It starts with a text.

Come to Baker Street at once – SH

But she's at work; she can't just leave. She tells him so in her reply text and resumes her paperwork. She would actually like to go to Baker Street very much; she would like to know why Sherlock has requested her presence and why it must be at this very moment. But she won't. For a few reasons. First, as explained to him already, she is at work and is not so irresponsible as to leave before her shift ends. Second, as she reminds herself almost daily, she must put up boundaries between herself and Sherlock – true, she no longer has a fiancé, but there remains a strange tension between them. A residual stain of doubt, anger, and fear stemming from his shooting up, getting shot, and shooting someone else. It's uncomfortable and painful every time she's around him, and what makes it even worse is the fact that he doesn't even seem to notice.

So yes, she does have to work. But she also does not have to give in to Sherlock Holmes.

Her shift ends at 8:00 PM. By 8:33 PM she is out the door and her phone buzzes with another text.

Come to Baker Street – SH

Molly sighs, but she knows as she boards the Tube where exactly she is going, and it's not to her apartment. The carriage (car, she reminds herself with a small grin) isn't very crowded, but she gets off a stop early because she begins feeling a little stifled. Her heart is beating a little faster, her breathing is a little shallower and she clutches her bag just a little too tightly. It's just a slight case of nerves, but her nerves are already so frayed, so worn, that it's all she can do to her hold back straight, keep her chin up and walk those last few blocks to Baker Street as if she were wholly unaffected by her abrupt summons.

It is not unlike his return after his faked suicide, when he had asked her to Baker Street to – in his words – solve crimes. Perhaps this is just more of the same, and if it is, then maybe they would go out for chips afterward (this time she would agree, as she no longer has a fiancé hanging over her head) and they can talk, really talk, about what exactly exists between them. Molly scoffs to herself. She would end up doing most of the talking, about relationships and feelings and-and trust, and then Sherlock would roll his eyes, counter her very valid and well-rehearsed concerns with a blasé, "You're my pathologist, Molly," – as if that actually means something to anyone who is not Sherlock Holmes, as if he isn't totally incapable of uttering the word friend – turn up his collar and stroll out the door with that damnable coat billowing behind him.

Infuriating.

She's a block away from 221b when she walks by an alley and an arm reaches out and grabs her. She's pulled into the shadows by a strong hand, from which she desperately tries to tear herself away.

"Molly, stop that," Sherlock whispers in her ear. Molly ceases immediately.

"Sh-Sherlock?" she gasps. "What are you doing?"

"There's been a slight change of plans," he replies, dragging her further down the alley.

"Why?" she asks. "What's happened?"

Sherlock exhales loudly through his nose. He clasps his hands behind his back and begins pacing back and forth, and then in mid-stride he changes direction and circles around Molly instead. "If you had come when I asked I needn't have resorted to this chicanery."

"Chicanery? Sherlock, have you been watching Downton Abbey again?" she asks somewhat accusingly. And he has the nerve to make fun of her.

He scoffs. "That is hardly relevant." He continues his furious pacing and Molly notices a strange nervous energy emanating in his wake. "As I was saying before, if you had come when I asked then we could've avoided this situation entirely."

"What situation?"

"I have a client," he sneers the word client as if it is a swear word, "who is adamant about procuring my services, even though I have refused thrice."

"Oh, well I'm sure they'll take the hint soon," Molly replies evenly.

"She has not thus far, and as such I have had to resort to a last measure."

"Which is?"

"You, of course," Sherlock replies.

Oh. Of course. Molly "Last Measure" Hooper. Isn't that what all her friends call her?

"I see," Molly mutters, trying to keep her voice steady.

Sherlock continues on obliviously. "This woman, Madame Girard, runs a matchmaking service for the elite, as she put it. She is convinced that someone has been sabotaging her business and knocking off eligible bachelors. It's hardly a six, but she keeps offering more money and won't take no for an answer. However, I have pinpointed her weakness – love, as is advertised by her company – and determined the most effective way to get her to leave is by exploiting it. You will pose as my girlfriend, accompany me back to the flat, tell Madame Girard that under no circumstances will you allow your beloved to go undercover at a place where other women will be pawing at him and where his life may very well be in danger. Madame Girard will acquiesce and I will be free for other pursuits."

