Wow, thank you all so much for the overwhelmingly positive reception of the last two chapters!

Thank you so much to the guest, miischall, lovebirds413, Einvine, and Chee2468642, and keeptheotherone for your support and feedback.

I'm ecstatic that you enjoyed them, and I'm excited for what's coming up. In this chapter, we see Molly's side of the story. :)

Chapter 18, In Which Love is a Lesson in Self-Defense

Molly Hooper nodded absently to Sherlock as he left the room – he was seeing to John and Mary – and oh! If Mary was here, in labor, that meant she was all right – safe. She felt a small pang of guilt for not asking earlier, about Mary, but…really, she supposed she'd be forgiven. Still in shock, and all that. She barely noticed Greg's presence in the room. She was staring, discreetly – fascinated - at her hand.

Sherlock held my hand, she thought numbly to herself. It was…warm…and tingled, pleasantly. She rubbed her fingers together, lightly, remembering the ghost-like touch of Sherlock's hand on hers – and how it traveled, up and down her arms – and the press of his cheek, on her hair -

Molly Hooper had dealt with many things in her lifetime. She had seen the cruelty of classmates and beauty of close friendship, the sorrow of loosing a beloved father and the reassurance of having a strong, loving mother. She'd been on both the giving and receiving end of heartbreak and disappointed hopes (well…mostly the receiving end, but still). She had worked hard to achieve many goals - academic, career-oriented, and personal, and she'd performed autopsies on people who'd died horrific deaths, and lied to friends for their own protection. She'd also saved the life of the man she loved and slapped the same man silly over a foolish, dangerous mistake, on his part. She'd had a very busy life, for a shy single woman who worked nearly exclusively with the dead.

Today, though – today contained more than Molly Hooper ever thought she would experience. She'd been kidnapped – a new, terrifying experience, although not as horrifying as what followed. It was cruelty of the worst kind for Jim to try and persuade her that Sherlock loved her. Of course he didn't – he didn't. Not that way.

Did he?

Well…he might love people, as in – care about their well-being, and…people might count to him…but really, love was not a word she'd ever heard Sherlock utter, and she never expected to hear it from him, in regards to anyone. But…she was kidnapped, to get to Sherlock, because she counted, and he did come to rescue her – even he was just - just a tad late. So, perhaps he did care about her – love her - in the most basic, friendliest kind of way. She hadn't let herself believe it, on the boat, with Jim…

The boat. Molly shivered again, and was faintly aware of Greg tucking another blanket more firmly around her lower half. She blinked, and breathed deeply through her nose, allowing the feeling of panic and fear to wash through her and out, again.

Escaping – pain, sharp, in her hand – a fight - the boat – jumping, icy, frigid, into water – the explosion – the swimming – awful, horrible – death – choking -

And then – Sherlock.

Of course Sherlock would rescue her. Of course, it had to be Sherlock. Not a secret agent or Sergeant Donovan or Greg or John or some stranger. Of course it had to be Sherlock, reaching down with strong arms and gentle hands and a warm coat.

Her heart skipped in her chest, and she remembered the feel of his arms around her, and how tightly he held her.

He was just trying to keep you warm, she chided herself. Hypothermia was a legitimate danger, for you. She did count, of course – he was – logically – saving her -

But Sherlock held my hand. The traitorous thought returned to her mind, giving her hope and warmth in a place deep inside her chest. Perhaps he'd held her, on the boat, to keep her warm – but – in the ambulance, and in the examining room, out of wet clothes and into warm blankets - all danger of hypothermia decreasing rapidly, if not gone – his hand had kept returning to hers, hesitantly, once every few moments – just a light, reassuring squeeze, occasionally his thumb grazing her knuckles, for a few seconds. Why – why would he do that, if he did not love her? Even if he was just – comforting – why comfort, if there was no love in it?

He loves you, he loves you not, he loves you, he loves you not -

Stop it, she willed herself, squeezing her eyes shut, and tensing.

"Molly." Greg intruded on her reverie gently, quietly.

