Sherlock and Mycroft stood over Molly's lightly snoring self, one brother on each side of the bed, arguing via text. They'd begun the argument verbally, in whispers, but as the disagreement escalated and the insults ratcheted up, so did the volume, and they had started texting to avoid waking the object of their fight.

Just keep her here. She doesn't weigh anything and I can't imagine she's a secret martial arts expert. How hard can it be?

I cannot lock a woman in my flat against her will, Mycroft. Even if that's the approach you take with all of yours.

She is not safe. Does she not comprehend the danger? And I have not locked anyone in. Not recently.

She's been asleep ever since The Woman left last night, you utter fuckwit. I didn't wake her up to show her a series of gruesome photos. I'm a selfish arse that way.

Swearing, really Sherlock? You pathetic little civilian. We can drug her and move her to a safe house.

Molly awoke to find Sherlock slamming Mycroft into a wall and then trying to haul his brother out the door of the bedroom by means of his expensive silk necktie. When she gased, both men backed a step away from each other. They stood up straight and began to smooth out their clothing. Sherlock ran a hand through his hair.

Mycroft recovered first: "Molly, darling, how are you feeling?"

Sherlock snorted with derision: "Darling? I doubt that sounds convincing even if you're inside a woman when you say it."

Molly watched the brothers, her gaze flicking between one and the other. She wanted to believe that Sherlock was somehow protecting her from Mycroft, but if she were honest with herself, she had to admit it could go the other way, too. She sat up in the bed and folded her legs beneath her, carefully sliding the duvet over her lap as she seemed to be wearing nothing more than Sherlock's t-shirt.

"What's going on?" she demanded, hoping she'd managed to slip a note of command into her voice. The t-shirt, far too large, was slipping off her shoulder and she tried to pull it back up in a way that still looked authoritative. She felt that she was not succeeding.

"We're concerned that a serial killer is targeting women who fit your general type..." Mycroft began.

Sherlock immediately resumed violently removing his brother from the room. She heard yelling and swearing from the front room, then a door slamming. She knew that Sherlock was taking a moment to compose himself before he walked back in, as it took him several beats too long to re-enter the bedroom. So when he did, she pounced.

"Serial killer? What the hell, Sherlock? What's going on?"

Sherlock crawled back into bed next to her. He was already dressed for the day. She fumbled for her phone and checked the time: 11.28am. "You should have woken me. I've slept half the day away."

Sherlock shook his head. "You needed to sleep."

"Sherlock, I've been sleeping for the most of the last two days. I do not need more. Now, please, for the third time, tell me why you're trying to murder your brother in front of me."

He leaned in to kiss her, pulling her close and slipping his hand beneath the t-shirt. He dragged his fingertips slowly up and down her back on both sides of her spine. He bit gently on her bottom lip to encourage her to open up for him. She steadfastly refused.

"You are trying to distract me with sex. It won't work," she said.

"It will if I try hard enough," he gambled.

Sherlock sighed and rolled off the bed, rising gracefully to his feet. He held out his hands to her and pulled her up next to him. "Are you hungry? I've been out all morning and I'm famished. Come have some food and I'll tell you everything."

Molly began following him to the kitchen, but responded: "No, you won't. You never tell me everything. You tell me bits of everything and leave out what you don't want me to know."

He stopped short in the corridor, so quickly that she bumped into his back with her forehead.

"Ow, for God's sake, Sherlock..."

He whipped around and watched her, trying to deduce her, as Molly stood and stared back crossly, rubbing her head where it had collided with his shoulder blade. "You don't trust me," he said finally.

"Don't be dramatic, Sherlock. I know you don't tell me everything, but I also know that you do that to protect me and that you would never hurt me. You might lie to me, but you wouldn't hurt me." She considered her own words. "That's fairly messed up, isn't it? I suppose that's the sort of thing that's going to cause problems in the long run."

Sherlock dropped his in defeat, resting it against her forehead, which caused her to grimace in pain. "I will tell you everything. I'm sorry - I'm trying. I'm not used to trusting anyone else like this, not even John. I have grown used to lying to John."

"This may be the moment to mention that I'm not John," she kissed him again, deeply. "Not John at all. Now do you want to show me what was in those photos The Woman handed to you?"

Sherlock looked up sharply. "How do you know about the photos? Or The Woman?"

Molly produced his mobile phone from behind her back. "I didn't spend all this time with you and not learn how to steal a phone. And your code is the date you saved me from Sebastian Moran. Very romantic." She nipped delicately at his earlobe. "I read your exchange with Mycroft. You're not going to let him drug me and kidnap me, are you?"

He shook his head and smiled. "No, of course not."

Molly curled into John's chair and Sherlock sat in his and spread the photos across the floor between them. Molly sucked in her breath. Pretty young women, one who looked to be in her early 20s, the other in her early 30s, both dressed in formal white frocks, both soaked in blood. "Where are the bodies?" she gasped.

Sherlock nodded. That would be her first question. She would want to see the evidence, know how they died.

"I went to Angel this morning. That's why Mycroft was here. I wanted someone to watch over you while I went to see the body. Her name was Angie Banks, and she was dating Ramon Siddes, a..."

