Chapter Seven

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

There were worse ways to spend one's lunch hour than humouring the macabre whims of Sherlock Holmes-Molly could think of several off the top of her head-but she would have still preferred to be digging into a serving of sesame chicken and the last few chapters of the mystery novel she'd been reading. She wanted to finish it before Sherlock noticed it laying about her flat and spoiled the ending for her.

Instead, she was trudging up the stairs at 221B Baker Street, carrying a heavy cardboard box that was just large enough to be unwieldy. It was slow going as she was trying to be extra careful on the stairs; it was the first day she'd left the flat without wrapping her still tender ankle.

The annoying cardboard box concealed the distinctive cooler Barts favoured for transport of human biological materials and organs. Molly thought it would be best not to be seen wandering around London carrying something so obvious.

Obvious or not, the cooler was still far more practical than the Tesco bag Sherlock had tried to use one evening when she caught him "borrowing" a foot shortly after they'd first met. That was long before someone-Mycroft-had negotiated a small experiment allowance for access to donated organic materials. Not that Sherlock paid any attention to the agreed upon limits.

Molly was always careful to get permission from Mike Stamford before letting anything out of her sight, and Mike seemed content to humour the detective. Rule bending was one thing, but she didn't particularly feel like risking her job for Sherlock on a semi-regular basis by outright breaking them. She preferred to limit that sort of thing to the strictly life or death situations.

The door to his rooms wasn't open; and Molly realized there was no way she'd be able to turn the knob and maintain her hold on the cardboard box at the same time.

"Hello. Sherlock?"

Not a single sound from inside in reply.

"Sherlock, are you in?" Still nothing. Molly began to mutter to herself as she contemplated dumping the box on the stoop and going back to Barts. "You better well be, after making me trek over here like a bloody postman."

If she didn't already have a broken toe, she would have considered kicking the door.

Perhaps Mrs Hudson would be willing to hold on to it until Sherlock came home.

She was just getting ready to head back down the stairs when the door opened. Her annoyance with Sherlock was temporarily forgotten when she saw John standing in the doorway.

"John! It's lovely to see you again. Better circumstances this time. I hope. I mean, I don't really know why you're here, do I? Could be something horrible, I suppose." She shifted the box, trying to use her hip to help support it somewhat. She'd prefer to go inside and set it down; but John was still standing in the doorway, and didn't seem to be likely to move in the next few moments.

"No, it's fine. Nothing going on here, really. I didn't realize Sherlock was expecting you?" He half-turned to look into the sitting room, and she could see Sherlock in his chair, staring off into nothing the way he often did when he was deep in thought.

"He sent a text this morning. Insisted he needed two hands, left only, and a liver positively riddled with cirrhosis if I had one in stock. In stock," Molly stressed the last two words. "As if I were a grocer. His highness is far too busy to come get them himself, so . . . Here I am." She lifted the box a bit higher, hoping John would get the hint.

He didn't. He remained in the doorway, frowning down at the box as if it contained the plague. "They just let you leave the morgue with human body parts, no questions asked?"

"Oh, no," she rushed to reassure him. "There are plenty of questions, don't worry. It's just that once you mention the name Sherlock Holmes, a lot of those questions tend to dry up. Especially if it means he's not going to be coming in and upsetting everyone else in the lab. Again. I mean, I'm used to him, and so are you and Mike, obviously. But you know how he tends to rub . . . well, pretty much everyone else he runs into at Barts the wrong way." She and John shared a smile.

"So, how's the toe?"

Chit-chatting in the stairway it was, then. Great. Molly moved the box back to her hip and tried not to grimace. "Better. Still hurts, which is to be expected; but I've been up and about since the next morning."

"Please tell me you didn't walk all the way from St. Barts?" He gave her a disapproving look that she assumed he'd perfected in his exam room over the years, something he would use on a patient that had disobeyed doctor's orders. Technically, she wasn't his patient. And, technically, she hadn't even done anything wrong.

"I came in a car. It's waiting outside."

That frown reappeared again, only this time it was directed at the oblivious detective, who hadn't moved a muscle since the door opened. "I hope he's planning to pay you back for the cab fare."

"It's not a cab. I agreed to let Sherlock hire a service to ferry me around for a few days; and in return, he agreed to stop hovering as if someone had threatened to revoke his godfather privileges if he didn't keep me from overdoing it and reinjuring my foot." The expression on her face made it perfectly clear that she knew exactly who was responsible for that.

John had the sense not to deny it. "He told you, then?"

"He did," she agreed, still visibly annoyed. "But only after I'd already figured out something odd was going on. There was no reason for him to be hovering about my flat and the lab, being solicitous and polite. He offered to fetch coffee and my lunch, of all things. It creeped out the intern."

"How long did he last before you called him on it?"

"I took lunch around two that day, so I'd estimate around eight hours before I caught on. Really, John, using your own daughter for blackmail?" Molly admonished. She might have even wagged her finger at him if she hadn't needed to shift the box to the other hip, as the corner had been digging into her and it was starting to get painful.

"It was Mary's idea." He shamelessly grinned. "Blame her."

Molly made a mental note to give Mary a call later. "Don't think that's going to get you off the hook, mister. You're sti-"

"Get out of the way, John." Sherlock's voice startled her, cutting her off in mid-word and nearly causing her to drop the box.

John grabbed it, and she gratefully let him take it from her.

"You've forced her to stand out there long enough, boring her to death with inanities." Sherlock gracefully unfolded himself from his chair.

"Hello, Sherlock." Even though he had yet to address her directly, Molly still felt the need to offer a cheerful greeting.

