Tomorrow Is Fading

Chasing Visions of Our Futures

*BBC Sherlock

*Sherlock Holmes, Molly Hooper, John Watson, Greg Lestrade, Tom, James Moriarty, etc.

AN:Thank you all so much for the reviews! They really make my day!

Killer by The Hoosiers
It's a long chapter and I switch pov's more than normal, sorry, but I wanted it all in one chapter.

Sherlock's fingers had been a blur as they danced over the keys of his phone, sending and answering message after message to his little network as the two men road in the taxi - Sherlock had not waited for him to get his own car so he ended up following the way John always did. The scowl on that pronounced brow grew with each passing message and each ticking second. He was a brooding, bubbling mass of nerves in a way Lestrade rarely ever saw. The only time the great detective ever got that look was when a case had been dragging on and he could find no answers, or when the case had to do with someone he cared about. Shocking as it was, the inspector had seen that look before, the well covered panic just lurking under his skin like a disease. As much as Donovan and Anderson used to claim otherwise, Greg never did believe the young man sitting beside him had no heart at all, he believed differently.

There had been times he had seen a heart beating in that chest even before John came along. A few cases he worked with him, ones that actually moved Sherlock to action, were the ones he worked the very hardest. When so client manage to hit a cord in that well hidden heart, the DI had seen a tenacity to solve cases come out of that man that could have rivaled well over half the police force. Those glimpses were why he trusted Holmes, why he believed in him.

The great detective was all about denying his feelings and being a machine but if he did not just admit his feelings soon the DI expected he might spontaneously combust from all that pressure. Everyone knew how Ms. Hooper felt but after today, he finally had a handle on how their favorite want to be robot felt as well. He simply found himself hoping it was not too late for the idiot to get his chance to tell that girl... however Sherlock told people things like that.

"They find anything?"

The long pause before the reply was telling enough, "I had someone stationed there to watch her but he did not see her leave and he also did not see anyone go into her building beyond the regulars. The lights turned off and she went to bed but when he checked the flat a few minutes ago, there was no Molly."

"Guess your man isn't very good at his job then." Lestrade muttered in irritation, ignoring the obvious breaking and entering involved in checking her location.

"No, he's very good, actually." Sherlock let the phone lower to his lap to drill a hole into the seat in front of him with his eyes, "Which is the problem."

"What do you mean?" Greg turned in his seat to better look at the younger, obviously disquieted man.

"If Billy saw nothing then we can be sure she is in trouble of some nature." Sherlock waved a dismissive hand at him, "Why don't you get on your radio and be useful rather than distracting me?"

At that, Greg shot him a glare, "I don't have my radio, Sherlock, we're in a taxi. I'm using my phone, the same as you are."

Sherlock actually looked at him then, "Why didn't we take your car?"

That brought another scathing glare, "You didn't give me the chance! I tried to suggest it but you just slid into the nearest taxi!"

Sherlock frowned back, though with less venom, "Why didn't you stop me? It's habit to use this form of transportation with John but I would have gone with you if you had the sense to speak up about it."

Greg crossed his arms over his chest, aware he looked like a petulant child, "I didn't think you would even hear me, you're so wrapped up in that phone. You never listen to me normally so I just assumed it would be the same as usual."

The git was always so irritating on cases, or, well, in general. Every wrinkle along his brow he fully blamed Sherlock for. He could not remember having wrinkles before he met the exasperating man! For that matter, his hair used to be darker too! There were times he could almost count John among the Saints for his ability to put up with Sherlock, and Molly too, poor girl. How she fell for a man like this one was very beyond his understanding. Sweet girls like her deserved to be with a man that could actually tell her when he was over the moon for her! People were all crazy, that was all there was to it, and he was crazy too for going along with all of them!

Speaking of crazy, his phone buzzed at him and he was more than slightly surprised; though maybe he should not have been; to see that the message was from Anderson. There was an example of some that had not stood the test of putting up with Sherlock and had fallen well on the side of crazy. People that did not go along with this man tended not to weather life well, so maybe he was doing the sane thing after all. It could just as easily have been Holmes that was the only sane one and the rest of them were mad as March Hares, who really knew?

At any rate, the disgraced old co-worker seemed to be on yet another theory but this one, once he opened the message, was to do with Molly. He dreaded even trying to hear the man out but considering his first line of the message, there was really no way not to look into it as much as he did not care to. Over the years, all the theories had gotten tedious but since the dear little things had gone missing, how exactly could anyone ignore even a ranting man?

Her vision was hazy and it was so hard to bring her eyes into the places she wanted them. She was aware that she was dreaming though, it had all the telltale signs like the sensation of vertigo and intense desire to run but the limbs fully unable to move more than slightly. This was indeed her room but the lights were all off, the moon the only light drifting into her bedroom but she knew she did not want a better look at her situation. It was a very typical nightmare, complete with being undressed, and topped off with a monster hovering over her. She hated nightmares, she always had, but everyone did so that was not unusual.

