She opened her eyes and groaned. She hadn't expected to wake up in bed with Tom. She looked at his smooth unscarred back and felt a bit like a child molester. How old was he anyway, twenty-two, twenty-three?

It was the letter that had set her off, a note in the mail saying that her department was coming under review. When Sherlock came back, she knew that her death certificate would come into question, but he would be back then to help. Now she had to find a way not to draw attention to the fact that she had faked his death.

Well, this was what he had asked her for, wasn't it? She said that he could have anything, didn't he? Now she was only a few steps away from a full scale investigation that might end up losing her her license and then her job.

And if she lost her license, who else would hire her? She didn't have family to fall back on, and even if she did, she needed the money to keep paying for Jim's recovery. Jim? Why did she keep calling him by that name? He was James Moriarty, or he had been once. Now he was poor, wounded Quincy Hoehn. She hoped that the real Quince didn't mind the stolen identity. He had been a lovely man. The kind of man that would have been good for her, if he hadn't died. But she had always wanted someone a bit rougher, a bit more dangerous, and she'd got more than her money's worth there. That was why she had started dating Tom in the first place. He was kind, and he was easy.

She covered her eyes with her hand and climbed out of the bed. Then after gathering her clothes off of the floor, she rushed into the bathroom locking the door. She hadn't meant to sleep with him. She just wanted to get drunk, and he had texted just as she was on her way to the bar. She had succeeded in getting wasted, and like a gentleman he had taken her home only to have her maul him like a wildcat when they got there.

She wanted away from here. But, he at least deserved breakfast. She jumped in the shower and washed the smell of sex off of her skin. He was indeed young. He had come three times. She couldn't dare tell him that she hadn't thought of him once during the act. Twice it had been Sherlock, and the last time... She covered her face with her hand again, it had been Jim. Not James Moriarty, or Jim the gay guy, but Jim the man who had posted on her blog. The one that she secretly imagined had a crush on her. She knew now that James had only used her to get close to Sherlock. He had almost admitted it in their fight about it afterward, about passing him his number. But that was fake too wasn't it. He was playing a role, the gay fan with a crush on the famous detective. Reality and fantasy were mixed together. She couldn't tell where one ended and another began. Her face turned sober as she shut off the tap. That last time with Tom, she'd imagined that Jim was touching her, but when she bit he lip to stop herself from crying out, the name that she had almost cried was James.

She knew then that she was one sick woman.

"Hi!" Tom said as she walked into the bedroom in her bathrobe. "Good morning."

"Uhm, yeah...morning. I just need to get my clothes so that I can..."

"Oh, I'm in your way! I can step out ..." Tom said throwing the covers aside as he tried to rise to his feet. Her eyes unconsciously looked down there. before she turned away clutching her knickers to her chest.

"No, I'll just get my clothes and dress in the bathroom. You ...take your time."

She rushed out of the room her neck turning red. 'God! She was such an idiot!' After dressing, she cooked some eggs and toast and agonized over whether to brew coffee or tea, before brewing coffee, because she needed something to sober her up. She drank her first cup to wash away the taste of paracetamol looking up as she heard him exit the lav.

He came out doe-eyed and smiling wearing trousers and no shirt. She stared at his bare torso and frowned. He was almost too young for chest hair. When she handed him a cup of coffee, he bent down and kissed her lips. She flushed again, ashamed. He was so young and innocent. She put the eggs and toast on a plate, taking one piece of toast to eat. Maybe he'd stop trying to kiss her if she had food in her mouth.

"I have to go to work this morning," Molly said. "I'm the on-call pathologist today. Take your time eating. Just lock the door when you're done.

She walked to the sink and washed her hands. Then she left the kitchen to get her purse and coat. Tom caught her in his arms as she walked past. He rubbed his hand through her hair and lifted her face to kiss her again.

"You're amazing!" he said, "When will you be back. I can't wait to be with you again. I've never felt like this before."

"No, Tom. You can't wait here. It will be hours...all day."

"I don't care, I'll wait for years."

"You can't. Not here, someone might come."

"Who? your parents? I thought that you said that they were dead."

Sherlock might come. "No not them, I just meant...we should go to your place. Dinner maybe later tonight?"

"My place? I'll have to get rid of my flatmate, but...yeah. We can have pizza."

"Great, that will be great. I must go now. I'll be late."

He tried for another kiss, but she pushed away from him so that it landed on the edge of her forehead. She put on her coat and grabbed her bag and keys off of the counter. "Just, don't stay too long...the neighbors might... see you... see you later."

"I'll count the hours till..."She didn't hear the rest because she let the door slam in his face as she rushed out of the flat.

She needed help. She needed to find a way to stop the investigation. She pulled out her phone and stared at it. There was a number. Sherlock had given it to her in case she needed to contact him. It was a safe number to pass information to if she needed help while he was away. She'd never used it, but as her panic reached manic levels she decided to try. She pushed the button and held it up to her ear as she hid in the stairwell. The phone line clicked open but the person on the other side of the line said nothing.

"Hello. This is Molly Hooper, and I need some help."

Silence

"Sherlock told me to call this number if I ever had trouble because of...you know. Hello? is Sherlock there?"

"No, Miss Hooper, he is not. This is Mycroft Holmes. How may I assist you?"

"Oh, of course, you would be the one to call," she said. "I have a little problem and I need your help."

"I will send a car to your flat. It should arrive in about fifteen minutes,"

"Thank you," she said, "but can you have it meet me at the coffee shop on the corner. I'd like to avoid notice if that's all right with you."

"Certainly, Miss Hooper. I look forward to your visit."

She walked out of the flat and rushed away. It wouldn't do for Tom to see her climbing into a black car. He still thought that she was ordinary. She had tried so hard to be special only to have people take one look at her and think her ordinary. Now she wanted to look ordinary or perhaps even invisible.

She walked to the coffee shop, and then stood in the recessed doorway looking back the way she'd come for fear that Tom would see her. She had barely stood there for five minutes when a black car pulled up and a woman opened the door to let her in.

It was only after she had climbed in to sit beside the woman, who was dressed very smartly with black pumps and a short black and white patterned dress, that Molly realized that what she was doing was a very bad idea. Sherlock had told her how powerful her brother was in the secret circles of the government, but she hadn't really believed it. Now as she rode in a car with mirrored windows, sitting beside a woman with perfect hair, killer lipstick, and quite possibly a gun in her hand bag, Molly realized that he wasn't exaggerating. She was going to ask him to draw attention away from the death certificates because of Sherlock's faked one, but if he looked too close, he might find out about Jim.

It had been compassion and perhaps a bit of madness that had led her to do what she'd done, but that's probably not how Mycroft Holmes would see it if he found out that Moriarty was still alive. She looked down at the handbag wondering if a gun could really fit in there. The woman noticed her glance, and smiled at her. Molly's mouth went dry. If Mycroft Holmes thought that she was working for James Moriarty she might not come of this visit alive.