Chapter 12: A Heart-to-Heart

"Close your eyes, darling," Irene Adler murmured.

After a brief moment of hesitation, Molly obeyed. The tip of a fine brush ghosted over her eyelids; first the right, then the left, in long, sure strokes.

"And open." Molly blinked her eyes open once more. The two of them were upstairs in John's old room, which, judging by the gauzy dresses hanging in the closet, and the various garments strewn around the bed and chairs, had been claimed by Irene as her domain for the duration of her temporary residence with Sherlock.

Irene herself was sitting directly in front of Molly, an eyeshadow brush hovering near Molly's cheek as she inspected her work so far. Several hours had passed in the interim since Molly had been officially recruited to the case, during which she had been subjected to Sherlock firing off an uninterrupted volley of information at her about Gruner and all his past exploits. He'd been particularly graphic regarding some of the details of the murders which were connected to him, with what Molly thought was an unnecessary, vindictive sort of relish. Did he really think he'd be able to shock her, seeing her day job was what it was? She had taken in as much information as she could, considering the rapid-fire pace he had rattled everything off at her – and then, he'd shoved the guest list and a miscellany of papers at her and snapped at her to not disturb him for the next few hours. Very well then, if he'd determined to be petty, he could consider himself undisturbed. She wasn't in the mood to deal with him at the moment any more than he was evidently in the mood to deal with her.

So once Molly had finished poring over the papers Sherlock had given her, she'd resigned herself to whiling away the rest of her time with aimless internet browsing about Gruner, and there was a decent amount to occupy herself with – apparently, he was a proficient amateur art collector and had written a book on the history of Chinese ceramics (reviews on it were quite mixed – apparently, his writing was comprehensive but unbearably dry), and in recent years he'd also had a smattering of news features and interviews done on him, mainly relating to his philanthropy.

After spending some time skimming through his book on her e-reader – it was, Molly had to admit, quite painfully dry - she'd clicked on one of the videos, not knowing quite what to expect. It was enough to look at photographs of him to know that Adelbert Gruner was an undeniably striking man, but hearing him speak, the warm, soothing timbre of his voice, the easy charm of his smiles, the loose, inviting way he bantered with the female interviewer – Molly could start to see how someone could become irreversibly infatuated with him, and she felt a sudden pang of sympathy for Violet de Merville. If Sherlock didn't find the evidence he was looking for, could there be any way to get through to her? Any way to appeal to the reason that had been buried beneath the veil of all-consuming love?

And if it had been herself, Molly had wondered…if she had met Gruner, would she have succumbed just as easily to his charms, would she have remained willfully oblivious to all the warning signs? Was there anything in him which would have tipped her off to his true nature? Perhaps, Molly'd thought, squinting at the small screen of her phone, perhaps, if there was anything, it was in his eyes. Yes, in his eyes – something faintly discernible in their steel-blue; they were unnaturally still, unnaturally intent – maybe it was just in her imagination, but she'd felt suddenly that there was a definite… nothingness to them, as if he were merely imitating the geniality he'd seen in others – an incredibly close approximation, but not quite the real thing.

And then she'd been startled out of her train of thought by a hand being placed gently on her shoulder. She'd jumped, looking up to see Irene Adler, returned downstairs from John's room, to which she'd disappeared for most of the morning.

"I think it's time, don't you?" Irene had said, her eyes gleaming suggestively, and with a brief, acknowledging glance from Sherlock telling Molly it was alright to go with her, she reluctantly stood and followed Irene up to John's room.

Irene still looked much as she had that morning. Her hair was pulled back in an effortless bun, her makeup, though nowhere near as pronounced as the last time Molly had seen her, was nevertheless perfectly set – a light rose on her lips, a pale blue mist across the lid of her eye. She was still in her morning robe, a more masculine one than Molly would have expected – One of Sherlock's? she wondered idly, feeling a small, inadvertent twist in her stomach. How homey.

Molly's eyes were still getting used to the colored contact lenses from Irene that she'd put in several minutes ago; she had never worn contacts before, and she kept having the urge to blink the mild discomfort out of her eyes. The lenses were a deep blue color, and she'd been surprised to find, with a quick glance in the mirror after donning them, that they actually looked quite natural over her own dark brown.

