Thank you for the wonderful reception, my lovelies. I'm glad this one interests you! I must absolutely thank hobbitsdoitbetter for her amazing beta/writing work on this chapter. Without her, it would not have had the same punch.

Reviewers - Crimson and Chrome 42, MizJoely, Rosie85, , Guest, CloudCookuLandHasAQueen, CorpseGirl, megsterleigh, The Adventures Of - your kind words are much appreciated.

As always, these characters ain't mine. Here we go again. :)

~oOo~

Sherlock shot up from where he sat and sprinted the short distance to the door. The stool hit the floor with a clang and his shoes pounded on the floor - the sounds a cacophony in the previously quiet space. He grabbed the handle, pulled and was immediately met with the sight of Molly - her hands clutched to her chest, pure terror shrouding her face as she stared at the autopsy table. (No physical injuries noted.) He scanned the room quickly, ascertaining no immediate threat within the room. Holmes walked to the slab, his ever observant eyes darting between the body and Molly's ashen face as he moved. As soon as he stood next to the corpse, data flooded his brain. Writing - carved into the chest. Knife. Stop. Correction. Scalpel or small paring knife. Fresh wounds. Ten hours old at the outset. The wounds not consistent with cause of death. Inflicted post-mortem. Did the perpetrator commit the murder first then wait until the body arrived here to act? Possibility. A small ceramic angel sat next to the victim's head. Message, obviously. Meaning unclear (unknown) at this stage. Warning? Gift? Taunt? All viable possibilities.

Movement interrupted his ruminations and Sherlock turned to see the tail end of Molly's lab smock fluttering out the door. He paused only a moment (Gather evidence? Pursue Molly?) before deciding that Molly should take priority. Only in part because of his concern for her well being - Molly was instrumental in providing him with information regarding the corpse. He followed her into the laboratory where she sat at her desk, face held in her hands, body shaking.

"You're...distressed."

His voice held such a genuinely surprised tone, it almost made Molly chuckle. Some obsessed...stalker had carved a love letter worthy of Jack the Ripper into a dead man's chest and this was Sherlock's reaction: incredulity. Molly squeezed her eyes shut - she didn't want to look at him. If she looked at him, either one of two things would happen. She would either scream or cry. Neither seemed like a very productive reaction at this point in time.

"That would be one word for it, yes."

"Understandable." He stepped forward and placed his hands behind his back. "However, we should begin the process of gathering evidence immediately. Shall I give you a few moments to compose yourself?"

He was serious. Completely serious. His reaction was vintage Sherlock: Deduce. Investigate. Calculate. One word asking after her well being would have been nice, but, as usual, she expected too much from him.

Screaming sounded like the appropriate option now.

"I think I might need more than a few moments."

"Molly, we need to review the data." Sherlock stepped forward, pointing toward the autopsy room as if to remind her of the importance of the situation. "If we're going to determine the identity of the person stalking you, it's imperative…"

"I know, Sherlock. I know." Her voice wavered and the sting of tears rose in her eyes. "Just give me a few minutes to calm down, alright?"

The fear threatened to choke her. Once, when she was a teenager, a friend goaded Molly into going to a fun house. The anticipation and nervousness made her feel alive. She knew she was going to be scared out of her wits, but the excitement was intoxicating. This was entirely different. She felt no excitement or thrill from knowing the stranger who'd sent her beautiful flowers also defiled a corpse - maybe murdered someone - in a sick sign of affection. If he was capable of this - what else could he have in mind for her? The images of all the bodies she'd seen raped, tortured and...worse flashed through her mind. Absolute terror roiled in her gut and spread through her body. She sat back in the chair and crossed her arms over her chest in an attempt to settle her shaking form.

Molly didn't want to look at Sherlock. She couldn't bear seeing the cold look on his face. All she wanted in this moment was a friend. Someone to reassure her that everything would be alright, that she would be safe. But he stood in his Sherlock-way, watching her. Observing her. She just wanted to get out. Get away from him - away from the flowers and the body and...everything. She would go to John and Mary's. They would help. They would care.