"Hmm," was his only acknowledgement that she'd spoken. He gleefully slapped his hands together and gestured toward the kitchen. "Put it on the table. Let's see what my pathologist brought us, shall we?"

And just like that, she was forgotten. Molly sighed and thought about leaving, but her foot really was beginning to hurt and the idea of walking down the stairs right that second was utterly unappealing. The car would be fine for a few more minutes, surely?

Plus, she needed a moment to process Sherlock calling her 'my pathologist'. It was oddly possessive of him. And the way he'd said it, just a throw away comment that wasn't even directed at her? Not meant as false flattery, then. So why had he said it?

She crossed the sitting room and leaned her bum against Sherlock's chair so that she could see the two men unpacking the box. "I got the hands all right, but we didn't have any livers. Sorry."

Without turning, Sherlock waved his hand near his head, as if smacking away a gnat. "It was a long shot. I don't need it for this case anyway."

John stopped breaking down the cardboard box and stared at his friend. "You just wanted a liver, then. For personal reasons. Because why?"

"Everyone has to have a hobby." Sherlock pulled a plastic baggy out of the cooler and held it up toward the light. The hand inside was neatly severed at the wrist, and had been carefully packed in dry ice for transport.

It could have been a trick of the light, but John appeared to take on a sickly pallor.

Molly turned away to hid her amusement, and realized that the sitting room was even more of a mess than usual. Mrs Hudson would have a fit. Instinct had her straightening a pile of books that appeared to have been discarded willy-nilly on the floor, some still open. She leaned over the chair to grab a few pieces of paper that Sherlock had left on the end table near the fireplace, hoping to use them as bookmarks on the off chance that he was marking those spots for a reason.

The hand she'd braced on the back of the chair slipped, and slid down the leather until she nearly fell into the seat. Her fingers encountered something sticking out from between the cushions. She'd already begun to tug the dark material loose before she fully comprehended what she was touching.

A quick glance toward the kitchen told her that John and Sherlock were still engrossed in their discussion about body parts and hobbies.

As quietly as possible, Molly finished pulling the wadded up ball of glittery black silk free. It was undoubtedly the scarf that Sherlock had borrowed from Mrs Hudson. The one that Molly had worn the night she'd had far too much to drink and ended up tucked into Sherlock's bed. That one that he claimed had been ruined.

So why did he still have it? And why was it hidden there, of all places?

"Hand me that bucket."

Molly jerked at the sound of Sherlock's voice, shoving the scarf back between the chair cushions in a way that would have surely made her look guilty if either of the men had been paying her any attention. She turned just in time to see Sherlock disappearing down the short hallway toward his bathroom, presumably, with a bucket full of ice and a plastic wrapped left hand.

She knew, without a doubt, that if Sherlock were to get a good look at her right then, he would be able to read her like a book and somehow know that she'd found the scarf. It probably meant nothing to him. Surely he'd just tucked it into side of the chair the night she'd stayed, forgotten it existed, and made up some excuse to appease Mrs Hudson. But one look at her face and he'd realize that she was clearly over thinking things; then there would be days of awkwardness and tip-toeing around each other, and Molly really, really needed to get out of Baker Street. Immediately.

"So, I'll just be going then," she called to John, already gathering her jacket around herself and heading toward the door. "Tell Sherlock I said he's welcome, when he comes up for air, won't you? I mean, we both know he won't actually say thank you, but a bit of a reminder about using his manners can't hurt, can it?"

John held up a hand to delay her. She stopped her panicked rush out of Sherlock's rooms, and regretted it almost immediately.

John glanced over his shoulder to make sure Sherlock wasn't going to reappear from the bathroom right that second, then moved to her side. "Listen, Molly," he started, keeping his voice low so that it wouldn't carry down the short hall. "Could I have a word?"

"Of course." Whatever he wanted to talk about, he didn't seem to want Sherlock to overhear. That couldn't be a good sign, could it?

"Look, I know this is a delicate subject-and I wanted to discuss it with you earlier-but I hadn't seen you before the other night at your flat. That didn't really seem the time, did it? And the lab at Barts isn't really the place for this sort of thing, is it?"

Her earlier confusion started to turn into concern. "Are you okay? Are you or Mary sick? Bethany? Do you need me to look at something for you? I'm sure there are probably tests I can run-"

"No, no." John quickly shook his head. "Nothing like that. It's about Sherlock."

"What did he do this time?"

The furtive way he kept looking over his shoulder and was practically whispering was starting to make her nervous.

"I spoke to Mrs Hudson a few weeks ago."

"Oh God," Molly groaned. She had an unfortunate feeling that she knew exactly where this conversation was going.

"She said that you and Sherlock, well, that you . . ." He came to an awkward stop, mouth hanging open as he searched for the right words.

"That he and I what? That we were together? That we broke up? That we had drunken, kinky sex all over the flat?" Her voice had started to rise toward the end of her little rant, and John held his finger to his lips to shush her.

Molly forced herself to calm down and speak quieter. "What, exactly, did she tell you?"

He shrugged sheepishly. "Yeah. Not in so many word, but pretty much all of that."

"We weren't. We didn't. And do you really think Sherlock would risk messing up his experiments and all this-" She gestured wildly around the messy flat that Sherlock still insisted he had an organizational system for, even though absolutely no one believed him. "-by having sex on it?"

"When you put it that way." John chuckled and shook his head. He looked a bit relieved, in all honesty. "It did seem a little out of character for Sherlock." He caught the narrowing of her eyes and blanched. "And you, of course. You're not the kind of girl-woman-who would-"

"Quit while you're ahead, John."

