Tomorrow Is Fading

Give Them A Puzzle

*BBC Sherlock

*Sherlock Holmes, Molly Hooper, Tom/Sebastian Moran, James Moriarty, etc.

AN: Wicked Game by McMorrow for all three men in love with Molly. I think it fits this chapter.

I think, in the case of each, they would have a hard time being in love. They would want to fight it. Equally, in the case of each, Molly is the only one that could ever save them. Of course, she is only one person and there are three of them.

That smile! The slow creeping of his lips into an arch, corners of his eyes crinkling, perfect teeth peaking out from hiding, the wrinkles creasing the sides of that mouth, and those bright eyes lighting up with devilish glee and honest to goodness joy and humor; that beautiful smile was the one he saved for truly great cases. She knew that smile and she did not like that smile because she knew what it meant! He was excited, happy, mischievous actually, and he was enjoying this. The fact that she called him out on it only seemed to surprise him a moment before it amused him and allowed him to drop the mask and show her his glee for the coming case.

Nervously, she flipped some hair from her shoulder, reaching up to tuck more behind her ear. Whatever he was up to, she somehow fit into the plan, the case, and that was not exactly comforting. Considering the players, she did not like her odds very well. Stuck between two genius masterminds, exactly where would she fall?

"Very well." His deep, deep voice broke his own silence, "I will make it obvious what I am up to." Those fingers tented in front of his face to partially hide his smirk from her as she sat tensely on the edge of the soft chair, "You were supposed to have died in the 'crash.' Medicated in order to cause a reaction to what paramedics always give victims. The key was that it had to be unrelated to the case just as Sally and the run down judge could not be tied to the others."

Molly nodded, her wavy hair falling over her shoulder as she did, understanding and actually having no trouble believing. She knew there had to be a reason she had so many dreams about Jim chasing her. He had actually been around but she did not remember, just as she did not remember a lot of things from that day. What he was telling her was something she had already guessed to some varying degree but he seemed to know that and was continuing.

"I intended to let the police and hospital watch you for the inevitable time when he would come back to finish the job and I had also been staying in the hospital, the break room couches work very nicely for naps, and I had someone feed Toby while I stayed there. Though I did stop at home to freshen up, I was mainly at the hospital the past while to wait for his move." His nose crinkled in disgust, "But since that message was left for you by one of his accomplices, I realized that would not be sufficient."

"How do you know it was not him?" She interrupted.

"He was killing someone else. It would have taken half a day to drive back. Early morning traffic. He could have driven at night but I see no reason he would make the effort. And then not enough time in the morning to plant it. I know he could not have gotten in. The guards were off post only a moment when I myself went into your room to examine you and your things during the night. Therefore-"

"You what?" Molly cut in again more urgently that time, hands balling together as she watched him with a stern expression.

He shot her an incredulous, irritated look, knowing exactly what startled her, as always, "Of course, I needed to be sure nothing was missed."

"You examined me while I was unconscious?" Her eyes narrowed as her ire spiked irrationally.

"One cannot ask for permission while a subject is unresponsive, you were medicated. I did nothing to violate you, if that it what you mean!" He hissed and managed to scoff at the same time, his entire face seeming to wrinkle like a child scrunching their face in a pout, "You should know me better than that. I should be the very last person suspected of that. You should have been more worried if it was Lestrade."

"Continue." Her hand waved at him encouragingly, not caring to hear more about how utterly not interested he would be in her and how stupid it was of her to worry or consider he would look at her inappropriately; not that that was what she was worried about, more like she did not want him watching her sleep just in case it was humiliating and did not want him poking at any fat places on her body to see how very unlike Irene she was.

"Therefore," he continued exactly as he left off, "it is logical for me to stay close to you instead. Once he comes to kill you, I will have the advantage."

"You are using me, his unfinished kill, to lure him to you?" It was a question but also not really, she was not shocked and her voice showed it.

"Clearly. The police will still be near at all times because Lestrade is a paranoid wreck, as he should be. They are waiting for me to make a move, or for him to. You will be secure enough. Mycroft's people hover as well, like pigeons." Sherlock was starting to look bored again as he clapped open palms onto the arms of his chair. "Meanwhile, you will be my assistant since John is spending so much time with Mary."

"I can't follow you every day, Sherlock, I have a job that I-"

"Not anymore." He blurted out suddenly, continuing when he saw the alarm written on her face and the pending deluge of questions, "You are on medical leave, already, and continuing for whatever span this case might last."

"I don't under-" Molly began and was cut off again.

"I can give you all the answers to that if you wish, but you might not care for most of them." His fingers were tented again in what seemed to now be a guarded posture rather than contemplative.

