A Vicious Motivator - Chapter Four

[darnedchild]

Summary: Molly was happy with her life. She's got a job she loves, a nice flat, her cat, and she's even begun dating again (now that she's over her infatuation with Sherlock, mostly). Then Sherlock dragged her out for a few hours of dress up and undercover work, and everything started to go to hell in a hand-basket.

She agreed to accompany him to one more event, purely as a distraction; and in the process ended up with an unwanted house guest (Sherlock's ex Janine), the attentions of a vengeful stalker, and a return of those pesky feelings for Sherlock Holmes.

Rating: M (There will be smut in later chapters)
A/N - Written for the 2015 Sherlolly Big Bang. This mammoth fic is over 114k words and complete in seventeen chapters.

Chapter Four

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

The rest of the day passed uneventfully. Unfortunately, that left her with plenty of time to reflect on Sherlock's visit.

Specifically, the way he'd corned her against the cupboard and the feel of his firm chest beneath her hands. That memory was probably going to make several reappearances in her dreams over the next few months.

She shook her head as she unlocked the door to her flat, and told herself that she really needed to move on. For real this time. Not just telling people she was over him and then feeling her stomach drop to her feet in excitement the moment she thought he was going to ask her to dinner. She'd even forgotten about Tom for a few seconds that day, which should have been a huge red flag that she had unresolved Sherlock issues.

And that meant she needed to stop sit around making moon eyes at him, moping about what could never be.

Mind resolved to go ahead and let Meena fix her up with yet another "this one is the one" date, Molly pushed open her door and stopped dead at the sight of the man in question sitting on her sofa.

His feet were on her coffee table, and he was typing away on the laptop resting on his thighs. Toby, the traitor, was curled into a contented ball against his hip.

The smell of something heavenly emanated from her small galley kitchen.

She blinked several times, unable to find the right words to express just how flabbergasted she was at the nerve of him, letting himself in as if he had the right. After a moment, Molly stepped into her flat and carefully shut the door behind her. She hung up her jacket, then approached the sofa in a deceptively calm manner that should have put Sherlock on high alert. Would have, if he'd been paying her the least bit of attention.

"What are you doing here?" she quietly asked.

Sherlock didn't bother looking up from the laptop screen. His fingers continued to dance across the keyboard, occasionally hitting the enter key with aggressive force. "Leaving scathing comments on John's blog. He's got several incidental details wrong regarding the Pushman case. Obviously he doesn't care about accuracy, or even plausibility. Did you see that he wrote-"

"I don't care what he wrote," Molly snapped. "I meant, what are you doing here? On my sofa. In my flat. Right now."

His fingers finally stilled. Sherlock tilted his head, looking up at her with his brow furrowed in consternation. "You should have been more specific, then. I've brought Janine over. You weren't home, and she thought it might be best if I were still here when you arrived since, as you pointed out earlier, you barely know each other."

He didn't get it. It was as if it never even occurred to him that using his emergency bolthole key to move in his ex-ish girlfriend while Molly wasn't even home might annoy her. He hadn't even given her a chance to clean up, who knew what state the bathroom was in?

And then there was the matter of the familiar looking computer he was using.

"Is that my laptop?"

"Yes."

"My password protected, kept on the table in my bedroom where you shouldn't have even been nosing about in the first place, laptop?"

"Yes." She could tell by the expression on his face that he thought she was being overly pedantic.

Molly threw her hands up into the air in surrender. "Of course it is, how silly of me to even question it."

Sherlock typed a few more words, hit send, and softly closed the computer. Perhaps it was the irritated tapping of her foot, or maybe the way her hands had curled into fists at her side; whatever it was, something had finally clued the great Consulting Detective into deducing that she was upset.

Before he could open his mouth and make things worse, someone else spoke. "I thought I heard voices."

Molly swung around to find Janine exiting the kitchen. She crossed the small sitting room to offer her hand to Molly. "Hello. I don't think we've actually been properly introduced. Just a brief hello at Mary and John's wedding, right? I'm Janine Hawkins."

Janine's friendly smile was infectious, and Molly found herself reluctantly returning it as she shook the proffered hand. "Molly. Molly Hooper."

