The lead up to Christmas always brings mixed feelings for Molly. Her father had passed just before Christmas, the cruellest time for a loved one to slip away. The sparkling tinsel and the jolly Christmas music in the hospital ward were a taunting contrast to her own misery. But as the years flew on, the reminiscent ache receded year on year. In the morgue, she would find herself humming along happily to old Christmas hits and hanging up festive decorations to brighten up the staffroom.

This December hadn't felt to different from all the others. John had invited her to the Christmas Eve party at Baker Street, which was new. The army doctor has also informed Molly about their latest case- an enticing dominatrix, who uses her skills of seduction to gain leverage over the powerful. John had whispered to her, under the promise she'd keep it hush-hush, that the woman had managed to trick Sherlock and drug him while she made her get- away. John then went on to describe their initial introduction, having Molly in fits of laughter in the morgue, her face a furious red and tears collecting at the corners of her eyes. The image of this stunning woman, naked and uninhibited, on top of the sexually repressed detective, her teeth biting seductively into the dog collar he'd used as part of his disguise, kept her giggling all week. Whoever Irene Adler was, Molly definitely wanted to shake the woman's hand.

With that knowledge, Molly wasn't surprised that Sherlock was rather grumpy come Christmas Eve. Defeat for a man with an ego the size of London was unacceptable. It pushed him to say things he previously wouldn't have, to lash out when vulnerable, as ever alpha-male tends to.

She hadn't quite expected that she would be target of his frustrations. Well, her lacking breast and lip size, her purposefully over-the-top outfit and make-up, and the gag gift she'd bought him from a bargain store near her flat.

"You always say horrible things, Sherlock. Always," She accuses, as a stifling silence grips the flat. Sherlock glances down at the tag that reads; Merry Christmas you git! Have a crappy New Year :) He looks up at her, the sickening taste of defeat in his mouth and catches her red lips tip into a smirk. Losing to smart, feisty women was becoming a habit of his. "But they would hurt a lot more if they were actually true. I'm also slightly alarmed by the interest you've taken in the size of my lips and breasts."

The moment is broken by an unusual text alert on Sherlock's phone. As the detective is distracted by that, she flashes John a triumphant smile over her wine glass, evoking a heart chuckle from the doctor.

There's no sense of loss of not getting to bask in her moment of one-upping Sherlock Holmes. It doesn't take a genius to put together that the dominatrix is responsible for Sherlock's erotic new text alert. Molly feels a feminine sense of pride that Irene Adler, a woman Sherlock would most likely anticipate to be little challenge for the world's only consulting detective, had proved a difficult, wily opponent.

That feeling dissipated come the light of Christmas morning, when Mike calls, sheepishly informing her she's required at St Barts, because there's a body in the morgue which the Holmes men needed to come in and identify.

There's a coldness in her bones, not caused by the baltic air of morgue, as she lifts the sheet to reveal the body of who she presumes to be Irene Adler. Sherlock appears just as frigid, his eyes stony as he glances over the woman's battered body, nodding his confirmation of her identity. Molly has witnessed that nod a hundred times. Sometimes accompanied by quivering lips, heart-broken wails, glittering eyes. Sherlock has none of that. There's something in his eyes though, a reverence for a foe who was as cunning as she was beautiful.

As the Holmes' men depart, she draws the sheet back over the woman with deliberate care, wishing she could have meet the woman who'd beaten Sherlock Holmes, who'd manage to shake his cold exterior. Perhaps she would have been proof there was hope for him yet.

Soon, the monochrome colours of Christmas, white snow and black skies, transform into the bright colours of spring. But with the closing of spring brings the return of darkness in Molly Hooper's life with one visit from a certain crime-solving duo.

"It's Moriarty?"

Sherlock shoots John one of his 'isn't-it-obvious' looks. "Course it's Moriarty."

"Jim wasn't actually my boyfriend." Molly states, a scowl forming on her face. There was her good mood gone. "We went out three times. I ended it."