Molly wasn't sure which conversation was going to top the list of Most Awkward I've Ever Had To Endure: the current one or the memorable exchange with Mrs Hudson the morning she tried to sneak out of the building. Mrs Hudson's had the bondage implication, true, and that made it a really good contender; but, John looked as if he wasn't done talking, so there was still a chance he'd pull something equally horrific out of nowhere.

"So what did happen, then?"

"Nothing scandalous. He needed my help with a case. I ended up too inebriated to get home, and he let me sleep it off here." Embarrassing, but true.

"And the other night? At your place?"

Molly clenched her teeth and spit out, "Case."

"And Janine. Was she there for the case, too?"

"In a way. It's complicated."

He nodded. "Yeah. I can imagine. Actually, no I can't. I just don't see how you and Janine and-"

"Are you done now?" Molly cut him off, then flinched at how rude she'd been. "Sorry. It's just that I came over here on my lunch hour, and I really need to get back to Barts."

John held out his hand to forestall her departure yet again. "Just one more thing. I like to think that you and I are friends. Perhaps not the closest of confidants, but still friends." He waited for her nod-hesitant and a bit suspicious as it was-to continue. "And I know you and Mary are. I've heard all about you two giggling and gossiping through a few lunch dates."

This time her nod was much more sure. She liked Mary.

Other than Meena, there weren't that many people she really connected with. That was part of why it had been so hard to end her relationship with Tom. When they'd split, she'd lost his family and their mutual friends as well. Lost that feeling of belonging, of being part of a group; something she hadn't really had since her father died. Her new friendship with Mary had helped ease that ache a little bit. She knew that Mary and John had gone through a rough patch for several months; and even though Mary hadn't wanted to talk about it much, Molly liked to think that knowing she was available to listen might have helped ease Mary's ache a little, too.

John checked to make sure they were still alone, then spoke again, "It's just . . . Well, Sherlock is different. Some might even say special."

"I am well aware of that."

"Right. Yeah. Of course you are. You've known him even longer than I have." He nodded several times. She thought he might have been trying to work out exactly how he wanted to phrase what he wanted to say next. "It's just, well, I've seen the way he treats you. And the way you look at him, when you think he's not paying attention."

Oh God. This was definitely going straight to the top of the Awkward Conversation list. Zooming right past bondage and Mrs Hudson.

Molly flushed, utterly embarrassed. "Point?"

"Sherlock doesn't do things the way other people do. He doesn't feel things, like you and me." Once again John looked as if he were struggling to find the right words.

Probably trying to be tactful. He's doing a piss poor job of it so far, Molly thought, not feeling at all charitable at the moment.

"He once told me that the brain was the only thing that mattered, everything else was transport." He waited for her to react in some way; and when he didn't get whatever he was expecting, he continued. "Everything."

Obviously that wasn't completely true. Everyone in the bloody UK knew about him and Janine, and that certainly hadn't been just transport. Not that she was comparing her relationship with Sherlock to his with Janine. Because they were nothing alike. Sherlock's dalliance with Janine notwithstanding, he had never shown any interest in Molly as a female. Not legitimately, at any rate. Yes, he had sincerely complimented her appearance at the Barrett party; but that wasn't nearly the same thing as being attracted to her.

She cleared her throat and tried not to look flustered. "That sounds like something he would say. But I still don't get the point you're trying to make."

He ran his hand through his hair in frustration. "Mrs Hudson was confused, obviously, but she only jumped to that conclusion because she knows-we all know-that you have feelings for him. It's impossible not to notice that you'd be open to a relationship with him. But Sherlock isn't wired that way. He can't do relationships like a normal person, even his friendships are skewed and completely self-serving.

"I'll admit, when I first saw him with Janine, I thought he might have changed. But it was all play acting. He didn't feel anything for her. I don't think he can feel things like that, not really. He put on a good show, but in the end that's all it was. A show. He uses people. Sometimes in the most dreadful of ways. If he wanted something bad enough, and if he thought he could get it from you, then I have no doubt he'd use you, too. Perhaps even go so far as to give you what he knows you've wanted for years."

She knew John was coming from a good place, that he probably thought he was legitimately opening her eyes to something she'd wilfully been overlooking, which was why she didn't flat out tell him to shove off. The temptation was there, but she managed to suppress it with several deep breaths and stabbing her nails into her own palms a few times.

After a quick double check to make sure Sherlock was still playing around with his new toy in the bathroom, she turned the full force of her anger on John and hissed, "Have you lost your mind? Have sleepless nights and new fatherhood melted everything in your skull to the point where you think anything that you just told me was appropriate? Yes, he uses people. I'm fully aware that he uses me, and if I truly wanted to tell him to fuck off, I would have long before now. But to think that he would sleep with me just to get his hands on something from the morgue? Or that I would be desperate enough to let him, that I'd give it up without any sort of emotional understanding? That's disgusting. He's always getting you to do stuff for him, far more often than me. So how many times has he slept with you?"

John reddened, flushing up to his ears. In shame, she hoped. But she wasn't done with him yet.

"First, what does or does not happen between Sherlock Holmes and me is none of your business. Second, I am not an idiot, I know he will never love me, and I have accepted that. And I really wish everyone else would move on, and stop with the 'poor lovesick Molly' garbage. Third, even if I haven't given up, even if I am still mooning over him, and have a scrapbook full of 'Mrs Molly Holmes' scribbles hidden in a shoebox under my bed, it is none of your concern."

Molly put her hands on her hips and leaned into John's personal space to emphasize the point she was about to make. "Finally, I don't think you know him as well as you think you do. Sherlock's far too stubborn to admit that he's just as human as the rest of us, but it doesn't take a consulting detective to deduce he's full of it."

