Have you ever looked into a mirror only to see a new version of yourself? Not outwardly, but deep inside, you know you've changed. I couldn't quite place what it was about me that was shifting, but whatever it was, I felt like I was closer to my true self than I've been in a while. I examined myself in the burgundy off-the-shoulder dress that now hugged my curves in all the right places. I had only ever worn it once before a couple of years ago, and thought I'd take it for another spin. The color complemented my dark hair and brown eyes, and a simple black belt wrapped around my abdomen gave it the needed contrast.

I only applied eyeliner, leaving the rest of my face natural. Simple was always best in my opinion. I left my hair down in loose waves around my shoulders. After taking a deep breath, I stepped outside of my room, and approached the sitting room where Sherlock was standing by the window, his hands clasped behind his back.

"Is he here yet?" I asked, pulling at my dress to make sure there were absolutely no wrinkles. I watched as Sherlock turned around, ready to open his mouth and rant I'm sure, but instead he blinked his eyes several time. His mouth was agape in what I can only describe as astonishment. I couldn't tell if he was ready to deduce me to pieces, or if he was going to simply think twice before speaking. Oh God, what if I looked terrible!? "I look awful, don't I?"

"N—no, Miss Hooper. Quite the opposite." It wasn't usual for him to stumble over his words. I watched as he smoothed his hand over his hair. "I am sure you will captivate Mister Jameson's fancy."

I blushed at his remark, silently wishing the man in front of me was alive. I quickly shook the thought from my head. It was ludicrous! Here I am about to go out for dinner with Thomas, and yet, I'm still pining for this infuriating ghost of a man. I needed to get it together. I could hear my mum's voice in my head already if she believed this situation.

"How terribly morbid of you, Molly. Get your head out of the clouds and find an actual prospect."

My mum still got on my nerves even when she lived miles away.

"Thank you," I managed to get out, my throat suddenly feeling dry. In fact, I was parched. I hardly heard Sherlock's flat tone of voice announce that Thomas was here. Upon hearing the knock on my door, I approached to open it. I was nervous—not for the date—but because I was afraid Sherlock would somehow be seen even though I'm the only one he's known to be able to see him.

"Molly, you look dazzling," Thomas smiled sweetly. His dirty blonde curls were tamed, more so than usual. I noticed him look around the room, his eyes locking on something in the far corner, but I hadn't bothered to see what it was that captured his interest.

"Suck up," Sherlock murmured from somewhere in the room.

"Shhh," I hissed in annoyance. Why the hell did I ever think I could have feelings for him?

"What?" Thomas asked, his brows knit in confusion.

"Oh, nothing," I laughed it off. "We should head out if we're to make our reservation."

"Indeed," he agreed, taking my hand in his.

I told myself this was exactly what I needed whilst we were in the cab. If that were true, why did I feel so uneasy about this date at all? Sherlock was back at the flat, and I was safe from his tiresome comments.

Dinner was delicious, and the wine was crisp in flavour. We talked of little things about ourselves, and our interests, but to be honest, I wasn't quite interested in him. He seemed the type to sit on the sidelines rather than dare to live life to the absolute fullest. He was nice enough, sure, but a bit too predictable…or so I thought.

"Forgive me for bringing up work," he began as dessert was brought to our table, "but I wondered what you thought of our latest serial killer. Is he brilliant, or simply just a madman?"

"Oh, well, I suppose it depends on which way you look at it." I felt tense, but didn't want to be rude. "You'd have to be mad to murder in the first place, but the calling card is a brilliant feature. I believe it refers to Doctor Watson's story, 'The Final Problem.'" I hoped I wasn't giving too much away, but I highly doubted Thomas would just assume I've been working with the ghost of Sherlock Holmes.

The smile that adorned his face was one of satisfaction. But, when he thought I wasn't looking, there was something menacing about his look that sent a chill down my spine. He didn't quite look like himself, and it was unsettling. I couldn't help but feel wary around him. My heart rate elevated rapidly, and the feeling of nauseousness made my stomach protest the cheesecake I had for dessert. Suddenly, I found myself wanting to leave, but if Thomas was dangerous, I didn't want to cause a scene, possibly getting myself killed. His interest in our newest serial killer only meant one of two things: either he was obsessed with this case, or he was the man behind it all. Granted, the entire hospital staff has been talking about it, but he seemed to be eager over it.

One thing that clued me into Thomas being a possible suspect is that he asked if the killer was brilliant, and was satisfied when I said that the calling card was. Serial killers are known to have ridiculously large egos—of that, I was sure. Another thing—and this was a stretch—but his last name was 'Jameson.' The meaning of that name is 'Son of James.' Could be coincidental, but my intuition told me I was on a date with a descendant of Colonel James Moriarty.

I decided to text Meena, my hands and phone beneath the table. She said she'd be here in five, so I continued my faux fascination with Thomas. When she let me know that she was entering the restaurant, I got up, letting my date know I needed the ladies' room. As I stood up, I felt dizzy. The room was spinning.

"Molly, are you alright?" Thomas asked. His hand was clasped on my shoulder. I tried to shrug him off, but I had no control of my body. I only felt relief when Meena came running to catch me.

"Oh my God, Molly!" Meena shouted. "Thomas, what happened!?"

"I-I don't know," he spoke frantically. "She got up to use the restroom, and then she started fainting."

"Uh-huh," Meena raised her eyebrow, unimpressed. "C'mon, Molly, I'll get you home safe."

I was feeling nauseas by the time we made it back to my flat. I noticed the look of horror on Sherlock's face when he saw Meena bring me in.

"Miss Hooper, what happened!?" He rushed towards me, following right behind Meena who was bringing me to the bathroom. I ended up retching into the bowl, emptying the contents of my stomach. I panted heavily, a sheen of sweat building up on my face.

"I can't believe he used a date-rape drug on you; these are classic signs of one. Rohypnol is what it is by the looks of it." Meena dug through my bathroom cupboard for a washcloth. I looked up and saw the worry etched on Sherlock's face. He truly was genuinely upset over what had happened. I felt a light pressure on my shoulder, knowing it was my ghostly friend attempting to comfort me.

Gradually, I felt myself slip in and out of consciousness. The last thing I remembered was Meena helping change me out of my dress, into my pajamas, and being put to bed. That's when it all went black, though I do remember my dream vividly.

I felt the tightening of my corset squeeze my body. I was about to meet the man my parents had arranged for me to marry according to my lady's maid.

"What if he is repelled by me?" I asked, pacing around my bedroom. The four poster bed looked quite inviting.

"Well, ma'am, according to Doctor Watson, he is not very fond of romantic relations, but his parents want grandchildren, and won't stop pestering him about it."

"Sounds like a real charmer." I was, of course, disappointed about this. I would never—could never—find love with a man such as that. I refused to be nothing more than a breed mare. So I did what any self-respecting woman would do. I ran.

Author's Note: So, Thomas is Moriarty's descendant! Brownie points for those of you who guessed it! Sherlock's beginning to show real affection for Molly. What do y'all think? xo