"Oh," she breathed, opening her eyes, and smiling tremulously at the concerned face of her friend. "Sorry -"

"Sorry? Molly, you have absolutely nothing to be sorry for. All right?" He asked, holding her good hand, eyes searching her face, traveling swiftly, clinically over her body, and resting again on her face. "Gave us a quiet a scare." He smiled kindly, lopsided, at her. "Even Sherlock. Practically had to pry him off you, I heard."

Molly felt a tiny bit of color creep into her pale cheeks, and smiled inwardly, lips not quite still enough to form a solid smile.

Greg cleared his throat, once, and looked away, before holding her gaze, his face serious. "I'm sorry, Molly. I'm very sorry you had to go through that, and I'm glad you're safe. We all are."

She returned his smile again, fleetingly, and went back to worrying her lips. She shivered again. Blast it – never going to be warm –

"Molly, I have to ask you what happened-"

She blanched, and shivered again – at least I don't have to pee -

"-not yet, if you don't want to – and it doesn't have to be me – you can rest, first – get warm again. You're still in shock. But, Molly – you are going to have to tell someone – someone from the Yard - what happened, and as soon as you feel you can do it…you should. Molly," Greg said, and he paused, waiting until she looked him in the eye. "Don't keep it bottled up, yeah? You're not alone. Don't let it turn into something…well, just don't let the memory of it become worse than the reality of what it was. I know several people, myself included, who are willing to listen, anytime you need to talk about it. Okay?"

She nodded, hesitant.

Greg sat back, as if to stand, and she gripped his hand hard. She was…not afraid, exactly, of being alone – but she didn't want to be alone, not now.

He quickly leaned forward, returning her grip gently and firmly, watching her face.

"I…I'd like to tell you, Greg," she whispered, her voice breaking just a bit, eyes darting between their hands and his face, then looking away.

She wanted Sherlock's hand, really, and she felt embarrassed, because Greg was a good friend, and she should be thankful he was here…really…but…she wanted Sherlock here. But she needed someone now, to comfort her, to hold her hand, and reassure her that she was fine, that she was going to be fine, and that everyone and everything would be fine. And her eyes filled with tears again, because what she wanted and what she needed were once again at odds with one another.

"Okay, all right, I'll take your statement," Greg quickly reassured her.

Molly bit her lip, blinking back tears, and nodded. "Th-thank – you," she said brokenly.

"Hey, hey!" Greg said softly, rubbing her hand gently. "It's okay! Let it out, Molly. Cry. It's okay."

And so Molly turned her face away from him, and let tears fall, her body shaking with silent sobs. Greg stared at her hand, nodding absently, pressing his lips together, understanding.

"He…he sent Janine to get us," she began after her tears were spent and her eyes burned with the salt of so many of them. Greg looked up at her, sharply. "I'd just f-finished my shift at St. Bart's – and – Mary – and – I…" she sniffled loudly, once, and looked around. "Can you hand me a tissue, please?"

He quickly complied, handing her the whole box, and also took out a pad of paper and pen, as well as a pocket recorder, to take her statement. He could ask questions later – right now, he needed to listen and record, and comfort as best he could. It was hard on him – as a D.I., and a friend, but he hid it very well with years of experience, and sat in to listen like the faithful, stalwart man he'd always been.

When she had dried her face and nose, she continued, twisting a tissue again and again with her right hand. She told him about the pills, about Mary getting shot, about waking up in her father's study on a boat (she wasn't worried about her mum, no – her mum had been visiting friends in Canada – she'd left after the holidays, and would be gone for another month – no, don't call her, yet – I'll do it, later), about coffee, and Jim, and the two other people she knew of, on the boat – one male, one female – Lestrade confirmed that they'd found the body of the woman, but not the other male – they might have to dredge the river, to find it – and about needing to use the loo, and Jim letting her go with Celia to use it.

Here she paused, and noticed distantly that the tissue she'd been twisting was in shreds in her lap. Her chin trembled, and two fat tears trickled down her cheeks, and she quickly wiped them away with the heel of her palm, and grabbed another tissue.

She smiled when Greg sat down his pen and took her hand, once again. His gaze was kind and understanding. She felt a surge of thankfulness towards her friend – towards all of her friends – and a tiny bit of the burden on her heart lifted. She lifted her head, and continued with calm resignation.