She pointed toward the kitchen. "Think about it. For someone who tells people his body is only transport for his brain, he's a bit of a hedonist, isn't he? He's got a sweet tooth. Consider the sugar in his coffee, all those biscuits he insists Mrs Hudson bring up here with his tea, the way he practically inhales anything you put on his plate and finishes with dessert once he's solved a case."

Her finger shifted in the direction of his bedroom. "Let's talk about what he keeps next to his skin. His shirts are Dolce and Gabbana. His dressing gowns are silk. He insists on sleeping on sheets that are one hundred percent Egyptian cotton. I know because I have a set in my linen cupboard for when he decides to drop in unannounced for a kip; so you can stuff whatever thought just popped into your brain. I saw that look."

"I didn't-I wasn't," John stuttered in denial.

Molly ignored him. She was on a roll now, and she wasn't going to let him distract her. "He's not content to just meet the barest of needs for survival. Our Sherlock likes to surround himself in comfort and luxuries, doesn't he? Does that really sound like someone who only believes his body is transport?" She spit the last word out as if it were a piece of rotten fruit.

"You didn't see him the night before the Fall, not like I did. The look on his face. It broke my heart, John. I will never tell another living soul the details of what I saw and heard that night; but believe me, he does feel. Sometimes . . . Sometimes, I think, he feels far too much, and that scares him. Think about how overwhelming it can get for you and me, now multiply that by a hundredfold, and that's Sherlock. It seems like every single time he lets himself start to care about someone or something, someone else comes along and tries to use that attachment against him."

She shook her head, her earlier anger fading away to be replaced with near overwhelming sadness for Sherlock. "No wonder he thinks sentiment is a weakness. For him, it really is. He tries to cut himself off from people and emotions because he's trying to protect himself. And us. He thinks he can't be what we want, so why even try? I'm sure he'll deny it if you ever dared to ask; but it's easy for anyone who knows you both to see that you're not just his friend, you're probably the closest thing he has to a brother. A real one. Not like Mycroft. I mean, Mycroft is his actual brother, obviously, and I'm sure they love each other in some sort of weird Holmes' boys immature, picking at each other as if they were still children, sort of way, but-"

"Molly."

"Right. Sorry. My point is that he may not do relationships like, well, other people; but you can't tell me that a man would throw himself off a roof to protect his friends if they didn't truly matter to him."

John stared at her for a long moment, and Molly began to feel like she was a specimen under a microscope. "What?" she finally asked.

"You've given this a lot of thought, haven't you?"

"A bit. Probably too much." She bit her lower lip and wondered if she should stop talking, or if it would be better to just get it out in the open once and for all. "Look, it takes a special person-a saint, probably-to put up with everything that is Sherlock Holmes, without wanting to rip their own hair out. And Lord knows, I will never be a saint. But he's changed since he met you, you didn't know what he was like before. He's opened up and let himself feel. He's got friends now, people he truly cares about. Loves, even. He may not be able to say the words, he may not even be able to admit it to himself on anything more than a superficial level; but you know it. Don't you? When you first met him, did you think that was even possible? And look at him now."

He swallowed hard and lowered his head for a moment, collecting his thoughts. She was about to apologize, horrified at the way she'd gone off on a long-winded rant, when he raised his hands in defeat.

"You're right. I do know it. I suppose if it's possible for the wanker to let me in, then who knows what else he's capable of. I'm sorry for even bringing it up. I'm utter rubbish at this sort of thing, obviously."

"Yeah, you kind of are." She offered a small smile, and reached out to pat his arm. "But I forgive you, anyway."

"I am a little disappointed in you, though." John looked very serious.

Molly's heart fell, and she quickly drew her hand back.

"You're a doctor, Molly. You've earned that title. Wear it proudly."

"What?"

He put both hands on her shoulder and shifted his head until he could look her square in the eye. "Those scrapbook scribbles should read 'Doctor Molly Holmes'. Or, even better, how about 'Mr Sherlock Hooper'?"

"I hate you, John," Molly giggled. Relief made her feel giddy.

He stepped back and grinned at her, pleased that she was no longer upset. "Fair enough. You should come over for dinner next week. Bethany's grown so much since you last saw her."

Just then Sherlock stepped into view, pulling off a latex glove with a snap. "Molly's still here?"

"I'm just leaving, Sherlock." She turned her attention back to John for a moment. "Tell Mary to give me a call, and we'll work something out. Oh, and tell her I'm dying to babysit if you two would like a night to yourselves."

"I can pretty much guarantee we will be taking you up on that, Doctor."

"I really, really do hate you," Molly grumbled, trying not to laugh.

As she made her way down the stairs, she heard Sherlock ask, "What did you do to Molly?"

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

If she wasn't careful, Molly was going to get used to being chauffeured around London. Contrary to what she told John the other day, she hadn't been sure that Sherlock had actually hired a service, per se. Her suspicions had been confirmed the next day when she made her way out of her building and discovered the surly driver who had nearly scared her half to death the day she'd first met Anthea.

She had no idea how Sherlock had managed to arrange to have Mycroft's minions shuttling her around, but Molly found herself starting to enjoy it. There was a car waiting to drive her to and from work. All she had to do for a ride at any other time was send a text, and a car would be around in under thirty minutes. It made her feel rather important, actually.

Molly couldn't help but wonder what Sherlock had over Mycroft this time. Surely Mycroft hadn't fibbed to his parents again?

The car pulled up in front of her building, and she leaned forward to say good evening to Mr Surly. He nodded in reply. This time there wasn't a sneer thrown her way, and Molly decided to count that as a minor victory. She was wearing him down, another meeting or four and she was fairly confident she might even get a verbal acknowledgement out of him.