"Tell me." Molly prodded with her voice and eyes, serious as she was wary to hear what was happening.

"The short of it is, Moriarty set you up. Planted Toby's hair at the crime scene. Early, very early, this morning your DNA was also identified on a victim." Sherlock spoke so matter of factly in was chilling.

"My what? What body? Which one?" She was on her feet, hovering over him before she noticed she stood up at all, "Tell me everything this minute! Why didn't you tell me?" The startled flash in his eyes as he was forced to look up at her from his seated position did not even register in her mind when she spun on her heels to pace, "How could that be? I'm always so careful! Lord, no wonder I'm on 'leave'!"

"The lawyer from his trial, the woman. The skin samples you sent away were your own, or rather, they are now." He watched her pace back and forth over his rug, leaning forward to rest his elbows on his knees, "The lab was coincidentally broken into a few days ago, before your accident, and files from another case were stolen, our case happened to also be tampered with on happenstance."

"Then how did it come up as my DNA?" Molly might have been shouting a bit.

"Coincidence does not exist. That is how. The thief also happened to have died in the exact same crash as you were in." Sherlock was sounding progressively annoyed as he sat still in his chair.

Molly stopped, turning to face him with wide eyes, "On the bus?"

Sherlock nodded sullenly in response.

Brows crinkling, arms crossing under her chest, she ventured, "Who did he kill last night? You said he was killing someone."

"Kitty Riley." Sherlock mumbled, then clarified when there was no spark of recognition in her eyes, "The reporter that started the 'Rich Brook' story."

That got more than a spark, that got a full out fire, her arms flying to her sides, voice raising at least an octave, "That poxy journalist? The one that was working for Moriarty? That divvy little red haired bint?"

Sherlock pursed his lips to hide the absolute grin on his face, "Yes, that one."

"She's dead?" Molly's rage died a little, sliding into confusion.

"Very, very dead, gruesomely so if Lestrade's description was correct. She won't be coming back from the grave any time soon."

She swallowed, licking at her nearly healed split lip, "Why, she helped him, right?"

Sherlock shrugged just slightly, "Her sparkling personality, maybe?" He shook his head, "I knew he would. The only reason he did not do it sooner was because that would have been too telling that he was alive. He did not want to risk anyone making connections, so once he was back, it was time to tie up the other ends. He doesn't let people just walk away from him."

Molly swallowed again, eyes falling to the floor. That sounded logical, quite logical. It also did not sound very promising for her own future. While she was not exactly sorry for the woman's death, or she was, just not as much as she should be, it did give her a good picture of how things might be headed for her at some point. Her situation had not been utterly unlike Riley's. Moriarty dated her too, also to get to Sherlock, though in a different way. No wonder work did not want her back.

"How gruesome was it?" She ventured quietly, still focused on the pattern of the rug.

"Don't worry, Molly. I won't let that happen to you." Sherlock spoke from right next to her even though she had no idea he even stood up, "I promise. We will sort it out before he gets near you. You are not going to die." His large hand clasped her shoulder, giving it a gentle squeeze before he moved into the kitchen.

"Tea?" He called out to her.

"If you're going to start a pot." She muttered back.

The usual sounds of tea preparation began but she still had not turned around or moved closer. "Now," Sherlock called out to her again, "about your time with Moriarty..."

He left the sentence dangling for her in obvious indication that she was intended to fill in the rest. Molly's shoulders tensed, curling up to her neck. Of course, how could she forget. Molly could really have screamed at that.

"Oh, and Molly, I'm going to draw the shade and curtain in your room and you are not allowed to lift them. It can't look like anything is up there. so be careful about the light."

Of course... how could anyone forget anything with Sherlock Holmes around, at least, not if it was something he wanted to remember. If it was something trivial like that fact that her name was not John, or Greg's name was ... well, Greg, that was different. Clearly, forgetting things he wanted someone to think about, that was an impossible task.

It was very much on the smokey side, various brands of tobacco spewing from dirty mouths. As it was in every establishment such as this, the lights were mostly dim to be sure no one saw too much. Seeing could be saved for the next morning, everyone knew that, saved for the consequential hangover and unknown bed partner, the ones that had looked so good when both were holding a drink. It was extremely average, a place found on any street corner, with entirely average patrons.

The young man sitting at a booth toward the back did not seem to be paying much attention to the grotty lot, disinterested in the entire goings on. With his dark hair slicked back and styled, a smart suit expertly tailored to show off his every toned muscle, he looked very much the sort to be in a far more posh establishment.; the glasses tucked into his breast coat pocket seemed to be there out of habit and not out of necessity. Still, there he sat, book in hand, oblivious to the world. Clearly he was anything but the friendly type considering he sent two girls away already, two brave ladies, if you could call them that, attempted to engage him but he never even looked up from his book.