"Celia took me to the loo, near the back…stern?...of the boat. When…we got there…there were…two doors, in the room. We went in one…and…she – she had handcuffs. She handcuffed me, to the…" she giggled, once, short, "to the towel rack - above the toilet paper holder."

The loo smells like urine and stale river water, and like too-strong potpourri. There's also a strong whiff of pollution, from a factory on the river, which has somehow made its way below deck. Everything about this bathroom is garish and dim – and the door they walked in is sawed off, a few inches from the floor. It leads right in to the toilet, and next to the toilet is a sink with a small cabinet beneath it. Another door, on the opposite wall, to the right of the sink, leads to who-knows-where.

"Don't even think about it," snarls Celia, and single-handedly handcuffs Molly's wrist – tensed and stiff in a fist - to the towel rack. Molly remembers Janine's adeptness with using a single hand in the cab, and briefly considers training herself to be ambidextrous, if she makes it out of this alive. It seems to be quite useful.

"I'll be outside the door," Celia nods to the sawn-off door, and trains her gun on Molly, backing up, and closing the door.

And so Molly awkwardly unbuttons her trousers and sits on the foul-smelling toilet, one arm in the air, connected to the towel rack. But she's terribly nervous, and knows that this may be her only chance to think of a plan without being watched, so she thinks -

What would Sherlock do?

Think, Molly. Think.

She bites her lips and looks around the tiny bathroom, taking in the sink, and the towel rack; the little cabinet and the other door by the sink…Celia's feet, outside, straight in front of her…and she's got it.

She pauses, blinking, and thinks through it again.

It just might work.

As long as the other door doesn't lead to a closet.

Oh please, don't let it be a closet.

"She…left me in there. And I…I came up with a plan," Molly continued, feeling a bit feverish as the memory of adrenaline ghosted through her veins. Her lashes fluttered and she stiffened her lower lip, refusing to cry again.

"Celia?" Molly calls, hesitant, her voice barely a whisper. Celia doesn't answer.

"Celia?" Molly tries again, a bit louder, this time.

"What?" A harsh response.

"Um…is it…all right if I turn the sink on? So I can…go…?" She holds her breath and waits for a response.

She can practically hear Celia roll her eyes. "Whatever. Just know I will shoot if I think you're up to anything in there."

"Oh…okay." Molly's voice is back to a whisper – it's like a nightmare, when you want to scream, but nothing comes out. She licks her lips, reaches awkwardly to turn the spigots on the sink, and waits for the water to run.

And of course she uses the toilet – that's what she came here for, isn't it? And she really, truly did need to go; that wasn't a lie – quickly, very quickly, and then doesn't flush. She leaves the tap water flowing from the sink.

Slowly, slowly, she stands, and buttons her trousers, making sure to keep her feet very, very still. She's banking on the idea that Celia is watching her feet, just as she is watching Celia's.

And then comes the difficult bit.

Sherlock told her, when he was staying at her flat after his 'death', that it was terribly simple to break out of handcuffs. All you needed were two bobby pins. And if that failed, all you needed to do was break your thumb, and out your wrist would slip.

Unfortunately, Molly did not have any bobby pins.

"She was…watching my feet, through the bottom of the door…it was, sawn off, sort of, at the bottom. I…well, I turned the sink on, so she couldn't – couldn't hear? And I stood up, carefully, and made sure…I made sure my feet were very still, so she would think I was still…using it, you know?" Molly blushed. "And then…I…I broke my thumb so I could slip out of the handcuffs."

Greg made a strange, sympathetic sound, and the pained expression on his face made Molly look away from him, at the shredded tissues on her lap.

"Moll…" he whispered, full of compassion, and a little awe, and she blinked rapidly, and swallowed.

The hardest part is not screaming. It hurt – oh, it hurt terribly – and her heart races and she feels like throwing up – thank goodness the water in the sink is flowing. She can't help a moan escape her lips, though, as she cracks her proximal phalange, and pushes her hand and broken thumb through the circle of the cuffs. And don't move – don't – move – she pretends her feet are cement pillars, hundred-year-old oaks, immovable – can't move them. Tears blur her vision, but she blinks them rapidly away, and freezes, eyeing Celia's trainers outside the door.