Sherlock rarely felt anxious. The unwanted emotion crept up on him in situations involving the people close to him. He'd experienced this...distress...when he'd seen Mrs. Hudson in the hands of the American mercenaries and when Moriarty informed him that John, Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson would be assassinated should he fail to leap off the roof of St. Barts. Anxiety. Fear. It clouded his judgement and the one thing Sherlock Holmes relied on was his logic. But standing here and watching Molly Hooper tremble with panic, he felt the familiar tendrils of pressure in his chest. Someone wanted to hurt her. That made him want to hurt them. Immensely.

A few more minutes passed before Molly moved. She picked up her bag, digging in the inside pocket where she found her phone and keys.

"I just...I can't do this right now, Sherlock. I'll come back in the morning."

"You can't leave, Molly."

She stopped and closed her eyes - fresh tears spilled from her lashes as the last of her resolve crumbled. "I'm tired, scared and I just want to go, alright? I'll...I'll stay at John and Mary's. I'm sure you'll find all the evidence you need on your own. I'll help you however I can tomorrow."

"Leaving is inadvisable. Whoever did this obviously gained access to the hospital, morgue and lab in order to deliver the flowers and deface the corpse while you were absent. The perpetrator may be watching you now. You are not safe to go off alone."

"I'll take a taxi, I'm sure I'll be fine in a taxi." She grasped at logic, trying to think above the exhaustion and fear. "Security will walk me out."

"Taxis are not always safe, Molly. My past is proof enough of that." The flash of the taxi driver's calculating smile appeared before his eyes. "Let me take you for a ride," he'd said before Sherlock climbed into the vehicle. If it hadn't been for John's sure and true aim, Moriarty's game might have been finished then.

Molly finally turned around and looked at his face. The uncaring, condescending glare she expected was absent. There was a sincerity in his gaze - much like the softness in his face that night of the Christmas party after he'd so cruelly insulted her. It was tempting to read in to this moment more than was really there. He'd last spoken with her as a friend over two years ago when he'd come to her in the lab asking for her help (You've always counted) and she'd longed for another time like that - where the two of them could be alone and talk. But the cruel irony of this situation taunted her. Sherlock Holmes was interested in her - as a case. As means to an end. It was too much. She couldn't be around him one minute longer.

"Then I'll call Mary to pick me up, alright? But I can't stay here right now." The tears stung her eyes anew.

She moved to leave when she heard Sherlock's quick steps and felt his hand on her shoulder. Sherlock never touched her...never touched anyone for that matter, if he could help it. But here he stood, his large hand solid on her arm, his next words gentle yet commanding.

"Molly...don't leave. You're tired, I can see that, but allow me an hour. Then I'll escort you to John and Mary's."

Maybe it was the combination of his touch, his eyes - those beautiful, captivating eyes - and her fatigue that lowered her defenses. Maybe it was the desire for Sherlock Holmes to express himself as a human being rather than as a consulting detective. Maybe it was all those factors culminated in this instant, because she felt the words leave her mouth before her brain could protest.

"Are you saying this because you care or because I'm the best chance you have to gather evidence, Sherlock?"

He dropped his hand back to his side, suddenly uncomfortable. The moment had become too...personal. Sherlock wasn't accustomed to sentimental physical gestures - a pat on the back, holding another person's hand. It just wasn't done. But, with Molly, he found that, from time to time, he wondered what it would be like to touch her. It was a fleeting thought - birthed from boredom in the lab more often than not. But it was there nonetheless. He'd harbored curiosity about intercourse with The Woman. Natural male reaction based on her overtures toward him and their similar… irregularities. His interest in Molly, however, tended toward affection. The influence of these feelings on his normally reasoned mind unsettled him; the flower deliveries had even stirred something in him akin to ... jealousy. And Sherlock Holmes resolutely did not get jealous. During his two year absence, he may have thought of Molly with other men - with Moriarty - and the seeping anger at the idea of that loathsome cretin sharing intimacies with his pathologist may have made him entirely unable to think logically- may have distracted him more even than thoughts of his Fall, in point of fact- but that was not jealousy,that was worry-

Stop. Refocus. There was work to be done. Now wasn't the time to examine these emotions. (They're self-indulgent. Frivolous.)