James Moriarty was propped on his knees, hands on either side of her head. Her mind had recreated him to a startling perfection so sharp she was a bit worried for herself and how well she obviously memorized him. He looked mainly the same as he had a few years ago; the tiny bump on his nose was still there, low brow still thin and drawing attention perfectly to his void swallowing eyes, those high cheekbones contrasted in the low light as they always had been to make the hollow of his cheeks seem skeletal even though he was not that thin. That ink hair was back to the shorter length he sported while he was Jim from IT, smooth features so alabaster but now blemished by hints of stubble on his upper lip and a little along his jaw. Still, that uncanny playful brilliance thrumming under his skin was both different and the same. She could have been fooled into believing it was her Jim, but the horrific smile and the crazy just clawing out from his eyes gave him away because it made him look so like a demon she used to think could crawl from the shadows in her closet as a child; apparently her childish self had been more right than she knew.

She was fairly sure she was not blinking either, another sign of a dream. Nothing in her body worked, unfair as bad dreams always were, though she would probably wake up before she died since the mind could not ever envision its own end.

"Oh, Molls," His voice was a breathy whisper, the Irish lilt so dominant, his head dropping forward, lips connecting with her collarbone, "I missed you! You have no idea!"

She was very, very aware of her lack of clothing and she wanted to curl into a ball, to get away from his eyes and his touch but she could not move more than to twitch. She might have settled for yelling at him but her tongue was lead in her mouth. It was so horrible not to be able to fight or move or speak.

"My pretty girl..." His face dropped closer, cheek sliding down. his whiskers stinging her tender skin just a bit. "My Molls, Sherlock may think you're all his but he just doesn't realize he has some very strong contenders and that we never miss our marks. Sherlock's pathologist..." She felt him grin against her skin before he planted his lips over her heart, "Not quite, you're mine, you just don't know it yet, but you will."

She wanted to tell him that she was not his at all, and contrary to popular belief, she was her own person and could make her own choices. Of course, she couldn't because her lips did not work. His sharp teeth nipped lightly at the tissue of her breast and then he soothed it with his tongue, something that almost got her into a full sitting position before he leaned his weight over her to push her back down. Molly whined and wheezed her protests but moving took so much out of her that she already felt herself slipping into darkness.

Moriarty took a breath through his nose and sat back on his heels to stare at her in that very skin crawling adoration she once thought was sweet when he was her co-worker but made her whine in distress now, "You're so adorable when you try to fight me, dove, but you'll find out that it's useless." He held up an finger like he could read her thoughts, "Oh, I know, you think you can escape, but really, you can't. Once I'm finished with my project, I'll be around for you and I'll have all the time in the world to make you understand. I get what I want, love, and I decided that Sherlock can't have you."

With that, he leaned back down, dragging his tongue slowly between the hills of her chest, making her twitch, her feet kicking weakly and her lips forming his name in silent protest. She wanted to wake up now before this dream got worse, oh she wanted to wake up! The wicked way he chuckled, so dark like the blackness of space, she found she might never want to sleep again.

His wet muscle traced patterns only he could see over her skin, lips tickling her as he spoke, "You taste as sweet as that nature of yours, my dear, but I think I could make you dark, like black velvet. I'd love to see you stained..." He hummed low in his throat, "Yeah, see, because I have that talent, turning people to the dark side. It worked on Sherlock pretty well." He actually giggled then, "When I'm finished, I promise he won't even know you anymore. You won't ever be able to save him again, you won't even be able to save yourself." He looked up into her eyes, turning his head to rest it on her shoulder, "But don't worry, it won't hurt. It feels good to just let go."

Her eyes rolled as she tried to focus and watch his hand trace over her cut arm, deftly avoiding to red marks, his hands traveling even over the towel bunched at her sides, "No..."

"Hush, Molls, you sound terrible, don't try to talk right now." His fingers shifted and stroked at her face and hair tenderly, tracing feather light over her split lip, "You're part of it all now and there isn't anything you can do to get out. The three of us, when you got tangled with us, you should have known you would never get away. A detective and two master criminals... there is no going back after that!" He smiled so sweetly at her, voice decidedly gentle, Jim from IT showing through, "You surrounded yourself with killer ghosts and we bad boys have a way of getting our way. Good girls and all that."

Moriarty produced one of her bras from her nightstand and she wondered how he knew where they were but then she remembered it was a dream and she calmed a bit, watching tranquilly as he produced one of her button up tops from somewhere else. When he snatched a brush from her nightstand as well, she realized he was going to dress her, like she was his doll and the thought turned her stomach. She wanted the dream to be over, did not want to hear him speak anymore or see his face. Molly had quite enough of the dream and she saw no reason to keep fighting the darkness pulling at her. Why she was so desperate a while ago to fight it, she could not remember. She was done and she knew how to get away. Darkness was not always a bad thing.

