Hello, this is the Queen speaking.

When we left of, Sherlock was in Molly's bed, and Molly was in Sherlock's arms. Will Shezza be able to realise his feelings and comfort her the way she needs ; ) or will he stay oblivious to all emotion?

...

Safe. Molly felt safe when she woke up. It was strange. For the past few months she had always woken up screaming and feeling like one of Jim's men had a grip on her shoulders. Maybe it was the warm summer heat in the room, maybe it was the comforting weight of Meena sitting on her bed. As she started ro wake her senses came back to her, and she noticed the things that were wrong.

First, she heard the steady beat of a heart. It was strong and soothing, like knowing that someone is calm and ready for her to lean on if necessary. Second, she noticed that the chest she was lying on was not the soft, feminine, figure of Meena. It was hard and masculine. Next she noticed smell. It wasn't the sweet fruity smell of Meena's favourite perfume. It was masculine. It's fine... She told herself. It's probably John coming early, or Greg, or Cam, or Fred, or... But it didn't smell like any of them. It was too... smoky.

She slowly opened her eyes, blinking away the sleep. She looked across the chest, noticing the white dress shirt under her fingers. Her hand rested with her finger tips under a black suit jacket, smooth and expensive. Her hand rose and fell with the man's breathing.

"Good morning, Molly." A low voice said, the deep baritone rumbling through her, her head still lying on his chest. She started to try and pull free but his arms tightened around her. She was just about to scream when she saw the Belstaff over her dresser. The signature coat of Sherlock Holmes.

She tried to sit calmer, this time the man let her. She looked down at him. Sharp cheekbones, porcelain skin, contrasted against dark curls. Piercing blue eyes gazed lazily up at her.

"Sherlock?" She whispered. "What...what are you doing here?"

"I came to look after you." He replied indifferently. His eyes never left her face, and neither did his hands leave her waist.

Molly looked around her room and pieced together what was missing. "Where's Meena?"

"Meena?"

"My friend. She was here last night, she put me to bed... did... did something happen to her?"

As soon as Molly's face shifted from confused to worried, Sherlock sat up and pulled her against his chest again. "No! No, she's fine. When I arrived she gave your protection responsibility over to me and left f

F7fif home. She is completely safe, you needn't worry."

At his words, Molly melted into his chest. Knowing that Meena was safe allowed her to calm down a lot, but with that question out of the way, all the others floated back. She felt Sherlock pull her closer and lean back against the bed. He held her close to his body, one hand around her waist, the other running fingers through her hair. His gentle violinist fingers soothed her and calmed her down, but she still needed to ask the questions.

"Sherlock... why are you here? -I mean, I now why you're here, cause you're here to make sure I don't drive myself so far into my mind that I slit my wrists- No! I mean..." She sighed. Can I ever speak in coherent sentences around this guy? "Why are you here to look after me. Why not John, or Greg? "

"Because I wanted to know how you were. And not just from what the others, I want to hear it from you." His words rumbled through his chest and into her like a sedative, cooling her nerves, but making her more... aroused then calm.

"Why would you care how I am..."

She felt him flinch. Molly looked up at him and saw something move in his eyes. He kept his gaze locked on the door. "Well, if I care enough about you to save you from Moriarty, then you should assume that I care about you enough to want to know how you are. So, I'll ask again. How are you today Molly?"

"Fine." She bit out, almost bitterly. Here Sherlock was, being kind and sweet, then he rears his ugly head and spits out some indifferent excuse for wanting to see a friend. This man was a God damn roller coaster, (one that Molly still, after all this, still desperately wanted to ride...)

"I need to get ready for work. I'll be fine now Sherlock. You can leave." She got up and walked to her bathroom, turning on the shower. After she was clean she went back into her room. Sherlock was gone.

...

Sherlock spent the rest of the day thinking about Molly. How she had felt sleeping against his side. How her hair had felt while running through his fingers. How her voice had sounded in the early morning, muffled by his chest. How his chest had felt tight when she asked why he would care about her wellbeing. It was all so confusing to him. Sherlock was always so sure of everything, his mind palace like his own source of all the knowledge on earth, but as much as he searched, he couldn't find any reason that he should feel these feelings.

He could still feel her small frame against him, so fragile and soft. Although he had trained himself to need very little sleep to function, lying in bed with her had caused him to feel... relaxed, like he was finally ready to sleep. But why.

John had left to visit her for lunch, and although it was completely unnecessary, Sherlock felt a boiling ball of jealousy grow in the pit of his stomach. Extremely anti climactic, but Sherlock still couldn't rid himself of the feeling.

Research.

He stalked over to his laptop and opened a few tabs, finding his preferred website, and began to dive into his 'studies'.

'The terms such as "heartache" and "gut wrenching" are more than mere metaphors: they describe the experience of both physical and emotional pain. When we feel heartache, for example, we are experiencing a blend of emotional stress and the stress-induced sensations in our chest—muscle tightness, increased heart rate, abnormal stomach activity and shortness of breath. In fact, emotional pain involves the same brain regions as physical pain, suggesting the two are inextricably connected. Scientists at the moment do not know why we experience pain in times of emotion, but studies are being carried out.-'

Sherlock spent the next few hours searching the Internet gor answers. He hardly even noticed when John came back from lunch and left again for yet another date with yet another girl. Mind racing and questions flying, Sherlock left for bed. The answers were sure to come to him in the morning. At least, that's what he told himself.

...

He watched from his computer. The small cameras on each laptop showed him what all of them were doing. Sure, the quality wasn't great, but what he was getting out of all of it was even better. He thought back over everything that had happened that day, and the seven months of waiting that led up to it. Soon he would make his move, and it would be glorious!

James Moriarty watched from his seat. His last home may have been blown up, but he still had many more. One day, he would take his prize back to one, where they would live their life. At the beginning he had thought his need for the girl had been a way to get back at Sherlock, a way to make him suffer, but when he had her, he found her so appealing. He found her screams of pain fascinating, wondering what those screams he had caused turned from fear and pain to desire and lust.

"Sherlock, you only have a little while left for you to have her." Jim spoke out load, a monologue to himself. "I'm going to have her anyway, this is just me being generous. I'll let you have a taste first."

...

Moriarty is a funny old sod, don't you think. Well, you'll get to see what he has planned eventually. And Sherlock. Sherlock! You had her right in your arms! Literally! And you let her slip through your fingers... again, literally.

Hope you enjoyed, and stay tuned for the next one.

Thanks for reading and reviewing.