His eyesight might have been keener than most of the men warming stools at the counter too, at least if you asked a sober person such as the bar tender that happened to be able to see people quite well in the lower light after years of it. Either way, that man was nothing like the average patron. Bartenders, if asked, could always tell.

The door thumped open with a clatter when a new face walked in. He got quite a few looks, all rather favorable, from men and women alike. A snappy dresser, hundred dollar glasses, designer black leather jacket and matching tie - who knew they made leather looking ties, had to be a clip on because leather just did not fold that well - and jeans that were well on the side of too tight. He had good enough looks though so he could dress like a git and get away with it. The new face walked through, full of swagger, and ordered himself a drink at the bar before walking back to the booth behind Mr. Billy no-mates.

"So, he spirited her off somewhere then?" The second man muttered, a thick accent making him sound even more unusually interesting.

"Was that a question or your version of a conversation starter?" The grouchy one broke his streak of utter silence.

"Little of both." The leather jacket creaked when he lifted his arm to take a drink, proving it was new.

"Try a normal greeting. We don't see each other often. At least 'hello, Sebastian, my greatest and most patient employee' would not hurt, you numpty."

Moriarty chuckled lowly and answered in a sing-song tone, "Not Scottish, never have been." He took a sip of his martini, "So you're still angry? Doesn't that prove you're not my most patient employee? Defeats the purpose."

"Whatever, boss." Moran took a drink from his own glass before answering the question, "Dragged her all over town, hopping cab after cab. Knew I was following him but he never saw me."

"But you lost him."

"Yeah, he faked getting into one cab but he got into a different one. I didn't catch on until it was too late."

"Sherlock is slippery, always has been." The smirk darkened his face even if it should have been a friendly sign, "But he can't stay away forever. All we have to do is give him a nice corpse, maybe a really messed up one, and he'll turn up quick enough." The martini sloshed onto the salt rimming the glass as his fingers swirled it, "He'll bring her out too because he doesn't trust anyone with his work but her. Hiding won't be that useful. He's probably hiding in some obvious place anyway."

Jim paused, tilting his head back to rest it on the booth, his mind whirling round and round like the wheels of a train. It was not exactly fair! First Tom had her all to himself, now Sherlock had her off somewhere all alone... when was it going to be his turn to get her all to himself? When he was Jim from IT, he had not really had her all to himself, it was more like all-some-of-her and Sherlock with the rest. "Such a bad boy, that Sherlock, taking her away from us." He mused quietly, almost totally to himself.

"I could be elaborate; poison one of the judges, shoot him under the arm, and then toss him out a window. Make it confusing so he brings her out." Moran offered.

"You can, but you don't have to. He's not planning to keep her hidden, he just doesn't want us knowing where she sleeps. He'll take her out but he'll just hide her again at the end of the day; run you on a merry chase each night."

"So we strike before he hides her away?" Sebastian did not sound convinced, he could hear the frown even if he could not see it. The man had such a blasted temper, so easy to anger and turn explosive. There were times he could make Moriarty himself seem calm. But honestly, Jim's outbursts were so much more healthy than Moran's way. He yelled and got the anger out in a burst but that man just let it build, and build, and build until it came out in nasty ways. It had been growing each day since Sherlock returned. That was a lot of brewing anger. That was, unless Moran had let it out at some point without his knowledge. Whatever.

"Yes, and we also give him lots of reasons to come out of his hole. Lots of reasons."

Moriarty's eyes wandered slowly over the crowd of inane people, valueless creatures with boring lives. The thought instantly struck him that he might like to see Sebastian blow it up, but he knew that would be a poor use of good explosives. People were lucky he did not act on half his random thoughts. He had quite a few! Like he was already considering letting the bottle blonde at the bar come and seduce him like she planned to do in about five minute, her short skirt hiding nothing at all, and her smokey eyes undressing him since he walked in. He might take her out to the car and show her what a bad idea picking up random men could be, might make her play a death game with him, see how many people she would be willing to kill if it meant she would live.

He was not in the mood to be very nice. Sherlock took Molly and that meant he could not see her. Greedy bastard, that Holmes! Tomorrow, Sherlock would have to come out and bring her with him! Like an addict, his skin felt like it was crawling. The thought that he no longer had the option to see her, it made him a little crazy, made him want someone to pay.

