. I have no family to mourn me nor great love to wail at my grave. Thus, I have no one to fear for."
Molly turned and took a breath. After the way things had so spectacularly ended between her and Tom (meatdagger! come on!), she wasn't even sure if he'd sniffle if given the chance. Sherlock must be rubbing off on her though, she had never made such an eloquent speech in all her life. Shite, she could die happy right then not having regretted a single word for a change.
"No one, Molly? Are John and Mary and Gary . . ."
"Greg!"
She peaked over her shoulder to see him roll his eyes.
"Pfft, Greg, and ahem, I-I, not your friends? People who will miss . . . " Sherlock rolled the word around in his mouth as if trying to decide if it were the right one. ". . . you?"
She spun back and smiled brightly. "Oh, yes, for a time, I suppose, but life goes on, doesn't it? John and Mary will take solace in their child, Greg will find distraction in his relationship woes and you, well, y-you will d-delete me. Oh, God, really, Sherlock! If your aim was to make me start feeling sorry for myself then you really have hit the nail on the head."
Her hands started shaking. Regrets, yes, she had a few but the leash on her life had long escaped her grasp. She stepped towards him and wagged a finger in his face.
"But this talk is all distraction, Sherlock Holmes. You are up to something. Why have you disabled so many lights? Why are you sitting so close to the door?"
Molly jerked her head as the light pouring through the lab entry door was interrupted by a passing body. Someone had angled a lamp outside so that anyone coming or going from the lab would be announced by an obvious shadow. Everything crystallized then.
"Wait . . . who are you waiting for? Who are you trying draw here? Damn you! I might not be afraid of death but I'm not okay with you inviting it here."
Sherlock glowered down at her finger a moment. Then he languidly flicked the button on his blazer so that it popped open to reveal a crisp, white shirt. Just as slowly, he reached up towards her hovering apendage. Molly felt his hand clasp around one wrist, then the other, and then in a flurry of movement, she was pressed up against the cabinets by his large frame. Her breath caught as she looked up at him. His eyes were black pools. His head blocked the dim light of the lab so that his face appeared hooded as if he himself was the Angel of Death. A tremor rippled along her nerve endings.
"Good," he murmured.
The thrum of his voice reverberated through every cell in her body. His right hand unclasped from her wrist and trailed down her arm until it half encircled her neck. He pressed his thumb against the hollow at the base of her throat until she just felt the barest restriction of her airway. Another electric jolt shot through her body, a mixture of lust tinged with a little fear.
"Yes," he said huskily, "you should feel more of that."
His thumb pressed a little harder. She swallowed a lump which pushed against his thumb as it went down. Her free hand gripped his forearm to anchor herself. His breath fanned her face, hot and ragged. Heat from his hard body seeped through her layers of clothing. Who knew claustrophobia could be so fucking sexy?
"What if it weren't over quickly, Molly?" He whispered. "What if it took time?"
She wanted to throw her head back and scream, "Yes, bloody, yes!", but she was pinned and there was nowhere for her head to go. She couldn't decide what was more unyielding, the wooden cabinet doors or his muscled frame. A gurgling emitted from her throat.
"Oh, crap! So, not a sexy sound!" She thought.
He loosened his grip on her other wrist. His fingers interlaced between hers above her head. It was oddly intimate until he squeezed her hand and slammed it back against the cabinet door. It didn't hurt but it gave her a start and she gasped.
"Sherlock!"
He dipped his head until his lips and hers were but a millimeter apart. "Moriarty, his patron, or whoever is behind that message could send anyone to kill you, Molly. You might find yourself at the mercy of some sadistic pervert."
She involuntarily shuddered.
"Good," he growled. "That serpent gnawing at your gut; it's fear, it heightens your senses. Fear could save your life."
He was right and she hated that. No woman who walked alone at night could claim to be completely unaffected by the deep darkness of some back lanes but this, oh, this was different. He was trying to frighten her but every word, every movement seemed laced with eroticism. She couldn't separate the fear he elicited from her desire to lean forward and mash their lips together. She closed her eyes a moment and savored the imprint of his body along her length. Before she could stop herself, a low moan escaped her parted lips.
"Molly Hooper, are you . . . turned on?"
Her eyes flew open to see a look of incredulity on Sherlock's face. She mentally kicked herself and wrenched a curtain closed in her mind. Then she went into self-preservation mode. In his surprise, his hold had slackened. She twisted her hands free and then slammed them into his chest. He stumbled backwards.
"Oh! OH!" She sputtered. "You asshat. Stop, just stop. None of this is about me so stop trying to change the subject. Now tell me what's going on or get the hell out of my lab!"
Sherlock spun, grabbed his jacket and donned it in a flurry. He started towards the door but took only a single step before turning back. He moved slowly towards her, deliberately planting each step until she was backed up against the cabinets again. Her breath hitched. Despite her protestations, all she wanted him to do was crush her into them once more.
"There are times I think you see everything, Molly, but at present you appear to be afflicted by a central scotoma."
With that he turned and exited the lab. She watched him reach towards the hallway ceiling through the frosted glass of the lab door and then the glare of the wayward lamp and his dark figure disappeared.
"Scotoma?" She repeated to herself.
She tapped her finger against her temple as she tried to regain her breath. It took her a moment but a university lesson from med school flashed through her mind and she put two and two together.
"Central scotoma? Blind spot? Oh, that git . . . a blind spot in the middle of my vision!"