"It's so nice of you to let me stay here." Janine released her and used her hands to gesture around the room. "I told Sherl I didn't want to impose, and I was fine staying at his place; but he thought it would be safer if I stayed somewhere that Francis would never think to look. Then he told me how you volunteered to let me stay over when he mentioned he had a friend in need, insisted really. How could I say no?"

"How indeed." Molly's smile dropped from her lips as soon as Janine headed back toward the kitchen.

Molly silently mouthed, "You are a dead man," at the prat on the couch. Sherlock didn't even have the decency to look guilty for lying.

Janine stopped at the kitchen doorway and turned to speak again. Molly's smile quickly reappeared, although it was a bit more strained this time. "To show my appreciation, I suggested we picked up take-away for dinner. I hope that's all right?"

"That's very thoughtful of you."

"I thought about picking something up from the Indian place I saw near the Boots, but Sherl said you prefer the chicken tikka masala from the restaurant several streets over. He figured you'd be home soon, so I was just looking for plates to dish it up."

Molly shouldn't have been surprised that he'd noticed her take-away preference--deduced it, she supposed--at one point, but she thought it would have been one of the insignificant things he'd deleted by now.

"That sounds great, actually. Thank you." She took a deep breath, and reminded herself that what was done was done, and there really wasn't anything she could do about it at this point anyway. Making a fuss would only cause Janine to feel bad; and it wasn't her fault that Sherlock had a way of pushing Molly's buttons.

"Can you give me ten minutes? I need to change out of my work clothes, maybe wash up a bit?"

Janine assured her that was fine, and Sherlock was already distracted by her laptop once more. Molly doubted he'd even heard her.

Fifteen minutes later, Molly had taken a quick shower and changed into a brightly coloured tee and an old pair of jeans. She skipped putting on shoes, settling for a pair of thick, warm socks that were covered in playful kittens. Her eyes had been itching and burning since late afternoon, so she put her contacts away to soak for the night and slipped on her glasses. It was her flat, there was no reason she shouldn't feel comfortable just because Sherlock's extremely pretty and (irritatingly) pleasant former girlfriend was in her kitchen. Even as she told herself that, she couldn't help comparing her appearance in the mirror to Janine.

Ugh, pity party, table for one. Get over it, Molly. This isn't a competition. Sherlock doesn't care what you look like, he's never cared, and he has seen you looking much, much worse.

She remembered the night he'd let himself in while she'd been lounging around the sitting room watching Big Brother, face covered in an avocado skin mask, hair in a sloppy pony tail, wearing a ratty cotton night shirt and a pair of bunny slippers that had bore the brunt of Toby's hunting instincts. They'd stared at each other for exactly five seconds before Molly had scrambled up off the sofa and bolted to the bedroom to scrub her face and find her bathrobe.

Molly shook off the humiliating memory and went to find Janine and Sherlock.

The sitting room was empty as she walked through it on the way to her tiny kitchen, but Janine was the only one sitting at her small table. The other woman pointed her fork toward the microwave. "Yours is in there, in case you wanted to heat it up. I didn't want it to get cold. I bet you're wondering where Sherl is, aren't you?"

"Did he leave already?" Molly started to warm up her dinner.

"Said he needed to check in with someone, but he'd be back in a bit. Which could mean ten minutes or tomorrow with him."

"Yeah, he loses track of time. Easily distracted when he's chasing down a lead," Molly offered in his defence. She felt a little ridiculous, even as the words left her mouth. Janine had been intimately familiar with Sherlock's habits, of course she already knew that. Molly slid into the other chair and shoved a forkful of food into her mouth.

"Don't I know it. He was always doing that to me when we were dating. Telling me he needed to go check on something, he'd be back in awhile, don't wait up, all of that. Sometimes he wouldn't even come home until I was already up and getting ready to leave in the morning." Janine shook her head and laughed; but it wasn't a pleasant sound, it was short and bitter. "I get it now. But it would have been nice to know why it seemed like he was avoiding me sometimes. You know?"