This is about Molly, he told himself, not his personal weaknesses.

And so, unwilling to continue in that vein, Sherlock prepared to launch into his ironclad reasoning regarding the need for her her prompt cooperation. But before he spoke, he took a moment to observe Molly further. She was exhausted and afraid, that much would be obvious to anyone (even John), but she was also resolute. (Eyes set and focused, jaw clenched). This was not a moment to let his own feelings get the better of him. His mouth opened and closed before any inflammatory words were spoken. Sherlock could feel the weight of this moment and knew his next words could determine the course of any future friendship with Molly Hooper.

"Both, Molly," he said quietly. "Both."

She sighed and moved to turn but before she could take a step, Sherlock continued, his hand in the air as he spoke. "Let me finish."

"You may not trust my intentions," he began then. Lord, but he hated how…tentative he sounded. "And that is understandable based on my treatment of you in the past. I have been inconsiderate of your feelings, I know. But you have always helped me a great deal - more than I rightly deserve - and I consider you a friend. I do not wish for you to put yourself in any further danger. I would be quite...dismayed should you come to harm." Sherlock took a step forward, searching for his next words. He had to make her understand. "It would be remiss of me - as your friend - not to ask questions of you that will lead to the apprehension of the person responsible for your distress," he told her. "And you know I am the one person who can accomplish this, so...let me help." He said the next to a point somewhere on her left shoe. "Please."

Molly was completely surprised at his openness. Sherlock had just revealed more to her about his personal feelings in two minutes than over the last several years combined. Prior to his absence, Sherlock Holmes would have chided her for being stupid, insulted her for questioning his motives and most likely thrown out a negative comment about her romantic life. She watched him for a moment, expecting a derogatory remark but it didn't come. Sherlock simply stood where he was, awaiting her answer. Could his 'death' truly have changed him? Was she witnessing a kinder, gentler Sherlock Holmes?

Sherlock's eyes narrowed as he watched her reaction to his words. Surprise. Confusion. She was studying him, evaluating whether what he'd said was true or a ruse to entice her to stay. He counted to a minute. One minute, thirty seconds. Sufficient time for her to mentally process the information. He had to get to work if he was going to apprehend the bastard responsible and keep Molly Hooper from harm.

"Enough of this foolishness, now. Put down your bag and let's get to the bottom of this."

He turned away from her and made his way back through the doors into the autopsy theater. As the door shut behind him, Molly shook her head and placed her bag back on the chair.

She did not see the smile he had wisely hidden from her - his ruse had worked, she'd not called his bluff.

"You certainly have a way with people, Sherlock Holmes." She muttered to herself. Perhaps kinder and gentler was too much of a stretch. But he had changed. In small ways, certainly, but it was something. The girlish wish to be swept off her feet by Sherlock bloomed in her chest once again and she fought it down. After working so hard to keep her feelings for him in check, she was not about to open herself back up to be hurt once again.

Sherlock stopped after he entered the room where the defiled corpse lay. The time between Molly's scream and this moment were filled with unwelcome emotions. Since his 'death', Sherlock had plenty of time to think about the people in his life and their importance to him. John and Lestrade were friends. Mrs. Hudson took care of him and he took care of her when it counted. Mycroft was...well, Mycroft. But Molly was different. And different disturbed him. She was a friend. But it wasn't thoughts of John and Lestrade that came to him in the loneliness of the night or when he'd been concerned he wouldn't survive a confrontation with one of Moriarty's men. No, those thoughts had been of Molly, and those thoughts...those feelings (Messy. Complicated.) distracted him.

For Molly's sake, Sherlock Holmes couldn't afford to be distracted.

He grabbed a pair of examination gloves and fit them over his long fingers as he spoke to the corpse.

"Shall we begin?"

~oOo~

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