Oh, my goodness! Look, we've gotten through season one! Thank's to all my continued readers! I know this is a reeeeeaaaaalllly slow burn story here, but there's just so much to explore with Molly. Bare with me! This is a long one, hopefully it doesn't feel too long. Some of the scenes may seem really unneeded, but I want you guys to see the Molly we don't see and how some of the vauge things that are mentioned in her reference could tie in. For instance, in season 3 there's their little awkward talk about her being a drunk. Welp...we kinda can start to see were Sherlock might drag that from. Anyways...not rambling on and on! I'm just so greatful to those who are sticking with the story. I'm going to try and update weekly towards the middle of the week. So be prepared! After season one is when Molly get's jucier, so we're gonna pick up the tempo here!

Enjoy everyone! Let me know what you think of the chapter! :)

...

The Cruel Game

Jim works in I.T. upstairs. That's how we met. Office romance."

"Gay."

"Sorry, what?"

This was a stupid idea. A really dumb stupid idea, and Molly knew it, but she didn't stop it, because this was the first time in nearly a month that she wasn't holed up in her flat or working on cadavers.

Her ears were thumping with the pulsing music throughout the club. Lights flashed in intervals of blue, red, and green. They blinded her, making her feel slightly sick. Meena was out on the dance floor, sandwiched between two bulky chaps, waving her body in a slurred drunken sort of way. She'd given up entirely on trying to drag Molly out onto the floor and simply shot her heavy looks that said, 'Look at this, Mol's, all these blokes, you could join in too'.

After another one of those specific looks, Molly raised her shot glass in a sort of salute to her friend. Meena was always the social one, could get men to buy her drinks and take her home with them. Molly was always the background image. Besides, if anybody ever started a conversation with her it usually ended up with long awkward silences when they hit the topic of work, interests, and anything else.

Molly threw back a shot, grimacing at the burn running down her throat and welcomed the numbing sensation that followed. She was tipsy but at least she wasn't Meena. Meena who was stumbling her way over to Molly, giggling profusely. Her clammy hands clapped onto Molly's arms, her entire body weight hanging onto the pathologist. Molly's stool nearly tipped to the side before she caught it. "Molls, you need be more loose. 'Av fun." Her breath rolled from her pink stained lips in alcohol infused waves. God, remind her to brush her teeth after this.

Alcohol ridden Meena looked a right mess. Her blond curls had fallen into messy waves, and the sheen of sweat caused her skin to reflect the lights flashing above. Her eyes, usually sharp and coherent, were a foggy green. Somehow, even with the dazed look and horrid breath, she still looked amazing.

Molly steadied her friend as she tripped over her own feet and almost fell face first into the bar. "Meena, I think you should probably sit down."

Menna held her forehead with a shivering hand. She suddenly looked green in the face. "Prob'ly right." She barely held down a hiccup. "Firs' time in a month we've gone out 'n I'm plastered."

Molly laughed and ordered a drink of water for Meena, who had slumped against the bar, eyeing some blokes arses. Meena giggled and took a drink, or at least tried to; she'd managed to slosh the water down her front. Molly snatched a napkin and dabbed at Meena's chest. "Alright, I think it's about time to call it a night. Come on. We need to fetch a cab." She hauled Meena up by the armpits. For being so damn skinny she's damn heavy. Then again she was soaked through with drinks. Meena would probably need to stay away from any open flames for the next day or so.

"You' barely even danced!" Meena's face had found purchase directly between Molly's breasts. She was drooling through Molly's blouse. Molly grimaced, shifting her hold on Meena, nearly causing her to fall to the floor. "You've got to le' go, Mol's. 'Av fun." Her arms flailed about, resulting in her slipping down against Molly's chest again.

"God, you're heavy, Meena." Molly heaved her with no success. "At least try to help." Molly was slightly tipsy herself and despite her frustration managed to giggle at one of Meena's unattractive snorts. Meena continued trying to stand, as if she was a newborn fowl straight out of the womb, wobbly legged and completely useless. Then she completely fell out of Molly's grasp and slapped against the floor with a concussive thump.

Molly tried to stop laughing, but Meena's sprawled body and the glances from the surrounding people kept her unable to hold back. "Meena, we need to go. Get up." She prodded Meena with an extended finger, but her friend was passed out. Molly groaned. "Meena, you're completely useless!"

"Molly, what are you doing—what happened?"

Molly first thought that Meena had somehow managed to speak, in a man's voice no less, until she turned her face up. A green strobe light blinded her, shadowing a head and shoulders, that's all she'd managed to see before rubbing her eyes. "Who are you?"

"Oh, now you're just hurting my feelings." The man knelt down and Molly finally saw his face. Jim. Of all people to find Meena and her, indisposed in a pub, it had to be Jim. At least it wasn't Sherlock.

Molly blinked for a moment before smiling, which Jim replied to with a shy smirk. "Jim! What're you doing here?" She'd given up hope of picking up the sack of bones that was Meena, and sat back on her hutches to get a better look at Jim, who was looking dashing in his regular T-shirt and denim ensemble.

Jim placed his untouched drink on the counter before kneeling down. "I'm here with a few blokes. You're friend ok?"

Molly shook her head. "She's out cold. Don't know how I'm going to get her home."

"Well, I could probably help. If you wanted that is?"

