"Did you miss me?"
Molly stopped abruptly, caught in the doorway leading from the pathology lab to the postage-stamp sized office where Moriarty's face laughed on her computer. Her mind went blank with fear for a split second and then she heard him.
The faintest of scuffing sounds filtered into her conscious and she was moving in an instant, whirling in away from the stranger in her lab. Had friends or colleagues seen her in that instance, they might have considered referring to her as something other than mousy Molly. She moved with a burst of speed that Sherlock or Watson would never have accredited to her and in a way, she had Sherlock to thank for that.
As she ran around the counter in the center of the room, she had no time to think back to the moment when everything changed, when he asked her to kill him. He had no idea then of the events he'd set into motion, the changes he'd made in that single leap of faith. He leapt, she caught, he left to fix things and she was left behind with a shattered life, shattered friends and shattered esteem. She had expected to be forgotten the flurry of angst and drama whipped up by the British tabloid press, she'd forgotten two things: Sherlock Holmes rewards loyalty with loyalty and Mycroft Holmes always pays his debts.
Beakers and flasks are picked up and thrown at her attacker as she races towards the Pathology lab door, when he snatches her up, her feet slam into the door and kick off, sending them sprawling to the floor where she regains her feet and runs again, praying for time.
You have three options, she remembers as she runs, run, fight or die. Sherlock had a simple request of Mycroft as he left England to pursue Moriarty's network, watch over his friends. Needless, really, Mycroft had intended to do it anyway. It may take years, yet he knew his tenacious younger brother would root out and burn the remains of Moriarty's network and Sherlock required his friends. That included the often underestimated pathologist. He'd introduced himself whilst collecting his brother's 'body', placing himself at her immediate disposal which served to illicit a giggle from her and a smile from Anthea.
Inclining his head politely, he'd retreated from the lab and asked his 'assistant' for her opinions on the young woman so pivotal in the Moriarty debacle. In his estimation, she would crumble if one of Moriarty's thugs had a moment of clarity and thought to interview the woman about Sherlock's autopsy. To his surprise and to Anthea's credit, she disagreed and offered a tidy solution. Teach the rabbit to be a fox. Unasked and unbidden, Anthea volunteered to be the obvious go between, striking up a friendship with the pathologist, passing on information on Sherlock's progress and continued 'good health' and one evening when they were out enjoying a cuppa, made the offer of a lifetime.
"Life is hard on the people who love the Holmes," she'd said, "they command fierce loyalty and the rewards are well worth the pain but it's not easy." Anthea studied her cup of tea, inhaling the hint of bergamot and currant, "We're a special group, cherished, dependable but we're never ever safe. That isn't usually an issue, they tend to pick a durable lot, and then the exception, you." Molly had bristled at that, she was dependable; Sherlock assured her that she mattered. Anthea's eyes had softened, "You're breakable, Molly, but if you let me, I'll fix that."
Fix it, she had. The sixteen months of blood and sweat equity had finally come due and training had become instinctive. You'll never have the height or weight advantage. Run, disable if possible but always run. She tipped gurneys into his path, trying to fight her way back to the doors and safety until she realized her misstep. She's placed herself behind the long narrow counter that separated the equipment from the storage bays and door. Her eyes swept across the counter and she snatch up a scalpel, slashing it across his face in a bid to buy herself time to get past him. He swore violently, grabbing her lab coat, twisting it as he pulled her closer. In desperation, she grabbed the tray of scalpels, dumping on the floor and attempted to use it as shield between them. Two things worked in her favour, as he jerked her towards him, she slipped slightly on the blood that had dripped from the nasty slash across his face and she fell towards him, driving the tray full force into his throat. With that, she was free as he fell to the floor, and she scrambled away from him.
Vaguely, she heard another man's voice faintly - sounding a million miles away and the attacker struggled to his feet and fled the lab. She had a moment of relief until she heard the sounds of feet falling heavily in the corridor, despair flooded her for a moment and in desperation she ripped open the storage cupboard and swept the equipment to the floor before crawling into the cupboard and pulling the doors shut. Knees pressed tight to her chest, she rocked for a moment, clutching the scalpel tight as she rested her head against the side of the cupboard and did the one thing Anthea would give her hell about. She passed out.