First, I sincerely apologize for the lengthy delay in posting. Holidays were crazy busy with work and, quite frankly, I got wicked writer's block. I just could not get past this one! With immense thanks to hobbitsdoitbetter for her fantastic beta and endless encouragement.

Your reviews are lovely and very motivating. I'm just so glad that you are enjoying the story. MizJoely, SharpestSatire, GypsyRose2014, Calicar, AvoidedIsland, CloudCuckooLandHasAQueen, AJP910, crooney83, Spades, Get Sherlocked, anuni83, DD, Crimson and Chrome 42, ruby, Reina434, Padfootkicksbutt, milkforthesouffles, idiot9,Renaissancebooklover108 and my guests - thank you for your amazing and continued support.

~oOo~

By the time Molly and Sherlock returned to the lab, a very intense looking man with a shaved head and an expensive suit stood sentry in the hallway outside. As the two approached, he regarded them from head to toe, nodded, then resumed his thorough examination of the wall in front of him. Sherlock led Molly through the door, his hand once again finding a place at the small of her back as he walked behind her. Molly shuddered slightly at the pressure of his palm on her body. She knew physical contact was not Sherlock Holmes' natural instinct yet in the last several minutes he'd made a point to put his hand on her twice. Maybe it was a silly, insignificant thing. A simple gesture of one friend to another. The hope (however distant it might be) that he might harbor some sort of affection for her blossomed within her chest, however: As they entered the room, she regarded him more closely as he moved past her and made his way to his workspace.

Two years ago, she would have readily dismissed his uncharacteristic behavior as one of a protective friend. She'd believed - even then - that the two of them were more than mere colleagues. Obviously, her feelings for Sherlock had been one sided, but she knew that his trust in her would only be given if he considered her worthy. It had been a small consolation, but a consolation nonetheless. His reaction to William, however, was not one she'd expect from a friend. She didn't imagine that a friend would react so violently in the same situation. Molly had observed Sherlock Holmes angry before, but never so...unhinged. Normally, Molly would attribute his reaction to stress - but the flush of his face and set of his jaw as Sherlock's piercing stare followed William from the room told her that he was far more unsettled than even Sherlock would admit. Sherlock Holmes had been frightened. For her.

"Molly. You're staring."

Sherlock peered at her through squinted eyes, his brow raised and head tilted to the side. For just a moment, Molly felt herself begin to stammer out a response. Part of her desperately wanted to scurry off to her desk or the autopsy theater, not wanting to embarrass herself further. But she was Strong Molly. The same Molly who stood up to him at the Christmas party after his notorious humiliation of her. The Molly who helped orchestrate his death. The Molly who taught interns how not to throw up when looking at a dead body. The Molly who was witty and nice and deserved to be treated with respect. The Molly who didn't shrink away from the Great and Powerful (stubborn, self-important, self-absorbed, stupidly gorgeous and annoying) Sherlock Holmes.

"Yes. Yes I am." She smiled gently and felt a deep satisfaction at seeing a blush redden Sherlock's cheeks. Whether it was embarrassment or annoyance, it didn't quite matter to her - Sherlock Holmes blushed. Because of what she'd said. Molly hadn't felt so thrilled since he'd kissed her on the cheek over two years ago.

He looked down at his papers. Then up at Molly, then down at his papers again before muttering under his breath. "Well, stop it. I'm working here."

She snorted. "If my attention was a distraction, you'd never get anything done-"

He cocked an eyebrow at her, trying for his aristocratic, priggish best, but it fell short. And by the looks of things, he knew it. "I'll get plenty done," he muttered. "Just without distractions. Which you are being. Now stop fishing for compliments."

This statement was issued to his papers, but it came with the ghost of a smile.

She turned away from him and walked to her desk. The Strong Molly inside her rejoiced at looking him in the eye and making Sherlock feel something - whatever that might be. It had felt almost like… Almost like he was flirting with her. For the next thirty minutes, Molly reviewed her new cases and surreptitiously watched Sherlock as he examined whatever data he'd compiled on her stalker. She'd done so often since his return but today Molly really noticed the subtle physical changes that had taken place during his absence. His once lean frame had bulked up just enough for his long sleeved shirt to tighten a bit more strenuously over the hard muscle. Sherlock's complexion had darkened and there were more pronounced circles under his eyes. He was tired. Stressed. She could take the blame for some of that pressure, she knew. It was enough to 'return from the dead', now he had to deal with her problems as well.

