...sorry, no 'graphic'.

I explained to most of you why lol. (lacking maturity, etc)

...Sorry...

But anyway, thanks so much for all the reviews, I love you all so much!

Filler(ish) chapter, but nesscary.

Kinda short. Sorry.

Posting a longer one tommorow tho (hopefully)...

Hope you like!

Molly remembered the night she had come home to find that he had somehow snuck in and disorganized her whole flat, putting everything out of order so that none of it made sense, none of it was as it should be and none of it was normal.

She sat up.

Toby's eyes were glinting at her in the dark.

Judging her.

Molly did not turn on the lamp on her bedside table as she got out of bed.

It was almost twelve in the afternoon, she was already late for work and there was really no point calling in sick now.

Molly closed all the blinds tight in her apartment, even though there was no point, and she locked the front door, even though there no point, and she still would not turn the lights on even though there was no point.

Was she going to cry?

Yes.

Was she going to throw up?

Right now.

Molly rushed into the bathroom, and in the blackness bent over the outline of the toilet and vomited through a sob.

Why hadn't he stayed?

He would have loved to see her like this.

In fact, it was probably what he was trying to accomplish (among other things).

(His fault. his fault. his fault.)

When she rose and washed her face and drank and glass of water and spit it out, Molly did not turn on the light and Molly did not look at herself in the mirror.

(Could not.)

She could believe herself, what she had done (and with whom).

How could she have been so stupid?

Molly remembered how her stepmother warned her countless times about the dangerous men who only wanted one thing and would do anything and everything to get it.

How could she have been so stupid…?

"I'm so lucky to have found your father." Molly's stepmother had said, "He's a good man, Molly. I hope you find someone like him."

And who had Molly found?

(…well, no one, really.)

Who had found her?

(His fault. his fault. his fault.)

Molly showered in water that singed her skin and ripped the sheets from her bed, stuffing them into a trash bag.

There was no way she was taking them down to the laundry room.

What if somebody saw her?

What if, somehow, they knew…?

Toby followed Molly as she went about her 'chores', mewing and staring at her.

He knew.

Worse was, that she knew.

Oh how Molly had hoped it had all just been a dream, although she had known it was not and the flowers in vase still sitting on her kitchen counter proved it.

Their colors looked faded in the dark of the room and Molly realized that they were probably most of the only color in her flat, the rest of her home being shades of beige and gray and white.

For this virtue alone Molly didn't throw them out.

(No, not because he gave them to her. Definitely not.)

In whatever light that managed to creep into her apartment through the cracks in the blinds, Molly fed her cat but not herself.

She couldn't stay here.

What if he came back?

And so Molly went to work.

Jim didn't like to sleep.

Molly apparently did, as sleep had slept until one in the afternoon that day (yesterday) and was now sleeping once again after almost exactly twelve hours.

Jim guessed he must have tired her out.

But who could have known Molly had it in her?

Jim did.

He knew she had 'it' in her but seeing 'it' outside of her, manifest in her actions, had almost put Jim into the shock that was Molly's average state whenever he was around.

He never would have known Molly could be so…explosive.

He knew she couldn't be that experienced and so just where had she learned all that…?

Jim knew.

It had been from the 'romance' movie (sentimental porn disguised as a chick-flick) she had been watching when he had arrived.

(She must have seen it several times before, then.)

Anyway, Jim had expected a clumsy, awkward, insecure mess…which Molly probably would have been- had she not been drunk and believing that she had been drugged.

It was funny what people would do when they thought that they could get away with it.

(Avoid the punishment, the judgment from others…

…avoid the guilt, the shame from within themselves.)

But sooner or later, Molly would have to take responsibility for her actions.

(Her fault. her fault. her fault.)

Like a man, Molly had fallen asleep almost right afterwards (or, at least, she had pretended to). It was because she was drunk and thought she had been drugged and it was easier than having that little chat.

'was it as good for you as it was for me?'

'no…but don't feel bad. it's always like that for me.'

It had been a long damn time for Molly, obviously, and so, for her, any 'it' would be 'good'.

As for Jim, however, it was always easier for him to 'get off' on the invigorating innuendo of The Game than on even the kinkiest sex.

And Jim just being Jim while Molly was some happy-go-unlucky-in-love-that-still-fucks-a-whole-fucking-lot protagonist of a dirty rom-com, wasn't the biggest turn on.

