Hi, there!

Thanks for all the reviews! Keep 'em coming! (please lol)

And I do really hope you like this one...

Now Irene, just like Sherlock, was wrapped in traditional Arab desert ropes that covered all but her eyes.

They were running across the packed earth, through the darkness, away from the Al Qaeda encampment where Sherlock had just slashed about a dozen terrorist militants (most of them to death) and saved her life.

Funny.

The last time she had seen Sherlock, Irene could have sworn he was wishing her dead.

How he had discovered her location, donned the correct clothing for an ancient beheading ritual and arrived at exactly the right moment Irene attributed to Sherlock just being Sherlock.

Amazing.

It was why she liked him, after all.

"You just saved my life." She said, breathless both because of her nerves and because they were still running.

"Yes." Sherlock acknowledged, without looking at her. He was running, he had just killed people, but he was not out of breath at all.

"Let's have dinner." Irene offered.

"Yes." He accepted.

"First date?"

"Yeah! How'd you know?"

"I been waiting tables a long time. I know these things."

"Ha, ha, you're good."

"So I've been told… Doesn't mean they'll give me the night off, though. What if I wanted to go on a date?...but that's the food service industry, for you. You're lucky you could just make last minute plans and get outta work tonight."

"How'd you know it was last minute…how'd you know I work nights?"

"I told you. I know these things. 'Sides, nobody goes out to dinner at eleven thirty at night unless they're up that late all the time anyway."

"True, true…but how'd you know it was last minute? Come on, tell me."

"Nah, I'm not gonna tell you. Doesn't matter, anyways, you two look good together. I'm sure it'll work out…'least for tonight. Just trust me, I know these things."

Molly shook her head.

The waiter didn't know anything.

"Alright, alright." Jim conceded, "I trust you. Now lemme see that drink menu…"

"Oh right! Here you are, sir." The server handed him the leather coated menu, "Should I give you two a couple minutes to decide…?"

"No, no!" Jim smiled, "Stay, stay!"

Now Molly Hooper was no Sherlock Holmes but that didn't mean she couldn't make her own deductions, one in a while.

The waiter, probably in his forties and very tired of the job he thought would only last through university (which he never graduated).

He was also very, obviously gay.

(Ever since that incident with Sherlock and 'Jim from IT' in the morgue, Molly had fine-tuned her gaydar.)

The server wasn't even trying to hide it, in fact, he was trying to make sure everyone in the room (Jim, his new favorite customer) knew.

It was evident in his gestures, speech, and even his way of wearing his black and white uniform, all deliberately feminine.

So if the waiter really thought that Jim (his new favorite customer) and Molly looked 'good together', that it would 'work out' and that he knew these things then why was he flirting so aggressively with Jim?

He was lying.

And…and he must have thought Jim was gay too, since someone his age wouldn't waste time on someone who wouldn't return his advances.

But was Jim gay?

Molly had forgotten to ask. She had been too preoccupied with Sherlock's sexual orientation to when she and Jim had been discussing that subject.

Sure, Jim had said that bit about nothing being absolute and Molly being his exception and all that but how much of that could she really allow herself to believe.

(Don't be stupid.)

Molly watched (jealously?)from across the tablecloth-ed, candle-lit table as Jim gleefully played along with the waiter.

They were still locked in laughter and 'friendly' conversation, completely ignoring the (jealous?)Molly who sank deeper and deeper into the wooden chair.

Jim always liked to play these games.

None of it was real…and yet it was probably the only thing real to him.

And he always, always took them too far.

Molly had been uncertain before, hoping for some reason (why?) that it was only just a coincidence, but now, seeing Jim and the waiter interact, she knew that Jim had been the one to kill that teenaged hotel employee.

To kill and rape.

Molly felt sick to her stomach.

Just when she had become able to be around Jim without sweating, shivering and fidgeting in panic, fear and just plain being creeped out, here she was, sweating, shivering and fidgeting all over again.

Why?

It wasn't like finding out that 'Jim from IT' was Jim Moriarty for the first time.

She knew who (what) Jim was and what he had done (or at least some of it) and what he did for a living.

So why?

Either Molly was used to having casual outings with a dangerous criminal or she wasn't.

One or the other.

But she was both.

And (even though this was probably the only time she'd ever get to dine out on gourmet food at a fancy, expensive restaurant) Molly didn't feel much like eating.