As if sensing her slipping away, he caught her chin between his fingers laying heavily over her, "Going to sleep already? You didn't last too long, did you?" He raised his brows and that little 'v' appeared under the wavy wrinkled on his forehead before e laughed again, rolling her head from side to side before he breathed into her ear, "No matter, I'll forgive you. You won't remember tonight, so it's alright, but next time I come see you, things will be different." His voice dropped so dangerously fear sparked up inside her even though she was far gone enough that she barely understood him, "Next time I'll be back to taint you red and next time Molly Hooper will die, then you will be mine forever!"

A weak, scratchy, pitiful cry broke from her as she threw her hands out, the beeping of the machine beside her actually louder than the sound she produced, but she kept trying. Only some of her painful cries left her swollen, parched throat, the others were nothing better than silent shrieks trying to be heard. She was so lost to the drugs dripping into her veins and the residual ones she did not know were in her body that it took her a while to realize she was alone.

Molly's dry tongue licked at her split lip and her wild eyes scanned the room to find where he was hiding. The monitor beside her that kept track of her heart was spiking but she did not really comprehend why it was so close. It was so loud and she wanted it to stop but some part of her mind reminded her not to rip out any of the needles or the clips because she was a doctor and knew she would bleed quite a lot if she began that. She tried to sit up, started to swing her leg out from under the white blanket, but she stopped quickly, falling back into the scratching pillow.

The first thing she actually understood on a real level was that moving hurt quite a lot. Moving pumped her blood and made her head absolutely throb. Her brain was imploding and swelling all at once, blades twisting a thrashing inside her skull. A broken moan rolled free as she curled into herself a bit, pain in her joints a terrible ache and her muscles just screaming out of protest from the strain she put them in. Her eyes closed and she squeezed them tight, intent to stay that way until she felt better, because she felt bloody awful!

The door opened then, sending her into another fit of terror, fractured demands for Jim to leave her alone spilling out of her in waves as hands began to paw at her. Molly struggled at first until she realized that those were nurses. Moriarty would not take her to the hospital. She was, she realized with a new jolt of confusion, in a hospital with no knowledge of how she came to be there but she very definitely did not care. She should care, she knew, but she felt too terrible to actually care. Caring would happen later too!

If she held still, the nurses would stop touching her and she could go back to shivering in her misery. The motion did not help her pounding headache either so quiet would be good. She did not like to have people around while she was sick, she wanted to be left alone and sleep off whatever this horrible thing was. Oh, or maybe she should not sleep. She could just curl up quietly instead, that would be best.

"Molly, sweety, can you hear me?" One of the figures spoke to her and she realized that she knew her, a doctor that sometimes came around to her department, an American, but she forgot her name.

"Yes." Molly answered, her voice almost a shock to her as it was so low and rough.

"Good, that's good. Do you remember why you are here?" The little brunette asked.

"Working, I guess." Molly muttered, "I'm a doctor too."

"You are, but you're not working, honey."

"Obviously," Molly muttered, "I was sleeping before, but I'm at my work. I'm on the third floor since that's where you work." If she was being cross she could not tell, she just knew that she wanted to be alone.

"What is the last thing you remember doing?" The nurse beside her asked, petting her arms and making her feel disquieted considering her dream, so she pulled away with a frown.

Though, honestly, all she remembered was the dream, and working a little late. What else would have her here if not working late? That was her best and most logical option. She had been working but now she was sick, probably tried to sleep in off in a vacant bed. People did that in hospitals all the time, or sometimes, not that often actually. She must have done it today. They made her stay late and made her come to the third floor for some reason.

"How long was I sleeping?" Molly asked instead of answering.

"You had a reaction to the medication we gave you." One of them informed her, making her instantly want to ask why they had given her anything at all, but the obvious fact that her question had been dodged had her worried.

"How long?" Molly repeated with a cranky edge to her voice.

"Two days." Another finally answered, "But you are awake now, so not to worry. You were allergic to one of the drugs the medic gave you and it made you sleep."

Now it seemed a rather good time to ask her impulse question, "Why was I given medication? I'm a doctor, why did no one ask me?" Her anger was beginning to rise even though she was not sure why. She did not normally get terribly upset with people she worked with but being told she had been sleeping for two days because someone gave her a drug they shouldn't have was rather pissing her off!

"You were in an accident, Molly. You were on a bus when it blew a tire." The doctor she knew squeezed her hand, "But you were very lucky! You were not injured badly. You would have been recovered long ago if not for the allergic reaction."