"Oh, I wouldn't want to take you from your friends."

Jim shook his head, already throwing Meena's arm over the back of his neck. He motioned for Molly to follow. She did. "They aren't really my type anyways."

Molly begun dragging Meena along with Jim's much needed assistance. They'd managed to get her out of the pub and into the cool March atmosphere. The chill seemed to rouse Meena who muttered a good string of curses as they plopped her down on a bus bench that was nearby.

Jim began the process of flagging down a cab, and Molly couldn't be happier. She needed a laydown, but sitting would have to do. Dragging Meena from the pub had taken a toll. Checking the time on her mobile, Molly snorted, "Meena, you're such a lightweight. It's barely seven."

Meena folded over and promptly threw up, splattering her stomach over the pavement.

She'd just broken it off with her boyfriend, though. Molly supposed she got a pass.

A black cab sidled up to the curb, glittering with the London lights against its polished exterior. Jim said a few words to the cabbie before coming and grabbing Meena. He grimaced at her alcohol dampened breath. Molly followed him to the cab, momentarily stopping when the world tipped sidewise. She managed to fall despite her best efforts to stay upright.. Her wrist slammed into the pavement and screamed,as did her hip. "Dammit."

Jim thrusted Meena into the back of the cab before helping Molly off of the ground. "You alright?"

Molly nodded, felt her hair graze over her cheek. She needed to go home. A few shots and she was a stumbling mess. Molly glanced at the cabbie who was shouting at Meena, his voice muffled. Her head poked out of the open door in time for another round of vomit to surface. Dear Lord, the ride home is going to be awful. At least she wasn't as sloshed as Meena.

"Thanks, Jim," She leaned against his chest as she caught her bearings. It felt like she was on a boat that was slowly leveling out. Soon enough the ground wasn't swirling. Jim smelled fabulous, like vanilla. "Really, it's awfully nice of you. I'm really lucky you happened to be here. I never would've gotten that twat out." She motioned to the bobbing head of Meena in the back seat. She seemed to be singing and the cabbie looked ready to murder her.

Jim shrugged, watching as Molly plopped down next to Meena. She was singing All By Myself, and she wasn't much of a singer. The cabbie's going to toss you both out if she keeps it up.

"It's no problem." Jim's white teeth were framed by pink lips. The sight focused Molly back on Jim instead of keeping her hand slapped against Meena's mouth. "I was thinking-if you're up to it that is-if you'd want to run by Bart's later tonight for coffee?"

Laughing, Molly replied, "The coffee there is awful, why'd you want to go there?" Molly exclaimed, revolted, when she felt Meena's slimy tongue lather her palm with saliva. Quickly wiping the spit from her hand, she provided Meena with a withering glare. Meena had licked her and was now back to screeching some other ballad that was unidentified due to her slurring and lack of an actual melody. She's completely tone deaf.

Finally the cabbie burst over Meena, "Are you going to sit around and chat until morning! Jesus, can you shut her up?"

Jim ignored the chaos that was taking over the cab. "Is that a yes?" He had that boyish smirk painted on his face.

Blinking Molly tried to remember what he was asking. Coffee, you idiot. He wants to have coffee with you. "I'd love to have coffee, yes," Molly clicked her safety belt. "But Bart's coffee? No thank you, we'll go someplace else."

Meena fell across Molly's lap. "Why'd you wan' to leave me, Moll's?"

Absolutely helpless."Actually," Molly ran her hand over Meena's clammy forehead. Jim gave her a knowing look. "Yeah, should probably make sure she doesn't die of alcohol poisoning." Conveying an apology with in a grimacing smile, Jim merely shrugged.

"Yeah, she doesn't look too hot." Meena gasped, completely offended. Jim giggled with Molly.

He started stepping back toward the pub. "I'll be in touch, then!" He winked and melted back into the crowd.

Molly closed the door, and rattled off her address to the Cabbie who replied with, "It's 'bout time. That girl better not throw up in my cab." The cab lurched into motion all the same.

In the time it took to go a block, Meena had transitioned from boisterous drunk to the resemblance of a hurt and whispers came from her within the cradle of Molly's lap. "He told me he loved me, Mol'y. Tol' me with his mouth, like, with words." Meena's glossy eyes burst with tears. The beaded up and coursed down her flushed face, across the bridge of her subtle nose. "Why didn't he mean it, Mol'y? Why'd he use me like tha'?"

The pathologist, who was sobering up quicker with the current conversation, inhaled sharply. Her petite fingers weaved into the tangled mess of hair on her lap. A vision of Sherlock's impaling eyes saturated her vision. "I don't know why, Meena. I don't know why men use us. I guess we're just that type of girl. The throw away type."

Meena wailed into Molly's legs. "Tha' didn't help!"

Perfectly handled, Molly. Want to terrorize some children while you're at it?

"Sorry."

Meena called Molly the next day from work, jabbering on about the night before. "Dear Lord, you need a new couch, it's horrible on the back." Meena said. She suddenly came quietly through the receiver, muttering something intended for a co-worker that she couldn't hear.

"Maybe if you didn't get plastered at seven in the evening you wouldn't have had to sleep there." Molly was thumbing through her most recent autopsy notes, filling out her paperwork.