However, when Jim decided what wine they were going to have and that it was in keeping with the character of whoever was chatting with (up) the waiter to ask Molly if his choice was okay, Molly couldn't help but nod gratefully.

She definitely needed a drink.

Her mind was racing with condemnations.

Condemning Jim for the various things he had done and condemning herself for associating with him and condemning Jim for forcing her to associate with him and condemning herself for not even putting up a fight.

What would Sherlock think if he knew where Molly was tonight and who she was with…?

What would Sherlock do if it had been him visited on Valentine's Day by Jim Moriarty…?

Finally the server left.

No, wait. He was back.

With the bottle of wine and then pouring it into two glasses and conversing with Jim again.

(Jealous?)

Why didn't he just pull up a chair and sit down, for god's sake? Why didn't he just take Molly's…?

(Jealous? Jealous? Jealous?)

(Jealous.)

"Oh my gosh! I'm so sorry!"

Molly jumped up from her seat and backwards (to spare her mother's dress) as the glass of wine spilled and shattered.

Red liquid rushed across the tablecloth like blood and splashed all over the waiter's uniform.

Jim's suit was completely unsullied, as usual he was clean.

Sitting there calmly, sipping wine, he didn't even seem to react as Molly's drink spilled, glass shattered and she cried out false apologies, grabbing cloth napkins and attempting to soak up the mess she had made.

"Sir, I am so sorry…" she repeated, "Let me just—"

Molly raised a napkin towards the server's shirt.

"No." he said, teeth gritted into a grudging smile, "It's alright. it's alright. I'll take care of it. Have a seat, ma'am. I'll take care of it."

The waiter grabbed the napkins, now pink and wet, and the shards of broken glass from the table and stalked out of the dinning room back to the kitchen.

Two other waiters soon arrived to take care of the soiled tablecloth, replacing it and the plates, and candles, and Molly's glass of wine.

After about six minutes of frantic cleaning, the table was as pristine as it had been when Molly and Jim had arrived and the restaurant had returned to its late-night homeostasis.

The soft piano music was audible again, as was the hum of conversation.

The restaurant was only this crowded at this hour because it was Valentine's Day night, and still it was only about a third full.

It was the kind of place Molly felt out of place in because she could never afford it and didn't have the table-manners or attire, and it was the kind of place Jim felt out of place in because it was too normal.

"Alone at last." Jim sighed and Molly looked up from the menu where everything cost far too much, "Looks like our fellow patrons have had enough excitement for one night and are finally returning to their own boring lives."

It was true.

Knocking over the glass had caused quite the disturbance in the restaurant's atmosphere and everyone had turned to stare at Molly (which was why she was still blushing almost as red as the wine).

They had eyed her the same way the greeter and the waiter had eyed her when she and Jim had come in. Low class…what did she think she was doing here?

(Of course, they hadn't looked that way at Jim. Molly had no idea if he came from money or not, but either way he could effortlessly be whoever he wanted to be.)

And as for herself, she had exceeded all their expectations for the inappropriate behavior of a commoner in an upscale restaurant.

"Ignore them." Jim instructed, sensing her thoughts, "They'd do the same to you."

"Everybody does…" she mumbled wistfully..

"I don't." Jim smirked.

Adorable, Molly thought.

(No! Don't be stupid.)

Adorable like those pretty colored little frogs with the big black eyes that could poison you with a touch.

Molly took what could only be called a chug of wine, for bravery.

"That was you, right?" she asked, "The boy at the hotel?"

"Mm-hm." Jim nodded, grinning proudly, "Does everyone I kill end up on your morgue table?"

"They always assign me the worst ones." Molly explained, allowing herself to smile as well.

(She thought she was funny, even if Sherlock never did.)

"They always assign you the most interesting ones." Jim corrected, "And secretly you're thankful for that. It's the reason you met Sherlock, after all. It's the reason you met me…"

"I liked them before." Molly admitted, "I always found it interesting, my job. I do my job because I love it. It's not always all about you and Sherlock."

"Yes it is." Jim declared, smirking, "Kinda like a religion to me, almost, Sherlock is. Instead of 'what would Jesus do?' like they taught me in Sunday School, I think 'what would Sherlock do?'…don't you?"

