Molly centered her body and concentrated. The sounds and movements around her faded until she barely noticed them. The attacker was behind her. His arms came around, pinned her arms to her sides and lifted her feet from the floor. Molly shifted her hips left and right, kicking her dangling

heels against his shins and forced her head hard back against his nose. As his grip loosened and her feet touched the ground, she smoothly placed her right foot around his foot and moved into the horse position. Her hand grabbed and lifted his groin. With an exhalation of breath and sound, Molly drove her right knee into the back of his thigh as her arm came up and struck his solar plexus. As she moved back into defensive stance, his body made a satisfying thump on the floor mat.

"That's much better Molly." her Shou Shu instructor grinned up at her. "Shall we try again?"

An hour later, showered and dressed, Molly picked up her pink exercise bag and headed back to Bart's. There was plenty of time to finish her work, even if it meant she would be stay

ing late. It wasn't like she had a date or anything. Molly always felt relaxed and ready to take on the world after a workout. There was nothing like being able to toss a man around and hear his body smack the floor to make a girl feel good.

She reflected upon the progress she was making. Everything was going really well. Her instructor said she was a natural whatever that meant. The martial arts classes and the women's self defense courses were definitely helping her self esteem. It was getting easier to be confident and assertive.

It made her cringe when she thought about how gullible Jim Moriarity had made her feel. What had she ever seen in the creep? It unnerved her when she thought about who and what he really was. Sherlock was right, when it came to judgment in picking boyfriends, her choices were dismal. All of the men she had dated in the past four years had been a bit dodgy, but Jim Moriarity was at the top of the list. Even Sherlock whom she had not dated, but was strongly attracted to, was not what you could call "normal."

It wasn't a simple thing to find a date when most men were squeamish about dating a girl who cut up dead people for a living. Surely there was a man somewhere who wasn't strange, creepy or a master criminal? An ordinary man was what she wanted. One who would love and care about her. One that didn't mind that she was painfully shy, or thought she was strange for enjoying her job. She firmly squared her shoulders and reminded herself that things were changing. She was her own woman. No man was going to manipulate her ever again.

Well, perhaps only one man she corrected herself silently as thoughts of Sherlock flashed in her mind. Earlier that day, Sherlock had casually commandeered her to help in the lab. Instead of going to lunch as she had planned, she had meekly complied. That was the reason she needed to return to work now. She needed to finish the work that had been interrupted by Sherlock. It wasn't that Molly minded helping him, it was just that he took it for granted that she would drop everything. She was tired of being a doormat.

Sherlock Holmes was a big problem for her. Sometimes she wasn't sure whether she loved or hated him. A little of Sherlock went a long way, especially when he was being cruel and hurtful. Ever since she had made a fool of herself at the Christmas party at Sherlock's flat, Molly had been trying to move on. She didn't stand a chance with Sherlock anyway, as long as John Watson was around. She knew which way the wind blew with those two, even if they didn't. It was sad. Sherlock did not allow people to get close to him. She doubted if even John could change that. They were so adorable together, Sherlock grousing and John arguing right back. Despite John's disclaimers to the contrary, they were a couple. Like salt and pepper, cup and saucer, it was Sherlock and John.

Molly liked John. It didn't make her jealous that he was with Sherlock. Sherlock needed him and allowed him closer than anyone else. That was good. John was kind, thoughtful and funny. John stood up for her when Sherlock was being nasty.

Molly had thought about asking John out for drinks or coffee once or twice, but somehow it hadn't felt quite right. Besides, Sherlock was the sun in Molly's universe and the quiet reflection of the moon who was John, got lost in his brilliance.

Molly was worried about Sherlock. She could tell something was wrong. She had tried to talk with him this morning, but in true Sherlock form, he refused to admit he knew what she was talking about. "He's blocking me out again," she thought sadly. At least she had not been so intimidated this time. Sherlock had tried to interrupt her and had actually told her to stop talking, but she had managed to get out all the things she had wanted to say instead of squeaking like a mouse and running away. Not that it helped of course. No one could make Sherlock talk if he didn't want. Was he in trouble? Did he have a terminal disease? The way he looked so sad sometimes was enough to break Molly's heart. She had tried to let him know that she understood and wanted to help, but she didn't think she had gotten through to him.

Molly carefully stacked her papers and placed the book she intended to return to the research library on top to anchor them down. That lot could wait until morning, she decided. It was late, she was tired, and it was past time to be gone. She opened the drawer to her desk, dropped several pens inside and clicked it shut. She picked up her purse and headed into the lab near the exit.

Working in a morgue did not bother her, but she was usually very careful when leaving late at night. When the deep voice came from the darkness, Molly she recognized the voice as belonging to Sherlock.

"You were wrong, Molly. You do count. You have always counted, and I have always trusted you. But you were right, I'm not okay."

Molly stared into the dimness at the shadows carving Sherlock's face into dark planes and angles.

"Tell me what's wrong," she said.

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

"What do you need?"

With a painful intake of breath, Sherlock continued. "If I wasn't everything you thought I was, everything I thought I was, would you still want to help me?"

"What do you need?" Molly repeated.

"You." Sherlock closed the space between them and lowered his head.

Somewhere in the depths of her being Molly dragged up her courage and softly placed two fingers of her right hand against Sherlock's lips stopping his attempt to kiss her. "No Sherlock," she said in a low whisper, "you know how I feel about you. . . I can't help that," she admitted reluctantly. "You don't have to kiss me to get me to help you. How can I help?"

"Who said I didn't want to kiss you?" Sherlock asked softly and trapped her fingers against his chest as he lowered his head once again.

It was all that Molly had ever dreamed kissing Sherlock would be; sweet, gentle, a promise of endless possibilities. But Molly could also sense deep sadness. Regret? For what? It was almost as if Sherlock was saying goodbye.

Then suddenly the kiss changed and became more, so much more. It was all Molly could do to hang on and try to survive. The sweetness became a burning flame that threatened to consume her. Heat coursed down her spine and literally curled her toes. She couldn't breathe. She couldn't think.

Sherlock pulled away and Molly could hear his ragged breathing as well as the rapid thump of his heart as she rested her head on his chest under his chin. She pulled back and looked up. There was a dazed expression on Sherlock's face followed by a fleeting expression of surprise and puzzlement.

"Ah, that was," he said and paused for a moment, searching for a word. "Interesting," he managed at last. Molly frowned and Sherlock hastened to say, "That was nice."

Nice? Nice? Resentment burned in Molly. The man had just melted the soles of her shoes to the floor and he thought it was nice? Her frown deepened.

"Well, perhaps more than nice," Sherlock reluctantly admitted. He gave Molly that 'further data is needed' look as she flushed with embarrassment.

"A bit unexpected," he murmured, "but very good."

She didn't think she was supposed to hear that.