Meena snorted on the other end. "Yeah, let's talk about that for a mo' shall we? Your bedside manner is bloody awful. 'The throw away type'? Jesus, you're not getting a 'number one best friend' plaque any time soon." Despite her words Molly could hear the smile in her voice.

Molly finished up a sentence before situating her phone more comfortably against her face. She smirked against the phone. "I'm surprised you actually remember that." She said. "And anyways, I'm a forensic pathologist, what do you expect? My patients don't seem to mind my bedside manner."

The outburst of laughter on the other end caused a sense of pride to well in Molly's chest. "You're hopeless, you know that?" Meena said. She sounded as if she was walking, or maybe jogging more like it. "I've got to go. There's a meeting. Pray for me."

"Late again?"

"Piss off." Meena said. "But if you must know yes! Now stop being an arse and pray for me!"

Molly's laugh caused a nurse passing by to stop and a check into the office. The pathologist smiled quickly before closing the door with her foot. "I don't know how much praying will help, but alright. Ta for now."

The line died and Molly slipped the mobile into her lab coat. She placed her previous notes to the side and into her pile of completed paperwork before pulling new notes from her dwindling pile. She began the process of typing up the notes, shooting a quick e-mail to Stanford about when to expect her paperwork from the past week.

He replied almost immediately which was, somewhat, unusual.

Dr. Hooper,

Thanks for getting the paperwork done, turns out you're going to be doing quite a bit more. Sorry. There's been an explosion, gas they said, and they found 12 dead. I need you down in the morgue pronto. I'm trying to get ahold of Dr. Cour right now to come in and help.

Thanks,

Dr. Mike Stanford

St. Bartholomew's Hospital

Molly re-read the email twice before pinning her ID badge on and dashing out of the office. She followed the halls past empty waiting rooms and nurses desks. Passing a specific waiting room where a few people were seated, watching a little boy playing with the toys available, the TV blared a message that burned Molly's ears. She took a few steps back to get a better view of the screen dangling from the wall.

The newscaster's voice echoed about Molly's head. "Word's just come in about the gas explosion here on Baker Street. They've managed to evacuate the building, which the explosion took two stories out of." The man with sparkling eyes, and a plastic mouth turned his body to the side so the camera could latch eyes on the devastation behind the police tape. In the afternoon sun, the smoldering remains of shattered building flashed in time with police and ambulance lights in the background. Smoke swirled upwards, but the building didn't resemble Sherlock's flat. The camera panned back to the newscaster. "As you can see Scotland Yard is working overtime here, and although they've claimed to believe it was a gas explosion, they are furthering their investigation on the matter. We don't yet have any news of casualties, but we'll bring you additional coverage—" The voice faded as Molly walked with a renewed panic down to the morgue.

If she had to do Sherlock's autopsy, she was going to kill him. Molly shot a quick text out to him, asking if he was alright, before shuffling her way into the lift and lowering herself into the bowels of the hospital.

Mike was waiting in the hall when the lift doors peeled open. "Molly, thanks for coming so quick." He matched his pace to her own, but with his stubbier legs he was double stepping it. "Here is their files. Scotland Yard is pretty sure it was a fluke gas explosion, but they want to cross out any doubt."

Molly skimmed over a few of the files. Three men, five women, four children. She had her work cut out for her. "Wouldn't finding out about the explosion be more up to the forensics department? Blown apart bodies are blown apart bodies, there isn't a whole lot that I'd be able to find from a body about what type of explosion it was. "

Mike scoffed. "I doubt that. You're one of the best pathologists I've ever had. There was that case where you found the dirt under the fingernails—"

"I'm alright," Molly appeased, a shy blush bursting on her face. "I'm no Sherlock Holmes."

"You're a close second!" Mike slapped her back before turning into the morgue. Two of the bodies from the explosion were out in the open; one waiting off to the side, the other on the slab. "I'll let you know if I hear back from Rich if he's coming in. I'll try and find someone for you though."

"Thanks." Molly slipped off her lab coat, which she rarely used for the actual autopsies, and instead pulled on a blue medical smock. It fell well past her knees. On her forearms which were left bare save for her blouse, she pulled up plastic coverings. Mike had finally bought a box of gloves specific for her smaller hands and they latched on as if a second skin. Before pulling a medical mask and surgical hat on, Molly read through her current patient's file.

Male. Forty-one. Unidentified. Found on the ground floor-

Molly's phone buzzed against wall where her coat pocket cradled it. Sherlock. She hadn't seen a file for him. So not dead. But she also hoped he wasn't seriously injured. When she'd fished the mobile from the pocket, a message alert was blinking on the screen. With a quick glance around the morgue Molly knew was empty, she opened the message. One word.

OBVIOUSLY.

-SH

Molly placed her phone back where it came from. The wave a relief that splashed over her pushed her into her work with a renewed sense of clam. She began on the male on the slab, trying to not think about the four children awaiting her touch in the freezers.

Molly laughed, a tinkling sort of laugh that filled the surrounding air. Jim joined along, causing her to flush. "Alright, so how did you figure out that hidden message I linked in my blog?" She shifted so she was facing him more square in the face, her legs curled against her.