"Everything all right in there?" Celia barks.

Molly whimpers, loudly, for effect. The whimper doesn't require much acting. "Just having some…uh…cramps."

"Ugh. Don't care. Finish up, though. Quickly."

And then comes the other part of her plan, only marginally less difficult than breaking her thumb.

"After I…got out, of the handcuffs…I…wiggled out of my shoes. They're…always tied – I just like to slip them on and off, and not bother with – with tying, so they're pretty loose. I…well…"

Carefully, carefully, minutely, she slips out of them, inching her toes up the well-worn soles, freezing every few seconds, heel up and out, inching, inching - first the right foot, then the left, until she is standing on her tip-toes just inside the openings of her trainers. And then…carefully, carefully…

"I...slid over the sink – lifted my feet in the air - it hurt, with my thumb – I had to…put pressure on my hands, to get across without letting my feet down-"

She's done it! Now…the door. Please…please…she tries it – unlocked, and carefully, carefully twists the handle, cracking it – just a bit, just a bit…and peeks through the crack. Not a closet!

"I opened the other door, and it lead to a room…unused, but it had other doors. So I…went through it, and…closed it behind me…and found a door in the corridor outside that room that lead to…to stairs."

Her heart is pounding now, and she's trembling, nearing panic – surely Celia will find out soon that she's gone…but she's made it to the deck, and she creeps out, in her socks – yes! She finds a…boat thing, she's not sure what it's called – on the deck, large and bulky - but she hides behind it, and she's hidden from view. She has a clear view of the river, and aside from one tiny grey boat, in the distance, heading their way, there is no one around to help her. The wind blows, and she shivers, wrapping her good arm around herself.

She contemplates jumping – but – really, even though she's a strong swimmer (summers in the country and a swim team at 14 will do that, for you), she knows it's still winter and cold and the risk of hypothermia is very great. They're at least two hundred meters from either bank of the river, and though there are factories about, there's no guarantee there'll be anyone to help her once she does get there. She needs to…maybe go to the approaching boat? But what if it is someone working for Jim, coming to help him?

Her decision is made when Celia comes barging onto the deck. Molly sees her twist her neck – first this way, then that – and Molly freezes, shivering, suddenly very aware of the cold air seeping its way through her jumper.

"I hid on deck. I tried to…well, Celia – found me." Molly swallowed, closing her eyes. "She was creeping around…I tried to run… to back away, but I lost sight of her, and she...she…grabbed me, behind this…well, it was tall, and she was…behind me, and I – I actually backed into her."

She can't see the grey boat anymore – she's hidden from sight, and backs up, and then there are arms around her, gripping her hard, and the barrel of a gun – and Molly's heart breaks at the feel of the cold metal and she's so, so sorry and Molly goes limp in Celia's arms, defeated.

"And she grabbed me…but…I…fought. I - I f-fought her."

But her dead weight throws Celia off, and Celia stumbles, just enough, and her grip on the gun loosens, and at the knowledge that Celia has faltered, Molly straightens and twists out of Celia's hold, and in a flood, conversations with Sherlock on the best way to incapacitate a strong person with a gun come back to her.

At first she's hesitant, and her first blow only serves to make Celia angry – but she remembers in time that the most important thing is to get the gun away from the enemy, and her next move – a sharp twist and intense pressure on the capitate and midcarpal joint, using her good right hand – causes Celia's grip to loosen even more, and with her injured hand, Molly painfully knocks the gun out of Celia's hand, and it slides into the water.

Celia swears at her and in a quick, expert move, turns and pins Molly's injured arm behind her back, twisting it painfully. Tears come to Molly's eyes, but adrenaline is coursing through her system and for some reason her sole purpose is now to get off of this boat and thank Sherlock for teaching her how to defend herself.

So she bends her knees, giving herself some power, and uses the energy to throw herself back into Celia, and as luck would have it, there is water on the deck, and Molly didn't plan on taking her down like that, but Celia slips, and falls, hitting her backside and head hard on the deck. Molly hears another bone in her own hand crack, but still scrambles to roll off Celia quickly, awkwardly, gasping in pain, inadvertently kneeing Celia in the ribs as she does so.