"Lovely," Irene murmured, evidently satisfied with her handiwork so far, and set the brush down in exchange for another one, dipping it in a different eyeshadow shade. All of Irene's makeup was sleek and high-end, at least as far as Molly could tell – she didn't recognize most of the brand names. "Close again."

Molly obeyed with less hesitation this time, feeling the shadow brushed over her eyelids in smooth circles; Irene had reached up to gently grasp her chin with one hand, holding her face still. Each time Irene leaned towards her, Molly got a distinct burst of the woman's perfume, an unfamiliar, exotic scent of spice, opulent and sensual. It was a strangely intimate experience, this – the two of them so close that Molly could feel Irene's warm breath on her cheek, a feather-light strand of hair, loose from Irene's bun, tickling her chin.

"He's rather gorgeous, isn't he?"

Molly's eyes almost flickered open, but she was just able to stop them. She wasn't able to stop herself swallowing involuntarily, however, her mouth suddenly feeling painfully dry. Sherlock was downstairs. Sherlock could tune out anything when he was deep in thought; he couldn't possibly hear them from down there, even if he had been straining to listen.

"Adelbert, I mean," Irene continued, her voice silky and unconcerned, and the heart that had jumped into Molly's throat suddenly relaxed again, though Molly knew a deep blush had already flooded her neck and cheeks. The brush had lifted from her eyelids, but Irene hadn't told her to open them yet, so Molly kept them shut, in part because she wasn't yet ready to meet Irene's knowing gaze. This was the sort of thing she must feed off of, Molly reflected – provoking people, discomfiting them, throwing them off-balance.

"Poor Violet de Merville," Molly said rather than replying to the question, trying to come off as indifferent, though her voice sounded a touch tremulous in her ears. "She's so caught up in the fantasy that she can't see the wolf for the sheep's clothing…"

"Mm," Irene hummed noncommittally, a brush dancing across Molly's eyelids again. "Happens to the best of us sometimes, I suppose. But then…" she paused delicately, "Jim always was an unfairly good actor."

Molly felt her heart skip a beat. Irene knew – knew about her and Moriarty. In all this time, even knowing Irene was almost as dangerous as Jim had been, it had nevertheless not occurred to Molly that Irene could actually be linked to him in some way. Stupid, stupid, stupid – she had to stop doing this, continually letting herself be caught so off-guard. Perhaps, Molly thought bitterly, Sherlock could have better spent their time that morning giving Molly even the slightest bit of heads-up on who this woman actually was, rather than shoving irrelevant, gratuitous crime scene details at her.

So, of course, Irene was connected to Jim. Moriarty had been Sherlock's greatest enemy, the reason he had had to literally surrender two whole years of his life, betray all his closest friends, and yet here Sherlock was, rubbing elbows with…with old associates of his. No, not just rubbing elbows, Molly corrected herself – cohabitating.

"Right, well, it…it was only three dates," Molly said before she could think better of it, hating the note of feeble defensiveness in her voice. "It…it wasn't as if I was about to marry him."

Irene tssked soothingly, and Molly, feeling Irene's finger running up her cheek, tucking a tendril of hair behind Molly's ear, had to resist the urge to shiver. "Of course not, darling," Irene murmured softly. "Not even Sherlock had him figured out back then. It was only a few coffees, after all."

A few coffees, a dinner date, and an evening at her flat, Molly amended in her head. Plenty of time to take a good long look at him, plenty of time to ask around and see if there really was a Jim from IT who worked at St. Barts', plenty of time to get a feeling of wrongness in her womanly intuition. But there had been nothing – not even the faintest misapprehension, not the least bit of foreboding. Even Toby had taken to him, greeting him immediately with purrs and rubs. Well, come to think of it now, Toby had actually become rather wary of Jim by the end of the evening, skirting him suspiciously as they said their goodbyes. Figures, Molly thought darkly. Even her cat had had a better sense of self-preservation than her.