Molly nodded and tried to look as sympathetic as possible. On the one hand, she really did know what it was like when Sherlock abandoned you for something he considered more interesting. On the other, some of those nights when he'd run off from Janine, he was staying in Molly's bedroom. Which was something Molly had no intention of mentioning. Ever.

On the other-other hand, even with him running off to one or another bolthole (or Molly's bedroom) when he needed to think, he still opened up to Janine, right? Did romantic things with her. Kissed and touched her. He had to care about her; the lengths he was going to in order to keep her away from Mr Jealous Two-and-a-Half Carats was proof of that.

"I can't believe how pathetic I was. I mean, I actually thought his proposal must have meant he loved me. Well, up until someone knocked me unconscious minutes later; then I woke up to find out he'd been shot, and it had all been for one of his stupid, bloody cases." Janine shifted the curry and rice around her plate with her fork before taking a bite.

Molly nearly choked on hers. She took a long drink of water to clear her throat. Once she could breathe normally, she asked, "I'm sorry. He did what?"

"I know! What kind of arsehole does that? More water?" Without waiting for an answer, Janine dropped her fork and got up to refill Molly's glass. "Anyway, we're fine now. Better, actually. We're both completely honest about what we want out of our relationship this time."

Molly was still stuck on the casually mentioned proposal thing. "I hadn't realized that Sherlock had, uhm, done that."

"Asked me to marry him? I decided not to mention it in any of my interviews. Would have made me seem like a right idiot, wouldn't it? I am surprised he hadn't told you, though."

"Why would he have told me?" She'd been starving earlier, but Molly wasn't sure if she was even hungry anymore.

"You're friends." Janine made it sound as if that should have explained everything.

It didn't.

"Sherl told me he didn't have too many of those, but the ones he's managed to keep from chasing off seem to be rather close-knit," Janine tried to explain in response to Molly's continued confusion. "And you're obviously close enough for him to have a key to your flat." She shrugged and plopped back down into her chair, somehow managing to make even that look graceful.

"He ended up doing me a favour. I got fired, yeah, but my boss at the time was a real jerk. Although, I suppose, I shouldn't speak ill of the dead." Seeing Molly's confused expression, Janine explained, "Went and got himself killed confronting a burglar, from what I'd read in the papers. Right around Christmas. To be honest, I can't say that I mourned him."

She gasped and covered her mouth with her hand. "Oh God, I sound like a horrible person, don't I?"

"I wouldn't say horrible, just honest." Molly stood, and pulled a plastic container out of one of the kitchen cupboards. She started to dump her leftovers into it; perhaps she could take it to work for lunch the next day.

Janine watched her work for a moment, then got up to deal with her own plate. "Speaking of being honest . . ."

Molly couldn't even begin to imagine what new bit of information the other woman was going to share next. "Yeah?"

"You didn't really volunteer to have me stay here, did you?"

Molly whipped around, guilt written all over her face. "How did you-I mean, what makes you say that?"

"Your expression earlier, when I was thanking you. You don't have much of a poker face, do you?"

Molly flushed and shook her head.

Janine laughed. "Sherl's got a way of talking us into things, doesn't he? Charming as the devil himself when he wants to be."

"You, too?" Molly's shoulders slumped as she leaned against the kitchen counter.

"Oh yeah. Talked me into coming here. I really was fine with a hotel or Baker Street, but he convinced me this was going to be safer. Mentioned I'd probably get along better with you than I would him, in the long run. And, just between you and me, I don't think his housekeeper likes me."

The front door opened. Sherlock called out both of their names as he crossed the sitting room, before stepping into the kitchen doorway. His eyes flicked back and forth between both women, and he suddenly looked uncomfortable. "What are you two doing?"

"Having dinner. Or, we were, at any rate. Do you want something to eat?" Janine offered.

"No, I don't eat when I'm on a case, I just came back to-" He froze mid-sentence and stared at Molly as if he'd never seen her before.

She reached up to wipe her mouth with her fingers. "What? Do I have curry on my face?"

"You're wearing glasses. You don't wear glasses. Since when do you wear glasses?"

