NOTE: I hope this is okay. I'm starting to get more into the plot now which is fun and I hope also, it is fun for those of you who read. Please review as I worry so much that people aren't liking it.

Chapter Seven: Sherlock figures it out

I don't own a thing

Molly did as Sherlock had asked, no hesitation in sight. Leaving her flat dead on nine, somewhat glad to with the detective's currently insulting mood, she had casually visited John again, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade to make sure they were okay. The pathologist had to fight so hard to contain her excitement when Mrs Hudson opened the door and simply said, "Hello Dear," her sweet smile broadening over her face. It was like music to her ears, beauty to her eyes. She wanted to squeal with delight, hug her tightly and tell her she was glad she was still alive. But to do that would cause suspicion to any prying eyes and most likely worry the poor lady half to death.

She hurried back to the flat, bags in hand with supplies for the man staying in her modest home. Sherlock had been with her a matter of days now, un-showered and although Molly didn't mind his smell, she was sure he would be in need of a wash sooner or later. A pack of clean shirts, hopefully the right size and some socks, because that was one thing Molly was unable to stand, smelly feet. About to turn the key in the lock, a voice startled her from behind.

"So there is a man staying with you then, Miss Hooper." She turned to find Terry Dean, round fat belly, hands in pockets, a grin plastered on his rosy red face.

"No. I-I…" Molly really didn't know what to say. She glanced down at the M&S bag in her hands, wondering if he'd been able to see the contents inside. She knew she couldn't fool this man, knew he knew she was lying, but all she could do was try and make something feasible up, for Sherlock's sake, "I live on my own."

He laughed, "Do you now?" Terry stepped towards her, Molly inevitably pinning herself to the door as he towered over her, "Are you sure about that?"

"I am." Molly cleared her throat, could hear her heart in her ears, her breath becoming rapid with the fear of this man, stood too far into her personal space. She hoped and prayed that Sherlock would be nearby to help if the situation happened to turn ugly. She wasn't asking him to expose himself for her like that, to reveal himself just to save her, just knock the man out and drop him out the window. Hopefully though, she was strong enough to handle it, she liked to think so anyway.

"You see, Miss Hooper," He grinned at her deviously, raising a hand to rest on the door by the side of her face, "I've been doing this job a long time now, and if you think you can fool me, you're wrong." His eyes travelled across her features making her feel physically sick. He was too close to her face, way too close and it was times like this she wished she had listened to her mum, always nagging about keeping some form of spray in her bag for emergencies, "That is why she hired me. I am the best at what I do."

There it was again, the 'she' that he mentioned last time. His boss, maybe? But why would she 'hire' him when he's already working for her? It made no sense. Molly couldn't breathe, no words came out of her mouth. She wanted to tell him to mind his own business, tell him he had no business in her life, but she didn't want to give him any idea that he was right.

"Now, I can tell her what I want to tell her, or you can tell me the truth."

"I'm not telling you anything." Molly attempted to turn around in the small space and go inside her flat, but Terry grabbed her arm and kept her firmly in place. She winced faintly, the grip of his hand almost certainly bruising her arm, "Let me go."

"I'll be back you know," He moved ever so slightly closer to her face, "and you might not be so lucky next time."

"I could say the same to you." She shot back, not really sure if her statement was sufficient, though didn't want Terry thinking he'd got the better of her. He laughed at this, his stale breath hitting her face, cigarettes, beer and what she could only guess was the smell of rotting teeth. Stepping away from her, he continued to grin, heading down the stairs and out of site. She released a breath, head falling into her hand before turning to unlock the door.

When she crossed the threshold, Molly found Sherlock stood directly behind the door, obviously listening to the events unfolding outside. As soon as she met his stare, she didn't want him there. She wanted her own space back so she could let out her emotions without being criticised. All she wanted to do was put on a soppy film, cry about it and forget about that slimy sod Terry Dean and his stupid boss.

With a sigh, she passed the bag of supplies to Sherlock, keeping her eyes away from his perfect form, "Please leave me alone," She saw him frown in the corner of her eye, "I've got to get ready for work."

"Don't people usually want to talk about this sort of thing?"

"No Sherlock, no I don't want to talk about it, I want to cry about it, but I can't, so I'm going to work." Molly immediately regretted speaking to him like that. He was her every being and didn't like the idea of him thinking she was mad at him, "What I mean is…" Her sentence trailed off, unable to finish what she wanted to say. Tears were prickling her eyes, betraying her in front of the one man who despised sentiment. Instead, she threw a strained smile in his direction and headed to her bedroom.