At some point, without her noticing, the brush had left her eyelids, and a new larger brush had started sweeping across the hollows of her cheeks, the length of her nose. Molly finally opened her eyes to find Irene's face mere centimeters away from hers, their gazes immediately meeting. Irene's eyes were every bit as vivid as Sherlock's, the same icy grey-blue, the same glacial intensity.

"Do you want to know the secret?" Irene breathed suddenly, so quietly that even Molly had to strain to hear her. Her brush had paused in its smooth motion, her hand frozen by Molly's cheek.

"Se…secret?" Molly asked, internally cringing at the stutter. Her breath seemed to have momentarily deserted her.

"The secret, darling," Irene said, her eyes glittering, her mouth raised in a suggestive half-smile. She raised her free hand, and brushed her thumb gently against Molly's lips, which, despite herself, parted instinctively. "The secret to sex." She leaned in even closer, so that her lips were hovering just above the lobe of Molly's ear. "It's knowing."

Her voice was soft as silk, liquid like honey, and Molly swallowed. "Knowing you have something others want, knowing you want what they have. Knowing that all of us want it, in the end. Strip away the decorum, strip away the timidity, and it's in all of us – our basest desire, our most primal, shameful need. Even the timid ones. Even…" Irene's voice dipped even lower, "the clever ones. That's the secret. Knowing it's secretly what everyone wants, if you only strip away enough layers." She leaned back slightly, so that she met Molly's gaze again; her eyes were darkened, shameless, sensuous. "What is it that you want, Molly Hooper?"

Molly's heart was hammering in her chest; she desperately had to breath in, but didn't think she could without gulping uncouthly. Want. What a strange word. Molly had never lived in a world of 'want.' She had only ever lived in a world of 'need.' She needed to finish medical school, she needed to be there for her dad. She needed to help her friends, to carry on, to get up every morning and come home every night. And it was always what other people needed, too. What postmortems needed to be done, what shifts needed to be covered, what days John and Mary needed her to sit with Rosie, what Sherlock needed in the lab. She had once asked him exactly that, actually. That conversation would forever be burned into her memory, bright as a magnesium-white flame. What do you need?

You, had been his reply. She had known, even then, that he hadn't really meant it, had known that it was a cruel way for him to answer her question. But even then, she'd forgiven him for it, forgiven him that moment of weakness – he'd needed her expertise, he'd needed her resolve, he'd needed her unconditional faith. He'd needed someone, anyone, to wait for him while he was away, to know he was still out there, to look out of the windows each night and wonder where he was at that precise moment – but Molly knew it was difficult to put all that into words, especially for someone like Sherlock. 'You' had been a much simpler answer. 'You' – no matter that it had shattered her heart into a plethora of little pieces – had been as close as he could get.

And what did Molly want? To be happy. To be loved. For someone to come to her because they wanted her, not because they needed her.

But it wasn't just that simple, that trite, was it? For once, Molly wanted to be in-control, she wanted to be as cool and composed as Irene Adler, she wanted to be gentle but unyielding, she wanted to be able to whisper indelicacies, run her fingers along people's jawlines as if it was nothing, as if it meant nothing to her – she wanted to go home and curl up in the safety of Greg's arms, she wanted to go to the gala and stare down a monster across a ballroom – she wanted all of those things at the same time. Perhaps, Sherlock had been the very first thing she'd ever truly wanted, and perhaps it was Sherlock that had taught her how dangerous it was to want things you could never really have. To her credit, she'd not let herself want anything she couldn't have since.

Irene Adler was still gazing at her steadily, examining her, dissecting her – taking her apart, layer by layer. It was ridiculous, but at that moment Molly had the full certainty that she could read all of Molly's thoughts, root through all of her innermost secrets at will.

Molly cleared her throat. "Well, I…I suppose some water would be nice," she said, her voice slightly hoarse.

If she'd been hoping to throw Irene off-balance, she was disappointed. Irene's smile only grew, a hint of triumph winking in her eyes. But at last she relented, leaning back slightly and relinquishing Molly's personal space to her. The brush began flitting across Molly's cheekbones once more.

"Well," Irene said quietly, "if you ever do need some help in figuring it out…" she met Molly's gaze again for a second, her eyes flashing sapphire, her voice darting down to a whisper, "…you know where to find me." She set down the brush, and selected another eyeshadow brush from her tabletop of implements. "Close, darling."

