Hello friends! I'm back!

I hope you all had a very Happy Easter, or Happy Passover, or are just simply enjoying the marvelous weather. (I hope it's as marvelous by you as it is by me...I actually went for a bike ride yesterday! It was amazing!)

This is a bit longer chapter (I know I haven't written in a while, so I wanted to give you a longer one), and towards the end it begins moving into the next big case for our favorite detective. The mystery, spread out through several chapters, will contain kidnappers and violence (no main characters are kidnapped - that's SO Moriarty, and he's gone, eh?) but I wanted to warn you about that. Although, if you actually watch Sherlock, you've seen worse than what I'm writing...so...yeah.

I would like to thank all of you for your continued support and reviews. I really do take them seriously and love hearing from you all! Thank you Sherlockedinseattle (love your username, by the way), Eienvine, keeptheotherone, lovebirds413, crumpdoreen, Arcoiris, guest, and Coolaquarian, and Chee2468642 for the reviews and PMs.
:)

Chapter 24, In Which Love is Not Quite a Fairytale

Molly arrived at Baker Street on Friday a little before ten, and was met with the sight of Sherlock, in his chair, hands steepled in his lap. He was not deep in his mind palace, however, because when she entered, his head snapped up suddenly, his sharp eyes taking in her presence. She placed the two coffees she'd been carrying on the table, and carefully unwound her scarf and hung her coat on the back of a kitchen chair. When she turned around, she smiled, friendly, at him.

Hair braided, older trousers, new trainers, cream blouse with a typical bright jumper over it, simple make-up – no lipstick, he observed, and forced his mind to continue deducing, safely away from thoughts of her lips - she didn't over-think her wardrobe this morning. Good. Not a…a date. After the lab incident, and the immediate invitation to solve crime again, later – he'd been a bit apprehensive that he may have…encouraged premature hope in her. Although, he did want her to be open to...eh. Love was terribly difficult and illogical, sometimes. "Coffee." He observed aloud, raising an eyebrow.

"Yes. Black, two sugars. For you." She handed him the coffee she'd picked up for him, and returned to the table to retrieve the other cup. "This one's mine," she added, and then bit her lip and closed her eyes at her painfully obvious statement.

"Unnecessary, as I've already had mine." It wasn't said unkindly - simply factually - as he set the fresh coffee on the side table, and then, realizing that that was not the best response to her gift of coffee, eyed her carefully. "Er…"

Before the fall, that remark may have caused Molly to blush, or her eyes to prick with tears, or her face to fall in disappointment. Now, however, she was used to his strange (and somewhat rude) reactions to social niceties, and understood that he was not dismissing her as much as he was simply dismissing his need for the hot beverage. After his little display in the lab, she was in the sort of mood where trivial things like snubbing coffee were easily forgiven.

She pressed her lips into a sort-of-smile and shook her head. "'Thank you anyway' might've been a better response," she muttered good-naturedly. She took her own coffee and took the seat she'd taken the last time she'd been his partner in crime-solving, and took out her little notebook – same one she'd brought the last time - but the pen she brought out was new. At the top, it had an extraordinarily accurate, miniature replica of a human brain, complete with tiny coloured cross-section of the frontal lobe. She noticed Sherlock eyeing the pen, amused, and smiled at him. "Still just 'being myself'."

He returned her smile, the sudden warmth in his chest no longer taking him off guard, and right on cue, his ten-o-clock appointment knocked nervously on the door.

"Come in!" He shouted, making Molly start a bit, and their day began.

Their first case was barely a one – a single, fifty-three year old woman had come in, distraught over the fact that strange charges had been applied to her account that her bank could not explain. In a matter of seconds, Sherlock had deduced that her identity had been stolen, and told her to call the police, and the scowl on his face as she left made Molly cough hastily to cover her laughter.

Their second case was much more interesting - by Molly's standards, at least.

A young man – mid-twenties, fresh out of uni – came clutching a woman's high-heeled shoe. He was handsome – clean-cut, dirty blonde hair with a five o'clock shadow, clear blue eyes, and a thin physique. He wore a light blue button-down shirt that strangely, did not compliment his eyes – they were not quite matching, and not quite clashing - it was strange – and black trousers. The shoe was an elegant cream and silver pump, with the outline of the foot visible on the sole; it had obviously been well-worn.