The door opened again, a tall, curly haired, familiar face entering to draw all eyes. He stood there silently, gripping the door as he waited to be scolded for coming, but the doctor said nothing, ignoring him to finish her duty. He was bundled up, scarf pulled tightly around his neck as he just watched the little gaggle of hens work her over. Molly stared at him as she let them fuss and check over her, mainly ignoring them. Tom shifted from foot to foot with nervous energy, seeming unsure or uncomfortable with the situation.

While she answered more questions, she paid little real attention to them. Her head hurt her too much to really bother focusing. Having him standing there to give her something to focus on was rather a good thing, grounding her in the flurry of the other women. Whatever they did with her, she did not care, so long as they made her feel better. She worked with dead people but they were used to living subjects so they should be able to up her pain medication or something. Molly was not focusing on any of their acts, focused more on a lack of acknowledgement. While she knew very well that she should care, should feel some need to take part in conversation or questioning, she simply did not have the energy to bother. Molly was finished caring until she felt human, she could let someone else care for the day. She closed her eyes in hopes that they would be more inclined to leave her be if they thought she was fading.

It took a while more of them poking at her before they began to sift away. None of them spoke to Tom even though they seemed to know about him. Office gossip spread widely and not one of them seemed to wonder why he was there, all with unspoken acceptance that he was always lurking around the hospital waiting for the girl that rejected him; rejecting what was her one and only chance at a normal life, that was what they all thought. For a few moments Molly thought he left with them but when the hard leather of the chair by her bed groaned she knew he was only being quiet. She cracked open one eye to find him glaring daggers at his phone while he read something, the innocent face twisted with spite at whoever his fast typed reply was to.

Molly did not actually feel like being social nor even cordial but a deep sense of decency within her absolutely forced the issue. Even when she raged at people in her head, telling them all the things she really thought, there was an infinitesimal amount of times she let any of it out. There were times she hated how damn nice she was, really hated it. Why she could not be more like Sherlock some days was beyond her, but maybe that was what she loved most about that man.

After what happened to Sherlock though and after realizing their last encounter, had he died from the wound, would have been a horrible memory to live with, her ingrained niceness had worked more overtime than normal. Though, honestly, there was never a thing in her life she could not talk herself into feeling guilty over, but that was how she was. Having people die after slapping them though, that would have taken the cake for reasons to feel guilty till her last days.

She did wish it was Sherlock sitting in that chair even if he never spoke a single word, him sitting there would be nice. Granted, she had not visited him in the hospital, but that was not fully her fault, but now she was rambling inside her own head. A bad sign.

Molly closed her open eyes again before she used her rough voice to quiet her conscience, "How are you, Tom?"

She could just feel his eyes turn up to her and she could hear the frown in his voice, "I do believe that was to be my line." Tom paused, seeming to think that over, "Or, well, I mean to ask how you were, not to inquire about myself, obviously."

"Obviously." Molly muttered, almost smiling at his usual awkward way, "But answer my question anyway."

The chair creaked again as he leaned up, his warm fingers very delicately linked with the tips of hers, "I would be better if you had never ended up here."

Molly kept her eyes closed, not caring to show him any emotion at all, especially since she was unsure what she actually felt, "How does that answer my question? Me sitting - lying- here has nothing to do with how you are."

"It has more to do with it than you could possibly know, Molly." He sounded so secretive suddenly that it made her want to pull her hand away even though she had no idea why. "Believe me, what happened to you has quite a lot to do with how I am feeling."

"I'm sorry." She replied instantly, the reflexive response all she could even think of to say.

"Don't be." His fingers gave hers a light squeeze, "Nothing is your fault. I don't want you to apologize for being hurt, I want you to hurry and get better."

Molly finally opened her eyes to slits, staring at his through her lashes as he seemed to study her hand and the needle placed there, "I'm working on it. If I hadn't had a reaction, they tell me I would have been quite on my way by now."

"So I heard from a nurse." He muttered lowly, strangely rather quietly furious sounding.

"Don't get upset, Tom. It happens sometimes." Molly frowned, blinking slowly as he locked eyes with her, "Though they best have put that into my medical history for the future or I think I have grounds for a pricey lawsuit."

That got him to finally smile as he fingered her thumb, "That you would, I suppose. Lawsuits take a while... and you might have a hard time getting the money out of the person at fault."

"Why should I care as long as I get money out of it?" Her lips turned up at him, bringing a better smile from him in return.

The smile faded and he leaned closer, puppy eyes scanning her face, hands moving to pet her arm, "What do you remember about it?"

She looked away, unsure why it felt so intrusive when he asked her that way, like he was asking for a reason, "Not very much... nothing actually. I should maybe be worried about that, but I can't seem to be bothered by it. I almost think I like not remembering, somehow."

"I understand. It was frightening and traumatic, I can imagine." Tom leaned up out of his chair to place a few kisses to her forehead, "You should just let it stay that way for now. Don't push yourself."