"Yes, and he stole the Crown Jewels, broke into the Bank of England and organized a prison break at Pentonville. For the sake of law and order I suggest you avoid all future attempts at a relationship, Molly." Sherlock fires back, a haughty smile on his lips, before flounces off into the lab.

"I wished he'd stayed in Dartmoor," Molly mutters to John under her breath.

"What was that?" Sherlock calls out from a distance in front of them.

Molly plasters bogus smile across her face. "Nothing."

"This not the time for jokes, Molly," Sherlock admonishes.

For once, she agrees with the detective. Jim Moriarty is no joke. The man had used her loneliness, her displeasure at being perpetually single, to his advantage. All to get to Sherlock. How had she been so blind? There were no obvious signs, no glaring clues to tip her off to his true nature. His smile, open and kind, had always been accompanied by a brightness to his brown eyes. His grip was soft, never tightened, or bruised. When warm fingers had brushed across her cheek at the end of date number two, she didn't feel discomfort at his touch. Months on, she couldn't comprehend her own foolishness. Still she had yet to recover her trust in her instincts, especially since they'd failed her so tremendously.

Suddenly, in a spike of thought, she wonders if Sherlock feels the same.

In the luminous lights of the lab, his pale skin glows, contrasted against the darkness of his shirt and hair. Posture bent out of shape for a man who has been conditioned by years of private school to sit up straight. His downcast eyes, peering over a microscope, look adrift in thought. Lost. Her eyes scan the rest of the room, spotting John firing off a text on his mobile, his attention distracted. When John's eyes return to the room, Sherlock's back is ram-rod straight and gaze is focused solely on the chemical he's examining.

Trust your instincts, her mind, her gut, her heart tell her in synchronisation. So she does.

"You look sad," The words are as awkward, as uncomfortable as she feels. Telling him about something as personal as the loss of her father makes her feel stripped raw. But she continues. "When you think he can't see you." Her eyes shift pointedly to the army doctor on the other side of the room. " Are you okay? Don't just say you are, because I know what that means—looking sad when you think no one can see you."

This totally unchartered territory for her and the detective. She informs him about causes of death, gifts him body parts when she's in a good mood. Shares the occasional gibe and insult. They don't take interests in each other's well-being.

"You can see me."

It's a deflection. A way to deviate away from a distressing conversation. Molly can't find it in her to blame him. Weakness is difficult to share with the ones you love, let alone someone who is practically a stranger.

Strangers, that's what they are really. Sherlock carries his air of pompous superiority as a suit of armour underneath his tight shirts and expensive fitted trousers. She has no idea who he really is. All she has to trust is her instincts.

"I don't count." She utters, quiet and soft. It's a not a slight on herself, shes knows her own worth as a pathologist and a person. But she's aware enough to know that doesn't mean she matters to Sherlock. "What I'm trying to say is, if there's anything I can do—anything you need, anything at all—you can have me." She winces internally at the stunted phrase. The cringe-worthy conversation is worth it, if it means she can assist in taking down Moriarty.

The conversations ends with no real conclusions drawn, because despite her convictions, her ability to help is limited. Any conflict in her life, she fights with wit and words. This battle may require more than that.

So that leaves her with only one thing to do. To trust her instincts, to trust Sherlock, however strange that may be.

"You're wrong, you know. You do count. You've always counted and I've always trusted you. But you were right. I'm not okay." Sherlock looks pained in face of his confessions. Trust, there's that magic, nebulous word again.

Her heart pounds disbelieving at the words. But she has to have faith in the sincerity in them. "Tell me what's wrong."

"I think I'm going to die."

Molly has to repress rolling her eyes at him. This man, with his ridiculous coat and his precious curls, has a tendency to be over-dramatic. "What do you need?"

Sherlock gazes down at her in the dim light of the morgue, his eyes broody and serious. "If I wasn't everything I think I am, would you still want to help me?"

Molly fights the urge to reply with 'If you were everything you think you are, I wouldn't have offered you my help in the first place.' "What do you need?" She repeats, an answer to his question and an a edge of frustration in her tone.

His tone is begrudging, as if the words stick stubbornly in his throat. "You."