Molly took a sip.

(At least she tried to, anyway.)

Her glass was empty.

And the waiter wasn't kind enough to leave the bottle on the table and it didn't seem like he would be coming back any time soon.

Molly took a breath.

(At least she could do that.)

"Sometimes." Molly admitted, with a sigh.

There really wasn't any point in lying to Sherlock or to Jim and especially not about Sherlock to Jim.

(Lying about Jim to Sherlock, however, was something Molly had to do if the subject ever did come up.)

"He's not a hero, you know." Jim told her, "Sure he helps solve crimes and catch killers but that doesn't make him a good man. He's killed people, you know…just like me."

Molly was shocked to hear this.

She was glad her glass had been empty or else there probably would have been a second spill that night.

(And Molly knew Jim would have just loved that. He loved her reactions to things. But since the option of spraying wine all over the table again was unavailable, he was content to enjoy her widened eyes and mouth, and raised eyebrows. (He loved those too.))

Who? Molly wanted to ask. Why?

But she didn't.

Instead, she calmed her expression and said, "It's not 'just like you'. You kill people for fun. Sherlock wouldn't do that. He'd have a reason, a good reason if he ever…um, did. You don't. You just do it for fun."

"How do you know what Sherlock would do?" Jim asked, leaning back in his chair, crossing a leg and raising an eyebrow, "How do you know he wouldn't just commit the perfect crime, just for the fun of it? Just to see if anybody would be able to catch him? How do you know?"

"Well…I know because I…" Molly trailed off.

How did she know?

She couldn't say that she knew Sherlock very well at all. How would she know what he would or wouldn't do?

Just because Sherlock and Jim were 'enemies' didn't mean they were opposites, did it?

She considered the things she had heard different detectives say about Sherlock (all of which she had previously dismissed) that he was a psychopath, that solving crimes wouldn't be enough for him, that he liked murders and vicious deaths, and bloodies bodies a bit too much.

Could Sherlock really be a killer?

Were some of the unsolved homicide victims she had performed autopsies on, actually his handy-work?

…no.

There was no way.

No matter what anyone (even Jim) said, Sherlock was good.

And then she considered that Jim could have just been lying.

He did do that, after all.

A lot.

Especially when he knew his lies would unnerve her and generate these expressive reactions from her that he just loved to laugh at.

So that was it.

Jim was lying.

"You hardly know him..." he said, and then added with a chuckle, "You know me so much better."

Jim was telling the truth.

And, like she usually did when it came to Sherlock and Jim and the truth, Molly was ashamed.

"No, I don't." Molly denied, "I don't know Sherlock, that's true, but I don't know you either."

"Didn't I warn you about lying to yourself—"

"I'll stop 'lying' to myself when you do." Molly interrupted boldly and then quickly clarified, "…stop lying to me, that is. I'll stop lying to me when you stop lying to me."

"Molly, I've never lied to you." Jim stated, "That faggy IT guy did, for sure, but I never did. I never lied to you."

So what, then?

Molly was supposed to believe that Jim hadn't lied to her since he was pretending to be 'Jim from IT'?

She didn't think so.

"I mean, why bother, anyway?" Jim continued, "Lying to the same person gets boring. Fast. Besides, an ugly truth is often far more interesting than even the most elaborate lie. And the truth is almost always ugly…"

He was right, of course.

Just like Sherlock, Jim was always, always right.

"Tell me the truth then…." Molly began, finally, after a long moment of contemplation, "…why me?"

"Why you? You're going to have to be more specific than that, darling. I can't answer 'why you' if you're wondering why God decided, for some reason, to punish you by giving you the most miserable, lonely existence imaginable…because, frankly, I've got no clue what you did to deserve it. In fact, 'til I met you, Molly, I didn't think fate could be so…unkind."

"You know what I mean. I mean it could have been anyone you used to get close to Sherlock. People much closer than me. Like Lestrade or Doctor Watson…or even his landlady!...so why me?"

Jim laughed and leaned forward in his chair towards Molly.

"Well, for one thing…" he started, "you were available. No one else was using you…But, you're right, it's not only that. It was you. You were the only person who knew Sherlock and didn't think he was a 'freak' or a 'psychopath' or a detective version of Rainman…and not just that. You see him for what he really is, which is more than just a genius. You're the only person, the only other person than me, that Sherlock Holmes is not just a man…but a god."

