Molly spent the rest of the afternoon avoiding Sherlock. She holed up in the break room, sent the interns to deal with him, took far too many coffee breaks, ran unnecessary tests—anything to get out of his line of sight.

He'd notice.

He'd notice the bright red of her neck, the sex flush fleeting from her chest, the concealer, her general jitteriness. Even if the muscle tremors could easily be disguised as nervousness, the other signs were indicative of a sexual partner—something he couldn't know she had. It would ruin the entire façade. Cover-up was only getting her so far in this jumble. To her disadvantage, one of the buttons had gone missing from her blouse; if he even glimpsed at her, he would know something was wrong.

"Molly!"

Shit.

She turned around to see the detective making haste towards her, his coat fawning out behind him like the wings of a great raptor, dark and capturing. "I've been searching for you all afternoon."

"You have?" She twisted a loose strand of hair, already worried about her appearance. Maybe he wouldn't take note.

Sherlock frowned. "Your chest is red."

"Oh, I…it's a rash." Molly pulled the sides of her blouse closer together. "I used the wrong cream this morning, made it worse."

He eyed her suspiciously, but didn't press the matter. "Have you seen the body?"

She nodded—however, she honestly hadn't. There was no time during her avoidance escapade. She knew the corpse well enough, having planted the damn thing. She knew the knives had been stripped of their handles and the metal was melted onto the flesh—Jim's idea. She knew which drugs had been used, which cuts had been made after death to make the whole thing a kick more biblical.

She knew which organ was missing, and knew a police examiner would miss the incision due to the burnt nature of the tissues.

"I didn't stomach it very well, went for air," she said meekly, looking down to accentuate her act. "Bodies are one thing, brutal mutilation is another."

"I need to stay in the lab late tonight."

"For how long?" She needed to get home to change.

"Half the night at least. Molly, are you wearing makeup?"

…Was she? Christ, she'd need to shower and reapply it now. That would waste even more time. "Am I?"

"It looks nice; it brings out the warmth in your eyes."

There was no warmth in her eyes. Autopilot made her giggle. "Really, I didn't think—no, no, Sherlock, I have plans."

"Molly—"

"I have to go home, shower, get ready."

"You can be late—"

"I doubt my date will find that amusing."

"Date?"

He wasn't supposed to hear that. "Not really a date—an old friend. He asked me to dinner, to catch up, and it's been a while since I've seen him and I'd really rather not have a terrible show of manners and show up late."

He glanced away from her face, calculating. "I'll take you to dinner tomorrow."

She raised an eyebrow. "On top of lunch?"

"No lunch; tea and dinner."

She gave him a hard look, trying to burn a hole through him—it didn't work, obviously, her glare not intimidating in this ridiculous alias. She walked to him and took his hand, pressing cool, jagged metal into his palm. "Lock up when you leave, don't forget to turn off the unused power strips. You know when the custodians come around—tell them you have my permission. I'll see you in the morning."

"You won't stay to make sure I don't break your equipment?" he asked with a smirk.

Molly returned with an equally fiendish grin and spun on her heel to the exit. "You're all grown up now, Sherlock; I trust you can take care of yourself."

Molly arrived home around six, with little to no time to get ready for dinner. She didn't even have an outfit in mind—most of her nice dresses were at Jim's, anyway. She expected this to be semi-formal, so there was a possibility a Little Black Dress was hiding in the back of her closet.

Right. It was the tight one with the slight and bright red lining. That one.

Right. Molly sighed. It was too dynamic, and she didn't want to do wild makeup to match the daring air of the dress. She'd do naturals or something, with bright lipstick.

With her clothes and undergarments laid out on the towel rack, Molly stepped into the shower, twisting on the hot water. It streamed down her head, rolling off her back and arms, scalding down her legs. She washed the scents of two distinct men off her skin, soap bubbles scrubbing their images from her mind. She could deal with neither for long periods of time, no matter what emotion she chose to display around them. Sherlock was demanding and coarse, rough and painful, stinging like a scraped knee. She didn't care for him, true, but his comments hit hard like lobbed stones. She was never sure if she should curl under his disdain or sic a knife through his throat and watch the blood bubble forth.

And Jim. Jim. Don't let her get started with him. Capricious, careful, crafty. He was alternately affectionate and cold. Every moment between them was a dangerous dance, a waltz of knives. One misstep and a wound opened, shiny and slick with blood. When she thought of offing Sherlock only once or twice, it was a daily thought with Jim. No doubt he thought about killing her too. It was a gesture of affection for him. Weird, twisted little man.

