Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. And thanks for their reviews go to Cloudy Gas, Renaissencebooklover108, MorbidbyDefault, jankmusic, LadyK1138, AJP910, Calicar, Rocking the Redhead, Crimson and Chrome 42 and Katya Jade. Hope you enjoy, hearing the home stretch now. Enjoy!

BUT ALL IS NEW, UNHALLOWED GROUND

For most people, saying and doing are very different things.

Sherlock has always understood this- But then, a child who grew up around Mycroft Holmes Jnr. And Snr., watching both men lie to themselves, to their family and their employers, could not fail to notice such a thing. He'd needed no mother spirited away in the night to understand that. And the gap between word and deed had gotten even wider when he went to school, then university, the difference between what his fellow students said they were, and what they actually did, becoming more noticeable every day. It had irritated Sherlock then, and it irritated him now. To see as much as he did and have it not only go unacknowledged, but often openly dismissed, is infuriating.

Because Sherlock sees everything. He records everything. And he tells everything- For him, subtext must always be in the process of being made into text if it is to justify its existence.

Since his earliest experiences with other people were all predicated upon his not being allowed to do so, however, he has always discounted his fellow humans, and the gaps between their words and their deeds. The conclusion of his research is unmistakeable: His fellow humans are not to be trusted.

They lie. They say they will do things and don't follow through. They are dishonest.

Not Molly though, he thinks now as pushes his way into the morgue. She's standing at the autopsy table and as he watches she hefts the last bit of her cadaver's intestines into the weighing scales and note its weight down.

No, when Molly says something, he muses, she does it.

And he could ask for no greater evidence of that than the last few weeks.

Because Molly has been as good as her word, she has pulled herself together. She's stopped hiding in the flat and crying into her pillow, and she's started helping him solve the case. Closer inspection of the doll had proved fruitless: There had been nothing save trace evidence from the road on it. But then, as John had pointed out, that was hardly surprising. Ollie, unlike most of the criminals Sherlock dealt with, had known from the beginning that he was dealing with the Great Detective and had acted accordingly. In fact, he was an avid reader of John's blog.

As Watson was fond of pointing out, it was a case of wanker, yes, moron no.

As Sherlock was fond of pointing out, it was a case of I told you the internet's the work of Lucifer, John, and no amount of jiggling, bare breasts will convince me otherwise.

And because he wasn't a moron, Hough had made no threats to Molly that could be traced to him, had sent no texts, no letters. There had been no harassment, save the doll, and that could not yet be tied to him. All she had received was a polite answering-machine message from his secretary requesting she box up and deposit anything he had left at her place in Whitechapel and leave it into his surgery in St. John's Wood.

Hough had even offered to send a taxi.

Sherlock had gone with her instead when she dropped the box off, hoping to goad The Bastard into attacking him in front of witnesses or something equally asinine- It was still their best bet for getting a conviction. And besides, he'd bugged just about every object in the box which would take a listening device, and he wanted to make sure they were delivered. But though Hough narrowed his eyes and glared when he saw Sherlock, and though the temperature in the room dropped about ten degrees when Holmes gleefully (childishly, according to Molly) put his hand on her back to escort her from the office, leaning in close and whispering in her ear though he could have easily said the words aloud-

Hough did nothing.

In fact, he actually smiled at her and wished her well, since the clinic manager was watching, "Molly and her new boyfriend."

And when Sherlock got home that night, he discovered that Hough had binned everything Molly had returned to him. None of the bugs were working, and so no intelligence about his movements were forthcoming. Which was both frustrating and unhelpful- funny how those two things went hand in hand- as well as leaving Sherlock in the uncomfortable position of having to wait for him to commit another assault before he had anything new to go on. It was driving him insane.

"Are you alright, Sherlock?" he hears Molly's voice chime now.

He brings himself back to the present.

"Yes," he says. "Why?"

She shrugs, looking down at her bag and examining its contents with slightly more interest than they usually warranted. "You just looked… scowly. And things. Like you were thinking of something unpleasant-"

Sherlock shrugs too, tries to give her a reassuring smile. According to Mary, it still makes him look like a serial killer. "I was thinking of something unpleasant," he says. "I was thinking of Hough."