Molly tried to decipher what she was hearing.

She didn't think that Sherlock was a 'god'.

At first she just that he was an awkward but adorable guy, who was a lot smart and maybe a little shy, that she really wanted to go to coffee with.

Now she knew he was a brilliant genius (and with him, that description was not redundant) who solved mysteries like they were children's arithmetic and so could get away with being rude to (almost) everyone and would never, ever go to coffee with her.

Still, Molly had to scrub the meaning of Jim's metaphors before she could understand the polished truth.

Maybe, in Jim's mind, a crush (ridiculous infatuation (unrequited love (obsession))) was the same thing as worship, and in Jim's mind, the only being worthy of worship would be a god.

He must really love Sherlock too.

...but then…

"…but then…why me?" Molly inquired, "After all that whole thing with Sherlock and the bombs was over…why still pay any attention to me at all? Why play all those pranks? Why follow me home on Christmas?...why come to my door tonight? Why me…?"

Jim caught his smile fading and so widened it.

"I was bored." He answered, once again, leaning back in his chair away from her.

He yawned for affect, patting his open mouth exaggeratedly.

Jim was telling the truth…

…and yet, he was lying.

Molly has no response to this and no time to think of one.

Conveniently, a rare stroke of luck occurred for Molly then as a server (different than the one from before and much less friendly) arrived to take their orders.

Jim spoke immediately, telling the waitress what he and Molly (without even consulting her) wanted to eat that late night.

The waitress scrawled into her notepad and then took away the menus while Molly hoped to god that Jim didn't decide to leave her with the bill as some sick joke.

It was silent, again, for a while after that (as Molly was never good at starting conversations and so was waiting for Jim to speak).

She wondered if she would get a more in-depth answer to her question, but seriously doubted that Jim would grudgingly tell her whatever she wanted to know.

If he wanted to tell the truth, he would just keep quiet rather than lying.

And if he wanted to lie…

Molly knew that if Jim lied to her, really wanted to lie to her, then she would believe it.

And then that that lie could very easily set her mind a flame, crackling and sparking until it exploded like a firecracker.

He wouldn't even have to strike a match. He'd just say the word and she'd do it to herself.

"You know…" Jim mused, breaking the silence like cracking together two spark-rocks, "I sort of rather liked being the only one to see Sherlock…"

Match lit.

"I've got to go to the restroom." Molly said abruptly, standing up.

Jim watched her uninterestedly as she pushed in her chair and crossed the room, eventually finding the bathroom.

The bathroom was as elegant as the rest of restaurant and had several stalls, one of which was occupied.

Molly didn't venture into one of these stalls.

Instead she went over to one of the sinks and splashed her cheeks with cold water as if it could wash the flush from her face and the fear from her nerves and the guilty shame from her mind.

Would she die tonight?

Molly finally allowed herself to fully consider this possibility, which she had been forcibly ignoring for months now ever since Jim Moriarty had come into her life.

Would she be alright with that, if she did…?

Jim was jealous.

Molly knew jealous when she saw it, when she felt it.

Molly was no threat, no threat at all (Jealous, jealous. Molly was jealous.) to Jim's 'relationship' to Sherlock and yet he was jealous (Jealous, jealous. Jim was jealous.).

All this had been some elaborate lie so that he could avenge that ugly truth.

And he was going to kill her for it.

Probably tonight.

He had led her on, made her feel safe around him, made her feel acknowledged…

…and now he was going to kill her.

He was going to kill her and cherish that look of surprise on her face when he did it.

(Wide eyes and mouth, even wider than normal. This would be her best one yet, her best and her last. He always did love that look.)

And then, after that, Jim Moriarty would once again be the only one to worship Sherlock Holmes, his own personal god.

Molly wondered if there really was a God. She wondered if she would go to Heaven. She didn't think she would…

No.

What would Sherlock do?

Sherlock wouldn't just do nothing and let himself be killed like this.

No.

Sherlock would fight.

Fight, Molly, fight.

But Molly couldn't. She never once had been able to stand up for herself…

So run, then. Run and hide.

Molly's always been good at running, always been good at hiding.

Molly looked up from the bowl of the sink where the water sank down the drain like sand falling to the bottom of an hour glass.

Time was running out.

