Dinner at The Fox had been awkward—unusually awkward, not the typical awkward that ensued when little Molly and Jim from IT were in the same room together. Molly was tense. Jim seemingly oblivious.

He'd seen her home, followed her inside. He leaned in for a kiss, his eyes warm with anticipation. She put a hand on his chest to stop him.

"Are you gay?" Molly blurted out. "It's okay, if you are…you know, gay. But I think you should be honest with me." How could she have been so blind? He didn't seem gay. But what did gay look like? He could be bisexual or… but he had enjoyed her body. He had adored her body, every inch of her. With him, she'd had quite possibly the most incredible sexual experience of her life. She was no innocent. She'd had relationships—maybe not many, but even so. What occurred between Jim and her had been almost transcendent. Just her luck that he also happened to prefer men.

"You think I'm gay?" Jim seemed amused, incredulous. "After the other night. After what we did?" He reached out to stroke her hair back and she pulled away. "Why would you even think that?" He seemed genuinely confused.

"Why did you give him your number?" she demanded, angry.

"Who?" Jim asked. His eyes clearly said that he knew who she was talking about. He wanted to hear her say it.

"You know who, " she hissed, "You humiliated me."

Jim considered her glistening, angry eyes. Her soft brown hair. Oh, she was a pretty, little thing. He had been enjoying her.

"It's a game," he answered, quite truthfully. She sensed he was telling the truth, but it didn't make any sense.

"A game?" still disbelieving. "What are you even talking about?"

"Of course a game! He deduced exactly what I wanted him to. Did he mention my underwear?" Jim grinned wolfishly. "You must have recognized they weren't the same brand I had on the other night, now. You aren't bad with details and deductions yourself, my little pathologist."

Molly didn't reply, but her face revealed the answer to his question. What in the world was going on here?

He chuckled rubbing his hands over his face, through his hair. "God, he's so obvious, isn't he? Is he even worth the trouble," he seemed to be speaking to himself before he glanced up at Molly again. "He's not gay, by the way" Jim said, almost kindly. Her mouth dropped open as she stared at him.

"It hurts, doesn't it, that he has a new playmate? Someone new to play detective with. And John's a doctor, too. He's replaced you, hasn't he? But don't worry, Molly, it's not about your incompetence. You are more than capable. He wouldn't work with you if you weren't. But you have tits, and though they are glorious, he is terrified of them. Sherlock doesn't know what to do with you, sweetheart. " He smiled, almost cheerful, before his gaze lost focus, "I wonder if he's a virgin…wouldn't that be funny?"

Molly sat stunned. Jim's sharp focused returned to her, narrowed eyes. She was pinned under his gaze.

"Though he wouldn't be if you had your way," the cheeriness was gone, replaced with venom. The shift in emotion caused her hackles to raise. Here was the danger again. The raw masculine power that he had put to such glorious use the other night was back.

"You're not jealous," Molly stated flatly, "You're not…" Guilt (fear) was beginning to replace her righteous anger. Tits, indeed! It was only the one time she'd indulged that little fantasy. She hadn't meant it. She hadn't. She showed him how much she didn't mean it, didn't she? All her focus was on Jim, after she…after her mental indiscretion. He'd seemed more than satisfied at the time. And he…no, he wasn't gay.

"I think we both know Sherlock was in bed with us that night. And it wasn't because of me."

"He wasn't…" began Molly hotly, "I didn't think of him while we were.."

"Well, okay, maybe not in bed. But surely on the sofa," Jim's eyes glittered—mocking, angry—"A little mental menage a three? I think he would have appreciated the fact that it was all purely of the mind. Because, let's be honest, lady parts scare the dickens out of—"

"Shut up." Molly's voice was tight. He face was deathly pale. There was ice in her heart. In her veins. She could feel the cold prickles on her neck, her face. "Shut up!" she hissed, whispering, vicious.

"Don't you tell me, little girl," Jim hissed back. "It's just the truth. I thought you liked men who deduced you?"

"Why are you acting like this," Molly shook her head, genuinely frightened now. "Who are you?"

Jim's face fell, almost sad he looked now. "I'm exactly who you think I am," he murmured. But who did she think he was? He was a different man altogether from one moment to the next. Sweet. Vicious. Tentative. Passionate.

"Who are you?" she said again, quietly, looking deeply into his eyes. She lifted a hand to his face. He turned and let his cheek be cradled in her palm. He sighed and closed his eyes.

"Just Jim Moriarty from IT," he said, reaching up to hold her hand to his face. "God, Molly, I'm so tired." She brought up the other hand to stroke his hair, the back of his neck. What was he saying? What did this mean? He opened his eyes again and stared into her wondering gaze for a long moment.

He leaned into her, and she opened her arms to embrace him. He buried his face in her neck and her hair. He wasn't crying. No, but there was some great emotion pouring off of him in waves. She held him for a long time, listening to her neighbors coming home from a night out, seeing the lights of passing cars outside her living room window as Toby prowled along the ledge. Such an ordinary peaceful night in some ways. Her mind was racing, but she stayed still for him, stroking his back, his hair.

After a very long while, he pulled back and looked at her in the face. He seemed calmer as he traced her jawline and lips reverently with his index finger. "So pretty. So strong. Will you stay strong for me, Molly?" he asked gently. It terrified her. Stay strong for what?

She nodded and swallowed. Her mouth was so dry.

"Bless you," he whispered and lowered his mouth to hers. A goodbye. A sacrament. A promise.

And then he was gone. Gone as if he had never existed. For months, she worried and wondered until she didn't need to wonder any longer.

In the aftermath, the bombings, the kidnappings, the terror, she justified, to everyone who asked. To herself.

"Jim wasn't my boyfriend. We only went out three times. " Molly said earnestly (a well practiced speech), twisting her hands. Only three dates, but how many coffee breaks? Lunches in the canteen? Silly jokes in the office. No, not a boyfriend. An admirer? A monster! A user—oh, but wasn't she the same? She really wasn't as different as she wanted to pretend. "I ended it." Molly was lofty. Don't you dare chide me for being with him, Sherlock Holmes, when it's your fault I was with him in the first place! Though Sherlock wasn't why she stayed, not why there were three whole dates after the endless coffee and lunches. Not why she had kissed him goodbye with such tenderness.

She loved Sherlock. She hated Moriarty. She wasn't quite sure how she felt about Jim.