Dangerous Game

by Flaignhan

It's a fairly mild night, and they stroll along Duke Street, past the department stores, which are closing up for the night, the last of the smartly dressed staff spilling out onto the street and lighting up cigarettes they've been waiting all evening for. The two of them walk in silence, surrounded by the diesel roar of cabs and buses, along with the honking of horns should a pedestrian venture across the road at an inappropriate moment.

"Don't ever make me sit through that again," Molly says, when, at last, they turn onto Manchester Square, and the traffic becomes a distant rumble.

"Oh come on, it wasn't that bad," Sherlock says. "I've had to do much worse for other cases."

An image of a blotchy face, glazed eyes, and a grubby tracksuit, pops up in Molly's head, and she grits her teeth, not wanting to say anything that might start an argument. Sherlock must have travelled along the same line of thought, because his next words hover in his open mouth for a moment before he thinks better of them and closes his mouth with a snap.

"Actually," he says, changing tack, "I was subjected to a very graphic description of what one of them wanted to do to me. It was the brunette, I think. Something about a leather mask." He frowns, and Molly can feel a smile creep through.

"Didn't tickle your fancy?" she asks, in her most innocent tone.

Sherlock gives her a withering look. "I'll take the serial killer any day, thank you."

Molly is fairly sure that the mask was probably just the tip of the iceberg, but at the same time, Sherlock would take a serial killer over pretty much anything else. For him, serial killers are the gifts that keep on giving. Molly doesn't see it in quite the same way.

"Dangerous game, dating." Sherlock says, interrupting her train of thought.

"Tell me about it," Molly replies. "I still can't believe I went to Nando's with...you know." She finds it hard to say the name, to admit to it, to remind herself that she was used as a pawn in his game. Throwing the corpse from the window at Bart's had certainly been a bittersweet way of rebelling against him.

"You dumped him though," Sherlock reminds her. It's another nugget of information that she's surprised he has stored away. He puts an arm around her shoulders and she moves nearer to him, the familiar scent of his aftershave something of a comfort.

"Imagine going to one of those things though," Molly says. "And having to speak to all those guys, force all that conversation, and then after all that, you get murdered."

"Well take note," Sherlock says, his voice stern. "Avoid relationships, avoid murder. Simple stuff."

"Is that how you're still alive?" She's teasing again, but his quiet exhalation of amusement lets her know he doesn't mind.

"Undoubtedly," Sherlock says, as they turn left, a busy road just visible up ahead, traffic whizzing by. "Although," he continues thoughtfully, "there is a lot of truth to that. Female victim, always go to the husband or boyfriend first. There's rarely a need to look much further."

"So even if you don't get murdered by a serial killer after speed dating, you'll probably end up getting murdered by the person you fall in love with. That's cheerful!"

"Love is dead, Molly. Sorry you didn't get the memo." He's teasing now, but there's an uncomfortable truth in what he's saying.

"Well maybe for us, after everything we've seen it do." Molly's seen all sorts on her slab, but there are themes that run through death, and that thread is one of the strongest.

"No, I shouldn't think it is," Sherlock says after a moment. "Not really."

"That's optimistic, for you." Molly looks up at him to gauge his mood, but it's one she doesn't see often. His frantic brainwork is submersed beneath deep thought, leaving him placid.

Sherlock exhales, and his words are softer now. "Sometimes it works. Look at John and Mary. Or my parents."

Molly hums in agreement. Maybe it's not all doom and gloom and murder, not really.

"And apparently the most successful relationships stem from friendship so actually, it's stupid for people to look for somebody to date, they should just..." Sherlock doesn't finish his sentence, and Molly suspects he's reached the limit of his romantic advice.

"Go through their friends until they find the one?" Molly laughs.

"I don't know," Sherlock shrugs. "I'm hardly the expert on successful relationships. You'll have to ask someone else."