"Since secondary school." She turned away to finish packing up the last of her meal, then gestured for Sherlock to take a step back so she could open the refrigerator door. "You've seen me in them before."

"No, I haven't."

Molly rolled her eyes and shared an amused look with Janine. "First time we met. You walked into the morgue as if you owned the place, insisted I let you inspect the body of a murder victim that had just come in for processing, and told me to get contacts because my glasses did nothing to improve my appearance. Or my self esteem. You also told me the forensics consultant from NSY that I'd been speaking to when you blew in was married, and I could probably do better."

"That's you, all right," Janine tossed in.

"Was it Anderson? Of course you could do better than Anderson."

"I would have kicked him out," Molly continued for Janine's benefit, "but Greg was with him."

She noticed Sherlock's blank look and sighed. "Lestrade. He was with you, and he assured me he would take full responsibility if you damaged anything."

"You wouldn't have thrown me out." Sherlock was quite confident in his statement.

He was probably right, but he didn't need her to confirm it. His ego was big enough as it was. "I might have done. You don't know."

With a gentle push, Sherlock closed the fridge door that had been separating them and moved closer to her. Molly's breath caught as she was forced to look up to maintain eye contact. Once again he was close enough to touch, to kiss if only she had the courage. Those beautiful, unique eyes of his were beginning to darken, the pupils dilating. He leaned down--just until she could feel the heat of his breath against her ear--as he softly spoke, "Not back then. You wouldn't have dared. Now? Perhaps. You've changed since we first met, Molly Hooper. Not at all the meek mouse you used to be. I find that I quite like the woman you've become."

With that parting remark, he disappeared into the sitting room; leaving Molly and Janine to stare at each other in wide-eyed disbelief.

"Well, that was unexpected." Janine managed to find her voice first.

"For you and me both," Molly replied.

"Really? He's never?"

Molly shook her head, still feeling a bit befuddled. "Yeah. But not really? I mean he's been a little flirty a few times, but he doesn't mean it. He never means it."

"I don't know whether to be happy for you or not, sweetie, but I think he meant that one."

"Oh, but-but you and Sherlock?" Molly stuttered.

"That ship sailed months ago." Janine reached out and squeezed Molly's hand. "He's a selfish arse, and my advice would be to run as fast as you can, but we both know that isn't going to happen. So . . . ice cream?"

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

Having Janine around wasn't as bad as Molly had expected it to be. True it hadn't even been a full week, but so far she wasn't the worst flatmate Molly had been stuck with. She hadn't fussed when Molly had wanted to watch a sappy rom com on Wednesday night (they'd even shared a box of tissues near the end when it looked like the two lovers were never going to work things out). She offered to do the washing up when Molly cooked breakfast for the both of them Friday morning. She was telecommuting while her boss was out of town, taking over the kitchen table when it wasn't needed for meals; but she didn't leave her things strewn all over the flat while she was working (unlike a certain consulting detective). Other than the occasional niggling feeling of not quite measuring up to all things Janine, Molly had no complaints.

When Molly had nervously paced around the sitting room on Saturday afternoon--waiting for Anthea to pick her up for the promised trip to a salon for hair and makeup--Janine had gently pushed her into a chair and offered to make a calming cup of tea.

Molly had latched on to Janine's good natured concern and desperately tried to convince the other woman to take her place for the evening.

"Couldn't even if I wanted to. Which I don't. Francis will probably be there, and all of this-" She paused to gesture around the sitting room, including the pair of her suitcases near the sofa. "It would all be pointless if I were to show up and run straight into him, wouldn't it? Besides, Sherlock invited you, not me."

"Only because you were already busy. He normally asks you to do these sorts of things," Molly insisted, still trying to find a way to beg off. She was terrified she'd embarrass herself or Sherlock--or even worse, Mycroft, somehow--in front of a house full of rich dignitaries and government officials. It wasn't really her usual social set, and she highly doubted an amusing anecdote about one of her autopsies would go over well with that sort of crowd.

Who was she kidding? Those stories didn't go over well with any sort of crowd.

"He asks me because I'm convenient. We've already got past the awkward bits, and now he doesn't have to work at it like he would if we were really dating. I get a posh dinner and a chance to dress up now and then, and he doesn't have to put any effort into it."