Admittedly, he had been daring the detective to up the stakes when he left the note, but that had not been the anticipated reaction. Sherlock had her all alone, to himself; he could see her, touch her, stay close to her, and Moriarty could do none of those. He would make them come out and play! They were not allowed to go off and play lovebirds while he and Moran stayed out in the cold! Not that he expected Sherlock, the drone, the do anything, but that was not exactly the point.

"How many judges are still around this time of night?" Jim muttered into his glass, not sipping, just smelling it.

"Probably around five." Moran mumbled quietly.

"Guards? Lawyers? Secretaries?"

"Considerably more but I don't have an exact count." Sebastian nearly turned in his seat, "Why? How many are you thinking?"

Jim chuckled and set his drink aside. He had always hated martinis. Rum was more to his taste. Mint julep had always been a strange favorite since he tried it years ago even though he had absolutely no idea why. White whine was rather nice too. At any rate, he could not stand anymore of that martini. There were a great many things he could not stand more of.

Oh, there came the blonde, she was getting up. Standing, he could see her shape much better and he could do little but grin at her in welcome. Her size was as close as he was likely to come by in any bars, among people not expected home any time soon. She was close, very close, close enough that normal men would not see the differences. That would be just perfect! He could work with this! She was not bad looking and those guards would love her! She would do nicely!

Tiny feet thundered over the floor somewhere overhead, making his steely blue eyes dart up out of habit, even if he knew it was the cat. Without John living up above he was not as accustom to the sound of motion. Having noise again would probably be good for him, help him readjust to the public. There had been long stretches in his time away where he had hidden, hold up in tiny, quiet places. A few rather poor experiences with loud places had him a little on edge whenever he was near a little too much commotion. Adjusting to the regular sounds of life in the comfort of home was a good idea.

The cat had run over the bed, darted in and out of the closet, raced over the dresser, and sprinted down the hall and back a total of seven times. In the order. Consistent. He should have told Mrs. Hudson that little beast was there but he had yet to make that effort. The cat had been running about like a creature possessed since he arrived in his new surroundings. Molly was trying to keep him quiet and calm but he clearly did not adjust to change well. Sherlock could not exactly blame him for that. He was not a fan either.

Change was never the most comfortable thing.

Molly was skittish about the cat getting him angry but he did not even mind other than the occasional thundering overhead. The litter box might try his nerves too but he doubted she would let that get out of control in any way. Cats might not have been his favorite but he could endure it for whatever time it lasted. It was better than the alternative. It would let his mind rest far easier.

Actually, Molly might have been as skittish as Toby when her things and the cat simply arrived without any form of preamble. She was not sure how she felt about sharing this space with him, slipping into John's room. It was obvious she had not cared for his having someone else get it for her. Her left brow twitch as well as the left corner of her mouth, and then her eyes narrowed and her shoulders tensed, back going utterly straight. Less pleased also that she also did not seem to have a say in staying, which she did not. He would not let her leave, not really, unless he was with her.

She refused at first, insisted he march the delivery and herself right back where they belonged, further annoyed when he refused. At that point he walked to his room, leaving her the option to decide on her own, knowing she would not leave. As he typically was, he found his assumption was correct because he heard her dragging things up the steps soon after his door closed. She huffed and sighed loudly but relented. She trusted his judgement and secretly wanted to have someone near.

Granted, he knew she wanted to keep an eye on him as much as he did her. Small though she was, she was relentlessly protective. It surprised him a little the tenacity coiled in her petite frame. She was really so-

His eyes snapped shut for a full blink, fingers clenching tightly together. He needed to plan. Sherlock was spread out on his bed, dressing gown wrapped tightly around himself, hands folded on his chest as he stared up at the patters and defect above. He took in a long breath through his nose, letting it out in a sigh.

Moriarty was working his way over a map of some kind or other, picking off pins stuck into the surface. If he could gain a handle of exactly what order his nemesis was moving it would allow him to make preemptive counter moves. He would make moves of his own either way but he greatly wanted to know which moves would be best.

The judges did hold some manner of key. The first one especially. He had been searching through the movements of his last day. The dodgy little man visited several bars and usual gambling establishments the day he died. Nothing deviated from the usual, which made him easy prey, but it answered nothing of the why. Somehow, probably in one of the shady establishments, he stumbled upon Moriarty or an associate. When was yet to be determined and where was equally illusive. Finding out where would be splendid but there had been no leads at all. Visiting those places told him where Moriarty had not been but it did not narrow the field enough. The papers made his face famous though, just as Moriarty planned and that made speaking to people vastly more difficult. The people lied in every place, especially the man keeping three wives in the dark, but he was not sure how extensively. No one was daft enough to inform on the worlds only Consulting Criminal, therein being the problem.