Molly gapes at him. Her mind is spinning; she has no idea where to start. First, Sherlock has failed to intimidate and insult a client enough to make them leave of their own volition. Second, Sherlock is either extremely vain or extremely ignorant (Molly suspects an odd mixture of both) to think that women would automatically want to "paw at him." And third, Sherlock actually wants Molly to pretend to be his girlfriend just so she can tell someone off. He's got to be joking.

"You've got to be joking," she says.

"I don't joke, Molly," he replies.

"I know," she sighs.

Sherlock grabs her wrist and drags her back toward the street. "Come along, Molly. I left Madame Girard in the company of Mrs. Hudson and I fear what those two have got up to in my absence."

When she and Sherlock enter his flat, he moves his hand from her wrist to her palm, wrapping his long fingers around it. He burst into his sitting room with a breathless gusto, presenting their clasped hands to his guests as if it were the bloody crown jewels.

"Madame Girard, this is my girlfriend Molly Hooper," he crows, before dropping her hand like a hot potato. So much for the crown jewels, Molly silently laments.

Madame Girard and Mrs. Hudson are both taken by surprised at Sherlock's sudden entrance, but the former recovers smoothly.

"Oh, Ms. Hooper, what a pleasure it is to meet you," she says. She extends a well-manicured hand decorated with several precious stones. Molly takes it and attempts her winningest smile. Madame Girard is a middle-aged woman with silver hair, perfectly coifed, and dressed in Chanel suit, perfectly tailored. Everything about her is exact, precise and completely put-together. Molly tries not to fidget in her floral blouse and cherry cardigan.

"Nice to meet you too," Molly replies.

"Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson says. "Where are the biscuits? You were gone for half an hour."

"They were out," Sherlock replies tersely.

"Of all of them?" Mrs. Hudson asks in disbelief. "And when were you going to tell me about – "

"I was just explaining to Molly about your case, Madame Girard," Sherlock says loudly over Mrs. Hudson's protests. "And she expressed some concern about your request. Isn't that right, Molly?"

"Oh, um, yes, well I don't think it's such a good idea for Sherlock to go undercover. I mean, it sounds dangerous, if someone is killing off bachelors, and – "

"And you dislike the idea of your boyfriend being ogled by a group of attractive, successful, and powerful women?" Madame Girard says. Before Molly can formulate a response, Madame Girard continues. "Perfectly understandable. Mr. Holmes is quite a catch. However, I think I can come up with a solution that will appease you, and allow Mr. Holmes to discover the saboteur of my business."

"And what would that be?" Sherlock asks through his teeth.

"You both will go undercover, of course. That way Ms. Hooper can keep an eye on you, Mr. Holmes, while you keep an eye out for the saboteur. Everyone is satisfied. Both of you come by my office tomorrow at four P.M. on the dot. Good day." And with that, Madame Girard sweeps out of 221b Baker Street without so much as a backward glance.

Sherlock, Molly, and Mrs. Hudson stand in silence for a moment until the latter says, "Sherlock, you didn't tell me you had a girlfriend!"

"Shut up, Mrs. Hudson!" he replies tersely, collapsing into his chair. "I need to think."

Mrs. Hudson throws her hands up in the air. "You'll have a better time talking to him, I should think." She winks at Molly and then retreats back downstairs.

It's a good few minutes after Mrs. Hudson leaves that Molly recovers from her shock and realizes what, precisely, she's expected to do.

"Um, Sherlock?" she says. He doesn't respond and she assumes he is in his mind palace. "I'm sorry that your, er, plan didn't work. You can just tell Madame Girard it was all a big misunderstanding, and-and I'll see you later. At Bart's or something." She turns to leave.

"Molly."

She pauses.

"I will see you tomorrow at Madame Girard's office. Four o'clock sharp," he says.

Molly turns back to look at him, but he's already retreated to his mind palace, fingers steepled underneath his chin, so she mutters her soft assent and leaves.

A/N: This is my first foray into Sherlolly, so constructive criticism is especially welcome. Thanks for reading!