Celia moans, and rolls her head back and forth, attempting to stay conscious, but Molly is already away from her.

And there is a shout – a man, the man who brought her coffee before Jim came in, steps out of a room, on a half-deck above her – was he steering the boat?, and Molly freezes for a split second, before a voice in her mind that sounds suspiciously like Sherlock's orders to her to jump. Now.

"We fought," Molly continued quietly, explaining to Greg. "And she slipped on…water, on the deck. I fell – on her, and got away, but there were…there was another man coming. So I – I jumped. Into the river."

Greg nodded, recording everything, lips pressed together, controlled. His eyes, when they met Molly's, were full of sympathy and encouragement.

"And I started swimming…underwater, following the current, away from the boat…towards…well, towards the grey boat. I didn't…know it was Sherlock, I was just…really hoping it wasn't someone working for – well, Jim."

She remembers in time to keep her feet pressed together, and pinches her nose with her thumb and finger as she enters, her left hand held tightly to her body. The water is cold – icy cold, and in the shock she nearly gasps. She doesn't, though, and breathes out a few bubbles from her nose as she moves her arms, slowing her descent. She allows herself to sink for a few seconds before kicking, and begins paddling to the surface. The pain in her left hand is intense, but she does her best to ignore it. She reaches the surface and takes a deep breath and dives under again, just a few feet below the surface, the cold water already causing her to shiver intensely. Even going with the current, towards the grey boat, her broken thumb causes a fiery pain with every stroke of her left hand and her kicks are growing her weaker. She's only traveled maybe ten meters, and she's starting to worry that maybe – maybe she won't even make it to the grey boat, let alone any riverbank.

She comes up again, and the boat is still coming towards her, maybe…a hundred meters away? But something…something about the captain is familiar…and her breath catches in her throat, and she realizes that unless Tom, or someone else with dark curls and a Belstaff is somehow coming to her rescue, her savior may very well be Sherlock Holmes.

And a wave from the river slaps her in the face, and she chokes, but seeing possible-Sherlock has warmed her and determination has renewed her strength. And she needs to get a little farther away from Jim's boat and bullets, so she takes a deep breath, and dives under the water again, and begins to swim when she is suddenly propelled forward by a very large blast.

"And…I was…only, maybe…twenty meters from the boat - Jim's boat, and it – it - " Molly took in a deep, shuddering breath.

Greg gave her a moment, and then prompted, gently, "It what?"

"It…exploded."

The blast is hot and sudden and causes her to breathe in, in shock, and she panics for a moment, because she's not sure which way is up or down and everything is so, so cold and murky.

But she sees a piece of something traveling downward, and using that as her guide, kicks in the opposite direction.

She reaches the surface, gasping, choking, sputtering, and turns, looking between boats, and finds that the boat she recently escaped from doesn't exist, anymore.

And she coughs and coughs, and it's all she can do for a moment to painfully,awkwardly tread to water. She looks around, frantically, the water choppy and rough from the explosion, and there are things burning around her. She nearly vomits when she sees what may very well be Celia's arm, burning, not far from her.

The air is thick with smoke and she takes the deepest breath she can manage and dives under again, swimming frantically, doing her best to focus on getting closer and closer to the little gray boat.

She nearly gives up, once, but now she's close enough to see that it is Sherlock, and he is on his knees, and his eyes are closed and he is so, so pale. And it would be nice, she thinks, if he would open his eyes and see her and make an effort to close the few meters that are between them, now, because she's increasingly, intensely cold, but she can still move, so that's good. Just a little farther…but it seems so far away. She swipes, once, with her good arm, for the ladder, but she's still too far away.

And then he opens his eyes, but he's still not seeing anything or anyone, and his expression is so heartbreakingly sad, and lost, and she thinks that she is so lucky to see Sherlock like this, with his guard down and his emotions so easily read.

And then she realizes that he looks like that because he thinks she's dead. And her heart slows and although she's nearly physically frozen, the warmth in her chest gives her a last surge of determination, and she reaches the ladder, and clings to it, and calls him from his reverie with chattering teeth and shaky breaths.

