It's difficult maintaining two fics at the same time, especially when they are in two completely different universes. Do comment if you enjoy this though. My muse in this department might need a bit of a push. The only reason this took longer was because I was basically shouting at my computer-screen angrily - for a good reason. I might need a beta, though. Yeah, I haven't got one. Is it normal to have one? I'm new to this honestly. Thank you for the comments that have been and hopefully will continue to come!

We did the packing in the middle of the night, or well I did the packing in the middle of the night, as he stood by telling me "Your mother has not met Martin yet. At least not grown-up Martin, so there is no problem there." No problem there? He's phoned my mum. He apparently had a long conversation with her, as Martin Ames. Martin Ames, the painter, Martin Ames the nice young man, which Sherlock certainty isn't. I glare at him, while I pack things as instructed. He's even bought new clothes for the event, and I stare at the clothes curiously – plaid and whatnot. He was very keen on being in character it seemed, as the clothes were carbon copies of what Martin wore. All but the pair of glasses, "Short-sightedness is luckily something one can acquire," he says with a small smile, as he puts on the glasses. He didn't ditch the leather-jacket though, which I pointed out, and he quipped, "I do not need to entirely embody him (sounds like an excuse to look cool, to be honest – he does look cool though). That is why I have got you with me." I was to be myself of course, but his girlfriend. The whole situation was surreal, and it truly hit me, as we sat driving towards Hull.

"What do you - listen to?" he asks me, as we sit in the rented car. I waited for him to add the - you humans, as it seemed more fitting at the moment. Since I saw him prodding throughout the various channels frowning, buzzing sounds coming from the radio "Maybe radio-silence would be a good idea?" I say, with crossed arms, and furrows in my brows despite myself. I knew we were going because things were getting dangerous. I knew we were going to find out who was behind the whole bloody thing, but I felt like putting myself into the backseat and weeping openly. I had promised never to set foot on Hull again, especially after what had happened last time. He shuts off the radio entirely, eyeing me, with his normal expressions.

There was something almost off-putting with Sherlock in plaid. Especially Sherlock with ginger hair, and it wasn't before now I could properly look at him without the ridiculous interruption or distraction of dead bodies and decapitated heads. Of course I wasn't just openly staring at him - that would be mental, I was spying on him from the reflection on the car-window. I had to be stealthy in my looking, I couldn't openly stare at him, but I knew he probably caught me looking anyway. He didn't seem to be bothered, and even gave the air of being a serious driver, which was a thing I'd never suppose he did. I had almost always imagined that he was the sort of man who let everyone else drive for him. "How come you know how to drive?" I ask, the question coming out of my mouth, before I really consider the accusations that might come with me asking.

His eyes dart into my direction.

"It is a convenient skill," he just says, and the silence continues.

I frown a little, before saying, "You live in central London though, and you don't own a car. Your choice of transport has always been a taxi."

"I need it for moments like this."

"Odd."

He looks at me in surprise.

"Is it odd that I know how to drive?"

"Well, yes, you don't strike me as a driver, to be honest, and well – it looks weird."

"Looks weird? It does not look weird," he says looking affronted.

I almost giggle, mentally berating myself for saying what I'm saying, but he's not exactly answering my questions about the handcuffs exactly. He's been avoiding any proper answers since the incident. I started keeping a constant eye on Toby's bowl-movements last night and this morning - making me genuinely worried for my own mental-health.

"When we get to Hull we have to act as a real couple. You have to treat me as if I am Martin," he says causing me to sigh quite loudly.

God, here we go.

Here comes the problem.

I had hoped, the gentle pat on the back, and the possible kiss on the cheek was the sort of couple we were going to be. I'd already had the disturbingly awkward phone-call with Martin. I had enough with it already; my brain couldn't take anymore at this point. How did that go? Well, I lied. I properly lied. I wasn't going on any recreational road-trip, no, flipping no – I was going on a work-related trip, which would just lead me into Hull. I just feigned that I hated leaving, especially to Hull, and Martin agreed with me on the phone. It wasn't much of a lie really. I just avoided mentioning that Sherlock was going with me. Not the worst of admittance – Ben was going to stay in London, not at my place, but at some admirers flat receiving flattering comments. I'd just slip when I would return that the whole thing went down quite horrendously, causing Ben to move into mine again – no problem. "How long will you be gone?" Martin asks, a question I hadn't even properly considered.