"So, he picked me to fill in because I'm convenient and he didn't want to bother trying to find a real date then?" Yet another boost to the ego, courtesy of Sherlock Holmes.

Janine folded herself into the chair next to Molly's sofa, and wobbled her hand from side to side. "Probably, yeah; but I suspect there might have been a bit more to it than that, judging from his display in the kitchen the other night."

"What is that supposed to mean?"

Before Janine could answer, there was a firm knock at the door. Molly glanced at her watch as she got up to answer it.

Right on time.

Not that she expected anything less from someone associated with Mycroft Holmes. He seemed to be the sort of guy who was a stickler for punctuality.

"Anthea, this is Janine. Janine, Anthea. Now that the introductions are done, I'm going to need that tea." Molly disappeared into the kitchen before either of them could speak.

She ignored the kettle entirely, focusing her attention on the cupboard over the top of the refrigerator. There was an emergency packet of chocolate biscuits hidden at the back of that cupboard. Out of sight, out of mind for the most part. She dragged a chair in front of the fridge, and crawled onto it. Even with the extra height it was a struggle to reach all the way to the back. She had to balance on her tip toes until her fingers came in contact with the crinkly packaging.

The packet seemed much lighter than it should as she dragged it toward her, and once she had it in sight she realized why.

Sherlock Bloody Holmes had been eating her biscuits.

It had to have been him. No one else had free rein of her flat and was tall enough to find the damn things without effort. She briefly considered and rejected the idea that it might have been Janine, but in her heart she knew the biscuit thief had to have been Mr I-Don't-Eat-When-I'm-On-A-Case.

She bitterly shoved one of the remaining biscuits into her mouth.

"Hey, Molly? Your friend says we need to leave if we're going to get lunch before your salon appointment." Janine appeared in the kitchen doorway, and grinned at the sight of Molly standing on a chair, holding a nearly empty packet of biscuits. "Oh hun, it's not that bad. Don't jump."

"Ha. Ha. Very funny," Molly mumbled around her half-chewed biscuit. She swallowed with some difficulty and brushed crumbs off her mouth, before guiltily shoving the packet back onto the shelf. "We? What do you mean 'we'?"

"I told her how hesitant you were about tonight, and she thought it might help to have a bit of extra moral support."

"For me, or for her?" Molly climbed down off the chair and moved it back into place at the table.

Janine laughed. "Does it really matter? Come on. Anthea says Mike's covering the tab for lunch."

"Mike?" Molly asked as she preceded Janine into the sitting room.

"Sherl's brother."

"Oh, Mycroft." Molly met Anthea's eye and had to stifle her grin at the look of distaste on the other woman's face, probably due to Janine's nickname for the elder Holmes brother.

As they stepped through the front door and Molly paused to make sure it was locked, Janine asked, "People really do call him that? I thought John was having me on."

"I'm afraid they do, Miss Hawkins." To Molly, it sounded as if Anthea were already regretting her decision to invite Janine along. Served her right.

Anthea lead the way down the stairs and out the building toward a familiar looking dark Mercedes. Mr Surly was waiting beside the car. As he opened the door for the three women, Molly saw him grimace briefly, and she knew he'd recognized her.

She flashed him her brightest, friendliest smile as she slid into the car. "Hello, again. Lovely day, isn't it?"

The car door slammed shut seconds after Janine squeezed herself into the backseat next to Molly. It was a bit of a tight fit, with all three ladies crammed together.

Janine waited until the car was in motion to point at Anthea's ever present mobile. "So, what did that thing have to say about me? I assume you were verifying it was okay to bring me along with all that texting away you were doing earlier?"

Molly looked from her temporary flatmate to Mycroft's assistant, then down to the phone in question.

Anthea replied without bothering to pause in her texting, "Janine Hawkins. Former personal assistant for C. Magnussen, current junior personal assistant to S. Nakahara. Former relationship with S. Holmes, ended amicably, albeit publicly." She looked up and gave Janine a barely there smile. "There's more, but most of it comes from the background check that was ordered when it became apparent that you and Mr Holmes were becoming . . . intimate."