Molly lets the subject drop, and soon enough, they arrive at the flat, her nerves becoming apparent as she fumbles with the door keys in her pocket. Sherlock pulls her into a firm and reassuring hug, his voice low in her ear.

"Remember to keep the lights out," he speaks quickly, trying to ensure the hug doesn't fall into the 'suspiciously long' category. "And if you hear anything unusual, text me. Lestrade's parked up, I'll be watching, and if our man shows up, we'll get him before he's through the door."

"Okay," Molly breathes, though his assurances don't settle her. She knows he would never let anything happen to her, but even so, being dangled as serial killer bait is not her favourite way to spend an evening. She tries not to search for any suspicious characters over his shoulder, knows it would spoil their play, but too soon, Sherlock releases her, kisses her on the cheek, and waits while she unlocks the front door.

"Goodnight," he says, as Molly steps inside. "Sleep tight."

Molly gives him a brave smile, and closes the front door. She rests her forehead against it, trying to summon the courage for what she is about to do. It's silly really, because all she needs to do is go upstairs and wait.

Steeling herself, she climbs the stairs, holding tightly to the banister. It's not easy to gauge in the unlit hallway, and the loud creak when she hits the seventh step startles her. She continues up to the landing, and then opens the door to the flat, steps inside, and closes it behind her.

In darkness, everything is unfamiliar, and she weaves her way to the window, looking out at the street below, her ears straining in the silence to pick up any unusual noises, but there's nothing. She recognises the silver BMW parked on the far side of the street, and it's out of place amongst the other resident's cars which she's come to recognise, after all this time.

Molly removes her bag from her shoulder, and places it down on the table, then shrugs her coat off, fumbling slightly as she feels for the back of a chair to hang it from. She's warm, and perhaps it's the wine, but she thinks that her nerves may have a certain amount of accountability. She touches her face to find it's damp with sweat, and so she heads to the bathroom to splash herself with cool water and pull herself together.

Upon opening the bathroom door, the cool breeze she encounters is nothing short of beautiful. It's pitch black out the back of the flat, but she can just about see the pale bottom of the sash window, halfway open. She feels her way over to the sink, running her fingers along the tiles, and reaches out for the cold tap. Her hand brushes against the glass containing Sherlock's toothbrush, and she moves it away from the edge of the basin, just in case her clumsiness gets the better of her.

There is a rustle of a shower curtain, and Molly's breath leaves her all at once as a hand clamps over her mouth and nose, rough fingertips digging into her flesh, holding her fast against a stocky body.

A thick arm is locked around her middle, and she tries to kick out at her attacker's feet, stamp on his toes, or inflict any kind of harm she can, but all she finds underfoot is linoleum flooring.

A thumb works its way into her mouth, pressing down hard on the soft part under her tongue, and Molly cries out in agony. She tries to scream, tries to call for Sherlock, but it's a blinding pain and she can't get the words out. She can't even bite down, no matter how hard she tries, because everything is blinding white and her body simply isn't working. Tears are streaming down her face as she struggles, wriggling against the unyielding grip of her attacker.

"This your place is it? Very nice it is too," a voice growls into her ear. It sounds familiar, but she can't quite place it. She can feel the warmth of his breath on her neck, and she struggles, trying in vain to throw him off of her. He shifts one hand to her throat, giving her right arm a little room for movement as he squeezes, her windpipe constricting. She reaches across to the sink, and her fingers brush against the glass.

She struggles again, but everything feels funny, and she knows she only has one chance, as darkness begins to consume her, and after a few endless seconds, she manages to clasp her fingers around the glass.

She lifts it over her head, and brings it down as hard as she can on the head of her attacker. It shatters in her hand and he cries out, throwing Molly down onto the tiles. She gulps in air, lungs heaving, her hand wet with blood, while her attacker stumbles, his balance knocked off kilter from Molly's retaliation. She screams Sherlock's name at the top of her lungs, but before she gets past the first syllable, the door of the bathroom is kicked open, and the hem of his coat flutters past her.