A sudden thud made him jump, ready to bolt up the steps, but her voice calmed him, "Toby, please, settle down! I know it's not your room, but you will adjust!"

Her voice carried more than John's had. Probably because it was higher, or because he was listening for it without really thinking about it.

It might have been foolish to remove her from the hospital but it was too dangerous to leave her there. If his last round with the madman taught him anything, it was that people could not be trusted. The only person he could totally count on was himself when it was keeping his friends safe. Others could be paid off or threatened into doing absolutely anything. The man, the spider, could get into every tiny space, every crevice of peoples lives. It was never going to be easy to beat him.

Undeniably he was excited for the games they were sure to play but the luster was taken away when Moriarty touched too close to things he did not want harmed. The games were fun when Moriarty went after people that had no face, no connection, no attachment he could care about. He was good at not caring because that kept his mind clear. People were everywhere and there were thousands to take the place of each life lost. It only bothered him when he let himself think of them as people and not just a body, if he considered anything near how some of those faces might have been a John, Lestrade, or even a Molly. Distance though was easy when he did not know them.

It was never easy when people he felt attachment to were in danger. He had not liked it the first time and he had even less appreciation for it now. It was not fun, or not totally, when he knew the ones at risk. Judges he could care less about, lawyers, the same, but it just kept swaying closer. Sally. He never enjoyed her company, but did he wish her harm, no. Lestrade, the officers working with him, no. John and Mary, clearly and emphatically, no. Molly, very obviously not!

Why could they not simply go back to the old games, the ones they started out with? People did not even have to die! They could go back to kidnapping and saving on a timed clock, that was fun! What was wrong with those games? They both got the chance to show off!

Sherlock flinched, flopping onto his side.

He was glad he was on the first floor. In addition, he was a light sleeper. No one would get past him. Molly was perfectly safe. He had not told her the whole truth, but when did he ever tell anyone the whole truth? She was safe up there, he had his gun sitting on the bed to his left in easy reach. If Moriarty set off a bomb, that was a different story but he would not use a bomb in this case. As long as the shades were drawn and she was careful of windows, he could also not shoot her. They were not planning to kill her yet anyway though. If anything, they would steal her away, plant her at another murder scene to further frame her, which was simply not going to happen.

Better she think he would kill her though. The alternative was worse. She would hate being involved again, used again to play a roll in more deaths. Moriarty used her quite a lot, made her the tool to open many doors. He was trapping her deeper and deeper into his net and that was simply not going to stand, not as long as Sherlock had a say. She had been through enough, been run around and through a ringer enough.

Her tiny footsteps signaled her returning to the main floor, Toby galloping past her far more loudly. She was trying very hard not to disturb him, trying to be quiet as a mouse to let him keep his solitude. She was honestly too sweet for her own good. People like that were rare, like solar eclipses, because John had been so excited about the one that happened there first few months together, the thing that sparked their entire argument about the sun or earth revolving places.

How could anyone believe she would hurt anyone? She went out of her way never to hurt anyone. She held her tongue like a saint even when he knew perfectly well she desperately wanted to rip some people, including himself, up one way and down the other. He could always see when she held her tongue because her jaw tensed and her teeth clenched together in order to hold in the words.

The closet door opened nearest the door and he frowned, sitting up when he heard a hanger sway back and forth from the absence of a coat. Sherlock bolted from his room, sliding on the wooden floors in his socks, but he got to the door in record time. Plenty of time to see her stare at him with wide eyed shock, coat already one and her scarf in hand.

Her amber eyes looked him up and down just once before returning to his face, "Sherlock... hi."

"What are you doing?" He ground out through unintentionally gritted teeth.

"I..." She noticed his irritation, taking her lower lip between her teeth as she glanced down at his clenched fists. "I was going to make us something to eat but you don't have anything."

"And?" He prompted, still unable to lift the ire from his voice considering he knew the answer.

"I was only going to pop over to the store a pick up a few things. I was going to wear a hat." Molly sounded as nervous as a mouse staring up at the cat. "See, it's a knit one, one of those you can tuck your hair up in and no body knows the difference." She held up the red mass of yarn for him to see.

He was unimpressed and his utter lack of facial expression showed it. "A hat? That was your solution?"

"I've got this scarf too. No one could see much of me."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes with a growl, "That scarf hides nothing! It is pink and black, obviously hand made, ridiculously long, and people have seen you were it!"

