Author's note:

Just so you know: RIS is the italian CSI

Warm thanks to Renaissancebooklover108, mrspencil, JoBabeAlly and Rocking the Redhead for their kind reviews. I appreciate them

Reviews make me happy.

Right, on to the story!

.

There should be two.

Two officers had been assigned to her, to keep her safe.

She had seen their shadows from behind the opaque glass.

Two, perfectly safe and reassuring silhouettes.

Now there was one.

Why was there only one?

The person behind the door knocked, and Molly looked around frantically.

Why was there only one?

Before she could respond, the door had begun to open.

Nowhere to run.

Nowhere...

A man walked in.

"Oh, it's you." Molly breathed a sigh of relief when she saw one of Ascanio's men walk in. "You watched over the lab last night...Your name's Stefano, right?"

"Yes, miss." The muscular youth nodded, closing the door behind him.

"Why are you here?" She asked, tilting her head to one side. "Shouldn't you be resting? You were up all night, weren't you?"

"I've been called in, Miss." He shrugged. "I was free and I know the hospital well."

"Called in for what?"

"As a replacement. The other two guards had to leave."

"What do you mean? Leave where?"

"They were needed for another, more pressing matter, so I'll be taking care of you, now."

Molly remembered what James had told her about how their protection had been removed, albeit temporarily. It looked like they were trying to do so again, but at least this time they had left one for her safety.

"I see. Well, Thank you. I'm sorry to cause you so much trouble, you must be tired..."

"It's no trouble at all, Miss." He shook his head amiably.

Molly smiled back. "All right. Then, if you don't mind, I'll get back to work."

"Of course." He nodded, walking to the door. "Oh, I almost forgot." He turned around to face her, his brow raised questioningly. "Are the DNA results ready?"

A shiver ran down her spine.

.

.

The catwalk was just under thirty metres long, and three metres wide.

The perfect vantage point...

Sherlock blinked.

"Just sit still." A woman coaxed him as he sat on the chair.

"Is this quite necessary?" He asked in annoyance, wincing at her fingers coming so close to his pupils.

"Trust me, this mascara will really make your eyes pop!"

"I don't want my eyes to pop, thank you. I just want them to work, something you are making increasingly difficult."

"Oh come on, Sherlock. A little bit of mascara never hurt anyone." John admonished, grinning inanely.

"Oh, because you know, do you?"

"I've been to the odd stag party..." He shrugged with nonchalance before taking a sip from his flute of free champagne.

Sherlock forced himself to sit still and duly looked down as requested, then finally he was allowed to stand and walk to a safe distance from any stylists armed with brushes or ironing tongs.

"The show is about to start. I'm sorry but your friend has to leave now, Mr. Holmes." The British stylist, Michael Cartney, warned the consulting detective before hurrying after an errant photographer.

"Not that I don't love the idea, but...Why are you doing this, Sherlock?" John asked as they walked to the changing area's doors.

"John, think about it. The killer has been meeting the Ambassadors at events, social and public. Who finds it easiest to get into parties, without being famous? Models, John! they're like party decorations, admired but rarely remembered. This catwalk is linked to all the murders, I've checked: the ambassador in London and the one in France were both killed on the night this collection was shown. Now think, John: remember Paten's hand?"

"Yes." The doctor nodded. "He got us tissue samples by scratching his killer..."

"That was only a couple of days ago, and he had skin and blood under his nails. Whoever attacked him would still have the mark on his body..."

John's eyes widened as he understood.

"All the models are dressed, but there is a change of clothes. That will be enough time for you to see if any of them have the scratch..."

Sherlock nodded. "And if that fails, I will have the advantage: at the end of the catwalk there is a pause of about 2 seconds, for the photographers to take pictures, before I have to turn around. Everyone will be facing me, and I will have a few instants before the flashes start to see every person in the room."

They stopped at the door, where Ginevra was waiting for them.

"Doctor Watson, the ambassador is waiting. We have such wonderful seats! Come and see!"

"Stay with the Ambassador, don't let him out of your sight, John." Sherlock whispered quickly as Michael Cartney approached them again.

"You look fabulous in this, Mr. Holmes! It's just so...Fierce! But there's something wrong..." The stylist held his chin in his hand as he inspected the consulting detective. "Aha!" He exclaimed, and in a flash of inspiration he undid the first two buttons of his shirt. "Now it's perfect! Do you agree?" He asked Sherlock, who looked down at himself.

"It does look better." the consulting detective agreed.

"I'm too sexy for my shirt, too sexy for my..."

"What was that, John?"

"Oh, nothing. Carry on!" His friend grinned and walked out.

Moments later, some tasteless, mind-numbing excuse for music echoed loudly throughout the space in uninspired notes of techno mediocrity.