"Sherlock!" Greg is there too, and the now illuminated hallway light spills into the bathroom, just in time for Molly to see Tony, who rents with friends in Archway, double over as Sherlock lands a blow to his ribs.

"Sherlock stop!" Greg barges into the bathroom - which was never designed for four people and a brawl - and Sherlock slams Tony into the wall, paying absolutely no attention to anything else, least of all Greg.

Tony smashes his heel into the inside of Sherlock's knee, which is enough for him to buckle, letting go of Tony's shirt collar, but recovering quickly enough to shove Tony with all his might.

Everything slows down.

Tony flies backwards, the wood of the window frame splintering from the impact, glass exploding out into the yard below. Tony reaches out, trying to grab onto thin air, his eyes wide, his head covered in scarlet, and everyone knows what is about to happen, but the only person who could prevent it is Sherlock, and he looks on coldly as Tony falls through the window, and disappears from sight.

There is a crash below, and the sound of wheelie bins toppling, then silence.

"Always the window," Greg breathes. "Always the bloody window." He shakes his exasperatedly, but then his eyes land on Molly, and his expression changes, his exasperation melting into concern. "Are you all right?"

"Of course she's not all right," Sherlock snaps, shrugging off his coat and tossing it into the bath. He steps over to Molly, glass crunching underfoot, his left leg wobbly from his afflicted knee. He sits down beside her, wincing as he crouches, and puts his arms around her, his right hand cradling her head as she sinks against his chest.

She's in shock, and she doesn't know what, to do, but then she realises that she can still taste the thumb in her mouth, and she bursts into tears, her sobs raw as they tear through her throat. Everything hurts, and she tries to breathe deeply but she can't, because she just can't stop crying, and Sherlock holds her close, his cheek resting against the top of her head.

She hears Greg leave, presumably to arrest Tony and call an ambulance, but Sherlock doesn't move. He stays with her, and she can hear his heartbeat, steady, and calm, and it helps to settle her.

"I'm so sorry." His voice cracks as he says it, and he presses a kiss to the top of Molly's head. "I'm so so sorry." He says it over and over, his soft voice filling the gaps as Molly's sobs subside. "What stupid idea." She hears the thunk as he bangs his head against the door of the airing cupboard, but her throat is too raw for her to say anything.

Molly looks up at Sherlock, and his eyes are red around the edges, his face far paler than usual.

"I'm sorry," he says again, and he rests his forehead against hers, his fingers curling in her hair. "It wasn't supposed to go like this."

"I know," Molly croaks. It feels as though she's having to push the words out, and it hurts to speak, so she doesn't say anything else.

"Come on," Sherlock says, and he sniffs, wiping roughly at his face before he extricates himself from Molly and gets to his feet. "Let's sort that hand out." He helps her up, and guides her out of the bathroom, leading the way down the hall and into the kitchen. He switches on the lights, and pulls out a chair for Molly, easing her down into it. He limps over to one of the cupboards, pulling out a first aid kit that she has seen more times than she cares to remember, throughout various summonings to 221B at all sorts of hours.

Sherlock places the first aid kit on the table, his actions far more gentle than is normal for him. Her heart lifts a little at the thought, as it always does on those rare occasions when he makes the effort to be considerate.

He heads back into the lounge, while sirens sound in the distance, getting louder by the second, and he unplugs his magnifying lamp, bringing it back over to the kitchen table. He plugs it in, takes a seat, then flicks the switch and angles the light so he can get a good look at Molly's shredded palm.

His touch is delicate as he takes her hand in his and cleans the cuts. When he's finished, he sterilises his tweezers and angles her hand so he can pick out the small gritty pieces of glass trapped in the wounds. Molly concentrates on his face, his brow creased, lips slightly parted, completely focused on the task at hand. It doesn't stop her hand from hurting, but it helps.

