Author's note: Well that five day camping trip turned into a four-month hiatus! Sorry everyone – between life, work, illness and a second attack of writers block, this has been quite a hard chapter to get down on paper. I'm trying to get back into good habits, so am hoping to resume more regular posting. Please feel free to comment, critique and question – I'm just getting my groove back here.

Oh and I've just got a tumblr account – I'm sure I'll work out how to use it soon!

Disclaimer: these are not my characters; I'm just the one making them do things today.

CHAPTER SEVEN

People everywhere, pushing and crowding and squeezing through gaps, weaving in and out in a bustle to get through and past and on. No room to breathe, or to stay comfortable in the crowd. Or even safe, who knew who these people were, what they would do or could do or… Snaking a hand down to clutch at the strap of her bag, trying to check as unobtrusively as possible that it was still fastened securely, Molly fought her way to the edge of the flow of people, searching through the crowd to try and catch a glimpse of dark curls, of a haughty expression across the crowd.

Had to be Little Miss Independent, didn't I? I couldn't have let Sherlock pick me up on his way, I thought the tube was a good idea, cheaper than paying for the taxi all the way out to Heathrow. Not that it matters to him, but apparently I don't split taxi fees any more. I'm just that tight. And now I'm going to be squashed to death right here in Terminal Three, just because people won't give me a little room. And I still can't remember locking the door. Maybe I should ring Meena, see if she would go round tonight to see Toby instead of on her way to work tomorrow. But then I'd have to tell her I think I forgot to lock my own door. And I know I probably will have done. Except…

Her chest rising and falling with shaky breaths, a jerky pulse threading its way through her veins, Molly tried to fight back the panic. These panic attacks, much more common in her student days, could leave her fighting for control of her body, as well as her errant, obsessive thoughts. Right, she thought, desperate to pull herself away from the brink, reasons I thought I could, no, I think I can do this. As if sheer repetition would be enough to convince her beleaguered brain that this was just another manageable situation in the soap opera her life had become.

Mike told me I should take a trip, some space away from London to get my head clear. And I have 18 days of annual leave left, which really need using. I love Paris, and it's been years since I was there last. Sherlock needs someone to… No, not like that. Pull yourself together, Molly. I am the best woman for this job. I speak fluent French. I know Paris like the back of my hand; I know how to blend in there. I will be useful… I will be vital on this trip…

Still running through the reasons in her head, deliberately choosing a positive narrative to overcome the black voice of panic that picked away at the back of her mind, Molly wandered into the nearest coffee shop, ordering a cold drink before choosing a stool at the wooden bar that faced into the main refreshment area of the terminal. Raising the peach lemonade to take a sip, condensation rolling down the cup to land with an icy drip, Molly worked on slowing her breathing even more, focussing now on the warm sunlight hitting her bare legs, deliberately filtering out the rest of the world.

Observation: lost a further five pounds in four days, since we were in lab – not eating. Extra makeup applied, particularly under eyes – likely sleep disturbance in addition to dietary changes. Trying to hide clearly obvious signals – do not mention – not good. Note: fieldwork must incorporate a minimum of 10% recreation time (including meals) and 6 hours sleep per day, for acceptable performance from Molly. Outfit – ridiculous!

"What on Earth are you wearing, Molly?"

"Oh, er… hi". Shocked out of her attempted meditative state, Molly shot to her feet, nearly knocking over her drink in her haste. "Do you like it? It's new."

At his narrowed eyes, she lifted the hem of her sundress slightly in both hands, giving it a little shake as she nervously waited. (Completely inappropriate: no body should be able to see her legs like this. Men will stare, very conspicuous and unsuited to casework. [Question - how could anyone look away?] Note – 10 second delay often frowned upon – need answer…)

"You look like a walking cup."

"It's willow pattern, not bloody roses on porcelain." Stung, she frowned back at her companion. "I like it. Anyway, never mind me, why are you wearing that?"

Looking bewildered, he spread his arms slightly. "Belstaff, suit. What's wrong with this?"

"Well generally, nothing. But we are going to Paris in the middle of August. Don't you think you'll be a little, erm… warm?"

"Molly, I understand that your opportunities for practical fieldwork have been limited to one day in the field with me. And despite my repeated offers to teach you the rudimental details of my process throughout the years, you continue to focus your efforts in my pathological needs. But what you must understand is that this outfit is an essential tool in my interrogation process, leading to 45% more information obtained when wearing it. Only surpassed by use of a uniform, which I'm sure you will agree is impractical when going undercover or for international air travel. So while I remain unable to identify the underlying root of the effect, despite extensive experimentation…" Trailing off at her raised hand and bewildered expression, he quirked his eyebrow at her, questioningly.

"In English, please Sherlock?"

"Right, well… people like it? Don't know why…"

Shaking her head in fond amusement, Molly started to reach down to her suitcase, wanting to get the journey underway now they were together.

"Shall we…"

"What is that face?"

"Excuse me?"

"That I know something you don't face. Stop it."

"Oh, is it annoying?"

"It is… inappropriate. And I highly doubt that you do. I have considered and disproved 17 different hypotheses about the effectiveness of this attire, so I doubt that there is any fresh angle that I have failed to consider. But please…"

"You look hot." At his blank, and somewhat startled, look, Molly settled her weight back onto the edge of her stool, a smirk creeping across her face at his incomprehension.

"As in…"

"As in attractive. Sexy. Lots of women love a man in a well-tailored suit. Some men too, to be fair. So you either bowl them over, or they're flirting. Either way, there's your interrogation technique – the Saville Row Inquisition."

"Oh… well… right." As they steered their way through the still crowded terminal, Sherlock's mind whirred at a frantic pace, struggling to reconcile the newly obtained information with his stored notions about the petite woman at his side. Add to query – "something else" – Molly Hooper thinks I'm… hot. ?