She stood, stretched her back and began walking toward the lab. Molly still felt a sense of violation knowing that someone had snuck in here while she was gone - but she had a job to do and Strong Molly wouldn't be pushed out of doing what she did best.

"Molly."

Her hand rested on the door as she turned her body to face him. She was struck by the seriousness in his face.

"Yes?"

"I am going to work here for another hour then I must go to the security office to review any video footage they may have. You will not leave this laboratory without contacting me first. Is that understood?"

"Sherlock, there is a very large bloke outside that door that should be perfectly capable of…"

"Molly, this isn't up for discussion or debate." He snapped. "My word in this matter is absolute. You will not leave this laboratory without me. Is. That. Clear?"

He never blinked. Never looked away from her. This moment wasn't a game to him. Maybe in the beginning her situation may have been just another case - something to occupy his boredom - but something had changed and she could see it in his resolute stare, the clench of his jaw and the tight line of his lips as he awaited her answer.

"Yes. It's clear, Sherlock. I won't go anywhere without you." Ever. She wished she could add without delving into that awkward pool of feelings and emotions that caused Sherlock Holmes immense displeasure. She was content enough knowing that, even in a limited and platonic capacity, Sherlock did care about her welfare. Even if she was just his pathologist, Molly's safety was important to him.

Molly held his gaze for a moment longer before she turned and entered the place that usually gave her so much focus and peace. Not today. Today her focus was back on Sherlock Holmes and today, Molly Hooper counted. Even if it was still getting her nowhere.

Well, bugger, she thought.

~oOo~

Two hours after he'd left Molly in the lab guarded by what appeared to be a Neanderthal in a suit, Sherlock Holmes sat alone in the cramped security office that reeked of stale coffee and body odor. Two hours. He ground his teeth and rubbed his long fingers over his eyes. Examining video footage shouldn't have taken this long. He was frustratingly distracted by completely nonproductive emotions regarding Molly. Anger at seeing another man appearing to harm her. Fear that she could be taken from him. Desire to pin her against a wall and snog her senseless.

Since his return to the 'living', Sherlock had entertained the idea of informing Molly Hooper that he might be amenable to exploring a more than professional relationship. It had been obvious to him during his absence that he'd created an emotional attachment to the doctor. But it hadn't been until the moment he saw William the Medical Student with his hands around her throat did Sherlock truly understand that Molly Hooper counted more than almost anyone else in his life. John was his best friend (the term still sounded childish to his ears) and Sherlock would do anything for the man (even stand up in a tuxedo and spout drivel at his wedding reception). But if John and Molly were tied up in the same room with guns pointed at their heads and Sherlock had to choose between them...He would choose Molly, if only because he knew John would understand.

Because Molly had risked her career to help him die. Molly had seen through Sherlock's guise of strength when John couldn't. (You look sad. When you think he can't see you.) Molly had called him a selfish bastard when he deserved it. Molly had smiled at him from across the room and brought him tea before he even realized he wanted some. She was… she was His Molly.

And she mattered.

Sherlock looked briefly to the hand that had pressed against her back and swore he could still feel the heat of her on his fingertips. Maybe it was time - case or no - to discuss the situation with her. It wasn't like his feelings could be more counter-productive than they were already being, now was it?

Resolved, Sherlock stood up to leave the confines of the office and return to finish his notes. Despite the embarrassingly long time he'd taken to go over the video, Sherlock had come to several solid conclusions regarding the identities of the Body Slasher and the Flower Deliverer. Security footage in the hospital was lax (virtually nonexistent in the hallway of the pathology lab - that needed to be remedied immediately), but he'd been able to piece together a scenario which pointed to two separate individuals involved. He doubted they'd worked together, but one more hour should provide him with more than enough time to yield enough concrete data to move forward with reasonable surety.