Her stomach churns as he threads the needle, and just as he's about to sew the first stitch, Greg comes back up the stairs and into the flat, a paramedic in tow. Molly's shoulders sag as she exhales, and Sherlock lowers the needle, turning his head to look across to Greg.

"What?"

"I've got a paramedic," Greg says, gesturing to the woman next to him. "Thought Molly might want to be checked over."

"She's a doctor - "

"Yeah, a doctor who's just been attacked," Greg interrupts. "She needs -"

"To stay here, not be taken to hospital to wait around amongst other people." He says the last two words with a level of contempt which raises a slight smile from Molly. It vanishes as soon as the needle pierces her skin, and Sherlock begins sewing her stitches.

"Are you all right?" Greg asks, his eyes on Molly, voice softer now.

"I will be," she replies, and she sinks her teeth into her lower lip as Sherlock pushes the needle through her skin again. The paramedic looks towards Greg, who nods in the direction of the door, and she readjusts the strap of her kit bag on her shoulder, and departs.

"I can get someone to take you home," Greg offers. "Have a couple of officers stay with you tonight to make sure you're okay."

"She can stay here." Sherlock answers before Molly can open her mouth. "Or if she wants to go home, I'll go with her."

Greg raises an eyebrow and his eyes meet Molly's. She gives him the smallest of nods.

"All right," he says, and he tiredly runs a hand over his hair. "I'll need to get a statement from you tomorrow, but you rest up tonight. If you need anything, give me a call."

"What could she possibly need -"

"Thanks Greg."

The briefest of smiles flashes across Greg's lips, and he trudges out of the living room and down the stairs, his steps heavy and tired.

Molly doesn't say anything to Sherlock, fully aware that his bad mood is down to what he sees as a failure. The fact that Tony was able to get into the flat without Sherlock's knowledge is grating for him, even more so given that Tony was able to attack her. He's furious with himself, and even though Molly knows it would be better to stay quiet until he's calmed down, she asks the question that is bugging her, and, is surely bugging him too.

"How did he get in?"

Sherlock's hands still, halfway through sewing the final stitch. It's a few moments before he quietly says, "I don't know. I'm sorry."

"He must have gone round the back," Molly says. Probably through the bathroom window, which she noticed, she stupidly noticed, but didn't think anything of it. Tony crept round the back while Sherlock and Greg were staked out round the front, waiting for him to rock up to the front door.

"Of course he went round the back," Sherlock replies, his tone measured as he starts sewing again, finishing up the final stitch. "But he would have had to go to the end of the street, over the gardens, he would have needed to know which house. If he'd looked you up he would have gone to your flat, not mine."

"Maybe he recognised you," Molly suggests, as Sherlock carefully bandages her hand. "Maybe, when he saw me with you, he figured out -"

"But if he knows of me, if he knows what I do, what my reputation is, why chance it? It doesn't make sense." He tosses the remaining gauze back into the first aid kit and closes the lid with a snap, before he stands up, pacing around the kitchen. "Surely he knew he'd be caught? I mean some serial killers, no a lot of serial killers do want to get caught eventually but he'd only had three victims so far, it was too soon..."

Molly decides not to comment on 'only three'. "Maybe he thought he was smarter than you?"

Sherlock stops pacing and looks across to Molly, his hands on his hips, eyebrows drawn together in frown. "Well that was stupid."

"He did get in without you seeing," Molly points out. "He can't have been that stupid."

He exhales, and looks down at the ground. She knows he won't let it go any time soon, that it will bug him until he finds a concrete solution. "I'm sorry," he says, for what she is certain must be the hundredth time.

Molly looks down at her hands, her front teeth tugging at the inside of her lower lip. "What made you come inside?" she asks. She looks up at Sherlock once more, her chest swirling as she tries to put together the pieces of the evening. "I thought you and Greg were going to watch from outside in case he came along?"