With one final reminder of when she needed to be at Barts the following day, Molly slid across the backseat, out of the car, and onto the pavement. As she let herself into her building and walked up the stairs to her flat, she wondered if Janine was still in residence. Not that she had a reason to expect Janine to have left, or that she wanted her to move out; but Molly had essentially lived alone since her second year of uni. Having another person staying in the flat for so long was throwing Molly's equilibrium off. Tom had spent the night plenty of times, but they hadn't quite reached the point of moving in together; and Sherlock rarely spent more than two days straight holed up in her room when he needed to hide away from something. Janine had been there all day and night, every day for two weeks.

At some point she had stopped feeling like an awkward houseguest and more like a comfortable roommate; and that was what was bothering Molly the most.

She really did not want to like Janine. Would have preferred to hate her, if she was being honest with herself, and Molly was well aware that made her sound like the pettiest cow on the planet.

Janine had been the woman to thaw Sherlock's oft-rumoured-to-be-missing heart. Yes, he said he'd only been dating her (and become engaged to her) for a case, and he'd put an awful lot of time and effort into avoiding her some nights; but Molly knew he wouldn't have maintained a friendship with Janine if he didn't like her at least a little.

And then there were the tabloids. The salacious, borderline explicit accounts of Sherlock and Janine's intimate encounters had been on nearly every news stand for two weeks straight. And most telling of all, Sherlock hadn't denied a single bit of it.

Sherlock didn't do casual sex. Until Janine, she didn't think he did any sort of sex. John had said that Sherlock didn't care about Janine at all, but Molly knew that wasn't true. He may not have loved her, and he had definitely used her; but he'd been spending enough evenings at Molly's place since Janine moved in that it was obvious he still had some sort of feelings for her. Why else would he be hanging around so much?

Janine seemed nice. She was beautiful. She was annoyingly kind, but with just enough of a bitchy streak to be fun to hang around with. Why couldn't she be a horrible, puppy kicking jerk? That would have made things so much easier for Molly.

What was it about Janine that had drawn Sherlock to her? Why couldn't he find it, whatever it was, in Molly? And why did he still have the power to make her feel inadequate after all these years?

Ugh.

She made a face as she climbed the last flight of stairs, utterly disgusted with herself.

Her unhealthy attraction to him had been so much easier to ignore when Sherlock had no interest in intimacy with anyone. Then she could lie and make herself feel better by saying, "It's not me, specifically, that he's not into. He's not into anybody."

Strangely enough, she'd actually been content with her life until all this Chapman business had been dumped in her lap. No, scratch that, the trouble had started even before Sherlock had talked her into having Janine as a houseguest. The night she'd played dress up to distract the barman. That's when everything started to go wrong again. Up until that point, she'd been happy enough. She'd started dating again, started working on another paper to publish, been thinking about taking up knitting . . .

Shite. Meena was right. Her life was boring as hell.

Ugh. Again.

She unlocked her door and tossed her bag in the direction of the sitting room chair. There was faint music playing in the kitchen, which answered the question of whether or not Janine was still around.

Molly hung up her jacket and went to say hello.

Janine had started to make dinner from the appearance of things. However, her attention was currently focused on her phone rather than the pot that was beginning to boil over on the stove. Molly rushed across the kitchen and lowered the heat on the burner.

"Something wrong? Are you okay?"

The other woman jumped and nearly dropped her phone. Molly realized Janine must have been too distracted to have heard her come in.

"Oh, Molly, I am so sorry. I'm so sorry to have dragged you into this mess." Janine looked ill, as if she were about to start crying.

Molly felt her stomach drop. "What is it? Are you all right? Did something happen to Sherlock?"

"No, no," Janine rushed to reassure her. "It's . . . Here, see for yourself." She glanced at her phone, slid her finger across the screen a few times, and then passed it to Molly.

The first thing she saw was a picture of herself getting out of a car in front of Sherlock's building. She was pulling the box of body parts from Barts out of the backseat. The photographer must have been somewhere across the street, as the door to 221B was plainly visible.

She looked up at Janine, confused. "Where did this come from?"

"There's more. Slide down."

The next picture was Molly coming out of the building, looking very pleased with herself.

Another was Molly getting out of the car near Barts, later that day. The photographer had obviously followed her from Sherlock's.

A further swipe provided a wall of text, but no more pictures.

It only took a few sentences for Molly to figure out the sender was Francis Chapman. He'd had someone watching Sherlock for several days, probably since the run in at the Barrett party, if not earlier. The photos had been sent to Janine as proof that her White Knight Detective was nothing more than a cheating arse, who had taken up with a cheap harlot the moment he'd tucked Janine away in the modern day equivalent of an ivory tower. There she was, supposedly leaving Sherlock's love nest after an embarrassingly short lunch time hook-up.

Couldn't Janine see how Sherlock was using her? He obviously didn't care about her if he was already screwing another woman behind her back.

He was looking for her. It was only a matter of time before he figured out where Sherlock had hidden her. He knew she hadn't been back to her flat or the cottage in days, and she wasn't staying with Sherlock anymore. He was very unhappy to hear that she'd been sleeping there for a time.

If she came back to him on her own, and willingly accepted her punishment, then they could put all of this unpleasantness behind them.

Pretend it never even happened. He'd treat her like a princess. No, a queen.

But if he had to come find her himself, her punishment would be so much worse.

Molly swallowed back the bile that had been creeping up her throat. She handed the phone to Janine. "What does he mean? About the punishment?"

"I'm not sure." Janine's voice wavered as she eased into one of the chairs at Molly's little kitchen table. "He had started to have some control issues that were beginning to make me uneasy. That's why I broke it off with him." She set the phone down on the table and pushed it away as if she didn't want to be near it anymore. "He wanted me to say and do some things that I was uncomfortable with. Some things that seemed as if . . . as if they'd be very degrading for me. And he was very reluctant to take no for an answer."