Jim tucked his leg onto the coach and the other continued to dangle off the edge. Toby hissed and curled closer to Molly's feet upon impact. Jim pulled an oops type of face and Molly giggled. "Well," he began. "I'm a master with puzzles. And Sherlock Holmes, well he's just incredible, isn't he? So I had to give it a go. I like to read his blog, I've gotten rather good with following his thought process, at least I'd like to think so." He dropped his head pointedly onto his fist, resting it against the back of the sofa.

Molly hummed, twiddling her fingers over Toby's peppery fur. He purred with one eye still trained on Jim. Toby didn't seem quite sure about the gentleman. He'd nearly taken Jim's hand off when he'd gone to stroke his back.

JIm was really enjoying all of her stories about Sherlock. He didn't seem to have a saturation point. With a smirk, Molly thought that if she didn't know better she'd say he had a bigger crush on the consulting detective than herself. But as Molly glanced at his hand, which had laced with her own, she knew that he was just a big fan. Besides, he hadn't met the real Sherlock Holmes, the arrogant sod of a man who could be rude and calculating. Now that she thought about it though, she still managed to fancy him. He rarely ever spouted off deductions he'd made about her, only when he was at his peak irritation, but she'd seen enough of everyone else to get the picture. Besides, she still wasn't looking over the fact that he used her obvious fondness of him to twist her thinking against her. Like you aren't a willing participant. Molly scowled.

"What's wrong?" Jim obviously caught her sudden shift in mood.

She veiled her irritation of Sherlock , and a frustration that even with a kind man who fancied her sitting right in her flat she still couldn't stop thinking about the man who drove her crazy. She plastered a smile on her face, felt it pull at her eyes. Grabbing the remote, Molly shook her head. "Nothing," She chuckled. "It's nothing. Just Sherlock and-" She stopped herself. "It's nothing. You want to keep watching?"

The excitement from Jim caused Molly to buzz with happiness. "Of course I want to! This show isn't actually as bad as I thought it would be. I mean, I don't usually have time to watch shows. But this is just so fantastic!" He faced toward Molly's humble telly she'd invested a good chip of money into.

Molly moved Toby over and scooted closer towards Jim, shy, testing the waters. "Because if you don't like it we don't have to keep watching."

Jim curled his hand over Molly's shoulder, patted it once, beat a rhythm against it with his finger tips. "I'm actually a music lover. I find that it helps me focus, let go, you know. So let the show go on!" He proclaimed, snatching the remote from her grasp and hitting play.

Toby was hauled into Molly's lap, and she forced the reluctant cat to cuddle with her. Jim was to engrossed in the show to bother. Glee had claimed yet another victim. Molly just couldn't be any more relieved that he had caught a liking to her guilty pleasure. Molly still remembers forcing it on Meena, who'd ended up changing it to something else, stating that it was 'rubbish American telly'. Molly kept it a secret from that moment on.

A few more episodes into the first season and Molly felt her eyelids sagging against their weight, her body slumped against Jim.

When he began to move, Molly roused from the limbo between sleep and reality. "Sorry, Moll's, I've got to dash."

Rubbing her eyes, Molly grabbed her phone to check to the time. The wee hours of the morning, right past midnight. "Yeah, so sorry I kept you here. You didn't have to stay as long as you did."

Toby shot her a look of the utmost loathing when she stretched against her tight muscles.

Jim pressed a swift kiss to her forehead after he gathered his belongings and slid them into his pockets. Molly couldn't help but feel a slight burn where he'd kissed her. She didn't know if she liked it or not. "I want to stay." He said. "But I do have to be to work tomorrow."

Molly stood, ready to walk him to the door. "Well thanks for the date, or at least spending time over here. I know we've barely gone out a few times, but I like your company." Instead of showing him her blush, Molly implied a tactic she often used which was basically that if she didn't make eye contact, he couldn't see. She knew it was a ridiculous practice, but after knowing Sherlock anything helped with the feeling of being plucked apart. Jim sometimes gave her the same impression

Jim shifted inside the door. "Listen, I was thinking, speaking of dates. I've only asked you to coffee, and two times that was at Bart's. Maybe I could take you somewhere nicer tomorrow. The Fox maybe?" He'd stuffed his hands into his front pockets. Two denim lumps rising as a monument to his nerves. Molly couldn't' help but grin.

"That sounds lovely."

"Really?"

"Yeah."

Jim nodded frantically. He was beaming. "Right, well then, that sounds great. Alright, well, I'm guessing you're going to be at work then tomorrow too?"

"Yeah, I'm also on call too so if they need anybody before the afternoon shift, or after, I may need to go in."

"Well, I might pop in to say hi. I'm still counting on one day seeing Sherlock Holmes in action. You lucky girl, getting to watch him on his cases."

Molly gawfed. "Sometimes it's a punishment I'd not wish on anyone." Toby sauntered up behind her legs snaking his body around them.

"No matter what you say, I'm going to still be his number one fan!" Jim slid into his coat and took a few steps into the hall. "Ta, Molly and Toby! I'll see you, Molly, tomorrow. I put my number in your phone! Text me."

"Alright, goodnight!"

But he was already enclosed in the silver lift down the hall. She closed the door and the latch catching was deafening in the silence Jim left. She didn't know exactly what they were becoming. They seemed together, they were going out, Molly wondered if he wanted her as a girlfriend.

She felt ridiculous asking questions like that. She'd barely known him a week, and although she found him very charming and wonderful something seemed off.