Molly shut her eyes, trying to resist the urge to squirm uncomfortably. God, how much longer was this going to take? Absurdly, the line Close your eyes and think of England unexpectedly burst into her head, and she had to tamp down the hysterical urge to giggle by covering it with a gruff, choked-sounding cough. In Irene's defense, if she did notice anything unnatural about it, she at least had the decency not to pass any comment.

No, there was still quite a ways to go, it seemed; and after the makeup, there was still the wig, and the jewelry. Molly took a deep, steadying breath and began thinking about her King and country.

Sherlock found he wasn't in a particularly good temper at the moment.

In his defense, however, a poor temper was entirely justified. A poor temper was, in fact, the only suitable reaction to having one's carefully executed plan fall to shambles all because of a one-year-old's untimely ear infection.

Irene Adler's morning stunt had been the perfect rankling to an already smarting wound. He'd already been running through the available options in his head even as he'd been trying to wheedle John into giving up Mary for the evening – and when Molly had burst into Baker Street, all blowsy and wild-eyed, he'd just been in the middle of considering Bill Wiggins of all people, who was about as likely to blend in at a gala as an Asda cigarette was to blend in among a bundle of hand-rolled cigars. Why was it again that he'd discounted Molly as he'd gone through his mental list? Awkward in social settings, insufficient experience in subterfuge, perpetual gravitation towards bright colors and loud patterns – but then, none of that was quite right, was it? She could be perfectly innocuous when she wanted to be, and her point had been admittedly valid, she hadn't drawn any suspicion to herself in all those years he'd been presumed dead. In fact, at the time, it had never even occurred to him to doubt her ability to keep up the façade; he'd just trusted implicitly, somehow, that she would be able to pull it off.

But evidently, it was easy to forget all those things – easy to miss the resilient, steel thread core that ran beneath her primary-color jumpers and breathless inelegance – easy to forget that the people who had a tendency to hang around him were, generally speaking, not all they appeared to be at first glance.

None of this particularly helped in improving his mood, however. He had no way to defend it. He had let himself be goaded – Molly, making him out to be some sort of lovelorn fool, as if he wasn't in full control of his rational objectivity – and even worse, he had seen the intention behind it – she'd known it would get a rise out of him, and that was precisely why she'd said it, and he had come inexcusably close to losing his temper anyway. The very last thing he should have been doing was giving credence in Irene's eyes to the idea that he could be easily swayed, maneuvered; he needed to be putting up an impenetrable front, not changing directions like a fickle, autumnal wind.

But now that he'd committed to this course of action, he had no option now but to stay the course. Even if some inaudible, distant presentiment was still niggling at him, insisting that it was definitively unwise to involve Molly in this affair with Gruner – try as he might, Sherlock couldn't dredge up any rational reasoning to explain the uneasy twinge at the back of his neck, the instinctual prick of foreboding; and anyhow, it was too pointless to harp on it now. Whenever it was a matter of logic against whim, logic always had to win out, and right now, with more than half the day already gone, Molly was the only feasible option he had to work with.

Molly and Irene Adler had been upstairs for almost two hours now, by Sherlock's estimation. He flexed his fingers. He didn't have anything else to prepare, all the legwork and charting was as complete as it was going to be. His body was already readying itself for the turbulent thrill of tonight's break-in; everything pulsated around him in a vivid clarity, he felt keenly aware of every detail in his vicinity – the droning of a car outside, the pink slash of lipstick on Irene's abandoned mug, the rhythmic tick of the wall clock.

Normally, at this point, if John had been sitting with him in the flat, Sherlock would undoubtedly be using the time to think aloud, unburdening all his racing thoughts, the last-minute apprehensions and considerations as he paced the length of the room, the steady flow of his own words helping him to organize, sort, and set everything into its final, proper place. But John wasn't here, and Sherlock felt his skin practically itching, burning with agitation and impatience, his thoughts skittering, his mind practically screaming at him for some sort of occupation, anything to distract him from the coil of restlessness sitting low in his stomach, the nervous energy whirring in his teeth, the incessant urge to pace, to fidget, to move, to do something….