"Did-did he hurt you?" Molly leaned against the counter, horrified at what Janine's answer might be.

Janine vehemently shook her head. "No. But something about it just pinged on my radar, you know? As if the potential were there? I could tell that he wanted to be manly and dominate, but he couldn't quite pull it off. And that, even more than me saying no, made him angry. And dangerous. Unstable, maybe? He snapped out of it when I insisted I wanted to go home, tried to play it off. Offered to buy me earrings to match the bracelet he'd given me. Like I was some kind of . . . Anyway, I ended it that night."

She gestured toward the phone and grimaced. "And now I've got you caught up in it."

Molly had no idea how to reassure her. It wasn't as if Molly were happy to have a weirdo following her around, taking her picture. But that wasn't Janine's fault.

It was quiet enough in the flat for them both to hear the doorknob in the sitting room rattle. After a brief, oppressively silent moment, the front door opened with a quiet click. Molly quickly scanned the kitchen, looking for something to use as a weapon. There was a soft thump and a masculine curse from the other room, which told her the intruder had tripped over something. Probably her bag, it hadn't quite made it to the chair when she'd thrown it.

There really wasn't time to dig through the cutlery drawer where the knives were kept, so Molly grabbed the closest weapon-like thing she could get her hands on.

When Sherlock appeared in the kitchen doorway, she had a pot of near boiling water and pasta ready to throw at his face. Luckily, she was able to abort the toss with only a small amount of spillage on the floor.

Sherlock's gaze quickly took in an extremely pale Janine at the table, a fierce Molly barely holding on to a large pot, and several wasted pasta noodles languishing in a puddle on the linoleum. "No thanks, ladies. I'll eat tomorrow."

Molly dumped the pot back on the stove, ignoring the angry hiss as the wet bottom connected with a still hot cook top. "Knock! Why don't you ever bother to knock before you barge in here?" She could tell her hands were shaking, and was aware enough of her emotional state to identify it as an aftereffect of the adrenaline rush. For a moment she had thought that Janine's stalker ex had broken into the flat and was coming for them both. Molly trembled and glared at Sherlock. "Did you even use the key I gave you? You didn't. You picked the lock again! One of these days you're going to get worse than a pot of pasta in the face, Sherlock. I have a bat!"

"Tucked out of reach on top of your wardrobe, which will do nothing for you if someone were to actually break in." He didn't appear the least bit threatened by her warning.

Sherlock stepped further into the small room and pointed at Janine's phone. "Is this it?"

She nodded.

Molly's glare turned into a confused frown as he quickly grabbed the phone and unlocked it. Without even looking up he explained, "Simple deduction. Janine has an older brother, and she is his son's godmother. She dotes upon the child as if he were her own, calls him Doodlebug. She purchased a birthday gift for him two months ago. Women often use sentimental dates for passwords."

"I hate it when he does that," Janine whispered to herself, although Molly heard her.

Molly didn't bother keeping her voice low as she replied, "We all do."

He ignored them both, which was probably for the best. Instead, he quickly examined the pictures and the accompanying text; then looked at the wall above Janine's head as he thought. "How did I miss it? I should have considered the possibility. Expected it."

He began to pace, phone forgotten in his hand. Molly crowded closer to Janine to give him room to move.

"I suspected he'd have Baker Street under surveillance when he couldn't find Janine at either of her homes. It's what I would have done. That's why I moved her here. I assumed the influx of clients at Baker Street would camouflage Molly's importance if she came over, she should have been just another face in the crowd. I was so focused on the Reynard case, the hand wound, I failed to take into account the memorable impression she made at the Barrett party."

Of course he did, she thought. Why would he expect anyone else to remember her, when he had gone so far as to confuse her for John more than once. Molly knew she tended to blend into the background sometimes, like a quiet little mouse she was occasionally compared to. But only when she felt out of her depth and wanted to disappear. She'd been working on that, pushing herself out of her comfort zone since she'd helped Sherlock fake his death.

"How could I be so stupid? So fucking preoccupied I didn't think it through!" Sherlock's violent outburst startled her and Janine. They both jumped slightly, and Molly gasped.

"But why follow her? What possible purpose? Not just to thumb Janine's nose in it, too simple. He couldn't suspect she's staying here. He's used to women competing against each other for his affections, he'd never consider that you could work together, not if he believes you're both involved with me. So why would his lapdog follow Molly? Chapman must have described her, told the lackey to be on the lookout for her, because . . . why?"

Sherlock froze, his eyes wide and clear and suddenly focused on Molly. "Leverage."

She wasn't sure what he meant, but she was positive she wasn't going to like it.

Without looking away from Molly, he addressed Janine. "Is your boss still in Japan?"

"Barring an emergency at the offices here, he should be gone for at least another two weeks," she quickly replied.

"I know you've been telecommuting since he left, but perhaps now might be a good time to convince him that he'll get more work accomplished if his junior PA was in Japan with him, rather than holding down the fort back here." The words may have sounded like a suggestion, but his tone made it clear it was meant as an order. "Chapman is not aware of where you're currently staying; otherwise, he would have already been at the door demanding to see you. But it's only a matter of time before he figures it out."

Janine looked back and forth between Molly and Sherlock. After a second, she snatched her phone out of his hand. "I'll contact his senior PA right now. I'm sure if I explain the situation to her, she'll be able to convince Mr Nakahara to send for me without needing to share any of the personal details with him."

She headed into the sitting room, already pulling up her contact list on the phone.