Sherlock raised his brow, interested, as the young man took a seat. "Hello," the young man said, giving a small smile towards the two of them. Molly returned it with an encouraging one of her own. "Adam Marten. I work on-"

"Just facts relevant to the case, please," Sherlock interrupted. "By which I mean, tell us about the date with your missing woman, including events leading up to the date, and every detail about the woman and the date itself, but - do leave out boring details like your current employment or where you currently live."

Adam stared dubiously at Sherlock for a moment before continuing. "'S he always like this?" He asked Molly, gravitating to the friendlier person in the room. Her smile widened, but she just looked at Sherlock and down at her notebook, already writing furiously.

"Right," he said, and began his tale. "Well, last Saturday my mate Justin invited me to this new club – Absinthe – for a go at his mate's sister, Ruby. Bit of a 'blind date', of sorts. Met up around eleven. Anyways, we could tell right off that we weren't interested in each other – but we had a nice chat and a few drinks and danced, and then started checking out other people in the club."

"How many other people?" Sherlock interrupted, staring at a spot across the room, focused on the facts in his mind.

"Eh – sorry?"

Sherlock sighed impatiently. "How many other people were in the club? Roughly, since I doubt you were concerned with counting the actual number of people, especially males, at the club."

Adam blinked at him. "Well, it was at full capacity by the time I saw her - Ruby, I mean – which is…I think…450 people? I remember because the bouncer stopped letting people in right after we got there, and the sign stating the….er, right. Not…important." He trailed off at the smoldering look Sherlock gave him. "Well, 450 people, and…I guess, half men, half women. And we started checking out other people, and I danced with a few of them, and then – huh," he paused, smiling at the memory, obviously taken with it – "well, you're probably not going to believe me. I barely believe me. And there were no drugs involved, trust me. Just a few drinks."

"Try me." Sherlock said dryly, bored and impatient. Molly, however, was listening intently to his story.

"So, I'd danced with…three other women – a blonde girl named Ginny, a – oh, not important? Er…all right. And then…I saw her. The music had changed, to a softer song, and it was like a film – ridiculous, and almost cheesy, if it hadn't been so – perfect, after. Anyways, there was a girl – average height, in these heels, she came up to – here," Adam stood, motioning to his shoulder, indicating her height in the heels, and then sat back down – "and just – curvy, but not – too curvy, you know? And strong, you could tell she – well, she did something physical, for a living, or worked out – but gorgeous! Angelic! She had this golden blonde hair and brown eyes and was just – just –

"The woman of your dreams," Sherlock supplied, giving Molly a covert eye-roll. She raised her eyebrows at him and went back to listening to Adam.

"Yes! Beautiful, and she was also wearing – is what she was wearing important? Good. She was wearing this blue dress, came just above her knees, so not like, a tart, right? And it came up and over one shoulder, and it was just – classy. Hmmm? No, don't know the brand. And she was wearing these shoes, obviously. Jewelry? Er…yes," Adam continued slowly, at Sherlock's questioning. "A…hmmm. Earrings, diamond, I think, just – regular, earrings, and a silver necklace, one of those – chunky ones, kind of" – he gestured with his hands to describe it – "And she had her hair up – I remember thinking, that's unusual, and classy – because most of the girls just had their hair down, but hers was up, and she had a silver…thing, in her hair, like the infinity sign, and it was pretty. So, I see her standing just inside the doorway, kind of shy-like, and I think Adam, you've got to go ask her to dance, so I do, and she barely talks, she just smiles, sort of nervous, and nods, and we dance, and talk a bit, and dance some more, and then suddenly she just - runs away. Literally. She left this behind." He held up the shoe in his hands.

Sherlock sighed, and sat forward. "When she came in the door, did you notice anyone with her?"

Adam frowned. "No. She was alone. I watched her for a few minutes because I was sure she'd be meeting her boyfriend, but no one came up to her. People just moved around her."

"Any particular markers? Birth marks? Freckles? Scars? Were her fingernails clean or dirty? Did she have straight or crooked teeth? Any purse? Did she wear contacts?" –again, a sideways glance at Molly – "What did you 'talk about a bit'? What did she see or hear right before she ran away? And what was her name?"

Adam sat back, slightly stunned at the volley of questions thrown his way. "Um…no…no marks, other than a few freckles, nothing…noticeable. No scars, either, that I could see. Her um…fingernails, I'm not sure. I didn't…notice."

"Clean, then. You'd probably have noticed if the 'woman of your dreams' had filthy hands. Especially if you were dancing. Continue." Sherlock was staring vacantly again, absent-mindedly tapping his fingers against his thigh.