"I changed my mind," Sherlock says. "Using you as bait was a stupid idea." He kicks the leg of the table in frustration and the numerous conical flasks and racks full of test tubes rattle ominously. "I heard the glass smash when I opened the front door," he adds. "Lestrade must have seen me run up and so he followed."

"Good job you changed your mind." Molly laughs, but the sound is hollow, far from genuine, and it hurts her throat.

"I should never have used you as bait." Sherlock says, shaking his head before he runs a frustrated hand through his hair, giving it a quick ruffle at the back before he moves around the kitchen table and grabs the kettle from the stand. He moves to the sink and begins to fill it with water.

"Well at least you've got him, so it did serve a purpose."

Sherlock wrenches the tap off and the water stops abruptly. He doesn't look towards her, but instead focuses on the draining board. "It wasn't worth putting your safety at risk. It would never be worth that, Molly. Never."

It's his final word on the matter, and Molly sits quietly while he puts the kettle on to boil and starts preparing some tea. She watches him as he works; the sight of him making tea is a rare treat, and he even manages to find a tin of biscuits to dump on the table. He spoons some sugar into her mug, and she finds that there's something very pleasing about the fact that he remembers exactly how she takes her tea - one and a bit sugars if it's a big mug. After the evening's events, a big mug is certainly called for.

They sip their tea quietly, and it warms Molly up from the inside out. Gradually she starts to feel human again, even though her mouth is sore, her throat is bruised, and her hand smarts continually.

It could have been much worse, but she supposes that's not the point.

"He asked me where I lived," Molly says at last, the full weight of her conversation with Tony hitting her. "I can't believe I didn't notice..."

"What?"

"He asked if I was local...told me he lived with mates and I told him, I told him I had my own place..." She trails off, and lowers her head into her hands because she was so foolish, firstly to tell him and secondly to not realise what he was doing.

"You've had that conversation a thousand times before though," Sherlock says, and for some reason he is able to forgive her stupidity, but not his own. "You've complained about it enough times."

She smiles, because he has heard her complain endlessly, during late night lab sessions, about passing comments from colleagues about her 'good fortune'. She'd assumed it was all going in one ear and out the other, never stopping long enough for him to even need to delete it.

Silence settles again, and Molly hates it, because everything just keeps whirring through her mind, vivid flashes of memory piercing her consciousness without mercy.

"You can stay in my room tonight," Sherlock says eventually, when they're down to the dregs and the biscuits are getting stale. Molly gives a nod of agreement, and Sherlock frowns into the bottom of his cup. "I'll stay with you." He says it quickly, as though he wants to get the words out as soon as possible so he can get them over and done with.

"Thank you."

He lends her a soft grey t-shirt and a pair of tracksuit bottoms, and she has to pull the drawstrings tight on to stop them from falling down. Sherlock's clothes are cosy, and they smell of him, and that in itself is a good distraction when she is revisited by the taste of his hand or the beer-tainted scent of his breath.

When he gets in to bed, he lies close to her, and after what Molly considers to be a good forty-five seconds of hesitation, he puts one arm around her and pulls her a little closer. His chest is warm against her back and she's glad, she's so so glad, because she needs, more than anything else, to have that little bit of contact to settle her down, to reassure her, and to make her feel safe. He must know it, must have thought it through to try and figure out how he should behave, and his guilt must have shoved him in this direction.

"Are you all right?" she asks. Her question hangs in the air, low lit by the lamp that Sherlock has left on, neither of them favouring the dark tonight. After a pause, in which she feels his rib cage swell, he lets his answer out in a breath.

"Yeah." And then, "Are you?"

"Yeah."

They're both lying.

She finds his hand and laces her fingers with his, giving a gentle squeeze of reassurance. He presses a kiss against her hair in response, and she feels a little more tension eke out of her.

It doesn't matter that they're not all right. It doesn't matter at all. Molly knows, without a doubt, that they will be. They always are, in the end.

The End