Molly discretely shifted her position so that he would not notice her moving her head away, "I suppose." She let her eyes close again in hopes that he would take hints.

"You were fortunate though. Things like that are unpredictable and dangerous, you never know what to expect from volatile things. There is so much danger in the world, you can hardly go to bed or get on a bus without worrying." He was rattling on like he was thinking too much.

"I'm very tired." She muttered softly to further hint at what she wanted without being openly rude, "You would think I'd have slept enough after two days."

Tom leaned over and kissed her head again, "It's just your body recovering, don't fight it." He ran his fingers over the curve of her head, "I will let you rest now, but I will be back soon."

Molly nodded silently, regretting moving so much once she had. She was low on her goodwill so she was only too happy to see him go. All she wanted was to be left to herself and suffer like a whining child without anyone seeing her do it. It was humiliating to whine and complain if anyone was present to know about it. She might have been prideful, she supposed, but she hated having to pretend when she could drop her guard and be a child. Without letting reactions slip free, she relished it when he pulled away and made his way to the door.

Sherlock probably would have had the courtesy to have sat there more quietly. Or, he also might have drilled he for answers, that was also possible. Either way, even if he had made a pest of himself, she would have felt so much better to see him in her little white room. He would not be showing his face though, he was on a case and she was the last thing on his mind. She still had preference for his company. If he had been there she would have felt safest too. He would not be coming though and she knew that; she still only got the ones she did not want.

The hallway was clear as the young sniper made his way down the pristine white and tan hallways. Hospitals had very disgustingly limited capacity for colors and creativity, almost like they were simply all too caught up in those beeping machines to consider that they might be killing their charges with boredom alone. Of course, nurses tried to make up for the dull atmosphere with cheery and overly bright scrubs, many with cartoon characters plastered over every piece. That was almost as bad as the dull colors.

There were days he considered just setting a match to some stack of bedding just to see a little life come into the place. It was sickeningly dull and that just made him want to pull out his gun and start shooting at the first groups he saw. He did not hate people, nor did he love them either, viewing most as nothing more than a statistic, but he just hated the mundane and monotonous droning they tended toward. He wanted to stir it up to give himself a reason to laugh. Sebastian loathed the beehive mentality of most people, the drone and worker bee status that everyone tended to let themselves be placed in. People were not interesting on their own, they needed a push; he learned that if nothing else from drama classes in school. The only way to make it alive was to add a little chaos into the mix; see who was worth their air and who deserved to be shot in the brain to rid them from the future.

Truth be told, despite his compulsion to have things neat and exact, a place for everything and everything in its place, he was a lover of chaos in other respects of life. Things had to be in their place, papers, pens, door nobs, but people needed to be something different. People only interested him if they were given reason to live and be something more than drones to a hive. The majority of people were nothing more than extras in the sets, props that had no value after the curtain fell.

No one liked the bringers of change, but what was life without a little change? Life was a stage and every play needed those diabolical players to make it worth watching. As long as the numbers fit, he was just fine with change. If the actors lent interest to the scene, they were useful, but if not, they were useless. He hated boring productions! He was fine with change so long as he caused it.

Speaking of change, the additional song programmed into the horrible preset radio should play fairly soon once it cycled into the mix. He only wished he could be around to see Molly's reaction. If she noticed in her rather dull state of mind, of course. Those drugs clearly had put her through a spin cycle and made her just a bit less sharp than she should have been. She was less herself, less witty, less interesting.

Tom tugged at his coat, buttoning it up as he made ready to leave. He was quite finished with this little set for now, his act here completed. No one even questioned his roaming about since he had so well established his place there as Molly's love sick leading man eager to win his sweetheart back. He was a staple player in the hospital drama and they never thought to ask why he was there anymore, they assumed he was there for her. Foolish people, even less witty than his roll as "Tom."

Speaking of less witty, he had someone to pay a visit tonight. A staged robbery would do rather nicely, he thought. She had been on the list for a while but he had not taken the time to actually scratch her off. Jim would be paying his old stray cat a visit soon, insisted she was all his and only his to play a final scene with. It would be a touching little play, the last goodbye between master and pet. Moriarty took pleasure enough in shooting at her, he knew, so the last stand would be grand. He really should demand a filming! While he was at that though, it seemed as good a time as any to take care of his target. While she had never been the best of puppets on strings, she was still one of the key actors in the last production, and the puppet actors had to go. This was a totally new stage and the old supporting cast needed to be gotten rid of. Only the main actors were allowed to switch stages and play new parts. That was show business!

The phone in his pocket began to sing its little chorus of "Ghost Busters", the ringtone he set for one particular man, and he glared flaming daggers at the wall. He was still angry about the little trick, about the blaring and blatant lie from the last call! Savor it, right! His feet brought him to a stop as he fished the phone from his pocket irritably, sliding his thumb over the screen before growling a "what" into it.