"Um, right. Her teeth – were, well – not ridiculously crooked – she had a beautiful smile – but, you could tell they weren't…straightened, with braces. They were just mostly naturally straight." He paused to see if Sherlock would comment, and then continued. "And – hmm. No purse. That's a bit odd. No purse, and no pockets that I could see, on her dress…uh-" he hesitated, visibly reworking Sherlock's questions in his mind, trying to figure out which ones he still needed to answer.

"Contacts?" Molly prompted quietly.

"Er…right. Um, no – no contacts. I don't think. And we just talked about – life, you know? I love this song, I hate that drink, what are you reading, what do you do, that sort of thing. She…uh…she hates drinking, in general, doesn't drink, she's reading - Little Women, for the first time, she has two sisters, and – hmm. She never told me where she worked, or even what she did, we danced – and, before she ran – we'd taken a break, were sitting against the wall, and she was laughing, and she looked up, and froze, and apologized – I'm sorry, I've got to go. Now. – and ran. She left her shoe. I tried to chase after her, but there were so many people…Heh," he laughed once, and shook his head at the shoe in his hands. "And her name…you'll really never believe her name." He looked up and met Sherlock's eyes, then Molly's.

Molly was suppressing a smile. "No-" she started, sitting back a bit, eyeing Adam suspiciously – he nodded, a grin spreading across his face – "It couldn't have been – Ella?" She asked incredulously, still smiling.

Sherlock scoffed, and was about to scold her for guessing -

The grin on Adam's face grew wider. "Yes! It was Ella! I told you, it's unbelievable, isn't it?!"

Molly couldn't help but shake her head and laugh, and turned to Sherlock, who looked equal part suspicious and curious. "How did you know her name was Ella?" He asked her.

Adam's grin faltered and he gave Sherlock a disbelieving look. "You really don't get it? Ella? Cinder-ella? Lost her shoe?" He held the heel up, dangling it by its strap. "The fairytale princess?"

Sherlock gave him a blank look.

"Oh, he's probably just deleted it. Or never heard of it. Either way, I wouldn't be surprised. So her name is Ella. Ella. Wearing a blue dress with blonde hair and lost her shoe…what time did she leave?" Molly asked suddenly, sitting forward again.

Adam frowned. "It was after midnight…it was nearly…one o'clock, I think. But she was definitely gone by one."

Molly smiled, and Sherlock frowned. "The shoe," he said, holding his hand out. Adam handed it over. "I assume you want to know where to find this young woman again?"

"Yes. I've tried social media, asking the bouncer, the club, heck, even Justin and Ruby. No one seems to know anything about her, and – I really liked her."

Sherlock grunted and studied the shoe carefully, running his fingers over the imprint of the foot, the sides, eyeing the heel and toe, and sniffing various parts of it, to the chagrin of Adam. After roughly thirty seconds of this, he returned the shoe and requested the laptop from Molly, which she retrieved for him from across the room. He looked up the club Absinthe, noting the layout of it, the hours, and its location, and less than five minutes later, had come to his conclusion.

"Interesting choice of dream woman, Mr. Marten. Your Ella is a homeless girl who works at a dress shop to take care of her two younger sisters, who are still living with their father. She rarely visits her own home, and then it is only to help her sisters and clean herself up – clean fingernails. Her father is a drunk, hence her aversion to alcohol, and her only just reading Little Women for the first time while simultaneously attending a posh, uptown club insinuates that she does not have the background or means to read the latest, more recently published books and therefore she does not have the means to attend such a club on her own. Since no one there recognized her description and you could not find her on 'social media', she is not a regular and again, most likely does not have the means to use such technology regularly. She stole the dress, shoes, and jewelry from the shop she works at – although I'm sure she will say that she borrowed them, because they will most likely be returned to their rightful places by now. Her hesitation in the doorway indicates that this was the first time she'd done something so brazen, and was probably encouraged by someone else to take the dress and shoes and come to the club. The highest probability is that she was dared by a co-worker or her sisters, or some other equally foolish romantic. You can see that these shoes are regularly worn by a variety of people – they are only available to test with the dresses. There is no singular wear path on the sole – the toes and heels and arches overlap at odd angles. No, they were not leant to her by the shop – this particular heel is only sold at a few boutiques in the London area, and the one nearest to Absinthe is owned by Ms. Lindsay Deville, a well-known dress-maker who was also at Absinthe on Saturday the ninth. Says so here on her 'Twitter' account," he flashed the laptop screen towards Adam, who was staring at him with an open mouth, equal parts amazed and horrified. "I have no doubt your 'Ella', if that is her real name, saw Ms. Deville and made a bolt before she could be recognized. If you wish to find her, I would try Ms. Deville's dress shop, between the hours of," here he paused to check the website again, "ten and five."