Molly waited until Janine was out of earshot to turn back to Sherlock. "What do you mean by leverage?"

"I have something he wants. Janine. Or, at least, her whereabouts. Therefore, he'll take something I want in exchange. You."

She snorted in disbelief, and plopped down into the chair Janine had vacated. "You can't be serious."

"Very." He stood there, studying her for a moment, then arranged his coat so he could take the other chair for himself. His long legs stretched out and nearly touched the refrigerator. "I've managed to track down four of his former paramours. Two had their solicitors on the phone immediately. I gather there are non-disclosure contracts in play. The third has left the country; however, I have spoken with several of her friends, and they have painted a picture of a very confident woman who has been torn down and made timid by an affair with an unnamed man who essentially broke her."

She shuddered. "Did he beat her?"

"I get the impression there may have been some physical damage, yes; but it appears to have been primarily emotional and psychological abuse."

"What the hell is wrong with this guy?" Molly was horrified at the thought of what might have happened to Janine if she hadn't followed her instincts and run.

"All four women were described as dominate personalities-intelligent, sure of themselves, successful in their chosen professional fields, attractive-prior to their relationships with Chapman. Only the first of the four I found remained so after the relationship had been terminated."

"What was different about her?"

"It took some effort and a face-to-face meeting to get her to agree to speak with me, and she only agreed as long as we did not discuss the specifics of her time with Chapman. Within a few minutes, it was readily apparent to me that the reason she hadn't experienced a similar personality change to the others was that she was already a willing submissive in her romantic relationships. A force to be reckoned with in the business world, with a preference for being instructed and corrected in private."

Sherlock cleared his throat and studied a photo stuck to Molly's fridge. It was a picture of her curled up on her bed, wearing nothing but a giant sweatshirt from her uni days, her hair loose and terribly mussed, pressed nose to nose with an indulgent Toby. Tom had taken it, weeks before they'd split up. She kept it on display as a reminder to take pleasure in the simplest of things.

"She'd actually been a client of The Woman at one point." He continued to contemplate the photo, a slight frown marring his features.

"The woman?" Molly hadn't a clue who he was talking about; however, judging from the look he gave her, she should have.

"Irene Adler." Sherlock furrowed his brow when she continued to look confused; then he paled and his gaze darted about the kitchen for a moment. "Right. You wouldn't have had cause to know about the services she offered. Would you?"

She caught him looking at her from the corner of his eye, then quickly glancing away again when he realized he'd been spotted. "No. Right. Moving on."

Sherlock cleared his throat, and sat up straighter. "Ms Adler is, was, a professional dominatrix. A dominatrix is-"

"Oh, I know what they are," Molly quickly interrupted.

"You do?" He looked stunned. And more than a little intrigued.

"Ummhmm. Meena knows someone who offers beginner's lessons for people who are interested in experimenting but haven't a clue where to start, mostly ladies and married couples. The importance of consent, safe words, proper aftercare, and whatnot."

"Interesting." His voice came out as little more than a rumbling whisper. Sherlock sat, unmoving, for an uncomfortably long moment, then began to rapidly blink.

There it is again. Buffering. Everything else temporarily shutting down while the wheels spin. Apparently her revelation that she knew what a dominatrix was had thrown him off track. Interesting, she couldn't help but echo.

Seconds later, he was back to discussing Chapman's former girlfriends as if he hadn't been distracted at all. "This first girlfriend may have been the catalyst that sparked his interest in dominating women. He wants the world to see him as confident. Strong. An alpha male. But he's obviously riddled with insecurities. My first thought would be at least partial impotence, and a domineering maternal figure that made him feel emasculated. His relationship with the submissive gave him a taste of power; a buzz from being in control, if you will. Now he craves it, needs to be dominate. He has to break his women down to build himself up."

Molly shook her head. "But that's not how those sort of relationships work. I mean, Janine doesn't seem to be the type to want to be . . . well, that type."

"She isn't." He spoke with utter conviction on the matter. "As far as I'm aware, she's never expressed an interest in experimenting with submission. If anything, she's overly aggressive and bossy in bedroom matters."

She didn't need to hear that. She really didn't. Molly almost told him so, then realized there was a slim chance he might ask why. And that was a can of worms she had no intention of opening.

"But Chapman doesn't want a willing submissive. He's not looking for a healthy dom/sub relationship. He wants to bend them to his will. He wants to destroy these women, specifically because he finds them threatening. I doubt any of them had an inkling of what they were getting into when they started seeing him. Janine said he was quite charming in the beginning. The first woman might have, but she was more familiar with the rules of the game, and I suspect she realized something was off with him before he was able to do too much damage."

"You're saying he gets his kicks off of dehumanizing women, then moves on. Why is he fixated on Janine now? Because she dumped him first?" Molly was still trying to wrap her head around Chapman's motives.

"Exactly."

She took a deep breath, and leaned toward Sherlock. "Okay. Tell me what we do to help her."

"Putting her somewhere that Chapman won't find her is a start. That's why I moved her."

"You do realize she's not a poodle you can just put up in a kennel when you don't want her underfoot, don't you? She's a real person. It might not hurt to start asking her if she wants to be shuffled off from place to place, rather than telling her what she'll be doing."

"She came to me for help. Why wouldn't she want to do what I told her? If she didn't want my opinion, she should have found someone else to bother."

"To bother? Really, Sherlock."

"Not good?" He looked so uncertain for a moment that she almost felt sorry for him.

How difficult it must be, to be so out of tune with the rest of the world.

"No."

Sherlock nodded once. "Noted. If it makes any difference-"

"It probably won't." Molly shivered under the force of the chilly glare he sent her way. She tried to look properly contrite, and waved her hand for him to continue. "Sorry. Go ahead."