For some reason Janine started to laugh at that. Molly hadn't a clue what was so amusing.

"Am I in there?" she asked Anthea.

A perfectly arched brow was her answer.

Molly leaned back against the seat and sighed, "Right, I knew that. Stupid question." Mycroft himself had practically waved the damn file--that most likely contained every boring detail of her rather boring life--under her nose just days prior.

"Is that why I was invited to come along on today's excursion? Because I've already been cleared to associate with the Holmes men?" Janine asked, bemused.

"One of them," Anthea corrected. She lowered her phone into her lap and turned her attention to the other two women in the vehicle. "I also thought it wouldn't hurt to have one of Molly's friends along, to help put her at ease."

Molly's first instinct was to protest that she and Janine were not friends; but that would make things awkward for everyone involved, and Janine didn't seem to mind.

"Have you seen the dress she'll be wearing tonight?" In under a minute, Anthea had managed to pull up a photo of Molly trying on the dress on her phone. Janine made suitably impressed noises, and asked about the shoes, and what Anthea was thinking of in regards to makeup and hair. Molly couldn't help but feel as if she were a bit invisible when Janine leaned around her to talk to Anthea directly.

Lunch was at a lovely (and probably incredibly expensive) restaurant, the kind that didn't bother with menus. Molly barely tasted any of it, mechanically eating whatever was put in front of her at Anthea's urging.

"You'll need to eat now, who knows what they'll be serving tonight."

"Try to avoid anything covered in a sauce," Janine offered her own bit of advice.

"Because I may spill it on the dress?"

Anthea shook her head. "Because sauces can cover a multitude of culinary atrocities, and you don't want to get ill on the car ride home."

After lunch, they left for the salon. Molly tried once more to win Mr Surly over with her sunny disposition, and yet again he was having none of it.

Although the door didn't get slammed shut this time, so perhaps he was starting to thaw toward her. Just a tiny bit.

Anthea and Janine took over at the salon, and for once Molly was happy to let them. She hadn't a clue what shade of nail polish or eye shadow would best compliment her hair and skin tone. She routinely chose comfort and bright colours in her clothing, preferring patterns that drew attention away from her less appealing features.

Features that Sherlock had found fault with on numerous occasions.

And with that, Molly began to panic. I can't do this.

"Yes, you can." Molly looked up, startled, to make eye contact with Anthea's reflection in the mirror. She hadn't realized she'd spoke aloud.

Anthea's hand hovered over Molly's shoulder for a moment, then dropped down and briefly squeezed. "There's nothing wrong with being nervous. Just remember, you'll most likely never see any of those people again after tonight, so their opinions won't matter in the long run. Don't seduce the host, try not to vomit on anyone in the Prime Minister's party, ignore anything that comes out of Sherlock's mouth and you should be fine."

Molly laughed in spite of herself. "Where's Janine?"

"Treating herself to a manicure on 'Mike's' tab."

Molly stifled another laugh as the head stylist for the salon stepped up to her chair and began to run his fingers through her hair.

"What are we thinking? Long and loose, with a bit of curl? Glamorous starlet?"

Molly nodded, already trying to picture herself looking something like Veronica Lake.

She could see Anthea shaking her head in the mirror. "No. Give her some volume up top, with a low, messy bun in the back."

"But Sherlock-" Molly cleared her throat and tried to sound more confident. "Sherlock told me that he preferred my hair loose."

Anthea's smiled as if she knew something Molly didn't. "He specifically requested that your hair be up tonight. Very insistent that he didn't need the distraction of watching you fuss with it all night. Strange that a man like Sherlock Holmes would get distracted by your hair, isn't it?" She leaned closer and whispered near Molly's ear, making sure to meet her gaze in the mirror. "Perhaps you should consider taking it down on that long car ride home?"

"Why are you telling me this?"

"Did Sherlock ever tell you that Mycroft knows several languages? Including Greek."

Molly wasn't sure which stunned her more: Anthea calling her boss by his given name, or her implication that Sherlock's brother had chosen his assistant's code name knowing full well what it meant.