"The footballer. Right," Molly nodded. "He's quiet, never in the spotlight, never in trouble, but incredibly famous. Wealthy. You don't see him the paper much, keeps himself to himself. And her to himself, I assume."

"Lestrade spoke to him today. Actually," Sherlock broke off to address Molly directly, "I'm surprised you knew who he was."

"You're probably the only person in England over the age of 4 who didn't know who he was, Sherlock."

"Oh. Well, anyway, Lestrade said he was in shock, heartbroken, sobbing - he used quite a lot of emotional hyberbole that really meant little to the case. Watertight alibi, though - and he hadn't even realised she was missing by the time the body was found. She was... drugged and then sliced up, very methodically."

"Cause of death?"

"That awaits the pathology report. Her body is at Barts, awaiting the pathologist."

Molly raised her eyebrows. "You didn't want to show me the photos, but you sent me the body?"

"I knew I would show you the photos, Molly. I would not have kept this from you."

Molly considered this. "So why did Irene Adler show up last night? What's her involvement?"

"I'm not entirely certain of her involvement, but I know why she wanted to involve me."

"You gonna tell me or just leave me with a dramatic cliffhanger of a sentence?" Molly asked.

"You," Sherlock answered. "She wanted to warn me because of you."

He reached over to pick up one of the newspapers stacked on the coffee table. He spread it out and handed it over for her perusal. On the front page, down the margin with the celebrity gossip, was a photograph of she and Sherlock. The photo was a bit grainy - long-lens, low light - but clearly showed them snogging voraciously at the Savoy party. Molly was propped up on table with a mirror behind her; Sherlock had one hand in her hair and another on her thigh, her legs were spread around him and just a hint of the jeweled clip that held up her stockings was visible. Sherlock had his fingers on the clip. Molly closed her eyes and thanked the limitations of modern photography that Sherlock had been positioned in a way that kept her knickers from view.

Molly stared at the photo for a moment. She wasn't sure just quite what she was meant to feel, so she just said the first thing that came to mind: "We look hot."

Sherlock raised an intrigued eyebrow at her. "I rather thought so as well." He shifted in his seat. "But that's also why The Woman thought you might be in danger." He pulled a magazine clipping from the envelope that had contained the photos of the dead women. It dated from a month ago, and showed Angie Banks on her knees in front of a clearly delighted Ramon Siddes. They were just inside a holiday flat, somewhere warm and sunny, obviously believing themselves to be alone and unobserved. This time the light was good and the photo was graphic, nothing obscuring the view of Bank's lips around what was pretty clearly his cock. "The newspapers carried a censored version of the photo... "

"Yes," Molly interrupted. "I remember it, of course."

Sherlock nodded. "Of course, you'll know about the celebrity drivel." He shrugged. "The second woman, Layla Abdul, was the girlfriend of Jonathan Carrell, a Tory politician running for London mayor. Not a mistress, just a girlfriend - he's not married. They had been together for 2 years, an established couple. Two weeks ago, the papers printed this..." he handed her another clipping. Abdul topless, her back to the camera, kissing an equally topless Carrell, alone in a London back garden.

"Okay, I see the connection... young women, not your typical spray-tanned, siliconed tabloid fodder, girlfriends of famous or powerful men, unmarried. But you and I, we were in a public place, with no reasonable expectation of privacy..." she huffed. "We were kissing as a ruse, to scout the room."

"But it wasn't just a ruse, was it? What the cameras caught was true enough; we look 'hot', as you so crudely put it, because we are in a sexual relationship," he fumed. "The Woman is worried that this sort of publicity could make you a target of whoever murdered these women."

Molly felt like this was an enormous leap of logic, and one Sherlock might use to manipulate her into staying at Baker Street, as he had announced last night before any of this had come to light. "What else do you know of this case?"

"Not enough. You'll take a look at the bodies. Lestrade recovered Abdul's body from a small graveyard in Shoreditch. The scene had been photographed and cleaned before I could get there. They didn't know about Banks until I told them."

Molly gathered up the photos from the floor and carefully tucked them back into the envelope. She set it aside and leaned back in the chair. "Tell me that you're not fabricating a connection between me and these women because you want me to stay here with you."

Sherlock stiffened. "I am not. I would not." His voice raised slightly. "I have instructed Mycroft to increase security around you and around this flat. If you still want to return home, then he can provide security for you there. He has a car and driver, all vetted, that can ferry you about until we have caught whoever did this." Sherlock leaned forward and held out his hands to her. She reached out to put her hands in his, and he pulled her into his lap. "Molly, what I said last night is completely true. I love you. Please do not leave. It's safer for you here, and I want to have you here. Please stay."

Molly brought her face close and brushed her lips against his. "I love you, too. For now, I'll stay." Sherlock exhaled and closed his eyes. "Now, let's get dressed and get to the morgue. I have two bodies to inspect."

Sherlock stood up, picking Molly up with him. He let her slide slowly down his body until her feet touched the ground.

"Tell me," Molly held up yesterday's paper with the photo of she and Sherlock at the party, "Is there a larger version of this picture?"

"Daily Mail, page 6. I already cut it out. It's in the drawer of my nightstand if you want to borrow it," Sherlock smiled.