Sherlock shut the laptop with an audible snap and added, "Although, since you still have this particular shoe, there is a chance that Ms. Ella has been found out and is no longer employed by Ms. Deville. If that is the case, I suggest you wander the streets near the shop in search of your fair lady. I doubt she'd have gone home if she was fired."

And Adam's princely demeanor deflated more rapidly than a helium balloon outside on a freezing cold day. He looked rather like a lost puppy. A slightly angry lost puppy. "She – she's – a thief? A homeless thief?! No - are - are you sure?"

And Molly was biting her lip, darting glances between Sherlock and Adam Marten, heart-broken, disdainful client. And Sherlock sighed dramatically.

"Come now, Mr. Marten. If you connected so magnificently in the forty-five minutes you spent with her, surely you can overlook the fact that she borrowed from her employer. She obviously returned the items, since there have been no reports printed in the papers. Ms. Ella does have some character, although I am not an expert in that department – it would seem that proof positive is the fact that she has some talent – she'd have to, to work at Ms. Deville's shop – that she works to support her sisters and does attempt to read, despite her upbringing. In fact, she may have more character than certain others who judge her as a glorious angel based on one encounter with her, and then judge her as a criminal and fraud the next," Sherlock said tersely, staring at Adam, who was frowning intently. "Perhaps you should find some other 'princess' for your story, since you obviously have no desire to pursue a relationship with a homeless thief who is attempting to make something of herself. Although I applaud your conclusion – relationships in a general sense are foolish – I must say your process of reaching said conclusion is sloppy and bigoted, at best. In the future, take care not to be blindsided by your own prejudices, Mr. Marten."

Adam sat there, looking around confused, until Sherlock told him curtly that he was welcome to leave at any time. He gave Sherlock an offended look, then took the shoe, and left.

Sherlock glowered at the closed door and then turned to Molly.

She was staring at him with a strange expression on her face. It wasn't…admiration, not really – but it was something akin to it, and the half-smile on her face and her large brown eyes reminded his nervous system why he'd invited her along today in the first place. It was quite pleasant, having her look at him like that.

"What?" He asked, and it came out more bluntly than he'd intended it to.

"You. You just…impressed me." She said, and smiled, almost proudly – then blushed, and looked away.

He frowned, confused. While he had been going for admiration – there wasn't anything particularly admirable, to him, about the deductions he'd just made. That strange Ella case was more of a three or four. Simple. He told her so.

She laughed and shook her head. "No, no…I mean…that was impressive, of course, but I meant that last bit. What you told 'Mr. Marten' about Ella's character. And that he wasn't…well, wasn't really - worthy of her. It was…almost noble."

He suddenly felt a strange mixture of fear and pride run through him. He didn't want to be a romantic hero – just an admired genius. And he didn't want her ruining whatever it was they had by getting too sentimental, too quickly again. "I'm not a noble man, Molly Hooper," he said seriously, hesitantly.

She gave him another quirky half-smile. "That's why I said almost." But you're more noble than you allow yourself to think.

"Hmm," he hummed his relief, watched her relay the rest of Adam's story into her notebook – John will like this one for his blog, she explained – and carefully sorted his reactions to her presence, and to the case. Halfway through his own sorting (and mostly deletion) of this Adam/Ella case – he would send word around his homeless network to look for this Ella; she could be useful - he recalled how Molly had known the girl's name was Ella.

"Molly?"

"Yes?"

"How did you know her name was Ella?"

Molly set her pen in her notebook and closed it carefully, holding her place. "You really have never heard the story of Cinderella?" But she wasn't being snarky or judgmental or even teasing, she was just curious. He lov – well, he truly appreciated that about her. Her ability to take him as he was without fussing about the pieces of mundane information others found it ludicrous he was missing.

"Really. Although, as you explained earlier, I may have heard it and deleted it."

She smiled again. "Fair enough." And she told him the fairytale – the 'good version', as she put it, where the stepsisters cut off their toes and heels to fit into the shoes, and then get their eyes pecked out by birds, and about how she knew the girl's name would be 'Ella' and not 'Cindy' because of modern naming trends and other information Sherlock would have found meaningless and unnecessary had her eyes not been lighting up so much at explaining her own thought processes.

