Disclaimer: This fanfiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Not beta read, so all mistakes are mine.

CHAPTER NINE: THE WORLD PUTS ON A NEW FACE

As soon as the door closes behind the Watsons Sherlock finds himself lost for words.

He just turns and, and stops. Stares. Fidgets. He finds himself looking at Molly, in a way that even he allows is so rude it's practically ogling.

In his defence though, she's staring back at him, just as hard. Just as obviously.

He's not entirely sure she's aware she's doing it, but then she seldom is.

Rather than pursue that thought he opens his mouth, as she does; they then both close with a simultaneous snap, turning away from one another. Molly wanders towards the kitchen and returns a moment later, a cup of tea in her hands; when she sees Sherlock notice she flushes.

"Sorry," she says quietly. "I didn't ask. D'you-"

"I can make it." He speaks over her and dammit, he sounds nervous. Unsure. He can tell by the look on her face that she heard it too. It was easy when the Watsons and everyone was here; he knows how to behave in company. But this… this quietness? He has no experience with that.

He doesn't know how he feels anymore, alone with her in the room.

So, rather than give Molly the chance to ask a question he walks towards the kitchen, helps himself to a cup of tea from the still-hot teapot and then pulls out a packet of biscuits. Walks back and puts them in front of Molly before sitting down beside her on the couch, at a suitable distance away.

Any closer and he fears… He fears he'd find it distracting.

He's not sure why but he fears it's so.

Molly's eyes track his movements as he goes, though she says nothing. Once he's been seated for a moment she reaches out and takes a chocolate digestive from the packet, gingerly dipping it into her tea before biting. She chews, her throat works beautifully as she swallows (not that Sherlock notices). Her tongue darts out to scoop up any stray crumbs, her thumb ghosting against her lip.

She doesn't look at Sherlock as she does it, which is probably for the best.

He doesn't want to have to explain the expression she might see.

So he forces himself to turn away from her. Stop staring. It's been a bloody long day- exile, return from exile, Moriarty-hunting, Molly-hunting, discovering Mycroft's reproduced without the use of cloning technology, not to mention Prudence's rather too pointed questions on the stairs- and now that he's seated Sherlock tells himself he just wants to retreat into his mind palace and start sorting through all the clues his erstwhile nemesis is apparently intent on leaving him. So it's with great surprise that he hears his own voice ask, "are you… well?" in that same ridiculously hesitant tone.

Molly blinks at him. "I am." She looks down into her cup, still chewing on her lip, before dunking her biscuit into the hot liquid again. Another bite. Another lick. Her thumb doesn't go to her louth this time. "Thank you," she says after a moment. "For, you know, for saving me-"

"I wouldn't have let anything happen to you."

"I know that-"

"Do you?"

"Yes." Her tone is certain. Warm. A beat, but then… "Did you think that I didn't? Didn't know?"

"Yes." He takes a huff of breath. Rakes his hand through his hair. He doesn't remember deciding to talk about this, but- "The last time you saw me you slapped me."

"Yes, well…" She blanches. "I shouldn't have done that."

"You were angry-"

"I was."

"You were frightened?" He thinks he understands, and she winces but nods.

"I was that too."

This admission brings a spark of something twisting and warm to Sherlock's chest. Something alarming. He tells himself he doesn't know what it is. "So you lashed out?" he guesses and again she nods.

"Sometimes caring about someone comes out that way-"

"I am aware." After all, he's friends with John Watson. The words have come out sounding annoyed though, impatient. Molly doesn't take them to heart; Rather she smiles a little, like she's worked something out, and takes another tea-soaked bite of her biscuit. She draws her knees up to her chest, her hands still wrapped around her mug. After a moment she shifts, winces, sore apparently, and without a warning Sherlock's on his feet. Into his room and bringing out her painkillers. He plants them down on the table beside the biscuits and when she looks up at him in question he crosses his arms. "Take them."

It's a command.

It belatedly occurs to him how well ordering her about has gone the last few months but she says nothing, merely smiles that small smile again. Reaches out and takes two pills out of the bottle before knocking them back with a swig of her tea.

"Happy?" she asks and he nods.

"As I'll be, with you like that."

To his surprise she puts down her tea, reaches out her unhurt hand and takes his. It feels rather small against his fingers. She pulls him close and, after a moment's resistance, he comes.

"It was bad," she says, "but you saved me…"

"I had to," he bites out. "It was my fault-"

"No." She shakes her head stubbornly. Tightens her grip on his hand. She looks up at him and there's something very bright, very certain in her eyes. "By that reckoning it was my fault," she points out. "I made the decision to help you all on my own, I knew this might be the result-"

Sherlock bites his tongue, wills the words that suddenly want to rise up back. The words which Prudence had all but confirmed for him on the stairs. The words which he'd seen, unspoken, in his brother's eyes at the Icehouse. Because Molly hadn't been taken because she helped Sherlock fake his death, Molly had been taken because her loss would have hurt him. His feelings for her appeared to be so obvious that apparently Agent Hunter and his entire security detail, not to mention a family friend he hadn't seen in decades, could tell what he felt.