"Oh." Molly takes a deep breath and bites her lip. She's replaced the intestines and is peeling off her latex gloves. Must be nearly finished. Sherlock is looking forward to taking her home. "So no news then?" she asks carefully.

He shakes his head. Now he knows he's scowling. "None. I'm afraid I'll just have to wait for him to send another message-"

She takes a deep breath, her mouth thinning. Instantly Sherlock goes on alert.

"Think I might be able to help you there, Sherlock," she says quietly. "Follow me."

And frowning, he follows her into the back, to the locker rooms. He's not sure what she's on about, but he's been knee-deep in a murder all day- boring, nobody checked the hobnobs for iocane, the police are idiots- and he hasn't been here long, he feels he might be forgiven the lapse.

Molly stops at her locker and searches her pocket before locating the key. Opens the locker door with it and then steps back and gestures for Sherlock to take her place in front of the metal box. Sherlock does so, frowning, and looks inside. He sees her change of clothes, her new leather jacket, and a small tub of the hand cream he bought her when she moved in on the locker's top shelf, as well as a couple of photos of her, John and Mary pinned inside the door. There's a small box of latex gloves beside the hand cream, and a hairbrush; He's just about to ask Molly what he's looking for when she sighs and moves to box of gloves out of the way.

And there he sees it.

A tiny, plastic doll. Also two inches tall. Also generic.

Also, by the looks of things, a product of that mighty, industrial powerhouse that is urban Taiwan.

But this isn't a doll of a woman, no, this is a doll of a knight on a white, plastic charger. He wears no helmet, only carries a shield and lance in his hand.

His hair is dark and curly.

The knight's head has been severed from his shoulders and placed neatly beside his horse, small and insignificant. His eyes have been burnt out.

Someone has set a small sign against his horses saddle, the word traitor printed in pristine, red letters. Sherlock supposes he's been called worse in his time. The detective turns to look at Molly in astonishment. "Why on Earth didn't you tell me this sooner?" he demands.

His voice sounds so loudly that it's bouncing off the walls.

Molly looks uncomfortable. Defensive. "You were at a crime-scene-"

"So were you." He looks at her incredulously. "Did you even tell Lestrade what happened? Stamford? Security? Anyone?"

She shakes her head. "I told Sally," she says. "She said she'd pass it onto my case worker with the Community Safety Unit, but unless there's been an injury-"

Not for the first time, Sherlock has to fight the urge to shake her until her teeth rattle. "And is that all? Why the Hell didn't you call me, text me, something-?"

He's practically hopping with annoyance.

"I was upset, ok?" The words come out loud. Unhappy. Angry.

And it's so rare for Molly to raise her voice that Sherlock actually blinks at her in surprise. When he looks at her though her face is puce with upset, embarrassment, and try as he might he can't understand it.

"You were upset, so you didn't call me?" he asks, genuinely bewildered.

He thought… He thought they had a system.

He thought… He thought they understood each other now.

Molly squeezes her eyes shut, shaking her head as she goes. She doesn't speak, her hands clenching in on themselves, as if she's trying to calm herself. Her breath getting quicker, then quicker again. She does that during her panic attacks, Sherlock thinks. She does that during her flashbacks. But she hasn't had one of those in…

It comes to him. She's having one. Now. A fresh one.

And by the looks of things, it's not the first of the day.

She starts trying to breathe more slowly now, trying to calm herself, but it's not happening. Her body's shaking, going into overload, and though he wants to yell at her until both their ears bleed he knows that he can't.

They have to deal with this immediately.

So Sherlock does what he always does, which is distract her. There's no laptop and no Doctor Who in the morgue, so he supposes he'll just have to improvise. He picks her up and plops her unceremoniously onto the nearest work surface, leans into her and lets her hear his breathing. Deep, loud, heavy, it goes in. Deep, loud, heavy, it comes out. Just like she has every other time, Molly tries to follow him, leaning into him, letting him lead. She tries to even her breathing out, her forehead resting on his chest, but it isn't working. Her eyes are closed and she's inside the attack, she needs something to break the cycle of it. Something to bring her out.