A question I even asked Sherlock. For all I knew it might be a in and out operation (no, don't even go there). "I'm not quite certain. Some days I suppose," I just said biting my lip uneasily. The lies that I've served Martin – if he breaks up with me when the truth is out, then I wouldn't be properly surprised to be honest. Then again, I am sure he'd manage the whole ordeal quite spectacularly – I'll just inform him that I did fancy Sherlock Holmes, but I do not now.

Now I just end up staring at his reflection, eyeing him occasionally in the rear-mirror, our elbows sometimes grazing, as I stretch out for my water bottle, which is strategically placed between us (there's this sort of fancy holder for it, ok?).

"I'll try to act my best as myself," I say taking a sip from my bottle, with Sherlock eyeing me. I should have considered, he probably doesn't like taking toilet-breaks, which causes me to drink an even bigger gulp of my water purely to irritate him. I know we are supposed to be serious, but I cannot take it too seriously. I'm so used to Sherlock having serious events around him, I'm just not usually stuck in the middle of the explosion. I'm usually in my office, he enters, asks for something, and I give it to him. Suddenly I'm helping him fake his death, and suddenly we're investigating two murders.

"You have not actually been the best girlfriend," says Sherlock, who practically spits the last word out, causing me to look at him in surprise.

I furrow my brows "You haven't actually been the best flatmate either. Your appearance is the reason everything's been a mess," I say exasperated.

"So – I am the reason as to why you've been paying less attention to Martin, then?" he says, the hint of a smile on his face. I gape, recovering quickly saying, "You bring dead bodies and severed heads – I think a girl has allowance to be a bit baffled, don't you?"

"I would have thought that you would jump on the chance to be closer to him, than anything," he says.

Closer? Is he actually hinting to what I think he's hinting?

"What are you trying to say?"

"Just try to be convincing Doctor Hooper," he says.

Well, we're not talking about sex, then. I am relieved.

"I will be," I say quite heatedly. Silence returns to the car. I regret having him not turn on the radio, which causes me to reluctantly fidget with the buttons, before "She sells Sanctuary," by the Cult comes up - the perfect song for a drive. I turn the volume up; Sherlock tunes it down, albeit to a sound level I can still hear the lyrics at. We eye each other, before sitting there with the music playing, and I don't properly know what to do with my arms. I uncross them, before trying to take the seat a bit more back. Leaning comfortably as I push it a bit further back, marvelling in the new car smell, "Gimme Shelter," by the Rolling Stones starts playing on the radio. I stiffen in my seat; I avoid looking at Sherlock altogether, as he obviously catches my change in behaviour. Almost four hours of this.

Almost four hours of sitting in a car trapped with Sherlock Holmes. If this had been the stammering Molly Hooper sitting besides him, she would turn a colour turnip, and have great visualizations in her head – fortunately I don't turn turnip – I've just got images flickering in my head. You ask why? Oh, well, this is the song I lost my virginity to. A girl never forgets that sort of thing. Luckily the song doesn't go on for more than four minutes. About four minutes and thirty-one seconds of me sitting uncomfortably in my seat, fidgeting ever so slightly, while peering uneasily out of my car-window. Does he notice? He probably won't notice. Good lord, that really is ages ago. I was 18, late considering that everyone else I'd known had shagged, and I ended up shagging Billy Parker in the back-seat of his car with this song going on. I didn't regret it, since I wasn't drunk, but it wasn't perfect – he certainly did not last the four minutes and thirty-one seconds.

"Conversation, we should manage to keep it up. We will have to pretend so in Hull," says Sherlock after the song finally ends, and he turns off the radio. I raise my brows at this. He wants to talk; of course we had the big conversation when he was chained to my headboard. I hope we're not going into a similar conversation now. I had enough with the morning after, when we spoke, or rather talked around the subject. Good lord. I've never heard so much subtext in my life.

"What are we looking for exactly?" I ask diverting the topic entirely to what we were going to do.