She ran shampoo through her hair, lathering out the sweat and dirt from earlier, cleaning the day's adventures from her senses. She needed to calm down. She could think about killing people, but that didn't mean it was a swell idea to go follow those thoughts through. Killing Sherlock would cut off her amusement, and as much as she detested his treatment of her, he was interesting to keep close. Killing James would kill her motive, her method, and her muse. That was a poorer idea than bleeding out the detective. Also, she liked James. He was sweet. Really, disgustingly sweet. Like a candy shop. It caught her off guard.

She stepped out of the steaming glass doors, a pure white towel wrapped tightly to her body, a clean slate to both men. She smiled to herself—only after a shower was she truly pure. Molly toweled her hair and hooked her bra, securing the towel about her waist. Now, she could go about the female ritual of face painting. Light colors, just as planned, with bright cherry to stain her lips, the red of oxidized blood. Jim would be pleased, might even make a comment about the murderous color if he got drunk enough.

A car pulled up for her at exactly seven-thirty, black and sleek. Inside was not Moriarty as she expected, but Moran.

"Oh, Sebastian, hullo," she said as she slid into a seat, trying to (unsuccessfully) hide her surprise.

"James sends his regards and apologies, but he wanted it to be, and I quote here, a 'perfect, complete mystery,' whatever that means."

"I think he means he wants to be kept a secret as well." A thought struck her and Molly felt a wave of panic rush over her. "I'm not supposed to be in black tie, am I?"

"No, not that fancy, boss. I'm sure you're fine."

"You've not been working with Jim as long as I have."

"But I've been working with you for longer, and from what I've gathered, he wouldn't throw you completely out of your element. He's cruel, but there's a method to his callousness. You're part of his image. Would you sabotage him only to be seen with him in public hours later?"

She thought a moment, chewing her lip. "No, probably not."

"There you have it. Also, he seems to…" Sebastian rolled his eyes, searching for a word. "Care about you. Genuinely care."

Molly looked away, hiding the betrayal of her cheeks. "Do you know where we're going?"

"Haven't the foggiest, boss."

Molly nodded and sat back against the leather interior. This couldn't be more than a half-hour ride.

Molly couldn't say she was surprised when the car pulled up in front of a seemingly inconspicuous brick building. She smiled as Moran helped her onto the sidewalk. "Le Gavroche? Isn't that a little pricy for his tastes?"

"He spends a lot on you."

"He always has."

Sebastian escorted her as far as the door, babbling about some instructions not to enter the restaurant with her, made by the fox himself. He backed away as Molly hid a laugh behind a glove. He gave her a salute and got back into the car as she opened the dark wood door.

It was busy.

The upstairs was clogged with people waiting for tables, all sitting around and chatting. The maître d'hôtel was nowhere to be found. Molly looked like a deer in the headlights, standing awkwardly just inside the door with nowhere to go.

"We won't have a table for another hour and a half," said a tall, pretty, black girl as she took her place behind the reservations book. "That is, of course, unless you've a reservation. You came on a busy night, miss. Are you waiting on someone?"

"Erm." He would be downstairs, that much was certain, but she had no idea what name he put down. "Here's where it gets complicated. There should be a man downstairs, taller than me, dark hair, probably better dressed than the queen, and I think he's got red somewhere in his ensemble. He didn't tell me what name our reservation's under."

"So just give me his and yours and I'll check—"

"No, I mean he changes the name every time."

She cocked an eyebrow. "He's a pale bloke with a steely look in his eyes?"

"Yes."

"Oh, James."

She stepped from behind her post and led Molly through the room to the stairs. "He came in an hour ago and just spoke to the manager and got reservations, as per usual. I'd say to watch yourself around him, miss, but that's both highly unprofessional and also what I take to be already understood information."

"Trust me, I'm very careful."

The room below was darker, the lights dimmed to a perfect amount. The whole layout was red—bright red, in fact—and decorated in a lavish older style. Molly spotted Jim as soon as she stepped off the stairs. He was in a darker corner, tucked into a velvet green booth, with the two tables next to him vacant. He must have pulled a lot of strings.

The maître d' left her at his table with a smile before returning to her post upstairs.

"I didn't think Alissa'd bring you down herself," he drawled as she sat across from him. "Guess they're really short-staffed tonight."

"She told me you just rang and got a table."

"I know people, pet. It's always been that way."

"The master of planning doesn't plan in advance?"

"I do plan in advance just…sometimes I forget."

"Like tonight."

"I already feel terrible about that; please don't rub it in my face."

"Did you just say please?"

Moriarty groaned, sitting back into the plush seat. He was exquisitely dressed, in a deep black suit with a red silk tie and matching pocket square. His cufflinks, she noticed, were dazzling rubies. He did very well in the coordination department. Also, he managed to match her perfectly.