"Molly," Sherlock says, and when she doesn't respond he takes her face in his hands, tilts it upwards.

Her eyes remain resolutely shut, a frown puckering her brow.

He can feel the sweat on her skin.

"Molly," he repeats, making his voice as calm, as authoritative as he can, "I need you to open your eyes. Look at me."

She wheezes out something which sounds like, "Can't-" but Sherlock shakes his head.

"Oh yes you bloody can, Hooper," he says tightly. Her breathing is still helter-skelter, and he forces himself to gentle his voice.

"Yes you can," he says more softly. He leans his forehead against hers. Counts his breaths, waits for her to follow suit. Slowly, slowly, she begins to do so. Her soft voice joining in his louder one- one, two, three, One, Two, Three- until it starts to calm.

They stay like that until she's recovered completely, until she's breathing properly again. Once that happens she flops down against him as she has so often before, her head resting heavily on his shoulder as his hand moves to tentatively stroke her back. For a moment all is peace, quiet, and then suddenly she stiffens.

She draws away from him, looks away from him, and for the first time in months Sherlock would swear she's embarrassed in his presence.

"Sorry about that," she murmurs then. "And sorry… about earlier. I only found it an hour ago, and I thought… I texted John at the crime scene and he said you were alright, so I didn't… I didn't want to bother you with it…"

Sherlock shakes his head. "We're in this together, Molly," he says softly. "You said you wanted to get this bastard-"

She looks up at him. "But that's just it: That day, when we found the first one, I said I'd help. I said I was better now. How could I call you in the middle of a panic attack after promising you I was fine? How could I worry you like that..?"

And her voice trails off as she shakes her head angrily to herself.

She tries to curl in on herself, but Sherlock makes her look at him.

"You think this didn't worry me?" He can't believe what he's hearing. "I was worried already. I worry about you every day, Molly. And I'm going to worry about you even more, now what Hough's made clear St. Bart's security is for amateurs."

He takes a deep breath, manages to calm himself a tiny bit.

"But even if you have a little… hiccup in your recovery, you don't have to hide it from me," he tells her. "I'd rather know you're not okay sometimes than be kept out of the loop, alright?" She nods once, shyly, looking much chastened, and without thinking about it, without even considering the consequences or the meanings of it, Sherlock pulls her to him and kisses her forehead. Lays his own against hers again. Just like he would Mrs. Hudson. Or John. Or Mary. Or- Or-

Or nobody.

Because this kiss didn't feel like something he would do with any of those people, fond as he is of them, and judging by the wide-eyed way Molly's looking at him, she knows that.

Just as, judging by the wide-eyed way she's looking at him, she thinks it was inappropriate as Hell.

For a moment Molly looks at him, lashes fluttering, mouth opening and closing- And then slowly, oh so slowly, she tilts her head sideways and leans into him, her lips offered up to his. Sherlock stares as she gets closer, her breath against his own, the instinctive desire to dip his head and meet her halfway making mincemeat of his sense of emotional equilibrium.

He waits, one second, two seconds, not sure which one of them will bridge the divide, not sure when his actions (and hers) stopped being unseemly-

And then suddenly he sees awareness return to Molly's eyes and she looks away, her face flaming red with embarrassment.

"I'm- Oh God, I'm so sorry," she mutters. "I'm so sorry."

And she pulls herself off her perch and grabs her coat from her locker, takes off back into the morgue to close up for the night.

Sherlock watches her go but he's on autopilot, collecting the evidence from her locker, sealing it in a bag he keeps on him these days for just such an emergency. They don't speak in the taxi ride on the way home, and they don't speak as they listen to John's new voice-mail, the one Sherlock missed because he was calming Molly and kissing her in the morgue. It informs them that Henry Knight's gone missing, and the police suspect foul play: He's been getting these threatening doll things, you see, all those kids of his have been talking about them.

Molly and Sherlock go to bed and each lays awake all night, thinking.

But the guilt of it is, the majority of their thoughts are not with poor Henry Knight.