The Cinderella Case was followed by two more relatively straightforward adultery cases before they received a call from Lestrade to come take a look at a body found, shot through the heart, at an abandoned building in southwest London.

Molly didn't say a word when Sherlock brought the coffee she'd bought him along.

When they arrived, coffee finished and disposed of, Lestrade let them in past the crime scene tape, and raised his eyebrows at the sight of them together again. Molly offered him a small smile and held her pen poised over her notebook, ready to write again.

Sherlock eyed the body, which was spread eagle, face-up, on the floor. It was a man, mid 50s, working class, with trousers well-worn at the knees and frayed at the ankles, and a buttoned shirt that was slightly too small for his round belly, though he wasn't terribly overweight. He'd been shot through the heart, and stale, nearly dry blood pooled around him. His eyes were frozen open, but his face, despite the surroundings, looked relatively peaceful. No signs of terror or distress before death. He had not expected to die.

Sherlock made his deductions swiftly and silently, taking in the fabrics and soils and signs on the body. He nodded brusquely to himself, and stepped back, and inclined his head towards the body, brows raised expectantly at Molly.

It took her a moment to look up and notice his expression, but when she did, she blushed a bit. "Oh. Uh…may I?"

He nodded.

She tucked her notebook and pen into one coat pocket, and pulled a pair of latex gloves out of the other. She carefully stepped around the blood, and squatted to study the body in front of her. "Male, mid-50s…cause of death – gunshot to the heart; time of death roughly - twelve hours ago. He suffered from high blood pressure, possible diabetes," she continued, looking at his fingers, which were regularly pricked. "Swollen metacarpophalangeal and interphalangeal joints…he was…used to…tying things? Repeatedly. And kneeling," she added, noting his pants, "but I'll have to see the patellas to confirm." She went back to his hands and frowned. "I'd have to take X-rays to confirm, but it seems like he's had his fingers and even some bones in his hands broken multiple times. They haven't all healed properly."

Her frown deepened, and she looked up to Lestrade, who was looking disbelievingly at Sherlock, who was in turn studying Molly with an intense look on his face. Molly felt the colour rise in her cheeks and quickly turned back to Lestrade. "Greg, may I roll his sleeves up?"

Greg shook his head, dragging his attention away from the consulting detective. "Uh, you've got gloves; they've taken the photos – sure."

She carefully unbuttoned the victim's left shirtsleeve and tugged, rolling it up gently. Post-mortem bruising had already begun, but Molly was not an expert pathologist for nothing. She could tell the difference between pre- and post-mortem bruising, and many of the scratches and bruises on his fore- and upper-arms was pre-mortem. She sighed and went around to the other arm, repeating her movements. Same thing on the other arm. She sighed again.

"Well?" Greg asked her.

Molly bit her lip, looking from Greg to Sherlock. Sherlock was still watching her intently, a small smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You've seen this before, Molly," he stated.

"Yes," she confirmed. "These are…defensive wounds."

Greg frowned. "Defensive, as in…he was attacked before he was shot?"

Molly shook her head sadly and pressed her lips together. "Defensive…as in, someone else was defending themselves from him. Someone smaller and weaker than him. He shielded himself using his arms…not that they could have done much damage…" she stopped suddenly, something visibly clicking in her mind, and a disbelieving, slightly horrified look briefly crossed her face. She glanced up at Sherlock, who was nodding, grinning at her now.

"Yes! Yes. A career kidnapper. Not…not bad, since this is only your first time at a real crime-scene, Dr. Hooper. Allowances can be made for that. The skeleton did not count, obviously, as there was no real crime there. You'll note, George-"

"Greg," Molly and Lestrade corrected automatically, as Molly was puzzling over whether Sherlock had intentionally complimented or insulted her –

"-whatever. You'll note that yes, he was indeed used to tying things – specifically, to restrain his victims. Obviously, from his clothing, that he was not in it for money – no, this man kidnapped for the joy of it – whether his victims were kept for his sexual pleasure and released or simply kidnapped and killed can be determined at the lab, and by looking through past kidnapping files; I'll be needing those – I'm assuming you'll send this body to Bart's, Lestrade? Good." Sherlock nodded his approval and continued with his own, much more detailed, deductions of the man and his life, now dead, in front of him. Molly disposed of her gloves and went back to recording notes in her notebook.

