This was definitively easier to write than the car-drive, but it helps with encouraging comments. You are all lovely for having patience with me here. A special thanks to scarlettsavage - your comment actually made me cry. I hope I live up to all of your great expectations my faithful readers, thank you for reading - hopefully you'll keep reading! PS: The chapters are getting names, or well song-titled more or less (yes, this late in the game). Hope this isn't any inconvenience to you!


We're in Hull - at a bed and breakfast - one room - one bed - and one fake boyfriend. I have to admit that I was shocked at the change of demeanour. One moment we're sitting in the car, in absolute resolute silence, which fell the moment he said that sentence. Though what was I expecting really? "Yes, Molly, I want you, that's why I chained myself to your bed," like anyone does it. That sofa is actually quite uncomfortable, and the red marks were probably from straining in the handcuffs you know. It all seems logical, which irritates the hell out of me. One moment I almost think we're having subtext in our conversation, possibly even flirting, and then he utters the word sofa - diminishing every single thought. Yes, there you go Molly Hooper, falling flat on your arse, believing for a shred of a second something so ridiculously silly! Of course it was the sofa! He probably got a kick out of pretending he was forced to stay there, though. Sherlock Holmes actually manages to let the key get eaten by my cat, honestly – no, of course not. I regret having tried to poke through Toby's specimen, more or less. He did look quite ruffled when I was rummaging in his cat sand. I felt like I was prodding in his private life myself.

Anyway, yes, we get out of the car.

One moment he's still Sherlock Holmes, and then all of a sudden there is a smile on his face. My jaw almost drops, it's an eye-crinkling smile, and I can still spot the falseness in it though. There's not that spark in his eye, but it could fool the best of them – it fooled Martin after all. This is his cover – a happy man, a fool more or less. I wonder what this supposedly means?

We enter the very posh looking Acorn Guest House, with it's furniture, fresh flowers, and fruit – Sherlock carries all the luggage, holds the door open for me, and let's me walk in ahead of him. I glance at him uneasily, while having this fake smile plastered on my face. He soon drops the bags on the carpet, by the reception, gives a bit of a sigh, before his arm slides around my waist in the most natural way. There his hand just rests, before he suddenly stands behind me holding me entirely, while nuzzling me on the neck.

I am as stiff as a board.

I've never been this uncomfortable in my life. Dead bodies or severed heads aside – this is probably the worst. I could compare it to the first time I ever cut open a dead body, but it won't even come close. I can almost feel the shakes coming, but I breathe deeply instead. I try to focus on the tanned receptionist who finishes her phone-call, before directing her attention to us. She gives us a broad smile, and Sherlock gives one in return, before separating from me – but not before giving me a quick chaste kiss on the neck. This is apparently something we do all the time. I can just feel the blush creep up, and I start waving my face, pretending it is the hot day that takes me.

The receptionist eyes land on Sherlock, who charmingly gets out a card quite quickly. Some false identification he's gotten from Mycroft obviously, and I just glance at him as the woman eats his story up entirely ("Oh, a wee bit of a holiday, you know. Hull seems like a lovely relaxed place. Not too much, but just right"). She looked like she was ready to eat him up herself ("Absolutely Mr Ames, you're quite right!"), but when the luggage gets taken away for us – he grasps my hand, and leads me along. I've never seen any woman send me an uglier look in my life, and I feel like saying "He's mine yes", except I remind myself of my actual boyfriend who's working at the moment. He's been texting me frequently, and I feel the smallest tingles of guilt. Here I am on a holiday or well I wouldn't call it a holiday. Yet when we enter the absolutely handsome bedroom, with the one bed, and an amazing view – I almost actually like Hull. Of course we're 2 miles out of the city centre, but I don't hate it with a passion as I had thought (probably because I'm relieved to be out of the car).

Sherlock is not Martin anymore though, which can be seen seconds after the luggage has been dropped off, and his laptop is in front of him. I almost ask why we make a show in front of the receptionist, but he answers me without me needing to say it - "She is a gossip. Quite distracted when we came in – some social network was open on the computer, and that was a personal call," he says drily, looking at me amused, before adding, "It is easier having one solid performance before one person, than having to keep it up entirely, don't you think?" There's finality in that statement, which meant there would be no more. No warm hand pressing upon mine, and no more feeling of his breath on my neck. Thank god. He directs his attention again to the laptop, and smiles, before shutting the screen. "The only place that offered WIFI - the reason I chose this place," he says. I quirk my brow at him - He's suddenly telling me more than usual, which is strange in a way. Is this how it feels to be John Watson, I suppose? All of a sudden all the taps have been opened. I suppose a clever disguise makes that happen. He's Martin Ames, my boyfriend for now, and it's odd. Luckily it won't last very long, and I'll just have to get used to the odd touching once in a while (if it happens again, he seemed adamant that it wouldn't). I walk out on the balcony, and stare at Hull. It's quite a view. How would I describe it? It's green, see, I'm not John Keats, but it's lush, as some would say - lush and green.