Toby growled from the couch. Can cat's growl? Her couch invited her for another long session of Glee to take her mind off of relationships. She wanted Meena to come over and be idiotic with her. That's what best friend's were for. But she also wanted to watch Glee.

Glee ultimately won.

I NEED TO USE THE LAB.

-SH

Why?

~Molly

DIRT NEEDS TO BE ANALYZED. IT'S FOR A CASE.

-SH

I'm on break right now…

~Molly

I'LL BE THERE IN TEN.

-SH

Normally Molly wouldn't care. But she was right in the middle of a rather good plate of Chinese food she'd ordered. Not to mention, Meena was absolutely correct in stating that her couch was a piece of rubbish. She'd fallen asleep on it last night, and her back was tight with pain.

Molly tossed her chopsticks into the container and finished the mouth full she already had stored in her cheeks. Jim was supposed to stop by sometime soon as well. Not to mention she was already working double time trying to get the mounds of paperwork that followed the autopsies of the twelve explosion victims sent out. She pulled up a new message and sent it to Sherlock.

Just get started on your own. I'll be over in a mo'.

~Molly

His reply was instant.

MOLLY, YOU KNOW I DON'T HAVE ACCESS TO THE LAB ON MY OWN AFTER THE CADAVER INCIDENT. NOW COME.

-SH

Don't pretend you haven't nicked my pass from me! I know you took it. I had to get a new one.

~Molly

Just give me a minute and I'll be down.

~Molly

She received no reply, so she shoveled a few more hearty bites into her mouth before continuing on with her paperwork. She'd already gotten through the greater part of the paperwork so finishing it up only took another ten to twenty minutes.

As she was finishing the final paper and sending it off, three messages all buzzed her phone to life. After the files cleared she picked up her mobile. Two from Sherlock, one from Jim.

IF STANFORD TOSSES ME OUT, YOU'RE TO BLAME.

-SH

Molly rolled her eyes. Mike rarely threw Sherlock out. He had a fondness for the detective-for whatever reason-the same as her. Well, maybe not the same as her.

DO HURRY. IT'S BEEN WELL OVER THE MINUTE YOU PROMISED.

-SH

MOLLY! I WAS THINKING OF STOPPING BY, YOU FREE?

-JXX

Finding Sherlock the less patient of the two she quickly typed that she was on her way, and let Jim know that she was going to nip down to the lab but if he wanted to wait she wouldn't be too long. There was no reply from either men.

Molly made it to the lab in a considerable amount of time. She was secretly hoping that no one had popped by the lab and found the consulting detective with the lab equipment. Everyone would be shouting for her to be sacked while raising a torch and pitchfork in the air.

When she pushed open the doors to the lab, there was a quick beeping signaling from on the machines. Her spirits soared when she latched sight on the lean man with impossible cheekbones seated where he always did, as if he'd always been there. "Any luck?" She couldn't help the cheerful cloud that washed over her head as Sherlock gave her a dashing smile, triumphantly stating that he'd indeed had luck. His eyes followed her as she made her way over to study the screen, he was glancing out of the corner of his eyes. She wondered what he was looking to find written on her.

The door fell into the lab again as a bashful face peeked round into the lab. It caught Molly's attention from the screen filled with different soil findings. "Oh, sorry, I can…" Jim was smiling, sheepish.

"Jim! Hi!" What is he doing here? He was supposed to meet her in her office.

Then a devilish, awful, idea popped into her mind and she couldn't, not of the life of her, seem to stop it. She was going to run an experiment herself. Play a little game with Sherlock as well. What would be his reaction to a different man in her life? You're implying jealousy so you can see if Sherlock is caress? Should end wonderfully...

Jim made motion to leave. He could be so skittish around strangers. He was going to have a heart attack when he figured out who was sitting a few meters from him. Run an experiment on Sherlock-which the git more than deserved-and introduce Jim to the man he couldn't get enough of. Molly's smile shined through her voice. "Come in! Come in!"

Molly turned back to Sherlock, barely catching the fact that he had been looking at her. "Jim, this is Sherlock Holmes." She knew he was trying to mask his excitement. It was practically leaking through his eyes. Just then Sherlock's friend, whom Molly hadn't even noticed, turned around catching her attention. Oh god, what was his name? She didn't ever remember hearing it. "And, uh, sorry?" She asked.

He gave a tight lip smile. He'd obviously encountered this before. Sherlock Holmes cast a long shadow. "John Watson," He glanced at Jim. "Hi." Molly knew she was going to have to remember his name. She filed it away.

Jim hadn't taken his eyes off of Sherlock, who wasn't giving him the time of day. He didn't seem to be minding. It was as if he'd met his idol, but Molly caught a unidentified gleam in his eye as well. His hands brushed each other. A nervous habit. "You're Sherlock Holmes. Molly's told me all about you." For one horrifying moment Molly felt her cheeks glow in confirmation of the statement. A sudden urge to smack Jim across the face made her hand twitch.

Jim rounded toward Sherlock, forcing John out of the way. She shot the man a quick smile in apology. Jim was just so interested he couldn't help it. "You working on one of your cases?" He asked.

No answer. The lab was overcome with stifling awkwardness. Molly jumped in to break up the brewing tension in the room. "Jim works in I.T. upstairs. That's how we met. Office romance." A duet of giggles between Jim and herself masked her horror. Why the hell did you blurt that out? You sound like an idiot. Shit. Just keep smiling, Hooper.