Sherlock paced around the room, noting that the kidnapper was probably in the building looking for a new location to hold his victims, when he paused dramatically, hands mid-air, and a smile began to spread across his face. "Oh! Oh, this is good…this is good," he cried gleefully, rubbing his hands together vigorously.

Molly suppressed a smile by pressing her lips into a thin line and jotting notes down in her notebook. Greg rolled his eyes emphatically. "What now, Sherlock?"

"He wasn't shot from here," he cried triumphantly.

Another policewoman, a forensic specialist gathering samples from the crime scene, frowned as she overheard him. "What do you mean? Obviously he was here when he was shot – look at all that blood!" She protested.

Sherlock paused to give her a disdainful glance. "I see you haven't raised your standards since Anderson left, Lestrade. Pity. Almost anyone else would have been an improvement."

The woman's mouth dropped open in shock and she took a deep breath, preparing to argue with him, when Lestrade caught her eye and shook his head. You'll never win, he mouthed to her. She made a face and rolled her eyes, and Greg responded with a helpless shoulder shrug. She glared at Sherlock before returning to gathering evidence.

Sherlock remained oblivious. "As I was saying, he wasn't shot from here – from this room; this building." And he went on to point out, in his trademark rapid speech, that the blood spatter, and angle and position of the body, indicated that he'd been shot from a great distance. So he was in the room when he was shot, but the killer was not.

Greg felt his stomach drop. "Are you saying we're looking for a sniper?" He asked, his voice low. Molly looked up from her notebook, pen frozen over the paper.

Sherlock met her gaze with a confident smirk. "I believe that would be an accurate deduction. There's a first time for everything," he added, muttering under his breath.

"What?" Greg asked sharply.

"Nothing. A sniper. Yes. Whether he was ordered to kill this man or was acting as a vigilante is something I have yet to determine. Either way, there is nothing for the masses to worry about. Unless they're a criminal. Now…" he paused, and began to turn methodically around the room, standing first here at the kidnapper's feet, then squatting there at his head, lips moving silently and eyes darting about the room, taking measurements and calculating angles. He frowned, and stood up in one fluid motion.

"I am done for the moment, Lestrade. I'll be in touch. Let me know when the body arrives at Bart's." He turned abruptly and strode purposefully toward the door, then turned and stopped. Molly was still writing in her notebook. He cleared his throat.

She looked up. "Oh! Sorry," she said, and snapped her notebook shut, calling her good-bye to Greg as she hurried out the door.

She slid into the cab after Sherlock and shut the door behind her. He'd already given the cabbie the address, so she wasn't sure exactly where they were going. He had his mind-palace look about him, though, so she wisely chose to continue her notes in her notebook. She'd even taken to sketching the layout of the room and victim.

After a few moments, though, she realized that his gaze was no longer vacant and was focused again on her. "Oh," she blushed, embarrassed, covering her amateur artwork with her hands.

His lips twitched, amused.

"Where are we going?" She asked, changing the unspoken subject.

"Sarah Jane. She should be able to digitally construct the two most plausible scenarios I've formulated for the sniper's location at the time of the shooting. Once we're aware of the location the sniper shot from, we can search that area for more evidence."

Molly nodded, and Sherlock went back to staring vacantly out the window of the cabbie, deep in his mind palace. He was no longer focused on the case, however.

Instead, he was ruminating on the Cinderella story. He'd delete the story again, of course. But for now – he thought about it. Foolish, childish, and entirely ridiculous – the premise, the magic, and the fact that someone should want to marry a prince after a few hours of dancing with him. He much preferred intelligent, self-reliant, strong, logical women to dreamy, despondent, angelic princesses who needed a fairy godmother to save them. Although Molly was right – the bit about the severed toes and the birds was quite interesting.

Molly.

Outwardly, his face remained stoic, but inwardly, he smiled to himself. She was no fairytale princess, and that was quite all right with him. He was no prince, after all.

Realizing that he'd just compared their relationship to that of a prince and princess, he shook his head vehemently and deleted the story from his mind. Nonsense, all of it, anyway. But he caught her brushing a strand of hair out of her face as she concentrated on her horribly mediocre sketch again, and the sight of her hair and cheek and lips forcefully brought to his mind the day in the lab, when he was pressed against her for a few terrifying, glorious minutes, and when she looked up and sideways to smile at him in the cab, he looked determinedly away.

Molly quickly looked back down at her notebook, still and hesitant.

Was he…blushing?

As always, please review!

I'm already working on the next chapter, which will bring both the return of Conners siblings and John and Mary and Madeline.

Looking forward to hearing your thoughts!