"Just returning the favour." With that, Anthea stepped away and let the stylist work his magic.

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

"You look . . . lovely." They'd been travelling in the car long enough to leave the city behind, and that was the first thing Sherlock had said since replying to her nervous "Hello" when she had joined him in the backseat of the car.

Since he was staring out at the English countryside through the car window, rather than looking in her direction, Molly suspected the words were uttered more out of politeness than any real desire to compliment her.

"Are you trying to make small talk?" It was either that or another of those insincere compliments that she found so annoying. One more of those and she was going to seriously consider taking off one of her shoes and smacking him with the four inch heel.

He looked at her then, eyes narrowed in thought. "I was practicing for this evening. Mrs Barrett's guests are going to expect me to acknowledge their existence in some way." He studied her expression for a long moment. "I've mucked it up somehow, haven't I?"

She pursed her lips and titled her head back and forth as if considering his question. "Yeah, just a bit. You're trying too hard, and your inflection was off. Came off as forced rather than sincere."

Sherlock frowned, clearly annoyed at his failure.

Molly took pity on him. "Look, just do whatever it is you did with Janine."

His eyes widened in horror. "I would think that would be extremely inappropriate."

His response confused her, until she realized they probably weren't talking about the same thing. "Oh. OH. No, no, don't do . . . whatever it is you're thinking about right now. I meant charm me. Her. Them. Charm them. The guests. Just pretend they're Janine. You managed to pull that off, making her think you were lovely and sweet and, umm, whatever else, for weeks. You should be able to manage it for a few hours tonight."

She was babbling. She recognized it. Sherlock recognized it, judging from the look of discomfort on his face.

What was it about that man that could turn her into a rambling idiot with one look?

Molly was the first to break eye contact. Dusk was beginning to set in, and soon there wouldn't be enough light to see anything of note outside the car windows.

They rode in silence for several long minutes. The few glances she'd dared to dart in his direction told her he was probably somewhere in his mind palace, sorting through information about the guests at tonight's party.

He might have been happy to continue the journey without speaking another word, but she wasn't.

"I met up with your brother the other day."

"Obviously." He looked at her as if he hadn't a clue why she was bringing it up.

"Right. Anyway, I met with him, and he said something odd-"

"That sounds like Mycroft, yes."

Molly closed her eyes and prayed for the fortitude not to smack him in the arm. With a deep breath, she tried for the third time. "He said to tell you that he'd done his part, now it was time for you to fulfil your end of the bargain. What did he mean? Unless you can't tell me because of-" She broke off and shot a secretive glance toward the driver behind the nearly opaque partition, then leaned closer to Sherlock and whispered, "Because of National Security or something?"

"Really, Molly, have you been watching more of those spy movies?" Even in the fading light she could see him roll his eyes. "Nothing as interesting as espionage, I'm afraid. He agreed to take Mummy and Father to see La Traviata last month, then called off at the last minute due to urgent 'business' in another country."

He picked a piece of lint off the leg of his trousers, apparently bored with the topic already. "I know his 'business' was nothing more serious than a weekend of drinks and camel races with an old university chum who happens to be a diplomat for some desert country, the name of which I've already deleted."

"That's horrible." She'd never met Mr and Mrs Holmes; and, admittedly, she knew nothing about Mycroft's relationship with his parents, but she couldn't imagine lying to her own mother like that.

"The worst part was that Mummy was so disappointed, if I hadn't immediately taken on a case, she might have succeeded in forcing me take Mycroft's place. I would have been stuck watching a subpar soprano flutter about the stage pretending to die of consumption."

"Yes, Sherlock. That is clearly the worst part." She could tell her sarcasm hit home from the way he narrowed his eyes at her. "I still don't understand what that has to do with me though."

He huffed, "He agreed to push through a very specific special clearance for you; and in return, I won't tell Mummy and Father the real reason why they had to go to the opera alone."

"You blackmailed your brother?" She left the "For me?" unspoken, but it was clearly implied.

"I blackmailed my brother," Sherlock confirmed.