And, when he discovered the identities of the perpetrators and confronted them about their involvement, he would consider demonstrating his immense displeasure at the distress they'd caused his pathologist. Demonstrating it slowly and deliberately, possibly with many pointy props from the medieval period.

As he turned the corner of the hallway (recently disinfected), the same hulking guard stood immobile in front of the door. At least the poor sod had an earpiece to listen to sporting events so as not to be entirely bored out of his thick, stubbly cranium. The man turned to Sherlock, nodded and resumed his position.

Sherlock pushed open the door and, for the second time that day, was met with a sight that caused his sense of equilibrium to shift sideways.

Molly and a tall, sturdily built man stood by her desk - laughing. Sherlock clenched his fists and squared his shoulders as he watched their interaction. Molly's hand covered her mouth in a vain attempt to stifle a snort (Did he ever make her laugh like that?) as her eyes closed and shoulders heaved up and down. The man crossed his arms (pleased with himself) and smiled at Molly's obvious enjoyment.

Sherlock wanted very much to punch the grin off the bastard's face.

"I appear to have missed the jest." Calm and focused, Sherlock. You don't need another repeat of your earlier performance.

The man turned around, smiled (slight hesitation - intimidated and annoyed at the interruption.)

Molly's eyes flew open and her laughter stopped immediately. "Oh...Sherlock. This…" She stammered. Uncomfortable. Nervous. "...this is Paul Lewis. He works in our public relations department. He's a...friend."

Sherlock ran the name through his mental checklists but came up empty. Molly had never mentioned Paul Lewis before. But there had been times when she'd left the lab early to go out with what she casually referred to as a 'work thing'. He hadn't noticed. Hadn't picked up on the fact that she might be going on a date. Idiot. Of course she wouldn't mention any sort of date with a work associate to him - not after the Jim from IT disaster. But...this smug blighter? This is someone Molly would have chosen?

Yes. She chose him because Paul Lewis was tall, lanky, relatively handsome (if you liked that type) with brown hair and dimples. Dimples. Really, now. Apparently, Molly had stopped just short of dating his doppelganger.

Oh, it was time for a talk, all right.

Paul the Imitator held out his hand and he stepped toward Sherlock. (Posturing for Molly's benefit.)

"Sherlock Holmes - pleasure to meet you."

Sherlock regarded his hand and after a brief pause, shook the man's hand briefly. "Funny, she hasn't mentioned you."

"Sherlock, please don't be rude. I don't mention all of my friends to you." Molly's annoyance was palpable. She sat in her chair staring at him - expecting him to play nice with some idiot who didn't realize that Molly Hooper was...well...his.

Sherlock shrugged and walked to his workspace. "Rude is not my intention, Molly. I'm simply stating a fact. But, fair enough, I am not your keeper - you see whom you wish." He threw himself down into his chair and regarded Paul Lewis once more; the observations shooting furiously through his brain. Conclusion: Narcissistic, borderline obsessive compulsive and probable...no...definite philanderer.

"However, this isn't the time for a social visit. If you don't mind, Mr. Lewis, Molly and I are finishing an investigation." He waved his hand dismissively. "Do be so kind as to remove yourself so that we may continue."

He watched as Paul turned back towards Molly who smiled apologetically. "I apologize for Sherlock, when he's working on a case…"

"No, don't worry. I'm sure whatever has his attention is important." Paul stepped forward and took Molly's hand in his own - Sherlock gritted his teeth. "We still on for dinner tonight?"

Sherlock attempted not to stare openly, but was able to tilt his head enough to capture Molly's reaction. Surprise first, followed quickly by embarrassment (cheeks flushed, eyes cast downward - flattered) and a barely noticeable glance in Sherlock's direction.

"Oh, that's sweet of you, Paul. Very. But, I'm backlogged on my cases right now and…"

"No need to explain. Some other time." Paul the Charmer lifted Molly's hand and placed a kiss on the back of her hand. Sherlock rolled his eyes and trained his attention back to his computer. If Paul the Idiot didn't make his way out of the lab in precisely ten seconds, Sherlock would be far more than rude.

Paul stepped backwards and turned toward the door. "Hope you get your man, Mr. Holmes." He threw the comment over his shoulder and, instantly, the security image of a tall, lanky man entering the back entrance with a large box flashed through his mind. It was him.

