NOTE- I do not own any of the characters used.. and this is my first story, pretty pathetic IMHO.. reviews welcome!

As Sherlock Holmes sprinted towards St. Bart's, leaving behind him an extremely perplexed and troubled John Watson, his powerful mind strained to recall every pertinent piece of data, every nuance of his interactions and entanglements with Professor James Moriarty . As the web of lies, threats and deceptions had gradually tightened around him and those he trusted, he found himself turning to the one person who now unknowingly held possibly his very life in her hands.

Molly Hooper's words to him scant days ago had caught him slightly off guard, as he had believed his deep turmoil invisible to those around him, yet he now found himself grateful for her intuitiveness for it had allowed him to build the plan that was capable of ensuring the safety of those involved and possibly bringing about the demise of his enemy.

Entering the pathology lab unnoticed, he waited quietly in the shadows for the young woman to complete the process of locking/tidying up for the night, ending her routine shift.

"You're wrong, you do count," he spoke emphatically, yet gently; and as he continued to speak earnest and soothing words the brown-haired, brown-eyed woman gradually lost most of her startled, defensive posture and demeanour.

"You've always counted and I've always trusted you" (in comparison to a certain ruthless and mercenary journalist who had assured him he could trust her...NOT...)

Instinctively he realized that in the weeks ahead, he and Molly Hooper would need to absolutely trust one another in a relationship of ultimate dependence and intimacy that no one had ever shared with him, not even John. The grim reality of Moriarty's plan and his deadly solution to the final problem demanded that he be as honest, vulnerable and sincere as was within his powers with the woman who stood before him.

"You're right, though... I'm not OK..." (Did his voice wobble slightly while he said that?)

Concerned, yet determined not to show any weakness, Molly looked into the face of the man she had respected from the start and had eventually come to love. Never before had she seen any insecurity or lack of confidence in his demeanour as she did now, and it troubled her.

"Tell me what's wrong" (the words were strange to her lips, and were in fact words he often spoke to those who sought his expertise).

Into the chilly pathology lab dropped words that were colder still, and hauntingly stark,

"Molly, I think I'm going to die..."

An instantaneous reaction of anguish and loss shook Molly, darkening her irises and dilating her pupils, the feeling of disbelief helped Molly to hold on to her composure, especially since she knew Sherlock mocked weaknesses of any sort. She spoke quickly, seeking to erase those terrible words...

"What do you need?"

Even though he had already begun to feel the weight of the cynicism and cynosure that surrounded them, his eyes reflected his amazement at finding himself so desperate for help, it was remarkably uncharacteristic for the self-assured detective,

"If I was not everything you believed me to be, everything I believe myself to be, would you still help me?" (Was he seriously unsure of what she would say?)

Molly had witnessed the blindness and shallowness of Sherlock's existence and in her own way had almost pitied him for its sheer lack of emotional contact, and in spite of his cutting, yet almost humorous attempts to see himself as a superior and unique person, she felt extremely protective of him. Few people saw the Sherlock who would not spare himself an inch to stop a fiend in his tracks; the man she believed had a huge heart no matter how he tried to hide it. She had read Kitty's trash talk about Sherlock with a raging spirit, and even while she suspected she might be merely a pawn to be used by these two adversaries, she would willingly sacrifice everything to help Sherlock defeat Moriarty.

"What do you need?" (Surely he had a plan or he wouldn't have come to her, knowing also he would not involve her in something this dangerous if he had any other options)

Sherlock drew nearer to Molly, stunned into quietness by the mystery of the woman before him. He had catalogued her faults, finding her at best predictable and vapid, yet standing before him now was a woman (dressed badly as was usual) who somehow miraculously had foreseen the desperate crisis before them and yet had seemingly accepted all personal risk. She owed him nothing but her scorn (yes, he still winced slightly when he remembered Christmas), yet instead he found acceptance and compassion. She truly believed in him, no strings attached; he owed no less to her than an honest encounter that might be life changing for him in more than one sense of the word. Looking back, he might even come to consider it an epiphany. Stepping closer, reading a mirrored reaction to his own, he leaned in as he whispered the incredible word...

"You"...

He seemed to voraciously draw energy from her nearness, as the ordeal ahead cast a numbing shadow over the room. Molly noticed that Sherlock's skin glistened, as translucent as moonlight.

"Whatever they're saying, Sherlock, I know it isn't true. If you've got a plan to stop him, then I'm in."

"I believe our friend intends to do harm to John, Mrs. Hudson and possibly Lestrade. They are most likely being watched, and unless I give myself up, they will die.

He spoke calculatingly as usual, but Molly knew him well enough to see the flicker of anguish in his gaze. Taking a breath, he closed them, steepling his fingers together before continuing,

"Moriarty has directly stated that he owes me a fall. I believe he means this literally. All the events of the past week have been orchestrated for one spectacular "finale"; my death by a suicidal fall from the top of St. Bart's as a result of my exposure as a fraud by Richard Brooks and Kitty Wells.

At the sound of a sharp, indrawn breath, he opened his eyes, staring fixedly at Molly, who trembled before him, rigidly controlling her emotions.

"You are the one glorious thread that we both overlooked. Moriarty has witnessed firsthand my appalling treatment of you, probably has heard from you how arrogant and impossible I am to work with," he grimaced ironically, "ergo, you are under the radar, so to speak. You have unlimited, undetected access to the hospital, the morgue, the coroner's office.."

"To what end?" she questioned warily.

"For Moriarty to be brought to justice; the killers called off, the impossible must take place. I must survive my own suicidal jump from the hospital roof."

Their heads drew together as they hurriedly, yet thoroughly went over each detail, conjecture, and problem, until they were both satisfied and Molly prepared to leave on her pressing errands. Looking up at Sherlock, tears glistened in her eyes and she tentatively laid a hand on his forearm. Seeing the questions and concerns in her eyes, he sighed, as he covered her hand with his. Squeezing lightly, he spoke gently to her,

"Later, Molly, we will talk..I owe you that much at least. I promise we'll talk later."

With that, he opened the doors to the pathology lab, sending Molly on her way. Slowly he chose a name on his contact list and then texted Mycroft a message.. now for the waiting.