He sprang up from his seat, taking the stairs two at a time. When he reached the small landing, he threw open the door unceremoniously, not bothering to knock.

"What on earth is taking so long?" he demanded.

Staring back at him, both clearly caught off-guard at the intrusion, were Irene Adler and a strange woman; except all Sherlock had to do was blink, and said strange woman suddenly dissolved into the familiar features of one Molly Hooper. The transformation was thorough, however; Irene Adler hadn't lied when she'd said she'd make Molly unrecognizable.

Her eyes were startling now, a crystalline-cut blue, and her brown hair had been swapped for an icy blonde wig, straight and long, framing her face angularly as it cut down across her cheeks. The makeup, too, played no small part. Her eyes were done in black kohl, smoky and dark, making them seem larger; her lips were lined in a dusky pink which matched the blush of her cheeks. Her eyebrows and skin had been paled, and the lines of her cheekbones emphasized, so that her face seemed thinner, longer. The trademark warmth and softness were gone – this woman was all sharp angles, severity and ice, undeniably striking in a way Molly had never quite achieved on her own. It had Irene's indelible stamp in every line, every brush stroke, and Sherlock found suddenly that he didn't particularly like it. Again, the niggling at the back of his mind; again, the flash of warning, neon and blaring.

"So," Irene said, rising from her chair and coming to stand beside Sherlock, surveying Molly with him. "What do we think?"

Molly stared up at him, her expression inscrutable and cold. And then, suddenly, her eyebrows crinkled, in a definitively Molly-like way, probably still adjusting to her new lenses, and just like that, the cold, unfamiliar façade fell away.

"I think it'll do," Sherlock said tersely, leaning forward to inspect Irene's handiwork for any faults – any places where the wig's hairline looked unnatural, any blemishes that might draw undue notice. Rather as he expected, the application was flawless.

"Oh, come, Sherlock. Is that really the best you can do for a compliment?" Irene said coyly.

Unwittingly, it was that moment that Sherlock met Molly's eyes and suddenly became conscious of the fact he was almost nose-to-nose with her. He straightened hastily.

"Right, and for her dress?" he said, turning to Irene.

"Oh, I'm quite sure we have just the thing at Molly's flat. Don't we, darling?" she said, gazing at Molly with a conspiratorial smile. "Just the occasion for it, I think."

Irrationally, a vision of Molly in a glittering black dress popped into Sherlock's head – cardinal-red lipstick, dangling hoops, nervous laughter. The embarrassment of that memory never failed to constrict Sherlock's chest tightly – the abject mortification of her expression, the beads of tears glittering in her eyes – horrible things, always such horrible things – always such silly things. Missing the obvious, missing the warnings, missing the wood for the trees.

Forgive me – should he have kissed her? Probably not. He'd overcorrected, he'd only wanted to stamp out the shame, the guilt that had suddenly sprung into his chest – he'd been distracted that night, occupied with the Woman, expecting some sort of message from her, some development on the case. Case. He was on a case right now. Focus, you prat. Focus on the case.

"I can fetch it," Sherlock said briskly. "No point in you needlessly wandering about London in your disguise. I'll swing by John's and Mary's. Pick up one or two things from them as well." Finally, he could have something to do, however perfunctory and menial. Molly opened her mouth, but he stalled her. "Don't need your key, I still have the spare to your flat."

"Do you?" Irene said, turning to stare at him intently. She seemed fascinated by the revelation. Sherlock ignored her, brushed past her down the stairs. "What am I looking for?" he called over his shoulder.

"Black garment bag," he heard Molly call down after a moment's hesitation. "Back of my closet."

He slipped on his coat, pulled open the door. "If you'll be rooting around the fridge for something to eat," he called upstairs, "don't drink from the glasses on the top shelf. I'm studying the coagulation of hemolyzed blood samples." Not getting a response, he shut the door soundly behind him, feeling definitively better now that the evening was ticking ever closer, now that he was no longer cooped up in his flat. No point in second-guessing things now; it was out of his hands.

The game, as the sentiment went, was on.

A/N: Hope you all enjoyed, and thank you so much for reading :D Next chapter, we attend a gala!