"Information - if there is a connection to the medical company over there," he says looking distracted, his thoughts obviously elsewhere.

I almost suggest the Internet, but Sherlock doesn't seem like a person who isn't Internet-savvy to begin with – he has been hoarding over my laptop, which he also brought - so I keep my mouth shut.

"It is evident that you aren't pleased with this development Molly."

I can feel the deduction coming up. He will now peel off in a long rant, in which I end up wanting to burrow myself deep in the car seat.

"Why is that?" he asks instead. I do a double take. I'd almost prefer the hostile "Of course I can see from the way you hold your hands in your lap that you are dreading things, due to the fact that you were once called the town spinster at the age of 12, which I can deduce by the turn-ups on your shoes." Well, of course I don't think he'd entirely deduce in that manner, but you know he'd manage to figure out that I was indeed called spinster somehow or the other. "Oh, well, Hull wasn't a very pleasant time for me," I say uneasily.

He furrows his brows, as our eyes meet in the mirror.

"Then why did you react on the song?"

"What?" I say startled.

He just had to ask didn't he?

"What song?"

"The song on the radio."

"I love that song," I just say smiling broadly.

"Molly," he says reminding me of my dream, causing another shade of crimson to hit me like a wave on my face. He would always have that effect on me I suppose.

"Yes?" I say innocently.

"You might convince Martin, but you will not convince me."

"I beg to differ," I say sounding almost offended. I'm not offended though. Oh god - are we flirting?

"Is that a challenge?" he says quirking a brow.

We are flirting.

"Answer the question about the handcuffs then."

"Which one of them – I think at present there must be more than one question about the handcuffs, don't you think? – or else you disappoint Doctor Hooper," he says, with a slight serious expression, though with that smirk of his. I grin despite myself, reminding myself of Martin quite hurriedly, which removes the grin as quickly as it came.

"I'm not answering any more questions, until you say so," I say giving a sigh.

"I suppose I should turn on the radio, then," he says, at which both of us reach out to turn it on, our hands brushing, and I remove my hand slowly away turning even more crimson by the second. God, this was how it was going to be? We're just friends you know. I'm really hoping that the more I say that, the more I'll believe it. The man is Teflon though. Who throws themselves on Sherlock Holmes? No one does. If one were to - one would most likely fall flatly on the ground or car seat, as I am currently residing on – entirely as the passenger. What do I actually expect? I am here as cover story, possibly a bit help on the side, but nothing extraordinary. I am Molly Hooper, just Molly – the pathologist, heading towards her old town, which saw her as nothing but Mental-Molly from age 8 and up. I end up turning off the radio.

"Now, I've got to ask, it's just worrying me – so – who's Alan?" I say.

"Alan is an invention."

"An invention – that's it, right?" I ask.

"Yes, a convenient false character to make Benedict more authentic. It does add to his character, does it not?" he says smugly.

"Fine," I say, turning on the radio again.

Sherlock looks at me inquiringly, before shutting off the sound again.

"Why do you ask?"

"I was just curious."

"You said it worried you," he says, using my words against me – the bastard.

"I thought you were talking about Martin," I said frustrated.

"Martin, well, yes, he does irritate me," says Sherlock as a matter-of-factly.

"You were talking about him, then?"

"Alan is fiction," he just repeats.

"OK," I say exasperated turning on the music again. We just sat there, music blaring in the background, eyes plastered to the front this time. All my thoughts were fiction. Wait – I turn off the music, gape at him, before saying "I must have been too tired to even think it through. Why on earth did you have the keys to your handcuffs when you fed Toby? – That makes absolutely no sense."

"I didn't," he just says, causing the silence to be quite big.

"Oh –right – well – then – yes - so – right – you did have the keys?" I babble more or less.

"I had grabbed them at the same time with the cuffs of course," he says looking at me in slight disbelief. "I am not an idiot."

"So you could have left?"

"Yes."

"But you didn't?"

"Obviously," he says snorting.

"Why?"

"Will it help you if I tell you why?"

"Yes."

He looks at me, not in the rear-view mirror, not by a glance, but he properly turns his head towards me.

"I am not a big fan of your sofa," he just says, before turning the radio back on.