"After it…did, I…swam. It hurt, and it was cold, but I swam to the other boat. Sherlock's boat." Molly said simply.

Greg didn't respond for a moment, and she looked up at him. His lips were parted, and he was staring at her with a mixture of astonishment, disbelief, and awe.

"You swam to the boat." He said, nodding at her, and then – "And Sherlock pulled you up."

The look on his face when he sees her, attached to the ladder, shaking, shivering, and alive – his expression softens, and his eyes relax, and she can see that yes, she does count, because she is alive and – and –

And he pulls her up, onto the boat, and she can tell he's in shock, and she smiles timidly at him before bursting into tears, because she feels wounded and scared and relieved and happy, all at the same time, and she is exhausted.

And then – then he pulls her close, and she buries her face into his scarf, breathing in the warmth and scent of him, and shivers hard, and his arms are around her, and she thinks that maybe she has died, and this is an angel welcoming her to heaven, but the pressure of her broken thumb against Sherlock's side reminds her that she is definitely not dead.

And when he pulls away, a part of her heart stays with him, but he's not leaving, not pushing her away – he's using his scarf to clean her dirty face, and although his face is guarded and blank once again – partly from shock, partly from his own design – his eyes are still extremely expressive.

Perhaps – perhaps he does love her.

And she shivers again, and he's holding onto her, rubbing her arms up and down, pressing his cheek to her head even as she presses her cheek to his shoulder. And she sadly realizes that maybe he is only trying to keep her warm. It would be rather awful if she were to die of hypothermia after surviving kidnapping, a fight with one of Moriarty's henchwomen, an explosion, and a swim through icy cold river water.

But even when the police come, wrapping her in blankets and giving her something warm to drink, he returns to her, his arm holding her firmly by his side.

And she feels her violent shaking cease as she's loaded into the ambulance, and then – Sherlock comes with her, then, as well.

And she's distracted by the emergency technician attending to her, but she's also very aware of how close Sherlock is and how frequently he keeps brushing his fingers against her hand.

He even holds it, for a few seconds at a time, and she's afraid to look at him, because she's afraid he'll have on his fake smile, the one he gives clients when he's trying to be comforting.

But the few glances she steals of him give her hope, because she only sees confusion and concern. There is nothing fake about his expression. He is thinking through something, and so she stays quiet, and lets him think, because she has a lot to think about too. And a lot to try not to think about.

"Yes." She nodded back at Greg.

"Right." Greg switched off the recorder, and snapped his pad of paper shut. He squeezed her hand, firmly, and smiled at her. "You are…well…that was amazing." He shook his head, emotions playing across his face in quick succession. "You're a fighter, Molly Hooper." And he smiled, proud of her.

And Molly smiled back, but her face fell suddenly. "Ooh…" she gasped. "Oh…Greg…if…if I hadn't fought…if I hadn't escaped…" and she felt panic rise inside of her, as her chest began to heave.

"Shhh, shhh. Breathe in, hold it, breathe out. Like me. Molly," Greg said sharply, standing now, bending over her, placing a hand on each of her shoulders, mimicking how she should breathe. She copied him, following his directions, and calmed, soon enough. She was too exhausted to keep panicking, like that.

But she did stare at the tissues, twisted to pieces in her lap. "Maybe…if I hadn't fought her…Celia…she'd b-be…alive." Her voice was barely a whisper. Guilt stabbed at her heart, but it wasn't as intense as her panic. She really was exhausted.

"Molly," Greg said, sternly. "You did not kill Celia. You did not kill her. It is not your fault. Molly! Say it."

She kept her gaze firmly on her lap.

"Molly. Look at me."

Slowly, slowly - she met his gaze.

"Say it – It is not my fault."

"It…it is not my fault." And as she said the words, she realized that truly, really – although someone may be able to link a chain of events connecting her actions to the death of Celia…it really wasn't her fault.

"Who's fault was it, Molly?" Greg said, gently. "Who's fault was Celia's death?"

"J-Jim's fault. And Janine."