"How did you know I'd be accenting red this evening?"

"Did some inductions, figured the only acceptable dress you had at yours was the black and red one, considering all the rest of your cocktail dresses are at mine."

"Not my fault you keep slipping me out of them after dinners and galas."

He smirked. "I've got one left, haven't I?"

She rolled her eyes and opened her menu. "It's in French."

"Of course it's in French; we're in an upscale French restaurant. Do you want me to read it to you?"

She gave him a hard stare while biting her lip. "You might tell me the wrong things."

"I like teasing you at home. Never when we're out. It's impolite."

"Since when have you been a gentleman?"

"Honey, I've always been a gentleman."

She did give in and let him read it to her. Of course, Moriarty did it completely in a French accent and a smirk. She ordered a marinated salmon in lemon and vodka jelly. He ordered some cut of grilled beef.

"Since tonight is a very important night that I forgot about, I'm picking up the tab, and I refuse to hear your argument against it."

She put down her fork. "You ordered expensive wine, didn't you?"
"I guess you could say it's expensive."

"How much did you drop on the wine?"

"Three…hundred? Maybe three-twenty?"

"I only spent a hundred and fifty quid on that champagne!"

"Relax, Molly, it's not like I'd be considered middle class."

He was smiling. He was smiling and Molly felt unnerved. He was hiding something under that shark-like grin. Sure, he sometimes took cases with no pay, but he could be a greedy bastard when the time came. He had ulterior motives.

"You're worried, sweetheart."

"I'm suspicious."

"Calm down. We only have an anniversary once a year."

"Actually, we have two."

"Whatever. Stop concentrating on your displeasure of being lavished, and enjoy your food."

She did—and it was delicious.

A meal, petit fours, a bottle of wine, a car trip home, and a few glasses of scotch later, Molly found herself sitting across the coffee table from James in the den. It was the secluded room at the absolute back of the flat, connected by the dining room and the bathroom, which led back to the entryway. The lights were off, with candles lit around the room and the moon being the only light sources. There were none on the table (can't trust drunk people with candles), but instead a cheeseboard, a second bottle of wine, and glasses. He had taken her hand at some point that night and was stroking small circles into the back with his thumb.

"We are classy drunks," he said, cutting off a piece of cheese.

"Don't you want a cracker?"

"Crackers are for the weak."

"I'm eating the crackers. Does that make me weak?"

"No that makes you Molly. Crackers are for the weak and Molly. I think you could break my arm if you tried."

"Probably could."

"Let's not try that tonight. Just a liiiiittle bit too kinky for me."

Molly laughed and took another sip of her wine. She couldn't count how many glasses it had been since they started. She felt better not knowing the answer; she was going to be hungover anyway.

"Come sit with me."

"I don't think I trust myself to stand up and walk."

"Figure out a way."

"No."

"Yes."

Molly rolled her eyes and scooted under the glass table to sit beside him. "I am thirty-two years old and I am sliding underneath tables. I am actually five."

"That makes me seven. I can't be seven—that's too much of an age gap between us," Jim complained before finishing off his glass.

"What do you mean? Two years is still two years."

"No, when you're young, two years is like…twenty years. Seven-year-olds can't like five-year-olds. That's like you hitting on a guy in his mid-fifties."

"Good thing you're only thirty-four."

"Good thing," he agreed, clumsily pulling her into his lap. "Molly, I have something to tell you," he whispered.

"So tell me."

"It's a secret, Molly, do you promise to keep it?"

"I promise."

"We never even got to the champagne."

She snorted, burying her laughter into his chest. He laughed too, and she felt it through her whole body.

"That's not it, that's not it," he confessed as his breathing steadied. "That would be a terrible secret. It's still in the cooler; anyone can see that. The real secret is—are you ready for it?"

She nodded.

"I really like you, Molly. I really, really, really like you. I'm glad I didn't kill you all those years ago."

"I like you too, James. I'm glad I didn't slit your throat after that whole mess. I had planned to do that, you know."

"I know. I could see it. See it in those little scheming eyes of yours. That's when I knew."

"Knew what?"

"That you had to be mine. That I'd made a mistake and I didn't want to kill you, I wanted to keep you. I wanted you to be mine. And you are."

"You're very possessive, James."

"And don't you know it."

"You're also really chatty when drunk."

"There's a reason I watch myself most of the time."

"Sebastian's gonna be so upset if he finds us here in the morning."

Jim lifted her off and stood, offering a hand to help Molly to her feet. "You know, we can always go upstairs. I've still got one dress left to get you out of."

"Yes, you do."