If they could tell then this Moriarty imposter could too. Had done, too, in all probability.

The thought makes him feel a little sick.

He doesn't know what to say, what to do, and just like that she's on her feet, her arms around him. Her comforting him, just like always, when it's him who should be comforting her. Her small, warm form against his, her breath coming in time with his. Normally she's hesitant to touch him- She seems to understand he dislikes it- but this time he welcomes it. Pulls her closer. It's a strange thing, to want to pull someone close and push them away at the same time.

She lets out a long, sighing breath and the sound warms him in a way he doesn't understand. Won't understand.

There's so much he doesn't want to understand, with her.

When she looks up at him, her eyes are sad. Uncertain, though trying for wry. "You're being awfully nice to me," she says and he nods. Looks down at her, blue eyes meeting brown ones. Harsh ones meeting kind.

"It's because I nearly lost the opportunity to do it," he says, and though he knows he means his exile she thinks he means her kidnapping. He's content to let her think that for now. Maybe forever.

"You'd have found me," she's saying again, her tone certain. "You're Sherlock Holmes- Proper Genius- You'd have found me."

"I would have." But though he says the words, he knows that he can't believe them true. The Moriarty imposter had wanted Molly found, that's why the game had been so easy. Were this person to have had more time, or a different goal, he might have, he might have…

He might have lost her, Sherlock thinks. He might have lost his Molly.

He might even have lost her today without the Moriarty imposter's interference, and that thought brings a ball of horrid, clawing emotion to his chest. It feels almost like the time he saw John nearly burned alive. Almost like the time last time he saw Prudence before today. He detests emotion and always has, the messiness of it. The explosiveness of it. He doesn't want to feel this, to feel anything, and yet, and yet…

And yet, Molly's in front of him. Molly's alive. Molly's been through a great deal and he can damn well hold himself together rather than going to pieces in front of her, he tells himself. That he can do, if it's for her.

Oddly enough, this concern for another tames the sentiment within him. Curbs it.

He had no idea feelings could work that way but there you have it.

After a moment he clears his throat. Pulls away and gestures towards his bedroom. "You should get some rest," he tells her. "I'll call you when Mary and John get back with the food- And then we'll have a chat about today"

She frowns at him, head cocked to one side as if she's trying to read him, but at the last minute she shakes her head to herself. Lets go of his hand and walks towards the bedroom door. "You'll be out here?" she asks and he nods, relieved.

"You may depend upon it,"he says and with that she's gone. She's apparently content to let him guard her.

He finds that a suitable arrangement too.

He listens to her move around. Imagines her in his room, in his bed. It makes him feel strangely… satisfied. Territorial. He remembers the way Irene Adler's perfume had clung to his sheets and wonders if Molly's will do the same. When the Watsons return he calls to her but she's fallen asleep and he bags up her food. Stores it away to be eaten tomorrow.

She'll not be going anywhere for the next few days in anyways, he's already decided.

Mary watches him with narrowed, knowing eyes but says nothing-

Until, that is, a supposed dead woman decides to text her phone, and then it's all Sherlock can do to keep up with her and her husband.

Meanwhile,

In a flat in Brixton

Mycroft rings the doorbell and is faintly horrified when he's greeted by the opening refrains of ABBA's Dancing Queen.

He is likewise horrified when the door creaks open and a suspicious-looking fourteen year old girl glowers out at him, the cheerful, bright beads on her cornrows at odds with the absolutely unimpressed expression on her face.

She looks him up and down as if he's nothing more than a prize bull at a country fair.

Mycroft pulls himself up to his full height and looks down at her, eyebrow cocked. He is, after all, The British Government. "I'm here to see Prudence," he says. "This is her flat, isn't it?"

The girl merely shrugs. Called over her shoulder to Pru that, "your taste in men is getting worse, mate," before shuffling off.

Still, when Prudence comes to the door she opens it. Offers to let him in. He declines his head courteously, gestures to the car he brought here which Anthea is currently guarding like a hawk.

"I rather thought we might go for a drive," he said. "There's things I'd rather discuss with you in private."

Pru sighs at that before nodding and grabbing a cardigan, stuffing her mobile into her pocket. She tells the girl- Hailee- to watch her brother and then follows Mycroft into the night.

"Just don't bring me straight to your mother's," is what she says as she gets in. "I'd appreciate a drink first, if that's the plan."

Mycroft looks at her like she's insane. "Do you think I'd do that sober, woman?" he asks as he joins her and with a nod to Anthea they pull out into the night.