Molly narrowed her own eyes, so stubborn when she wanted to be. "Well, no one ever really notices me. You know me, I don't attract much attention. I'm not the type that sticks out so I just thought-"

"You just thought you would walk out and go shopping while a mass murderer is out to get you?" Very well, he would play the big cards, the guilt if she would not be reasonable, "You were just going to walk a busy street without me to protect or be your common sense, and get everyone gunned down along with you? Put everyone including myself at risk so you can be stubborn and go out when I told you not to?"

"That... I didn't..." Her lips moved without sound for a minute as her eyes fell to the floor, "I wasn't trying to... I only wanted to fix something."

Tears were just barely rimming her eyes and she was fighting them off. Fix something for him, make him eat, that was what she meant. He rarely took time to eat on cases, wrapped up in his own thoughts so fully that he would not bother with a great many things. She knew him so well, even knew that if she made it and set it in front of him, he would eat it. He always took things she made him when he used her flat as a blot hole, and she knew it. No one but Molly could make him eat if he was busy thinking, but he never refused it if she made it.

Sherlock's shoulders squared, back stiffening. He intended to guilt her but she was doing a fine job of turning it right back on him because he suddenly felt in the wrong, like he could begin gushing apologies any moment in very uncharacteristic shows.

"No, I was exaggerating. I'll have Mrs. Hudson bring something up... or I could have her order takeaway for us and then bring that up if you would rather."

"Anything is fine." Molly mumbled, staring at the floor.

He stepped forward, snatching the scarf from her, "He probably would not shoot more than just you anyway. He mainly uses snipers." She did not resist as he tugged the coat right back off her shoulders and slung it back onto the hanger. "He is task oriented, though it is true he would kill anyone in the way, obviously. Still, if you were simply walking, you would be an easy target."

"Thank you, Sherlock, that is comforting." Molly walked toward the stairs intent to return to her room before he stopped her.

"We should have tea." He blurted out, "talk a bit more about the case."

"I honestly can't stand to talk about my past dates with you another round, Sherlock. I don't enjoy revisiting my own stupidity and gullible mistakes."

"Not about that, just in general, I mean. You know that talking helps me think." He could not stand her walking away like that, angry with him and upset, he rather wanted to fix it.

Oh, god, why him? Why did he feel guilty? She was the one sneaking out!

Could she not understand why he was doing this? Granted, he told her it was for the case, which it was, but how did she not understand she terrified him? How did she not see that he needed her to stay his pathologist and not end up on her own cold table? He needed her where he could protect her, for god sake! Besides, he could not stop her being framed if he did not know where she was at all times!

"Very well, I'll be your ear." She moved back down and slid by him to head for the kitchen.

He let her walk by, let the chill of the cold shoulder she was giving him slip into him as he watched her go.

She never understood! She was dangerously perceptive about everyone and their feelings unless it happened to involve her!

When she said: "I don't count" he had been actually shocked. Had anyone else said those words he would have simply agreed, but not with Molly. To hear those words tumble free so honestly from her lips had shocked him. It shocked him on so many levels, too many, and nearly put his head in a spin with all the thoughts it triggered. She meant it when she said that, and in the eyes of some, she was right, and yet she was also intensely wrong.

No one could deduce him the way she could and normally no one really tried. Molly tried and succeeded, always. There had been a time she was just a face in the crowd but that had not lasted long. There had also been a time he thought he could fool her, but eventually he realized she was only humoring him; she liked to humor him and make him think he had won. Even when she knew he was using her, she helped him anyway; not because he offered her attention but in spite of his manipulative tactics. Secretly she enjoyed it when he flirted, proved he noticed things about her, but she still knew what he was doing. In some ways it had been nearly a game, even when he realized they both knew what he was doing. What he had not realized was how much damage those games did to her perception of herself.

Sherlock trudged behind her and then past her once she dropped into a chair. He proceeded to start some coffee rather than the offered tea.

His thoughtlessness made her think he did not value her, but he did. What more did she want him to do? He trusted her to get the results from his tests correct even if he was not there, even gave her his cell number rather than simply taking hers only. He out rightly refused to work with other people because other people messed things up! Molly did not mess things up, she was an artist in her trade.

She had no idea how much he trusted her, how much he believed in her. That belief was exactly why he knew for an absolute fact that she played no part in anything Moriarty was trying to implicate her in. Granted, he could see how simple it was for the others to be taken in, could see how others could be convinced, but he was not one of them.

That girl was different, but not different the way he was, just different. She would qualify as a freak by the standards of the stupid just as he did. The stupid people were amazed by the brilliant but they also resented them because they were different. Lots of people wanted to be different, tried to be different, they were ordinary, to borrow that word.

"You are my pathologist, Molly. I insist that you act like it." Sherlock stated rather firmly to the wall, never actually having turned around even though he thought he had.