Finally Sherlock glanced over Jim, and with one word Molly's facade fell through her stomach. "Gay." He said.

One glance at Jim. One look at Sherlock. Her smile no longer rested on her lips. "Sorry, what?" He didn't say what she thought he said. You know better than that. He said exactly what you think he said.

Sherlock seemed to splash into reality, his eyes falling away from the lenses of the microscope. He blinked. Once. Recalculating. "Nothing." He smears a fake-so damn fake-smile onto face, looking at Jim finally. "Um, hey."

Molly scowls. Jim beams. He tried to lean next to Sherlock. That's when the scene clattered into ruin. The tray under Jim's hand crashed into the floor, spilling nothing important, except maybe his dignity. Molly felt the innate need to cringe at the embarrassment. "Sorry! Sorry!" Jim bent down to pick up his mess. John, not be able to take it, let his hand fly to his eyes and he turned in rapid time away from Jim.

Molly shrunk. This is not good. Sherlock called him gay. Jim made a fool out of himself. Showing Sherlock she was actually a desirable was not going well by any definition. The consulting detective in question shot Jim an irritated glance as he replaced the fallen tray back where it'd fallen from.

Jim wandered back toward Molly. Another think silence filled the room. "Well," Molly turned her attention from everything that happened in the span of twenty seconds. Gay. "I'd better be off." Jim said, his hand lightly fell to her back. Molly barely processed the gesture. "I'll see you at The Fox, 'bout six-ish?"

"Yeah!" She forced a smile. God, Jim, just leave. The embarrassment was sure to kill her.

He didn't leave though. No, his hand stayed brushing her back and he was, again, gazing at Sherlock. "Bye,"

For some stupid reason Molly thought he might actually be talking to her. It wasn't like he'd come to see her or anything. "Bye." Passed her lips in response, a tiny whisper. The whole time her lips sounded around the words she knew his departure wasn't meant for her. It was for Sherlock, who stubbornly kept his attention on the sample he was studying.

Just say something so he'll leave. Molly took a sharp breath, trying to find ways that she could kill herself. Jim was still waiting for a response. Jesus, take a hint, Jim. Spare you're losses and just leave.

Thank god for John Watson. Stepping forward, he finally cut the awkward tension in the room. "Bye."

"It was nice to meet you." Jim said, again addressing Sherlock.

Leave, god dammit, please just leave.

John, again acted as the mouthpiece of Sherlock who didn't care either way. "You too." That was all that Jim needed. He pulled away from Molly. Finally managed to pick up on that, did you, Jim?

God Molly was going to kill Sherlock for being a cock and then kill herself so she wouldn't have to think of this embarrassment again. Jim walked toward the door, but she wouldn't follow. The word 'gay' kept flashing red in her mind. Sherlock was never wrong, but she wasn't going to accept that the only man who'd seemed interested in her was gay.

The door shut, signaling Jim's exit. Molly turned to Sherlock, who still was seated as a statue. She almost felt it was an excuse at this point. "What d'you mean, gay?" There was no response, again. Some type of panic was bubbling in her chest. The only bloke to actually pay you the time of day is actually gay. "We're together." Maybe if she made that point Sherlock would realize that he'd make a mistake. That's funny, you actually think that matters to him? Oh, that is cute.

Finally those cold eyes turned on her and he responded. "And domestic bliss must suit you, Molly. You've put on three pounds since I last saw you."

Bastard. Her gut felt weak. If she didn't already feel awful, he added insult to injury. "Two and a half." Molly argued.

"Eh, three." The bastard didn't even bother to look at her.

John stepped in, he seemed to be the acting conscience. "Sherlock…"

Molly finally allowed her fury to boil over. For a split second she burst. Explosions of red popped in her vision. "He's not gay!" God, she hated him sometimes. "Why do you have to spoil-" She was teetering over a cliff she never knew existed. Molly attempted calm. Jim wasn't gay, she didn't want to accept that he was gay. She didn't want to know that even when she attracted men they still weren't into her. "He's not."

For the first time in all her years knowing Sherlock she actually heard him snort. "With that level of personal grooming?"

A large lump formed in her throat. John snapped at Sherlock, she decided right then and there that she liked this Watson fellow. Not just because he could stand five minutes with Sherlock, but he also seemed to have a moral code. "Because he puts a bit of product in his hair? I put product in my hair." John said.

There was the signs of a tampered down smirk lifting the corners of Sherlock's lips. Bare the hatches, this is going to get ugly. "You wash your hair. There's a difference." He was looking at John, not at her, and that forced her to clench her fists to prevent her from smacking him across his razor edged cheeks. "No, no, tinted eyelashes, clear signs of taurine cream around the frown lines; those tired clubber's eyes." He wasn't done quite yet. "Then there's his underwear."

The word seemed to whack Molly back to life, she'd sunken into a comatose type of state. "His underwear?" She sounded smaller than she hoped.

"Visible above the waistline-very visible. Particular brand." She couldn't stop looking at Sherlock's eyes, even if she knew they were ransacking her very soul. His hand clasped blindly around to the metal tray Jim had previously knocked down. "That, plus the extremely suggestive fact that he just left his number under this dish here," Those slim fingers with calloused ridges held before her eyes a card, the jagged scrawl that was Jim's arching across the paper. His number. Her hope clattered somewhere between herself and Sherlock. "-and I'd say you'd better break it off and save yourself the pain." He had the nerve to smile at her, as if saying I've done you a huge favor.