"As I was saying, if it makes any difference, she and I discussed the best options for her, prior to my asking you to take her in. I didn't just arbitrarily decide to move her here. Going to Japan was the backup choice, so it's not as if I just sprung that upon her, either."

"Sorry, again. I shouldn't have assumed."

"Regardless, Chapman has involved you now, and that changes things considerably. Japan will keep Janine out of his hands for the moment, but we'll still have to deal with his new interest in you."

"We could use me to try to lure him into a meeting, so you can warn him off. He's followed me once. It's not as if I can tell him where she'll be. All I know is she's going to Japan, which isn't very specific at all."

He looked at her as if she'd lost her mind. Even more than that, he looked almost . . . angry? Molly instinctively scooted as far away as the back of her chair would allow.

"I don't care what you can or cannot tell him, I don't even want him within speaking distance of you." Sherlock leaned toward her, eating up the small amount of space she'd managed to gain a moment before. "I told you he's never touching you again, and I don't mean to offer him an opportunity to do so on a platter."

She felt a flush of warmth start low in the pit of her stomach, brought on either by his proximity or the intense way he was looking at her. She forced herself to ignore it. "All right then, what's your plan?"

He sighed, and relaxed back into the chair. Sherlock ran his hands through his hair, mussing it even more than usual. "I'm not sure yet. I can't have him arrested. Technically, he hasn't done anything illegal. Yet. None of the prior girlfriends I've managed to track down will be willing to file a complaint."

"Legalities have never really bothered you before," Molly quietly reminded him.

"No, they haven't, have they?" Sherlock smirked. She felt her own lips tilt upward in response.

"Let's think about it," she said as tapped her fingers against the tabletop. "If he's this hinky with his personal life, I wonder what other skeletons might be hiding in his closet? How do we know he hasn't been embezzling from his company or, I don't know, bugging Mrs Barrett's office?"

"I sincerely doubt he's intelligent enough to manage the latter, but the former is a possibility. I'll find out, shall I?" He lazily tilted his head to one side and studied her.

Molly squirmed under the scrutiny.

"What to do with you in the meantime?" Sherlock asked. She got the impression he wasn't actually speaking to her so much as thinking aloud.

"Nothing. You aren't doing anything with me." She blushed but stubbornly refused to look away, proud at herself for holding her ground. "I've got a job and a cat to look after. You aren't hiding me away like you did with Janine."

"Molly." The way he said her name-low and rumbly, with just a hint of an impatient growl-made her want to melt into a puddle at his feet. Damn him.

She stiffened her spine, and shook her head. "Don't 'Molly' me. I'm not leaving my flat just because you think there's a slight chance that annoying bully might try to follow me home like a stray dog."

He nodded as if he had expected her to say that. "You won't leave, therefore, I'll stay. Sofa then?"

It took her a moment to process what he was saying. "What? No!"

"Surely you aren't suggesting I spend another night in that horrible chair?"

Molly grumbled his name in warning.

"You're right. Both the chair and the sofa really are too small. Sharing your room it is, then. That way I'll be right there if someone breaks in during the night. Excellent suggestion, Molly."

She stood, hurt that he was once again mocking her feelings. "I told you not to joke about things like that." She wanted to storm past him, but his legs were still stretched across the floor and she had to step over them to leave the room.

As she was trying to do just that, he reached out and grabbed her arm. Sherlock relaxed his hold as soon as she stopped moving, although he didn't let go.

Neither of them said anything for a moment, until Molly felt his thumb start to brush small circles against her. They were gentle movements that she barely felt through her blouse and cardigan, meant to sooth her agitation. She took a deep breath, and turned her head to look down at him.

"I apologize. I know better. But I am worried. You need to take this seriously, Molly. Chapman has been escalating over the years; even without all the nasty, explicit details, I can deduce that his abuse is getting worse. The texts and emails he's been sending Janine have grown steadily more threatening." His thumb stilled, and then he drew his hand down her arm until he could grasp her fingers. "I won't let him turn his frustration and aggression on you. So you either agree to temporarily move to a safe house and continue to let Mycroft's men drive you wherever you absolutely need to go, or you get used to me hanging around here until I figure out how to bring this guy down. The choice is yours."

She wasn't about to move to a safe house, and she suspected that he knew it. She frantically tried to think of a solution that wouldn't end up with her being swallowed up whole by the constant presence of Sherlock in her home. It was bad enough that he'd taken up permanent residence in her thoughts; having him under foot, his scent on her things, just being there within touching distance all the time . . . Molly feared it would be more temptation then she would be able to resist and she'd end up making a fool of herself.

She carefully pulled her hand free from his, and was grateful that he didn't try to stop her.

"You can't play babysitter, Sherlock. You've got cases to solve."

He frowned, his forehead creasing in that way that never failed to make her want to reach out and soothe him. He looked annoyed, and she knew she was on the right track.

She needed another gentle push, and her earlier quip about Chapman reminded her of something. "You haven't found out who has been bugging Mrs Barrett's office yet, have you?" His scowl confirmed her guess. "And I'm sure there are plenty of other people desperate for your expertise. What will you do if someone brings you a nine; ignore it so you can sit around on my sofa, bored out of your mind?"

Sherlock's eyes narrowed and she realized he was already trying to think of a solution that would insure he got what he wanted. Molly reached out to pat his shoulder as she finally stepped over his legs. "I'm not moving out, and you're not moving in."

"So much for doing anything I asked," he grumbled. "Remember when you told me that?"

"Truly important, Sherlock. I said I'd do anything truly important." Molly went to help Janine gather up her things.