"I didn't know we needed the view. We're not going to be staying here much, are we?" I say, and he says, "We will have to try to keep up appearances. We'll return at night. I hope you don't have any problem now of sharing the bed," he says. I just shake my head, and settle sheepishly at the chair on the balcony, before shutting my eyes for some seconds. "You will have to show me around today, we'll just walk - see the sights."

"There's not much to see in Hull really," I say yawning.

"We'll have to pretend there is. I am sure we can come up with something. We will eat dinner together, at least, and you'll have to keep an eye open," he says. I just nod briefly with my eyes shut, before opening my eyes "Eyes open for what exactly?" I say turning my head to look at him. Sherlock is currently unbuttoning the plaid shirt he is wearing, as he tosses the specks on the bed. I was suddenly glad my eyes were open, despite myself. He stands up, opening the cuffs of his shirt, before saying "Molly, your father was a doctor," he says as a matter-of-factly. My dad was one of the reasons I went into the business, except I went in a more different direction than he did of course.

"Yes, he was one of the regulars in Hull. Everyone loved him," I say, a smile automatically in my face, almost forgetting that Sherlock is opening his shirt (he's got a white t-shirt underneath though).

"He worked as a surgeon in London before," he says. Dad had, but he abhorred the line of work he told me. I look expectantly at Sherlock, who then drops the apparent bombshell – the minor detail I had absolutely forgotten – the one reason as to why David got his job in the first place – "He worked for the same medical company – that David later got a job with." He sits in the white shirt staring at me pointedly.

"David didn't even get that job before after dad died too," I say with a frown.

Dad did hate that company, but he hadn't worked there regularly. It wasn't his main-thing. I never knew it was significant. I'd never even properly considered it really, then again – I never really thought that Moriarty had something to with David either.

"Very inconvenient for David –but we need to speak with your mother. There is something I need to talk with her about." I blanch.

"No, I - you - can't – you've – what if she - she'll think you're Martin," I say startled.

"That is the point, Molly. I hoped you had caught on that already," he says amused unnecessarily removing his white shirt, revealing his toned back, before disappearing into the bathroom – the door slamming behind him. I was left on the balcony with the crossest of expressions. He had already phoned her, I should have known – he's probably scheduled a sort of meet-up, without having informed me, and then the taps are all closed again.

We end up driving to central Hull of course, walking about, a dinner date just on the corner with mum, who was in abject glee on the phone. Sherlock had not been recognised whatsoever, despite openly walking about, he said, "People tend to ignore the obvious," as if that explained it, but people did look at him. Women specifically. It was as if Hull had never seen an attractive man before, I was just waiting for people to recognise me. I'd known many here, but those who I saw didn't seem to recognise me at all. I suppose there was a certain difference between her and me. Shockingly enough I was much more insecure then, than I am now, even with Sherlock Holmes holding my hand - at the moment. I wouldn't call myself insecure at the moment either, more ridiculously giddy, or mental due to my faux boyfriend. Probably mental Molly rearing her ugly head more or less. God.

"You already scheduled that with my mum, didn't you?" I ask him, as we sit on a bench. He's luckily just lazily holding onto my hand. He turns to face me, saying, "Yes."

"I do hope there is more than just dinner with my mum," I say.

"Depends on your mother," he says, and all of a sudden the lazy hand is gone. I'm soon pulled towards him, my face into his neck, as he whispers briefly in my ear "Don't move." I do as he commands, and sit there feeling his ragged breath on my ear. His eyes are trained on something, but I can't see – soon enough he's released me – his hand idly on my knee this time.

"What was that?" I ask looking around, people are just passing us, and there is nothing out of the ordinary. He just looks pensive, before bringing out the dead man's phone, walking off a small distance. I stare at his back in surprise. I can only hear small bits of the conversation really.

"- Yes – no – I think it was – I'm not seeing things no. Why would he be here? He's following us? I had hoped that show convinced him – maybe not." At that Sherlock hangs up the phone, settling down besides me, his cool hand on my knee again.

"I thought I saw John," he says.

That's rather upfront; I'd not expected that.

"Oh, are you sure?"

He looks at me, "Or maybe my mind was playing tricks with me," this causes me to frown.

"What?" I say.

He looks at me in earnest surprise.

"What?" he repeats. "I said I had obviously imagined it."

"You just don't go imagining things," I say, and he sighs, before grabbing for my hand again, which I end up pulling towards myself.

"I think you better tell me what's going on," I say more cross than I actually am.

"Molly, do you trust me?" he just says with a serious expression. "Yes," I say without blinking. He gives a first genuine smile in Hull, brief, but it was still real. "Then let us have dinner," he just says, taking hold of my hand, and I end up being pulled along by Sherlock Holmes – as always.