Watching Glee, the constant questions about Sherlock, his quite obvious gayness, it all clicked. There was a jumbled mess tearing her abdomen apart. Brilliant, even when they're interested they aren't. It was probably some cruel way to get closer to Sherlock. Her eyes felt pressured. They were burning up with her throat, and her chest was being yanked at the seams. Oh God, you're going to cry. In front of Sherlock no less. Explosions popped in her chest. She'd never let that man see her cry. Never.

His eyes bare into her, calculating, always calculating. The pitying gaze of John weighed at her. He turned away, as if she was a tragedy he could no longer stand to watch. You are a tragedy, Molly. Her eyes stung. Words scorched the back of her throat. Say something to him. Tell the cock to shove off. Her throat closed like a vise right as she tried to push some type of language out.

Molly whipped around, unable to do much except to force her tears back. Fleeing the lab, she could practically see the smug smirk that ought to be on Sherlock's face now. Told you it wouldn't end well. Molly choked on an outburst of fury or a sob of humiliation. She couldn't quite tell which one it was.

There was a building of the explosions within her. Tears saturated her eyes so that there was only wicked smears of objects. As she reached a dead end hallway, with only a service door capping it off, she felt herself split. Her fist collided with the wall right as the first tear dribbled down her red-washed cheek. Embarrassment contorted her, soon enough she had wrung her abdomen out with her arms, trying to squeeze the stabbing mortification away. The knuckles on her right hand throbbed with pain.

She wanted to scream. You're better than that, Hooper, wipe off the dirt and put yourself back together. Anger had consumed her. She was always used, always just a pawn. To Jim, to Sherlock, nothing more than a means to an end.

At least you know what to expect with Sherlock. She inhaled tightly. She did know what to expect from Sherlock. That didn't make his behavior acceptable, but sometimes she also didn't think he honestly knew better. He was somewhat of a lost boy on a ship trying to get it to sail without the help of anyone. He was cold and unsociable, but Molly couldn't hate him for being awkward, or awful, when for the most part he did try to help. Try being the key word. Still a sod, Hooper, stop denying it.

But Jim. She had no idea, and yet it all made sense. She hated herself for being so ignorant. She was pathetic, sad and pathetic. Seems like you're going to die alone. The throw away type indeed, Hooper. A growl rumbled her chest. There was a bite from her knuckles again when they collided a second time with the wall. She probably would die alone. That's the type of girl she was, the throw away type.

Wine and crap telly awaited Molly after her date at the Fox with Jim. Jim had been charming, quite the gentleman, and if it weren't for her burning questions, she'd enjoyed being pampered. Her only expensive dress had clung like python to her skin, it was just as suffocating as the doubts bouncing in her thoughts. As soon as they'd finished their appetizers she could no longer stay in the dark. She'd cut him off, mid-sentence as he recounted for the third time his encounter with Sherlock.

That's when she broke. That's when she spilled open. Everything went to hell from there.

They'd been asked to leave after the argument grew into a screaming match

'What does it matter' She could still remember the insane glint in his eye. He was different, as if he'd been hiding for too long and finally wanted to burst. 'You actually think he'd be interested in you? How ordinary…"

She smacked him. An hour later her hand still burned. Not from the actual physical contact, but the burning look he gave afterwards. The type look that a mad man harbors.

Then his calm facade won over, but something was wrong. Tipped to the side only slightly, but enough to cause unease. His eyes weren't the same, his smile teetered on wicked. Then it was gone, as if he hadn't skipped like a broken record.

Molly couldn't seem to stop replaying it. The shift of personality was so haunting she almost couldn't care about the fight anymore.

She'd uttered the final words, the only thing she could muster in her confusion and humiliation. "Piss off." She abandoned the scene as soon as the words fell. Her legs had never gone faster, nor had she'd ever managed to hail a cab so quickly.

His face was still burning her eyes.

The wine rushed past her lips and fell down her throat. She barely tasted the tartness of it before she filled her glass again. The buzz was beginning to set heavy over her body. She wanted to spit. Spit on the world. Spit on Jim for playing her, on Sherlock being a cock, on Meena for not answering her texts. She wanted to spit on herself for how gullible she could be and how mousy she was.

So she spit. It ended up dangling precariously from her chin. A purple streak of wine slipped from her lips.

"Can' even spit right." Her words stumbled over each other as they raced from her tongue. Molly wiped at the saliva hanging off her chin, sneering at the wet spot across her jumper it formed.

She took another generous allotment from the wine glass into her cup. God, stop using the glass, Molly, you're spilling like a pig. Just drink from the bottle damn bottle, it cuts out the middleman. But she poured the last of the bottle into the glittering china, which sparkled with every drunken tremor of her hand. She was a lady, god dammit, she'd drink from the bloody glass. Like a lady.

Half of the purple alcohol splashed across her thigh, creating a smear as if paint. Toby shot her a disapproving glare from his curled position across the floor. Through a hiccup, Molly raised her teetering glass. "Cheers, Toby, 'M just a throw 'way. Ya' know tha'?"