She couldn't stay in the bathroom too long or Jim would surely get suspicious.

Molly looked into the mirror.

She knew she wouldn't be able to look herself in the eye if she willingly went along with any of Jim's 'plans' anymore.

And so she looked into the mirror and made up her mind.

Now Molly ventured into one of the stalls.

Locking it behind her and bending over the toilet, Molly forced herself to throw up (a talent she had learned and inherited from her skinny, dead mother).

She wanted to get whatever drug Moriarty had dumped into her drink earlier that evening out of her.

What if it was poison? She thought, What if it kills me?

No.

With him, with him and her, it was personal.

If Moriarty was going to kill her (and he was going to kill her) he would do it personally.

(Molly regretted ever wanting him to keep his promise.)

But she wasn't going to let him just kill her.

If she died tonight, she would fight.

The vomit was red like the wine and like blood.

It was too late, (Molly had a medical degree, she wasn't stupid), she knew the drug, (whatever it was), was already well into her system.

Molly stood, wiped her mouth with toilet paper and flushed everything down the toilet wishing she could just flush away her problems with Moriarty too.

She exited the stall and went straight for the courtesy table to gargle mouth wash and stop her throat from burning.

What now?

Molly was still burning, her whole body burning, her mind burning…

The window.

Molly unlatched the window and pushed it up and open, instantly feeling the chilly February breeze against her face.

"Are you alright?"

Molly turned to see an older, well dressed woman emerge from the occupied stall and start washing her hands.

"I'm fine." Molly told her, "Just needed some air, that's all."

"You sure…?" the woman questioned, raising eyebrow in both concern and suspicion.

Had Molly a boiling point she would have steamed at Lestrade long ago for asking her that question one too many times.

But Molly was quiet, Molly was polite, Molly was fine…

"…I'm sure…" She nodded and turned back to the window.

Once she heard the bathroom door close and knew the woman was gone, Molly lifted the screen out of her way.

She could just climb out of this window, run away into the night, away from Moriarty and live.

Sure, she'd probably have to leave London and keep running and keep hiding forever, if Moriarty decided to take her ditching their 'date' personally, but she would live.

And would she be alright with that, if she did…?

Molly could feel her own panic and Moriarty's drug synchronizing to create the sweating, shaking, shivering mess that she was.

And the alcohol she had had tonight probably wasn't helping her either…

…or maybe it was.

Suddenly, a calm overtook Molly like that cool water and that winter breeze.

Just go up to him and confront him.

It's only just Jim, after all.

And what would Jim think of her, if she just ran away instead of standing up to him and fighting back?

If Molly died tonight, she would fight.

(And hell, maybe after she was gone, Sherlock would finally respect her for taking on Moriarty.)

(Maybe Jim would finally respect her…)

Molly practiced it a few times to her own reflection in the mirror.

Are you… going to kill me...? No. Not like that. Are you going to kill me? Flat. Direct. Not a question. You are going to kill, me right? You're going to kill me. You're going to kill me…aren't you? You are. I know you are. You're going to kill me. Kill me…kill me…

Molly nodded at herself and then left the restroom, walking back to the table (slowly but determinedly, for effect).

"Oh, you're back!" Jim greeted when she returned, "Food's here, by the way. I waited for you so it's gone a bit cold…"

Molly didn't even look at the plates or sit down, she just stared into Jim's face, trying to coax out the words she wanted to say to Moriarty.

Kill me…Kill me…

It was quiet for so long, until Jim's laughter (which he tried to hold in but finally couldn't help but choke out) sputtered at Molly's overly concentrated face.

"My god, Molly! Don't look at me like that, I can't take it. I'm not going to kill you! Why would I kill you? You haven't yet lived."

How come Jim could always read her mind?

Sherlock read bodies, he read faces, he read crime scenes and it was all amazing…

…but Jim. Jim, Molly was sure could read minds.

And it was more than 'all amazing', it was omniscient black magic.

(…divine…)

"I…no, I-I didn't think—I never said-"Molly stammered, that beautiful shocked expression that Jim loved in her eyes and mouth, but it was no use.

(Molly had never been a good at lying.)

And Jim was still laughing, albeit and quieter chuckle now.

Again, Molly had been doused in cold water.

Jim had struck fear and panic into her with a few words only to put it right back out again with a laugh.