Still, Molly seemed to have enjoyed it and it was all adorable.

And now, Molly was asleep and had been for maybe a half an hour or so.

Curled up in a fetal position, yes she was adorable. But it was time for Jim to get up.

The digital clock on the nightstand read '2:15' when he'd awoken but it was ten minutes fast because Molly always so afraid of being late.

Toby's eyes glowed at Jim in the dark from where he sat on the dresser and had been watching from the whole time.

Jim patted the blanket beside him and the cat came pouncing towards him. Once Toby had hopped up on the bed and rubbed up against Jim, Jim pet him until he purred and finally fell asleep next to Molly, curled up just like her.

Then, Jim stood up and re-dressed in the dark. He considered taking a shower but decided it would be too loud.

He didn't want to wake the 'sleeping beauty'.

And yet he kissed her, not on the lips this time, but on the cheek like he had on Christmas, and then tucked her in and left, closing the front door quietly behind him.

In the hallway Jim finally was able to check his phone (which had been politely silenced the entire date).

Five missed calls and ten texts.

Ew.

Jim did not want to answer this person, who was always obsessively in his business.

Groaning and rolling his eyes, Jim slipped the phone back into his pocket and continued through the hall out of the apartment building.

It was early morning, and so, of course, no one was up and around to see him in the building but if someone had, Jim, of course, wouldn't have cared.

Was this a 'walk-of-shame', leaving the residence of someone he had just done the deed with 'the morning after'?

(Did men even have those? or were those parades of pride?)

Jim didn't care, that was all so boring and normal, just like having a date for Valentine's Day and sleeping with a girl (a GIRL!) that he could actually be considered to actually be dating.

(…Maybe Jim did have something to be ashamed of, after all.)

Head looking down the entire walk, train ride and path through the hospital (even though there was no point since nobody noticed her anyway), Molly finally reached the morgue at around two in the afternoon.

Surely someone she passed would notice that she was late, would comment, would know…

But Molly's journey to her job was uninterrupted and so she decided to walk right past her table and continue into the next room.

The lab.

Luckily no was in there.

She locked the doors and kept the lights off.

It was simple blood test.

Molly had done it all the time on the blood of the bodies she examined, and on the blood of whoever Sherlock asked her to whenever he asked her to.

….But on herself...?

If someone was to see her now, sticking herself with a needle and drawing blood from the vein in her arm that she had found in the dark, they would know.

There were no bandages (why would there be? It was a morgue, after all) and so Molly dressed her wound with a paper towel and put back on her white labcoat (careful not to stain it so no one would know) to cover it.

She put the vial of blood (unlabeled) into the machine and let it run.

Now she would have to wait.

"Sherlock! …You're back!"

"'Back'?"

"Yes 'back'. Back home. You were gone all yesterday and half of today."

"Brilliant deduction, John. How long did it take you to discern that?"

"Sherlock—"

"No. Don't tell me. The cup and plates from your breakfast, toast, you burnt it, are in the sink but not yet washed…you're tired. That means you went to bed late but woke up early anyway. There's trash from Chinese food in the bin, probably leftovers in the fridge. Delivery, not take out, they use different bags for that. You didn't leave the house all last night. You would have noticed I wasn't here as soon as you got home from work that afternoon…but that doesn't mean anything. You wouldn't have noticed I was gone until I hadn't come home in hours and you couldn't reach me. You discerned that I was gone at approximately ten thirty three last night…although you were suspicious a lot sooner."

"Ten thirty three…how…there's no way anyone could…how did you know it was-?"

"Simple. You decided that it was strange, even for me, to be away for eight hours without answering a text and so you decided at ten thirty that I was gone and that you'd call in an hour if I didn't get back. Of course, eleven o'clock is when your show starts and you got distracted by the pre-title 'hook' for three minutes but then quickly remember to call me. I didn't answer and so you waited up almost till morning before finally falling asleep right there on the couch and then waking up four hours later and making yourself breakfast. You then called in sick to work and have been waiting for me right here ever since. Am I right? Of course I am."

"…You cheated."

"Cheated?"

"No—no, I mean, you saw my texts and the times I sent them and called. That's how you knew."

"How's that 'cheating'?"