Sherlock looked to the skies as would a martyr, his mascara-caked lashes purposefully ignored...Although they did make his eyes, as Cinzia said, 'Pop.'

"Come on everyone, show them how it's done!" One of the Austrian designers cried. "Go!"

"Let's get this over with." Sherlock murmured to himself, and stepped on the catwalk.

People think modelling is so easy: walk, walk, pose; walk, walk change pose.

The truth is, it's more like a dance, made to look like walking. Just like Sir rex Harrison's singing was meant to sound like talking...

This is, at least, what Sherlock told himself as he strode down the catwalk in his first suit.

Thirty metres.

At the end of the catwalk he posed, and scanned the room before the flashes made it too hard.

Most of the people were instantly discarded as unimportant. He focused on the others, gathering as much information as he could.

He saw John, the ambassador and his secretary, Ginevra, sitting near the front row.

John was trying not to laugh.

Sherlock tossed his head and turned around, the two seconds having passed.

As he walked away he saw, with the corner of his eye, the doctor and the ambassador begin to talk.

"Sherlock has a plan, believe me." John assured James, whose fists were tightly clenched as restlessly looked around.

"It doesn't feel right, John. I saw Molly before she walked out of the embassy. She was afraid. There is something he isn't telling me, I know there is."

"He does that, sometimes." John conceded. "But even if Sherlock doesn't explain everything, he knows what he's doing."

"it doesn't look like it, prancing around on the catwalk...Molly was frightened. I shouldn't have let her go alone." James rubbed his hand against his forehead impatiently. "How could I have let her go, she was so scared..."

"Is doctor Ooper in danger?" Ginevra asked, eyes wide open in alarm.

"Trust me, Sherlock would never let anything happen to Molly. Ever." John promised. Ginevra bit her lip.

"Tell me, John." The Ambassador looked at him, challengingly. "If you were in my shoes, would that assurance be enough for you? Could you just sit here, wondering? Hoping? Is his word really enough for you?"

"I trust Sherlock, James."

the ambassador looked at the doctor for a moment.

"Well, I don't." He said with finality, standing up. "

John sighed, following the ambassador and his assistant as they walked away from the catwalk.

Backstage, the models were all getting changed. The French, Austrian and German designers ran around in a mixture of elation and panic, being very careful not to ruin their spotless suits and ties in the process. It was chaotic, but they were all experienced and the models would be dressed very quickly. Sherlock had precious little time to check them all for any signs of Paten's scratches. He looked around frantically.

Nothing.

All the models were clean.

But there was something wrong.

Something terribly wrong...

What was he missing?

"Wonderful! Now second time, ok? Come on! Vite! Vite!" A French designer cried, pushing him to the catwalk in his second outfit.

Sherlock walked with all the confidence required for the role he was playing, but his mind was racing as he looked at the crowd.

Too big, too tall, too short, never-been-to-France, too weak...

WHAT WAS HE MISSING?

His eyes fell to the seats where John and the ambassador should be. They had left. Why can't people just follow the plan? His eyes narrowed in annoyance, but the photographers seemed to love this new expression and the cameras went crazy.

Sherlock turned around and began walking back, when suddenly it hit him.

A foulard.

He knew who it was.

Sherlock called for the name, asked if anyone had seen...

But he was too late.

The killer had left the building.

Sherlock blinked.

Then he started to run.

.

"Are the DNA results ready?" Stefano asked again.

"Uhm...Yes." Molly nodded awkwardly. "Did Sherlock tell you about them?"

"No, but I have been informed." The Italian shrugged. "That is why I was called here, you see."

"Oh?" Molly looked past him to the lab door. Oh, how she missed those two silhouettes...

"Yes. I have orders to take the results and send them to the R.I.S and others. I'm sure you understand..."

"Of course, how silly of me." Molly picked up the results from her own hair and gingerly handed it over.

Try to act natural! She ordered herself.

"Are you going to take a photocopy? It's just, I imagine Sherlock will want to see it, and the French police, too..."

"Don't worry." Stefano took the folder and slipped it under his arm. "There is a scanner in the room at the end of the corridor. I will scan it and give you the original back, ok? We could go together, if you like. " He smiled. "And maybe have a coffee before we come back here."

Don't leave the lab.

I can't protect you if you do.

Molly smiled back, blinking and turning to face some peetri dishes. "Thanks but, I still have some work to do..."

Stefano's eyes narrowed. "What work? Weren't you here just for this test?"

"Uhm..." Molly began to panic. This wasn't her lab! She couldn't turn to any ongoing work as an excuse.

Nowhere to run...

"I...I just need to tidy up a bit." She stammered as the man's countenance darkened. "I left such a mess..."

"Come and have a coffee, Molly." He said again, quietly, walking towards her.

Oh God.

Oh God!

Sherlock.

Help me.

.