He smirked and kissed her hard before pulling her through the bathroom to the hall, ascending the stairs with the grace and inability only known to the drunk. They didn't even make it to his room before Molly's dress was flung clumsily to the floor.

"Are you sure that's what happened?"

Sherlock glared at John through the webcam. "Yes, I'm positive. Am I usually wrong?"

"No, but—"

"But?"
"It just sounds…highly unlikely, doesn't it?"

Sherlock sat on a cold metal stool and sighed. He had been in Saint Bart's for most of the night. It was late. He was tired. His muscles ached from standing over the examination table, from rushing up to the lab and back down, from pacing—good lord from pacing. He had been talking to empty air most of the night, and only recently thought of calling John. He was unhappy and had been asleep, but he was functioning well enough to assist, especially since Molly wasn't picking up her cell—odd, since she typically jumped to respond to him.

"I'm aware it sounds unlikely. I know. But no other explanations are making sense."

"You think a woman did that?" John asked, a finger pointing to the body behind Sherlock. "It's a lot of heavy work, placing the body and everything."

"I think there was a woman involved. The killer or an accomplice, I don't know, but there certainly was one."

"All because of a lipstick smudge?"

"That and the distinct impressions of smaller hands on some of the bruise patterns. It seems pivotal."

"Maybe the killer just had small hands?"

He shook his head, sure of this. "No, no they were female hands. They were gentle."

"Gentle enough to bruise?"

"I know it doesn't make sense, or rather, not yet. But it's a woman. There is a woman involved."

John sighed and glanced at his watch. His face was worn with sleep and exhaustion, the blue glow of his screen emphasizing the tired look in his eyes. "Look, Sherlock, I love to help and all, but it's just shy of three in the morning. Do you still need me, or can I go back to sleep?"

"Go, I'll be fine. I'll stay overnight and wait for Molly."

"Molly? You're working with Molly?"

"I needed someone, you were busy—"

"I can always come back if it's imperative."

"It is not, I have Molly."

"Don't say anything too cruel to her, please? She already has to deal with you, there's no reason to force your personality at her."

Sherlock let out a sigh and rubbed his eyes. "I've been playing nice. She's playing…not cripplingly infatuated, for once."

"Maybe, hopefully, she's learned to stay away from poisonous snakes."

He shook his head. No, that's not it. "It's something else."

"I'll text you in the morning, okay? Good night, Sherlock."

"Night, John."

The connection severed and he was left with a blank screen and a full head.

Molly found him lying on the floor of the morgue in the morning, his fingers steepled under his chin, a pained look on his sharp features, eyes closed. She nearly stepped on him, letting out a squeak upon her realization. "Sherlock, have you been there all night?"

"In this position? No. I have not left the hospital, if that was your question."

"You could use some sleep, I'll bet."

"I am perfectly awake."

"You're lying on the morgue floor."

He opened his mouth, but his words were cut off by a loud growl from his stomach. Sherlock's eyes flicked open and he frowned.

"I bet you're perfectly not hungry either, right?"

"No."

She extended a hand to him. "I'll take you to breakfast."

"In exchange for…?"

"I'll think of what I want later."

He narrowed his eyes at her. "You're milking me for everything I have."

She glanced up in thought. "I like to have a few favors at my beck and call."

He took her hand, rising to his full height, a full head over her. "Such a schemer, Molly. Didn't think you had it in you."

"There's a lot you don't think I have in me," she muttered under her breath, smile playing on her lips.

"What was that?"

"I asked where you wanted to go."

"I don't much care, I suppose, I'll just get a co—"

"You're eating food or I'm telling John."

Sherlock sighed deeply and rolled his eyes. "You've resorted to threats."

"I've started with threats; I can always take it further."

"Are you feeling quite well?"

"I'm a bit hungover and irritable. Pick a shop so I can buy you food and we can both go back to our respective jobs."

Irritable. That was the correct word. Molly had been very irritable recently. Maybe a lifestyle change or bad news regarding family. Something. It was throwing her behavior off, and in turn, throwing him off.

Wait. Hungover?

"Did you have a poor date?"

She noticeably jumped. "What?"

"You said you were hungover and irritable. It's one explanation."

"No…no I didn't have a bad date last night."

"So you had a date?"

"No! What is giving you this idea?"

"You said you were going out yesterday evening." He narrowed his eyes. "Breakfast, then?"

Molly sighed and marched to the door, leaving him behind in the dust. He'd be watching her a bit closer from now on. He didn't like the idea of Molly being…involved with someone right now. It would slow down the case.

That's right. It would slow the case.

A/N: Okay I lied it's less case and more character interactions I'm sorry the only thing I can write is dialogue.

Everything gets grittier going on.

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