"Well it's not the same as like, you know, figuring that all out from like…the way I'm sitting or something—"

"Last night you sat on the middle cushion, it's still indented from that and to create such a long lasting impression in that consistency of cushion at your weight it would require hours of continues sitting. You were leaning backwards when you sat there. Now you're tired of that position so you're sitting straight up on the right cushion. You have pillows behind you, against your back because it hurts from sleeping on the couch. That indicates that you—"

"You know what, Sherlock. Nevermind. Just…no."

"What? I actually find it adorable, John, that you waited up Valentine's Day night for me—"

"It's not like that, I wasn't just waiting or anything. I was watching telly, you know, doing other things. It wasn't like I was watching the door. I just thought it was well, weird that you weren't replying to my texts…especially since I know now that you got them."

"I didn't at the time. Your text messages and missed calls arrived when I returned. My phone didn't have service where I was."

"…and are you going to share where you were?"

"I was having dinner with someone."

"What?...Like a date? You...Sherlock Holmes…having dinner with someone?…on a date?... on Valentine's Day? Perhaps the world is reaslly coming to an end…"

"Well, anything can happen. Like, for example, John Watson, the man with 2.3 girlfriends per month, being alone on that ridiculously sentimental manufactured holiday-"

"2.3? How's that even possible? there can't even be 2.3 of a human-"

"Math, John. Division. 'Primary school stuff' like the sun going 'round the earth or whatever, although much less useless. Crucial, even, mathematical ability is. So much so, in fact, that in primary school I had Mycroft acquire me a tutor which I'm sure he could do the same for you if you-"

"I know how do to math, Sherlock. Don't change the subject. Who were you 'having dinner' with."

"…a woman."

"…Alright. Good for you, then Sherlock, good for you. How-"

"Oh, so you've deduced that I'm not gay now. Good for you, then, John, good for you."

"I wasn't going to say-"

"No you weren't going to say that. You were just going to politely confine it to your thoughts. Pointless, really, the way people censor themselves…"

"What I was going to say was 'how did it go?'"

"I was out all night and didn't come back until afternoon. Deduce, John."

When he got outside of the building, Jim started down the sidewalk, wondering if he should call a car to pick him up or if he should just enjoy the freezing night air.

Immediately, he heard footsteps behind him.

Boots. It was always combat boots.

Jim spun around, standing at attention and saluting.

"Sir yes sir! Captain Sergeant General Private sir!"

Sebastian Moran stood blank-faced, arms at his side, but only loosely (although one was twitching as though it wanted to raise up and return salute).

"It's Moran, sir." He said.

"Oh I know. I'd never forget you, Sebastian." Jim smirked, assuming his usual leisurely demeanor, "I just was a little…fuzzy on your rank. Remind me of it again, will you?"

"I don't have a rank." Moran stated.

"….yes you do." Jim countered, "I remember now. It's 'one', isn't it? Number one…am I correct… sir?"

"You are, sir." Moran affirmed, deciding that it was best to pick his battles.

"I knew it, 'number one' sir!" Jim exclaimed, clapping in exaggeratedly childish joy, "…so how's number 'zero', then? I assume he wants something..."

"My employer's message is simple, sir." Moran declared, "Stop."

"Stop?" Jim repeated.

"Yes, sir." Moran confirmed, "Stop."

"Sounds like a telegram." Jim snorted, "What the hell's that supposed to mean 'stop', anyway?"

"He said you would know." Moran replied.

" 'Stop'… 'stop'!...sssssssssstop…." Jim hissed, enjoying the taste of 's' on his tongue, "How eloquent. Can I get that in writing?"

"He said you would say that." Moran responded flatly, "He said to tell you that you can. Just check your texts, sir."

Jim chuckled at this.

"Both of you must really have nothing better to do if he's sending you out to find me just so you can tell me to read my text messages. But alright. Fine, fine. I'll do it. For you, 'number one', sir. Just cause you came all this way. "

He pulled out his phone and browsed through it, snickering to himself at what he read.

It went:

Three bodies.

What did I tell you about leaving behind evidence?

(…And then…)

A teenager? In a hotel?

And you're clearly visible on camera.

I may have been able to delete any footage of your presence at the hotel and the police may be just as oblivious as ever but that does not give you the right to carry on like this.