"What is that supposed to me? Act like it how?" Molly had that edge to her voice, the edge of quiet anger that said he was doing something wrong. He never had to ask with her, he just knew. John, he typically needed to ask, check to see if something was "not good" but Molly had a way of letting him know. She made sense even though she also did not.

"I mean, you are to stay with me when I ask you to be my assistant." He declared to the wall once again, "John does when I tell him to."

Molly scoffed, "Oh, he does not! Not all the time. He runs off and does what you tell him not to all the time."

"And I yell at him for it as well."

Silence indicated that the message he was trying to send had finally gotten through. She understood at last. Good, that was done. Back to more pressing matters at hand! He would indeed be talking about that case, and he would, even though he promised not to, be asking her more questions. He would lead into it with unrelated topics so she would not realize at first until she had already begun talking about Moriarty.

The two of them spoke for hours, similarly to the way he did with John. He lead her carefully to topics he wanted more information on, but she did notice. Molly was not as easy to distract as John even though she occasionally pretended to be. The pathologist was quite smart but she made it easy not to think about it with her shy attitude. She was nothing like Anthea, or Irene. Her intelligence was kept hidden even though it was obvious considering how old she was when she gained her position, considering the respect given to her work even if not given to her in person.

She needed to be more assertive with people though. He might try to teach her that while he kept her close, get her to actually stand up for herself. He knew she could, she had done it with him before. Well, that was not strictly true, she had never really stood up for herself, just for others. She was selfless, a rare soul with a real heart beating inside her that was tender and gentle despite the cold nature of her job.

Molly was on the side of the angels, but she was also an angel herself. She was the sort of girl that could make a man believe in a higher power, one that would have created someone such as her. She did have faith too, even if she was not much in the habit of practicing it, which was also rare in the science world. Probably why she never wore the cross necklace hanging on her mirror in her room, the one her father gave to her. She kept everything her family ever gave to her, kept it safely in a special box. Sentiment. Everything but the necklace, which hung in its place, also sentiment as well as just a little self torture.

Sherlock slid out of his chair, leaving the sleeping girl curled up on his couch. The thought crossed his mind that he might get a blanket for her but that seemed a rather sentimental thing to do. John would have done it. Lestrade would also have done it. Mycroft would not. Sentimental act, clearly.

Silently, he padded back to his room, careful to avoid the fourth right plank nearest to his door. It creaked.

The cat was up in her room, curled on the bed if the silence was a judge.

Fingers a light touch, he pressed his door closed, holding the handle back to avoid the click. He could be very quiet when he wanted to be. John always complained about how loud he was, but that was only when he was not trying to be careful. John never noticed when he was intentionally quiet.

As if times, his phone buzzed in his housecoat pocket and he snatched it up to read the number.

Mycroft. He accepted the call anyway.

No hello this time, just, "I heard you have a new flatmate. Are congratulations in order on your new found, un-marital bliss?" When Sherlock said nothing, he simply continued, "While I am not as surprised as I should be, I must say it is awfully interesting timing. I must also say that I think you could have chosen a better candidate, one with less suspicion hanging overhead."

Sherlock's voice held the lower edge it always took on when he spoke to Mycroft, "Don't play 'faithful watchdog', not after all these years of our successfully hating each other. Caring sibling acts don't become you."

"I am merely trying to take care of you, as I always do." Mycroft crooned slowly, deliberate as always, faking sincerity.

"You mean tampering with my day to day life." Sherlock spit out. "Or should I say, proving your superiority by letting me know that you know where she is even if no one else does."

"People will find her soon enough, though I will not inform on you, they will simply find her. You know you cannot hide her the way you hide yourself. She is too delicate to be dragged about to the places you would go when in hiding. Besides, you would never take her to a filthy drug den and risk anything happening to her by the hand of some crazed addict. I know you."

"I am not really hiding her, I simply wanted time to speak with her without John or Lestrade hovering over my shoulder. I needed to determine a few things." Of course, he also wanted to give her one or two nights to feel safe and be away from all that chaos. The way she was sleeping on his couch was the first actually restful sleep she had gotten in weeks without the help of hospital drugs to calm her system. Not that he had sneaked into her flat during the night to check on her before the accident. Just once, or, maybe twice.

"Did you determine anything?" Mycroft prompted in his soft, calm, politician voice.

"She is not part of Moriarty's network." Sherlock droned in his very best note of boredom, "No money has been increased in her bank accounts, nor her spending, as you know. There is no evidence of her being paid off so the only other option would be residual loyalty to him from her time dating him. There is none."

"Of course, you would not miss anything. You never miss anything and neither do I ... except when it comes to Moriarty."