And he had done it on purpose, Molly realized.

(That was some power, wasn't it? But was it the kind of power you hated someone for…or was it the kind of power for which you worshiped them? She couldn't decide.)

Molly found herself giggling, out of nervousness, embarrassment and relief.

"So now that that's settled…" Jim said, "Let's have dinner."

God, it was almost twelve and the restaurant was now all but empty at he wanted to have dinner.

"…I'm not hungry..." Molly stated, the memory of vomit still swirling in her stomach.

"Yeah…me, neither…" Jim shrugged, standing up and pushing in his chair, then removing his coat from its back.

The expertly (tiny (but (ridiculously) expensive)) sliced and diced and cooked meals sat cold on the cloth-ed table.

"…oh." Molly replied, watching him.

Then why had they come to this restaurant again if neither of them were hungry?

Oh yeah.

Jim wanted to play normal and scare Molly.

"Let's go." Jim decided, putting on his coat and then starting towards the restaurant's exit.

Molly put on her coat and followed.

As they quickly passed them, employees were cleaning off tables and clearing dishes.

But before they made it out the door, Jim's 'friend' the server appeared, jumping between them and their (sneaky, hasty) retreat.

He had changed his shirt.

"Your bill, sir." He growled through gritted teeth, and handed Jim the slip of paper.

"Oh. Right." Jim acknowledged, taking it, "Pen?"

Without waiting for the waiter to give it to him, Jim pulled the pen from the his shirt pocket.

Against the greeter's desk, Jim bent to write on the bill. Molly didn't see him take out cash or a credit car.

"Here." Jim pushed the slip of paper and the pen into the server's chest.

Grabbing and pulling Molly along by the wrist, Jim hurried out the door.

Like teenagers, they ran across the street and then for several blocks away from the fancy restaurant.

"What did you just do?" Molly exclaimed, as they ran.

"We, Molly," Jim corrected, "What did we just do."

"What did 'we' just do?" Molly cried, "Dine and dash?"

"Absolutely not!" Jim declared.

"Then what—what did you write on that check?" Molly asked.

"IOU04I80." Jim answered, matter-of-factly.

"What?"

"I owe you nothing for I ate nothing."

"You what-but—oh, god."

"Well we 'ate nothing', did we not?"

"I—well I guess so. I guess we didn't."

Molly smiled and she and Jim stopped running.

He didn't let go of her wrist.

They were on some street, somewhere in the city of London.

Molly couldn't tell because it was dark and she was under the affects of both alcohol and drugs, courtesy of Jim.

That was probably also why she was laughing so hard.

Never before in her life would she have considered leaving a restaurant without paying, even if she genuinely couldn't afford it.

But then again, never before in her life would she have considered spending Valentine's Day with a wanted murderer.

And then Jim Moriarty came along.

Most crimes, Molly decided, were crimes of opportunity.

Most people, Molly decided, were innocent until tempted…no coerced into sin.

(But of course, there were always those exceptions… (Jim.))

Excuses, excuses.

'The devil made me do it.'

But hadn't he...?

"My, my, my dear, I don't think I've ever seen you in this good a mood." Jim commented at Molly's laughter.

It was true.

And Molly continued to giggle and giggle.

None of this, none of this was her fault.

The drug was making her like this; the devil was making her do it.

And she was glad (so sue her) it was such a rush breaking the rules. Why hadn't she tried it before?

Why hadn't she lived?

(Of course, this was all the drug and the alcohol and the nerves talking. Not Molly. And she'd regret everything in the morning and blah, blah, blah, blah, blah…)

"I don't think I've ever been in 'this good a mood'!" Molly declared.

Jim laughed with her, now, with her and pulled her by the wrist he still held into some sort of dance.

Molly bet Jim probably knew all the sophisticated waltzes…

…but this was just having fun and he was just having fun and Molly was just having fun and they were just having fun.

Jim twirled Molly and then she accidentally (on purpose) tripped and he captured her in his arms.

Molly was still giggling against his body, warm in the cold night, when she felt his chest no longer rising and falling with laughter but with steady breath.

She tried her best to calm herself and stop being so giddy, leaning into him and closing her eyes and he stroked her back.

This was crazy. This was stupid. But this was not her fault.

The drug and the devil were making her do it.