This is senseless and it needs to stop.

Now.

(…And then it was…)

Apparently, in lieu of the authorities being unable to do their jobs, one medical examiner of St. Bartholomew's Hospital has decided to take the investigation of the boy's death into her own hands.

Her name is Molly Hooper.

I believe you know her…

(…followed immediately by…)

I've watched recordings of you 'visiting' her at the hospital on three separate occasions.

I took the liberty of deleting them, of course, which Miss Hooper seems to have discovered for herself.

She has also discovered that the recordings of you at the hotel have also 'mysteriously' been deleted.

I do not know how she made that connection between you and the boy from the hotel…

(…and…)

…but if you divulged any information about any of your, mine or our 'activities' to her during any of your 'conversations' there will be…consequences.

For her and you both.

And so I believe that you need to stop knowing her.

(…and then, a few days later…)

I told you to stay away from Sherlock Holmes AND Molly Hooper.

And so you see them both on the same day?

If you needed a distraction so badly you should have just come to me. I have ample work to set you up with.

Contact me if you are short.

(…and again immediately after …)

American.

Investment Banker getting class-action sued for losing all his clients' money in the stock market.

Wants to escape the United States with his money but not to some 'dirty spanish-speaking third-world country'.

I'll take care of moving the man and his money quietly to London.

You take care of making it look like one of his angry investors killed him for revenge and distributed the money among his fellow unlucky stockholders.

And yes, that means you have to travel to America.

(…a few weeks later…)

You returned from America and the first thing you did is knock on Miss Hooper's door.

I think you do this on purpose to annoy me. In fact, I know you do.

Leave her immediately.

(…and then a few hours later…)

I pay a man to accuse you at the bar of drugging Miss Hooper's drink…

…I use my government contacts to arrange it that a detective Miss Hooper knows just happens to be stationed, below her paygrade, policing the very park you two visited…

...and then I bribe the waiter to aggressively flirt with you at the restaurant…

…and still, Miss Hooper is unable to take a 'hint'.

And so are you, it seems.

(…and finally…)

Now you're going back to her place?

I don't need to remind you how it is stupid to get so 'close' to someone who is so 'close' to Sherlock Holmes and Scotland Yard.

I'm sending #1 over.

So don't take too long.

"Wow, so I was right." Jim commented, still laughing lightly, "He really does have nothing better to do than watch my ever move. I think he might be trying to live through me to make up for his own boring life, don't you?"

"I think you should come with me right now. " Moran said, "My orders are to give you a ride—"

"Tempting but no." Jim interrupted, pocketing his phone, "I think I'll just take a nice stroll in the fresh air."

Jim turned and started to walk away the he had been going.

"Sir, my employer recommends—!" Moran called after him, but again, was cut off.

"Well I 'recommend' that your 'employer' stay out of my business." Jim declared, turning back around, "And that if your 'employer' has something to say to me, he should come tell it to me personally, instead of than hiding behind text messages and his 'numero uno'."

"You know he can't do that."

"Yes he can. He just won't. He's too ashamed to be seen with me..."

It had been an excruciating wait, the hours Molly spent trying to keep herself busy with paperwork (she decided that she was too shaky to make incisions on internal organs today, even if they did belong to the dead).

Molly felt like one of those pitiful-looking young girls who came into the clinic she used to intern at during medical school; nervous, hopeless, fearing pregnancy or venereal disease.

But when Molly finally went back into the lab (still unlit), locked the doors, and read her results, she couldn't help but drop the vial of her own blood (used and mixed with chemicals) from her shaking hand down to the tile.

Clean, negative, normal…

Results that any one of those girls come to the clinic would have been overjoyed to receive.

But Molly was ashamed.

There was no evidence of anything foreign in her system (other than a very low blood-alcohol level).

There was no drug.

No excuses.

(Her fault. her fault. her fault.)

As Molly, on her hands and knees, viciously scrubbed the mess her blood and broken glass and chemicals had made on the floor, she felt so dirty.

All she could think as she rubbed the paper towels, liquid soaking through and burning her hand, in angry circles was her fault…her fault…her fault…

Well...

...It's not Mycroft, by the way...

BUT...as a glaring hint...

...it's a 'version' of him.

Curteousy my good friend Wikipedia.

As always, more on that later lol.