Author's note: I go on holiday tomorrow, so there are unlikely to be any updates in the next five days, unless I come across a random wireless spot. I will be carrying on writing as much as I can while I am away, so hopefully regular updating will resume once I am back. I hope Sherlock doesn't stray too far OOC here – any and all feedback welcome!

And please excuse all errors in the French – I'm extremely rusty.

Disclaimer: I have borrowed these characters from Moffat, Gatiss and ACD – sorry not sorry ;)

CHAPTER SIX

Result? Worse. Much worse. Crying commenced simultaneously with start of physical comfort, now very loud (and very wet – note: check shirt). Step four - ? Tough love? Wrong. Highly inappropriate at this point, given nature of initial stimulus. Call for backup? Wrong. Mary and John – unavailable. Lestrade – not acceptable (to… me?). Best friends – names not stored (note: research and add to 'Molly'). But… breathing rate is decreasing… volume has decreased by 65%... successful strategy (given sufficient time).

Potentially useful in future. Store under 'appropriate socio-emotional behaviours' (cross reference friendship / undercover / Molly). Both arms should be placed around woman's upper torso, providing gentle but consistent pressure. Female's arms likely to be placed under suit jacket (seeking warmth?). Full body contact between the… couple… is most effective – allowing female of Molly's height to place head level with chest. Interesting – male instinctively looks downwards, giving additional contact to Molly's head. But now her hair is irritating my face – unable to maintain position with any comfort… I should brush that bit of hair out of her way, smooth it down behind her ear. Fingers in Molly's hair – very pleasant sensation (for… me?) Add to query – 'something else?'

.

Unquestioning support. Unqualified support. Molly realised that this had been lacking from her life in recent years. When he was alive, Molly's father could read her moods, and at times seemingly her mind, enveloping her in a massive bear hug whenever her spirits faltered. But since his death, the string of temporary suitors, missed dates, and, well, Jim from IT, hadn't ever got past the defences she had thrown up, not willing to rely on other men to fill these empty shoes. Choosing instead to sustain, nurture, give – all to others.

And Tom? Well, he was another matter altogether. Like an eager puppy, always bouncing around seeking her approval and her attention; a constant wriggle in the corner of her eye shouting 'look at me'. But just as likely to miss her emotions in the constant quest for her smiles, and her time. And cringing inside, Molly realised that she had just compared the man she had agreed to marry, the relationship that should have been until death us do part, to an overenthusiastic puppy and his owner.

Snuggling further into Sherlock, not wanting to forget this moment, Molly became aware of a certain stiffness to his arms, his pose. Trying to pull away, not wanting to cause him any discomfort at this show of sentimentality, Molly found herself fixed in place, held firmly to his chest. Angling her head up to meet his eyes at last, Molly saw none of the expressions she had been anticipating; Sherlock gazed down at her, his expression fixed, a slight flicker to his eyes the only sign of movement. A sigh of frustration bubbled up in her chest at the sight – mind palace. She knew he was behaving in a way she would never have predicted from him, even since the fall, but she had hoped that he would remain at least marginally aware of her presence while he did.

"Sherlock?" As his eyes continued to move with the pattern and flow of his thoughts, Molly repeated herself, giving him a gentle shove at the same time. Rewarded by the flare and refocusing of his eyes as he tuned back in to the room, she continued, "Um… thank you. I didn't mea-"

"Molly, there is no need to thank me. Whatever you need. I am your… something else, after all."

"Yes, well…" Flustered, Molly pushed her hands through the tangled mess of her hair (completely missing the breath that froze in the detective's throat as she did). "If you could finish up with these samples, I really should get to that autopsy." Without waiting for an answer, she hastily untangled herself from Sherlock's grip, rushing to the intercom to summon one of the morgue technicians to assist her.

For the next few hours, the pair worked in parallel, focussed completely on their respective tasks. Once the autopsy was completed to her satisfaction, Molly sent away the technician (thankfully, the unemotional and unobservant Dave, perfect after the afternoon's upheaval), pulling out her laptop to compile her preliminary report. Having completed testing on the biopsies, Sherlock was now methodically working his way through chemical analyses of the samples gathered from the clothing, matching them where possible to geographical locations.

Finishing her work with five minutes to spare, Molly began pottering around, restoring the lab to her preferred system. Refusing to consider the possibility that she was stalling, reluctant to return to the now empty flat she had shared with Tom. Seeing the buff coloured folder, its contents left where they fell earlier after Sherlock's contemptuous toss, Molly moved to straighten away the documents. But her attention was piqued, then held by the uppermost sheet.

Département des Relations Internationales

Réunion de Stratégie - Opération Restaurer

Compte-rendu

1. Rendu de la réunion précédente - accepté comme correct.

2. Informations préliminaires sur les décès récents – Jacques Hinault (équipe spéciale de la défense) a indiqué que…

.

.

Hearing a rattle of equipment, Molly's eyes flew guiltily towards Sherlock, fairly certain that she should not be reading what was surely a confidential document. Seeing him engrossed in his experiments, she settled in to read further; her brain slipped naturally into translating the French, the familiar pattern of the language re-establishing itself as she continued...

.

…at present, four member of the International Defence Committee have been found deceased, and a fifth is presently in Intensive Care. The medical team report that the brain damage sustained is extensive and, should he stabilise, he will be unlikely to provide any coherent details regarding the attack. The perpetrator has been identified as Anatole Huret, but as of yet, no political groups have claimed responsibility for his deployment. Motive, therefore, remains unclear…

.

Finishing his final experiment, Sherlock pushed away from the bench, his shoulders stiff after several hours hunched over the equipment. Pacing the room to restore easy movement, he fired off a text to Lestrade, grimacing as his phone began to shrill insistently at him in return.

"Detective Inspector. You know I prefer to text…"

"I gave you all the pertinent facts for your file. What do you want?"

"Well, obviously I need to go to France, if I'm going to catch a French assassin, targeting a French team of agents, the remainder of whom are deployed in –"

"What do you mean, how French can I be?" At Sherlock's raised voice, Molly glanced up from the second document in her stack. Just in time to see the frustrated detective smooth his hair into a side parting, adopting a haughty expression. "May ai 'elp you wiv ennything, Ser? Eef you wud laik mai personal recommendassion –"

Stuffing her hand in her mouth to suppress a giggle, Molly followed his movements avidly. His 'snooty French waiter' impression was turning out to be every bit as ridiculous as Mary had described, and Molly was keen to see what was next.

"Well, yes, I admit he is unlikely to be in a restaurant, but… Well what about…" Adopting a suddenly loose-limbed pose, his hair re-tousled and his face moulded into a more intimate expression, he tried again. "Excusez-moi, ai haf lost mai telephon numberrr. May ai haf yourz?" Unable to control herself this time, Molly let out a squeal of laughter, before hastily casting her eyes down to the paperwork in front of her at the steely glare that was sent her way.

"Well I know I'm not there to pick him up… Really, Lestrade... Oh, shut up… No, I don't speak French, deleted it. Languages take up too much room…" But glancing across to where Molly sat, her eyes trained firmly on the words in front of her, mouthing a translation of the document in front of her, Sherlock gave a little grin. "Lucky for me, though, I appear to know someone who does."