"So, how is our little Molls?" James asked in his overly typical sing-song tone.

"What happened to waiting? Did you not tell me we were going to wait?" Tom shot back, letting almost all his irritation into his voice, "That is what I want to know!" He sighed when he heard the indignant sniff on the other end, "And how do you think she is? She's been out for two days thanks to you!"

"I changed my mind, decided I needed something from her. You will thank me later, after I've cleaned up your little mess." Moriarty huffed dramatically in irritation, "But really, I don't see how you can say it's my fault those idiots gave her something that reacts badly with what I gave her! How could I have known what stupid people might do?"

"You're supposed to know everything." Sebastian sneered.

"And you said you contaminated all her samples the day before we traded places. You sneaked in when she went for coffee and were supposed to have fixed your own mistake." Moriarty chided lightly, "Now I have to go to all this trouble because you did not check to see if she sent any samples off to another lab." A door thumped closed on the other end with a beep.

The security door was a breeze, his little badge fixing job had been flawless as ever. Jim cradled the phone to his ear with his shoulder as he slid the badge before the next door, waiting until the satisfying beep that admitted him inside. The supposed smart badges these facilities used was really a stupid idea. If, say, someone killed the employee in a staged accident to take their place, what good did a badge do? The hallway camera system was strangely down for what would be the span of seven minutes too, and that would mean they would miss all sorts of things! No, wait, it was that new staff member watching the cameras today; how convenient; make that twelve minutes. Clumsy of them to short circuit this side of the building, very clumsy! No one was smart enough to keep the monsters out of their homes, it was pitiful, just pitiful! No one was any good at all with security, which was why he managed his own!

They had not even removed a dead man from the security clearance yet. Clumsy! But anticipated! They never got around to clearing the codes for three days and he knew that already because the technician was lazy! Or, rather, he was dead from a tragic accident and his replacement had yet to arrive to reconfigure the systems. Oh well, their loss, now wasn't it?

The backpack was slung over his shoulder, ball cap in place, gate adjusted to fit the stride of his dead counterpart technician just in case. "So here I am, trimming up your loose ends, Sebs! We can't have your blood and skin running around out in the world of angels, so here I am! I'm being nice, so why are you mad?"

"I don't like it when you lie to me!" The other man's voice crackled over the line, "How can I do my job if I don't know what you're really doing?"

People did not call Sebastian a tiger for nothing. He could be ruthless, a true killer of masters, and do it without batting an eye. He thought nothing about killing someone that was in the way. Like Jim, his emotions and values had been slightly skewed by life and it made him an excellent assassin. Morals were relative to the situation. While they lived by a code, as everyone did, they understood how far to push the lines. Admittedly, Jim loved to push the sniper's little lines to stretch him a bit. It was not good for a man to be too set in his ways even if he risked said man's wrath.

He did so hate to be stretched, loved his little boxes and his rows to be neat. The consulting criminal could hardly fault him for his love of numbers, sharing that hobby to an extent, but he would not let him be tied to it. Quite an artist with a gun and a musician with a blade, but he could be stuck in his ruts. All creative people were eccentric though, he should know! That was why he endeavor to assist the dear sniper.

"Relax, I was just having a bit of fun, setting a few more fires! It will work out perfectly, you will see!" He chuckled through his nasal cavity, "We get to watch him burning alive a little more every day, so what does it matter?"

"I want to know what you're doing so I know how to react!"

A smile spread wide over Jim's face as he hurried into the evidence room, "But look how well were are doing! Have you seen them dance? That is all us! We are good at this even if we improvise a few details!" The bag thumped off his shoulder onto the metal table as he swiftly began seeking out what he needed from the content, "It's what makes us the best, our adaptability!"

"I like to create chaos, not be in it." His voice was getting lower, he was getting angry, "You know how much I hate not being told how the show is supposed to go."

"Alright, grouchy! I'll be sure to keep you up to speed." Jim purred at him, lilting his voice playfully, "But be sure you keep an eye on our girl. Things are going to start happening soon and our revenge will set sail."

"It can't come too soon for me." The tone was already lighter, his anger swayed. "But you watch what your doing now, don't slip up. You know how you get when you're too caught up in the game."

With that, the call ended and Moriarty tossed the phone into the bag. "Nothing wrong with having a little fun."

Life was dull without playing a game or two! Games kept the mind sharp if there were other good players involved. Sherlock enjoyed a good game but he had so much trouble listening to the rules, or listening to the clues. He had a sharp, sharp mind but only if he saw things the right way. Moriarty told him exactly what he planned to do from the very first, in the lab, at the pool, in every moment they had. God, he even set his ringtones for the end games! Sherlock saw everything and was uncannily good at reading people and situations but he could be so dense!