Molly reached the safety of her room, dropping her handbag on the divan and yanking off her coat. Toby scrambled from under the bed, purring and meowing as she reached to stroke him. He was such a softy, grabbing the attention of everyone who entered her flat and loved by everyone whose legs he wrapped himself around. She picked him up so she could drop him outside the door and get changed, but was surprised to see Sherlock waiting right on the doorway.

Keeping her hold on Toby, she rubbed her forehead, never usually feeling so frustrated. All she wanted to do was please this man, but right now, she didn't have the energy, not after her encounter with that reporter. She just wanted to be alone, "Sherlock, I'm sorry but I really just need five minutes, please."

"Terry Dean, reporter, Daily Mirror."

"I know."

"He's been hired to find me." This caused Molly to look up at him, shirt sleeves rolled up, hands casually in his pockets.

"What?"

"The device," Sherlock had no sense of spatial awareness, barging past her and walking about her room, "It's a distraction, a diversion to keep my mind away from what is important."

Molly's eyes widened, "So it's not a microphone?"

"No it is." The detective walked towards her, eyes fixed with hers, "It is, it's not to listen to John. It's to listen to me. They know I'm alive, the want me to find them. They've planted it there, knowing I'd send you, send someone to find something." His hands ruffled his hair, "How could I have been so stupid? All they wanted is confirmation I'm alive and I've played right into their hands. They wanted me to find Ivan Morass-"

"Wait, who?" Molly let Toby down.

"They want me to meet him. Isn't it obvious?" Sherlock placed his hands on her shoulders, shaking her gently, "Terry Dean is being paid to find information, clues, evidence. They knew nothing about you at first. They knew I would send someone to get the device but they didn't know it was you. Now they know exactly how I faked my death."

"So why haven't they killed John and everyone?"

"Because they don't need to. They've got the message out that they want me to reveal myself to them." He laughed, though Molly didn't believe it was anything other than annoyance, "Molly, don't you see? We're one step ahead of them. They don't know I know yet. They'll assume I'm still working on the device, still distracted."

"So what do we do now then?" He moved away from her then, going straight to her bedside drawer, pulling out a pad and pen, "Hey, how did you know I kept-"

"Molly." Was all he said in his deep grumble, the pathologist understanding it was too simple a deduction for him. He would just know without having to root around her belongings. She watched as he scribbled something on a piece of paper, before pulling a fifty pound note from his pocket and wrapping it around the note.

"There's a homeless girl who begs around the hospital." He grabbed her hand and shoved the note into her palm, the sensation of his bare skin sending a tingle up her arm, "Her name is Ellen. Act as though you feel sorry for her, put the money in her tin and walk away."

"Okay." Molly looked at his hand still wrapped around hers, wondering if he'd just forgotten he was still clutching her tightly, "And then what?"

"She'll give you further instructions." Sherlock grinned then, "This is genius. We're getting there Molly. Back to normal." He sighed and left the room, leaving Molly feeling a sense of loss, knowing he was unaffected by the skin contact, oblivious to the sensation she had gotten from it.

Walking to work was a nerve-racking experience. She did as Sherlock had asked again, pretended to be sympathetic to the young girl and handed her the money, but couldn't shake the feeling that someone was watching her the whole way. Molly assumed it was Terry, following her for clues and what not. She acted normal, knowing she couldn't give any sign away that she knew. She cut up several bodies that day, one being a young boy aged twelve. Molly was good at her job, handled it very well, it just upset her greatly when young people were involved in her line of business, it just didn't seem right.

Leaving work just past five, Ellen was stood waiting for her, shaking her tin and asking for spare change. She knew it must have been something to do with the note so she reached for her purse, pulled out some pound coins and dropped them in. At the same time Ellen dropped a note in her purse, smiled and walked away. She didn't bother to read it, knowing it would be for Sherlock and instead, headed to her home.

She found the detective showering when she arrived back, the sound of water splashing to the floor and the squirting of shower gel into his hand. The pathologist shook the images that were forming in her head, knowing it was not the time.

"Sherlock?" She knocked on the bathroom door, waiting as she heard the tap switch off and rustling, before he appeared before her. His hair was dripping, chest exposed and a white towel wrapped low around his waist. The images that were forming before appeared again, though this time for real. It was too much for her not to look. She drifted her eyes over him, before clearing her throat and handing him the note, too scared to make eye contact with him. The detective took the note from her and grinned. She looked at him as he handed the note back, catching his smirk as the door closed once again.

Turning her attention to the note, it read:

I knew it

Your Brother