"You sent Molly the flowers."

Lewis stopped in his tracks - one hand on the door handle. His head raised up and he turned around, smiling in a way that would charm others but radiated falsity to Sherlock. "Yes, I did."

Molly straightened in her chair, brow furrowed in shock and confusion.

Paul squared his shoulders and stared at Sherlock. It was a challenge. Unspoken, but obvious from his body language.

"Do tell us, Paul Lewis, why would you send Molly Hooper anonymous flowers?"

"Molly works herself too hard. When you returned, she had to deal with unwanted attention from the press on top of everything else. I wanted to show her that someone cared for her. I thought she deserved a nice surprise."

Sherlock rose slowly from his chair. "That's lovely. Truly. It's also a load of shite. What's the real reason?" He could feel the anger blooming in his chest again and he stamped it down with the clenching of his fists behind his back.

"That is the reason. Molly is a beautiful, sweet person who I happen to like very much. She deserves nice things and I wanted to cheer her up." Paul moved forward and Sherlock saw the contempt fall over his face. "Besides, someone should see to Molly's needs and I think I'm perfect for the position."

Sherlock marched two steps toward Paul the Arrogant Sod and leaned toward him, hands still grasped together - better that than surrounding this moron's throat.

"I know precisely what Molly needs and it certainly isn't a second rate Casanova who dyes his hair and undergoes weekly facials."

A grimace spread over Paul's previously calm face. The crack in the facade was beginning to show.

"You arrogant tosser." He pointed his finger at Sherlock - it was all Sherlock could do not to grab and twist the bony digit. "She was fine before you came back. But now she's being dragged through the mud by the press and hounded by fans of yours who think she's your lab whore. She deserves better."

Sherlock observed Molly's flinch at Paul's words. Her eyes cast downward again and the crease between her brows drew close. Feelings hurt. Embarrassed. If the designation "lab whore," were being applied to her then he wasn't surprised. The last tenuous thread of his restraint broke as he watched her - God knows he'd been the one to inflict the pain before (selfish arsehole) - but watching her heart broken by someone else was the flint that lit the spark of his anger.

His baritone voice resonated through the small space - low and quiet yet brimming with venom.

"I'll tell you precisely what Molly Hooper deserves. She deserves someone to watch her back every moment. To ensure that when bad things happen, that someone will go to hell and back to ensure she is safe." Sherlock took another step and the two men were now eye to eye.

"You, Paul Lewis, are not that man. You are a man who pretends to be noble but who would willfully terrorize Molly with anonymous flowers. Flowers that she thought were from one of those obsessed fans who might hurt her." Understanding of his mistake descended over Paul's face.

"But...I thought she would like them...I didn't realize…" He stammered.

"Of course you didn't realize, Paul Lewis, because you were simply trying to get your leg over. Or, in layman's terms, you are a self absorbed prat. You are a man who wants to be a hero to for the sake of glory and admiration: If Molly were truly in danger, you would be the first to run and hide, rather than ruin your manicure or damage your expensive suit."

Sherlock could feel the next words coming but, for the first time, didn't care how much those words would expose him to Molly.

"I, on the other hand, would recognize no limits, if it meant keeping Molly Hooper safe. For two years I worked to put down a criminal network that might harm the people I care about. For two years I stank of secrets and shadows, because that was what it took to take care of my friends. So, if you think I'm going to stand idly by while you attempt to mistreat my pathologist, you've got another fucking thing coming."

He heard Molly's sharp intake of breath but didn't allow his eyes to leave Lewis's face. His mask was fully gone now - the swagger and bravado evaporated like fog on a sunny day.

"I'm...sorry Molly. I didn't think…" Paul took two steps backward then turned and exited the room without another word.

Sherlock stood still - his eyes trained on the door. Speak to her, coward. At least make sure you haven't completely scared the knickers off her, or that she's not planning on throwing you off St. Bart's roof again. He shifted his feet and his body angled towards hers. He found the courage to look at her face and for the third time that morning, Sherlock Holmes was caught completely off guard.

Molly Hooper burst out laughing.

~oOo~

What's down there? A lonely little review box? Aw, so sad...keep it company!