"…if that's true…" Jim whispered into her forehead, referring to her earlier statement "…then why Sherlock…?...Why not me?"

Molly froze.

And shivered.

This night had become cold again.

She pulled away from Jim so that she could look him in the fact under the light of the streetlamps.

It was a legitimate question (accusation, almost).

Why Sherlock?

Why not Jim?

Molly couldn't answer logically a question of the illogical (stupid, crazy, not her fault) heart.

But that didn't matter.

That didn't matter because Molly knew jealousy when she saw it (because she herself had felt it so many times...)

Jim was jealous.

"I…I don't know…" Molly mumbled, looking away from him, "I'm feeling sick. I want to go home now…"

"So soon?" Jim feigned, "Ah, but the night is young…!"

"I really, really want go home now." Molly repeated, pleading almost, "I need to go home. Please, take me back home…"

"Alright, alright fine." Jim groaned, rolling his eyes, "I'll call a cab-"

"What drug did you give me?!" Molly exclaimed, suddenly falling forwards towards him, "I think I'm going to faint!"

"I told you I didn't give you anything." Jim snorted, shaking his head and reaching into his pocket for his phone, "Stand up, you're not that drunk."

Molly steadied herself, staring at Jim as he spoke on the phone.

She was dizzy and her stomach was churning and churning…

"Alcohol affects your body faster and more strongly when you don't eat." Molly stated, "I didn't eat anything for at least three hours…"

"You never eat anything." Jim dismissed, still shaking his head and rolling his eyes, "Just snack foods and cereal…not very healthy. Just what would your mother say?"

No.

Molly definitely did not want to think about her mother right now.

"Still," she said, "The alcohol's going to affect me more…even if you didn't drug me."

"I didn't drug your drink." Jim insisted, "That man was crazy. He just wanted to steal you away from me…"

Sure.

Now Molly was rolling her eyes.

Jim told her he never lied to her, but then, that itself could have been a lie.

(Don't be stupid.)

(Not her fault, not her fault, not her fault.)

Molly could see her world spinning and the light at the end of the tunnel.

No, nevermind…that was just the taxi pulling up to the curb.

And it wasn't just a taxi, Jim had gone ahead and called a classy towncar like the one Molly had seen parked outside of Sherlock's that day.

What a gentleman.

And now the consulting criminal, the mass murderer, the Jim Moriarty was just going to put Molly into a car and send her home and let her get away like that.

What a gentleman.

He even opened the door for her and told the driver her address.

And then he got in.

The gentleman was escorting her safely home.

"So what do normal people normally do…?" Jim asked, "…after normal first dates?"

He was watching her, casually leaning against the wall as she fumbled through her pockets for her keys and then her keys for the key to her apartment.

Clumsy as usual, but more than usual.

(Not her fault, not her fault, not her fault. It was the alcohol. It was the drug.)

"…this isn't our first date." Molly corrected, "…it's our fourth."

(...if one counted the coffee-dates with 'Jim from IT' (and Molly did.))

She had found the key, but she hesitated to put it into the lock.

Instead, she turned away from the door to face him.

"So what do normal people normally do…?" Jim rephrased, "…after normal 'fourth' dates?"

"You tell me." Molly shrugged, insinuation in the guise of feigned ignorance.

She was brave tonight (early morning).

It was the drug.

"Well…!" Jim started, taking in a deep breath for effect and holding up a hand to count fingers on, "…there's escort to the door, check. Kiss on the cheek, check."

He leaned in to give her and peck on the cheek.

She turned her face and he got her lips.

But as quickly as it had began it ended when Molly pulled away.

Jim raised an eyebrow.

"That's all first date stuff." She said flatly, boredly, rolling her eyes, "This is our fourth date."

"…and what, Molly, do normal people normally do on 'fourth dates'? Pray tell…"

"They come inside…"

And Molly pushed the key into the lock and opened the door.

Now, let us all use our skills of deduction to deduce what happens next.

Keeping it to T rating for now, lol and sticking to that old writing rule 'write what you know'. also for now lol.

Hope some of the narrative innuendo wasn't too silly, it made me laugh but idk, obviously I'm weird sometimes.

And I hope you all like it and weren't disappointed and idk...maybe I'll be able to bring myself to get a bit more graphic.

lol.

...maybe.

What are your opinions?