With the final drain of her glass, the weights of her eyes overtook her. The glass spilled from her could only see the flashing telly through the eyelids before she dropped into something between reality and sleep.

Two days. It had been two days since Jim had talked to her.

There was a stifling silence that she couldn't seem to fill. No matter how many messages she shot him, how many voicemails she left, there was still silence. The type of silence that left more to the imagination, the kind that made Molly feel like a hand was digging fingers deep into the muscles of her chest and squeezing.

She'd done everything she could think to do to get Jim to answer her. She'd even left a damn post on her blog. He was the only one who read it anyways. Ever think he doesn't want to talk to you? You slapped him, and accused him of being gay in front of an entire restaurant. Maybe it wasn't the entire restaurant, but the scene had escalated. She'd humiliated him and that was uncalled for. No matter how she felt.

Molly pulled from her microscope and checked her mobile again. She knew she'd hear a notification if he'd answered her, but she couldn't help it. She continued to check. Like an idiot. The mobile was placed rather forcefully back down by her side and she continued with her particle analysis.

Something wasn't right with him anyways.

"Molly!"

She yelped. Not just from the fact it was Sherlock whisking into the lab, but he also had a nasty habit of casting the doors so forcefully to the side that they slabbed into the walls. A spike lodged into the forefront of her head. "Can you stop doing that?" She hissed, forgetting her manners.

Sherlock gave her the look and she knew that he already knew exactly her state. He was still perplexed. "Doing what?" Molly sighed as she squeezed her eyes against the lights of the lab. He was looking just as sleek as he always did. His coat clinging to his body, the blue scarf snaked around his porcelain neck. He was also sporting that wonderfully purple shirt that strained against his chest, the collar of his coat popped against a non-existent wind. In fact he was the wind it seemed.

Molly rubbed at her temples, sparing herself from that awfully attractive puzzled look he had on his face. Damn it, Molly. You cannot last a day can you? "How do you not know?" She nearly managed a laugh. "You fly into the lab like a bat out of hell, dramatically swishing your coat about with your collar popped." Sherlock's eyebrows knit together. "I usually overlook it, but as I'm sure you've deduced, I've got a hangover from two nights of drinking, gained another two pounds-" His mouth began to contradict her. "Shut it. I don't want to hear it." Molly projected a stirn look. "Can we just skip it for today? You can use the lab all you like. I'll let you use a body. I don't really care, but today is not my day."

"Jim broke it off I see." He stated. "You don't seem to be physically injured."

The was a burning glare that Molly again, shot Sherlock's way. "Actually I-" His latter sentence finally registered. "What do you mean not physically injured? Should I be?"

Sherlock set back his shoulders. Get ready for a punch in the gut. He just doesn't listen. "Not necessarily. I suppose, however, that you have a right to know that you happened to be dating a criminal mastermind."

Molly burst with laughter. "Jesus, Sherlock, what are you talking about? First he's gay and now he's a criminal mastermind? That's ridiculous, even for you."

Sherlock shifted, set his face to rival solid stone, then suddenly he was walking back out the door. "You can read the details on John's blog." His head popped back around the door. "I do suggest that you be more careful next time, Molly."

His eyes sparked fire across her torso. Before he could disappear again she shouted after him. "Sherlock! Do you need the lab or not? What'd you come here for?" Her head stung. What's his angle?

Again that dark head thrust back into the room. Sharp eyes ran over her body once more. She tried not to tuck a piece of fallen hair anxiously behind her ear. She failed. He's giving you a look, Hooper. Stay strong. Wings fluttered in her abdomen, right beneath the skin. "What did you need, Sherlock?"

There was a pause. He swallowed and something flickered across those blue orbs. "Look at John's blog." As he faded down the hall she could hear his voice shouting. "I'd recommend background checks with the next one, Molly!"

Sherlock left her fuming, her head pounding from him and his theories. She wasn't going to be made a fool of again by him. She didn't know why he'd come to rub it in her face again. He could be so horrible. Always so horrible.

She yanked the laptop on the table closer to her and logged onto the web. She typed in John's name, and with a few minutes searching she managed to find his blog. Her eyes scrutinized the green text, the numerous titles written from the doctor's hand. There were fifteen. Molly figured that the newest update would be what Sherlock was so adamant about.

The Great Game

She tapped on the link and was taken to the story. John's writing wasn't exceptionally refined, but she was stuck to the page nonetheless. Then her name came up, and he'd linked her blog to his post. Shit, Molly, this is worse that you thought! Oh god, you're really going to have to move and change your name! Something flew up from her throat. Something like a whimper of pure mortification.

Even so, she forced her way past John's story, to the bottom of the page, where everything was made horribly clear to her.

The lab seemed to dim. Her ears crackled and went completely silent. Her head, which had been spitting for aspirin all day seemed to float off just as a brick crashed through her body, bringing her core right to the stony earth.

Oh my god.

No, she didn't date a criminal mastermind. You slapped a bloody psychopath! She'd have a mind to thank god she wasn't dead in a gutter, but the shock was still running a course through her bloodstream.

Oh god, Jim. Or, she would be better suited to say Moriarty. The whispered name between Sherlock and John. A name that otherwise Molly had paid no mind too.

You've gotten into some deep shit, Molly. Well done.

She really didn't need the sarcasm.

...