"And her own fault, too, Molly. She chose to work for him, bloody…absolute…sorry. But you're right. It is not your fault, and you have nothing to be sorry about. It'll get easier, Molly. The more you tell it, the more you work through it…it will get easier. Be proud of yourself, Molly Hooper." Greg chuckled once, thinking. "And Mary…who knew that the two of you had it in you to escape on your own? The pregnant nurse and the pathologist – brought on the downfall of one of Britain's greatest criminal masterminds. He seriously underestimated you. Underestimated all of us."

"Mary escaped on her own, too?" Molly said, glad to change the subject.

"Yes! Wait 'till you hear about it. Well…I guess I should…maybe let Mary tell it…" his voice trailed off, and Molly could tell he was struggling to not tell the story.

"I'm sure she won't mind if you tell me your side," Molly encouraged.

"Right." Greg smiled, largely, at her. "So," he sighed, pausing, eyeing her carefully. When he saw she was listening, suppressing a shy smile at his eagerness, he continued. "While we're looking for you, I get a call from Sherlock's brother that Sherlock and John and Mary are probably in Sussex, and does he give me an address? No, he gives me latitude and longitude coordinates…."

Molly sat listening, smiling, waiting to be admitted for an x-ray and cast for her hand.

A few doors down, Sherlock was pacing the hallway. Every now and then, he would freeze, brow furrowed, muttering unintelligibly, fingers drumming on his thigh. After a few moments of this, he would then sigh, frustrated, scowl, and return to pacing.

He was working out scenarios in his mind palace.

In each and every one, he would ask Molly a series of questions designed to examine her feelings toward him, and his toward her. He suspected, of course, that she still felt things – romantic things – for him – her poor choice of substitute in his absence was proof enough, of that – but John had told him he needed to present her with several good reasons for her to consider…well…he hated the word relationship, but he supposed that that was what it was – or would be.

He thought that perhaps he would want to try…something, with her. To see if the positive effects she had on his all-around well-being extended after brushes with death. He thought they might – the more he reviewed past interactions with her, the more he realized that she did help him – to focus, to calm, to feel – happy. He needed to experi – wait. John had said no experiments.

But wasn't that what dating was? A social experiment, to see if two people were compatible?

Sherlock scowled again. This was why he detested sentiment, and relationships, and emotions. They were unquantifiable experiments with far too many variables.

And so far, in all of projections of the conversation he planned on having with her, Mind-Molly ended up slapping him or crying. Neither were the results he was hoping for.

He wanted a rational discussion of feelings – chemical imbalances - and compatibility and social experiments and data, ending with her acceptance of a trial period of extended amounts of time spent with him, in order to see whether or not this was something he – they – wanted to pursue. But every time he went through such a discussion in his mind, he ended up with either a stinging cheek or a stinging heart.

Mind John rolled his eyes. 'Just tell her you're happy she's alive and see where it goes from there, you great clot. Maybe hold her hand again. You don't always have to explain everything, you know.'

Sherlock frowned. 'I know John. I know. But when I don't…think out…important social interactions, I tend to…'

'Misplace your foot? Yeah, I know. But you know what? So does Molly. She's understanding to a fault. So just…be with her. For some reason she seems to find your presence calming. Not sure why, but…there you have it.'

Sherlock sighed. He could spend all evening wearing the tile in the hallway, and get nowhere. Best to get this over with and see if anything would come of it. Part of him wanted to try working with this fascinating new connection he had with Molly Hooper, and part of him wanted to run, and return to the status quo, and never have to think about change again – he wanted to defend himself from any pain she may cause, and really…he wanted to defend her from any pain he would cause her.

But change was inevitable, and pain was a fact of life, and his scientific mind was too curious about these new physical phenomena he was experiencing to just let it go.

So he took a breath, walked briskly to Molly Hooper's examining room, and pushed open the doors.

So, bit of a cliffhanger, I know. But I wanted to get out Molly's side of the story, and I'm working on the next chapter already, so hopefully you'll have that in a few days.

I hope this seemed plausible. Molly is not a fighter, but I feel like if she were in a life or death situation she would still use what Sherlock taught her to defend herself, and she was just really lucky - everyone underestimates the tiny women, right? Please let me know what you think of Molly's escape, and if you notice anything missing (besides Sherlock, of course...he will appear with her quite readily in the next chapter!) :)

Thank you for your reviews!