Molly was dense too but in a different way. That girl read people the way even he could not, she saw past the first layers of a person and got down to their tender flesh, the parts they were most afraid to let someone see. There were times she almost seemed to have a sort of sixth sense, almost like she knew things no one else did. Somehow, she sensed things that others were blind to, like some sort of modern day Seer. Her eyes saw vulnerability but she used it differently than most people with that strange talent.

Her sense could be fooled though, at least in part. Give her something that she wanted to believe over the truth and that would be her undoing. She liked to believe in people, believe in the good parts of them. It was true, she had a skill for bringing to good out of people, but it was also true that she was optimistically blind.

Sherlock's mind could be fooled, at least partly. Give him a puzzle and let him have a wildly complex answer to go with a simple one and he would inevitably dash for the more interesting. Hand him a puzzle and he wanted it to be grand, leaving himself open to be lead the wrong way.

As for he and Sebastian... they had weaknesses too, unfortunately.

What was interesting though, was one very simple factor that he seemed to be the only one to have noticed; all three men had one pulsing nerve of weakness in common. They each shared a weakness they could neither explain nor be rid of. One little optimistic girl had a finger on each of their weakest sides. What exactly she found to tangle her fingers into was still a mystery to him, the how of what she had done to them, but she had done it all the same.

Pretty little Molly Hooper had three larger-than-life men on a string. That just made the game that much more interesting! It made it more dangerous for all of them too because knights in shining armor or knights in black armor aside, a knight would fight a challenger for the hand of a lady fair. An angel would fall to his death for her, and a demon would kill for her. Molly was a little virus in their game of wits, and it would be hard to decide how to handle it. For now, they would all be using her and fighting for her at the same time. That made for a confusing set of rules.

The hearts of even cruel men were unpredictable... and he already missed that little angel. He would have to solve her part in the game, though he already knew how, just not how it would end. She was the wild card in their game and she made it all about skill and chance as well. For now, he would begin to work on her, work on Sherlock through her, and maybe end up burning them all alive while he was at it.

That was why the game was fun though, the risk!

Sebastian was unlikely to turn on him, but there was always that slight chance since the assassin was not even aware of his own obsession any more than Sherlock was yet. James, a fellow obsessee had come to terms with the mystery that was Molly Hooper, which had him at an advantage. He did not fear the potential competition, relished it really!

He was not afraid of the sniper because he would always be the boss, and that was that. And, because of that, he would share Molly with him so long as he remained the dominant force. He could accept a little give and take, at least he thought he could. One never knew, he might change his mind and surprise himself. Risk!

Oh, there was that pesky sample! With a sigh of relief he reached into the case and tugged it out, checking the numbers to be sure he had it right. For good measure he also stole the ones beside it, always good to head off potential problems with a preemptive strike. This evidence just could not get around when the game was not finished. Before he left he would snatch up all the files and erase every single thing regarding little Tom's secret second job. James Moriarty saved the day once again, and he would also be planting a few things while he was at it, little things for Sherlock.

The low, sterile lights reflected off the gleaming metal tables and glass bottles about the room. As was very typical, the great detective was hunched over a pile of evidence, the clothing, the dead judges, in this case. It was deathly silent, a bit like the morgue a few doors down. The two figured in the room had spoken little, making the air seem all the more stale for the lack of life given to it. Even though there had been no use of chemicals yet the stench of years of past use hung like a fog about the entire room, mixing only with ammonia, and the smell of the people that frequented the lab the most.

Molly, for example, never wore perfume in the lab but she had a very natural smell that was strangely calming, bit like a spa, comparable to lavender. Sherlock did not wear much in the way of cologne but his coat gathered up the smell of each time he ever had in his life and held it there like some sort of air freshener. John, the blogger, used a shaving cream that smelled of pine and balsa wood. Lestrade's Old Spice was even lingering in the air though he had not been around since the day before.

Being in a lab was a veritable attack on the nose each and every time anyone visited since it held those mixes so well over time. The two men occupying the space had grown used to it though as well as the silence and cold atmosphere of the place. Whenever Molly was there, it seemed to warm somehow, but when she was gone the chill set in again.

"Shouldn't you check on Molly?" John prompted, pushing at him in the casual tone.

"I fed her cat." Sherlock did not so much as look up, pretending not to notice the verbal elbowing John had a way of dishing out.

"Don't you think it would be a good idea to see her, maybe put a few questions to her?" John was not yet deterred.

"Lestrade can do that, I'm on a case, John. She was in a car accident that has nothing to do with Moriarty." Sherlock's voice had grown tense, one of his very few tells.

