A/N: review shout out time again!

Thanks so much to: Agatha, Amalia Kensington, ARoseWithThorns (who will hopefully be posting more of her wonderful story soon) Claire M C, kelly1981, ntodela, living-in-my-own-AU, cumber, and ChelGallifreya211B613! And a tin of chocolate biscuits to Amalia for calling Moriarty a "twisted Cupid." Me likey that muchly!

Special thanks to eccentricpetal, XSherlockedX and somethinginthewayful for being such fantastic sources of inspiration for me with their own amazing stories!

STEP RIGHT UP!

Sherlock woke the next morning earlier than usual for him. But he didn't get up. He laid in bed and thought. And thought.

Right track, wrong train. What did it mean?

He had to figure the plan out. Soon.

For now he had to get ready to focus his attention on Molly for the first part of the day. When Moriarty had told him what to do, Sherlock had nearly felt sick. He'd wanted to refuse, to smash that damnable mobile against the wall and then shoot it a few times for good measure. But he couldn't.

All this love business Moriarty was forcing him to fill his head with. He knew it was clues; knew the answer was hiding in everything Moriarty made him watch or listen to. But there was a feeling, an awful feeling of dread and doubt with every ring of the phone, the chorus of every song. Because he knew. And Moriarty knew.

Sherlock Holmes knew nothing about romantic love.

Oh, he knew particulars. He knew how to spot cheaters and lovers and that you were supposed to pay compliments and buy presents. He knew caring was a weakness and love was more dangerous than a tiger let loose from a cage. But firsthand experience? Personal knowledge?

Not a bit.

He wondered if Moriarty had ever loved anyone. Probably not. That man only loved himself. He'd probably played any number of games with women and men. But not love. So what pleasure did Moriarty get from making him immerse himself in a romantic pageant?

He sighed. That much, he knew. He detested it. It was feelings, not facts. No hard evidence, no one to show off how clever he was to. Emotional rubbish. All the stuff he couldn't stand.

Naturally, Moriarty wanted to shove his face in it.

He glanced at the clock. Time to get up and get ready.

He took extra care with his teeth, hair and shaving his face. He dressed in his plum colored shirt and a pair of dark grey trousers. It was Molly's favorite outfit of his. He knew from the way she'd looked at him shyly a dozen times the first night he'd wore it in her presence. New socks, polished shoes, grey jacket perfect.

He hesitated for a moment, then slowly wound the dark blue cashmere scarf she'd bought him for Christmas around his neck. He remembered his horrible behavior and felt an uncustomary revisiting of shame. Molly hadn't deserved his cruelty. She also didn't deserve this.

He felt sorrow trying to invade his thoughts and ruthlessly shoved at it. But it didn't all leave. It left behind a dirty shadow.

I'm betraying you, Molly. But it's not silver I'm selling you for. It's your life, and my life, and thousands of other lives. And my only comforts are that if you knew, you'd give your life to save another's, and that I am going to stop him.

Damn. All this emotion he'd been force fed was playing at his mind.

He shook his head and put on his coat. John hadn't left his room yet, which was a bit odd but not unheard of. "John? I'm leaving now for hospital to get Molly," he called.

"That's great, Sherlock," John replied faintly. "I've ah, got a bit of a sick stomach at the moment…"

"Right." That was all he needed to know. He left, strode down the stairs to the outside door and pulled it open.

And came face to face with Detective Inspector Lestrade.

Lestrade looked him over and smiled. "Sherlock. Before you run off, I'd like to have a word with you."