"That was a rare confession of inadequacy, Mycroft." Sherlock quipped to hide his own irritation.

"Indeed, one you will never hear again, but it was to make a point. Neither of us can forget our past experience." Mycroft's smile over the phone seemed to have faded, "We became lazy, too self assured, and someone caught us at it. That is a mistake neither of us can afford twice."

"I am well aware, but I do not intend to throw Molly to you for our ineptitude of the past. Unlike you, I reward those that save my life."

"I reward it too, Sherlock, but that does not mean I offer trust along with reward."

This time, Sherlock hung up before Mycroft could. Knowing his brother as he did, he knew when his older blood relation was about to say something profound to his own mind and then cut off a conversation to ensure he had the last word. This time the younger had no intention to listening to the finality or at least not allowing him to be the one to hang up first.

The smile on James Moriarty's face was anything but reassuring but the little creature clung to his jacket anyway, fingers like talons sunk into prey. The terror was potent enough he thought he could actually taste it in the air. Her wide green eyes stared at him imploringly, terrified enough that by now she was literally incapable of not whimpering like an injured dog. She shook like a leaf in his hold but she let him move her anywhere he pleased, flinching if he so much as breathed deeply, but not resisting. His black eyes stared back at the little girl, but he never dropped his cold smile, he only played with her hair. Wisely, she stopped fighting after she discovered the cab did not have handles on the inside and that she could not shatter the windows no matter how hard she pounded.

The consulting criminal had allowed her to wear herself to a bow string in her attempts to escape, relishing the way she utterly deflated when she understood the futility. Sebastian enjoyed the noise very, very little. Sebastian was in the front, driving the nice little cab with the two passengers in back, obscured from the public. The girl had long ago given up attempts at screaming when faced with exactly how angry that made the driver and learning that she did not want him to pull over; screaming made the calm one yell to be heard over her as he threatened very unpleasant things and it made Sebastian shake her until he likely gave her whiplash.

Her fear of the two of them seemed nearly equal but she clung to Jim because he very obviously held the power and he had not actually raised a finger to her while Sebastian, the larger, stronger one, had. All blows had avoided any places marks would be seen but they hurt like hell and she was not even slightly a fan of pain.

She was not smart, but she was not utterly stupid either. Punishment made her learn very swiftly.

"Now, pet," Jim continued, whispering his words but not so quietly that Moran could not hear, "whether you survive tonight or not depends entirely on you. If you do well, if you're a perfect actress, if you get them to believe you, then you win. It's all a game, you see, a death game. It's like live Cluedo, but with more death. Only the good actors, only the smart players get to walk away alive. Understand?"

"Yes! I understand." Her shaking voice was too high, he hated it, Molly's was just right.

"Good, very good!" His face shifted dramatically, expression of anger exaggerated intentionally as his volume spiked about three levels, "Then stop crying and fix your face!" He let his expression shift once again, calming when she actually dove to her knees at his feet, awkward as that had to have been in a car, "You have a show to put on ... Molly."

Moriarty did not miss the way Moran's shoulders curled up just hearing Molly's name tossed onto this little tramp. Poor man had no idea he was in love, could not read his own reactions! He would go mad if he did not realize it soon. He did not even seem to realize that half the reason he hated Sherlock the way he did was because of one little girl that loved the detective. Sebastian was only gentle; actually gentle rather than simply forcing himself not to kill her every second he was near her; with Molly. He hated her for not loving him but that did not mean he did not still love her. Love and hate were a very strange thing in the case of some people. To love some people was also to hate them.

His eyes had drifted and lingered on his driver and he forced himself to look back at their not-Molly. She was not as pretty as their girl, their awkward little beauty. Her body could pass even though three men would know instantly that she did not quite fit just in a glance and would never make the mistake, others would be fooled. If they never let anyone fully see her face, no one would know. The chin was right and the nose was close so if they kept her hair falling into her eyes most of the time, it would work.

Her real name was Irene, ironically enough, but not tonight. Tonight she would play the coveted roll of a sweet pathologist everyone adored, but one turned to the side of evil, swayed from the angels. She looked enough like Molls to pull it off with those adjustments. After he made her change shirts it would be more convincing. The short skirt would stay to be sure the guards liked her, but the shirt was about to be replaced by one of Molly's very own. He had stolen it back when he dated her as Jim from IT and she never knew where it had gone. The white, flowery, button up blouse was about to be put to use after all this time.

AN: Hope you liked it! Next chapter is more death, if you missed that.

I believe Sherlock would use Mycroft as a judge of what sentiment is, or what it would look like not to show it.

At last, Moriarty and Moran are together, not just on the phone!