"You don't sound so sure about that." The doctor leaned his back against the wall as he watched the other man sift through the clothing spread over the lab tables. "Doesn't it seem a bit odd that she slipped away from one of your people, not knowing he was even there, just to get herself into an accident on a bus she would never have gotten on?" He lifted a finger and pressed it to his own lips a moment before continuing. "And we can't find her bag. You mentioned that yourself since it was not on the bus or at her place, so where is it? And-"

"Stop, John, you're distracting me." Sherlock muttered.

"Why won't you let me talk about it?" John crossed his arms in that very unique, guarded way of his that meant he was anything but relaxed, "Even Greg thinks what the girl saw seems odd. Who would walk into a bus and just leave the scene like that unless he was there for a reason?"

"Lestrade is letting Anderson talk too much! I told him to stop listening." The detective slammed a slide under the scope and hunched over it, "That girl told us nothing, couldn't remember a thing. She was useless!"

"What if Anderson is right, or, rather, onto something in a round about way?"

"Molly is not in liege with Moriarty, John!" Sherlock's head snapped up, finally fixing his eyes fully on the other man with a scowl.

John held up a finger to stop a tirade, "That was not exactly what he said, he said he thought there were too many connections between them to be coincidental."

"The fact that he did not target her is not a connection, it shows he did not see her as important any more than anyone ever thinks she is." Sherlock turned his body around to face his partner, fingers locked in a tight grip over the counter rim, "And he dated her to get to me, not because she meant anything to him."

"But Sherlock," John sounded utterly imploring, "what about the evidence?"

Blue-green eyes narrowed, "I explained that! That was clearly my fault. The cat hairs were on me from earlier in the day when I visited her flat, it is as simple as that. I don't see how you could think Molly had anything to do with those deaths. Toby's hair was on me and was transferred to that woman's body."

"You don't make mistakes like that." John persisted, "And I did not see any hair on your coat."

"I'm not used to being around cats so I'm unaccustomed to worrying about it clinging to me." His fingers flexed harder around the table, "But why are you unwilling to consider the hairs were accidentally transferred from Molly in the lab? That is equally possible."

John's voice took on a placating tone of lightness and slow words, "We never said she was a killer, we just wondered if it was possible that he could be using her again. He fooled her once." He was picking his words carefully, "And why did she not realize when she was testing the fibers, the hairs, that they were her cat's? You realized it not too long after looking at them and you compared them to her cat's. Molly's notes said they were animal hair, even cat hair, but why did she not notice?"

"Oh, stop it!" Sherlock growled before whipping around to face the scope again, "You are just projecting onto Molly all your personal unresolved feelings of mistrust in M-" He stopped himself instantly, clamping his eyes closed to ignore the quiet intake of breath behind him.

There was a long while of tense silence between them until John finally spoke again in a nearly choked voice, "Maybe you're right, but that only proves that you have been wrong before, that you're not infallible! You haven't seen things before. Even with Moriarty himself, that first time you met him, you did not see what he was!" A pregnant pause followed again before John persisted, "And why, do you suppose you didn't notice him? Hmm? Maybe because you were too distracted by how he hovered beside her? Because Molly bringing a strange man in had your mind focused more on how it might change things between you and your pathologist than about him? Did you ever stop to think that it was Molly that threw that great mind of yours off, not just his rather good acting skills?"

Sherlock's own voice had a tight sound to it, a deeper depth within that did nothing to belie his desire to speak of anything else in the world, "I don't care what Anderson said. Molly has never been my weakness. She helps me, and I do trust her, but she has never done me a moment of damage."

"Maybe." John turned around and walked toward the double doors, "I need some coffee."

AN: I wasn't sure what you'd all thing of the bonusy bit with Jim and Molly but I put it in anyway because it shows a little more of what he's like. And no, he didn't do more than that once she was asleep, for everyone's peace of mind. I don't actually think he would. In his very strange way, he has a code of honor. He plays games but the other side always has a shot to win too. It would defeat the purpose of a game if Molly didn't have a chance.

Tom and Molly's conversation was just fuuuull of hidden meanings on his side, if you all noticed. He's such a liar, liar-dee-liar.

As to Sherlock, I believe he has a huge blind spot in regard to Molly. When he realized she had spent all night in her lab, because he always knows, he did things to make her feel safe, but I don't think he would wholeheartedly believe she would be high risk even though she did all that. Sherlock tends to have these huge people blind spots, like how it took him almost dying to realize he needed Molly and cared about her. Similarly, he would have a hard time seeing her in danger because he doesn't want to. Kind of like I don't think he would even think Mycroft could ever be in danger because it's never happened before, so obviously it never could. Sherlock is very much a child in some ways. Buuut, as all things do, Sherlock will see change.
I also think that random acts of kindness are how he shows affection. He doesn't say it, perish the thought that he might admit to feelings, but he does little things that prove it, in his mind. Like taking Molly on a case solving day, he didn't say anything till she forced him to. He shows first, never tells.