Molly settled back in her seat and looked out the window to hide the small smile that wouldn't leave her lips. Trees shrouded much of the passing landscape in shadows, but she was content enough with the view for the moment.

A few more minutes passed while she basked in the warmth of knowing that Sherlock had cared enough to taunt Mycroft for her.

Thinking of that eventually lead her to her earlier conversation with Anthea. "Do you happen to know if it was Mycroft who assigned Anthea her code name?" Molly was fairly certain she was correct, but getting confirmation wouldn't hurt. She was a romantic at heart, and the thought of a budding secret romance between Sherlock's brother and his . . . whatever Anthea was made her giggly.

"Who?"

She turned toward Sherlock again, wishing she could see him better. "Anthea. Mycroft's assistant. Or perhaps assistant isn't the right term? Is she an . . . an agent, is that what they're called?"

"If you're asking if she has been in the field, and if she could dispatch an assailant with relative ease, then yes. If you're asking if she fetches Mycroft's dry cleaning and schedules his appointments, then technically yes to that as well, but only if she feels the inclination day. He's got other staff to handle that sort of thing. I do believe he trusts her to handle some of his more . . . delicate issues, the kind that he wouldn't use strictly official channels to deal with."

"So, things that involve you?"

Sherlock grunted, but didn't deny it. "She's his, well, let's say she's his Gal Friday who is almost always armed and prepared for trouble, should it arise."

"Like a bodyguard?" At first it was difficult for Molly to think of Anthea in those terms; but the more she considered it, the more her mind bent to accept the idea.

"I suppose she could do that, too. In a pinch. But, as I said, he's got other people who can handle that sort of thing if he has the need. Why the sudden interest in my brother's staff?" Sherlock frowned and turned to give her his full attention. Clearly he was hoping there was a puzzle to gnaw on to distract him from the remainder of the tedious car ride.

"I was just curious as to whether or not Mycroft picked Anthea's code name, or if it came from somewhere else."

He was silent for a moment, possibly searching his memory. "How do you know it isn't her given name?"

"Her wording. The expression on her face. She as good as told me herself." She had been rather proud of herself, remembering Sherlock's often mentioned chiding of John. She hadn't just seen, she'd observed.

"Good instincts. You may be more useful to me tonight than I originally thought."

"You have no idea how thrilled I am to hear that," Molly replied with absolutely no enthusiasm colouring her voice at all.

Sherlock either ignored her annoyance or didn't pick up on it. The former was more likely, but the latter wasn't entirely out of the realm of possibility. "You're right. I believe her actual given name is Andrea or something similar. I haven't a clue where she picked up Anthea from, though." He drummed the fingers of one hand against his thigh. "She didn't tell you how she got it?"

"No." Molly shook her head. "She hinted, a bit; but nothing outright. I got the impression it might have been assigned by someone, possibly Mycroft." It had been more than a simple impression, Anthea had practically admitted it without so many words at the salon. But she didn't want to mention that to Sherlock just yet. "I mean, if she'd chosen it herself, wouldn't she have just told me when I asked?"

"Perhaps." He put his hands together and tucked them under his chin. He must have been extremely bored if he was prepared to put this much thought into her query. "You have a theory, I assume?"

"I do." She leaned closer to better see his expression, her lips twitching in amusement as she waited for him to figure it out.

He shifted farther away from her, nearly pressing his shoulder against the car door. "Are you going to tell me?"

"I thought you would prefer to figure it out on your own. Unless you can't?"

He scoffed and waved one hand dismissively in her direction, before returning it to its earlier position.

"You think Mycroft assigned it to her. But why would you assume that? It's the obvious conclusion, of course, but there's more to it than that. You've attached some special significance to it."

Molly smiled coyly. "Have I?"

She really did find the way he worked through deductions to be fascinating to witness (and more than a little stimulating). Unless that brilliant mind was turned in her direction, it never seemed to end well when Sherlock deduced her.

He glared at her for interrupting his thought process. "Yes. You have."

"Would you like a hint?" She was beginning to enjoy herself now.

"Fine. But only because this is growing tedious."

She cleared her throat, leaned even closer, and whispered, "It's Greek."

"What is? Anthea? Of course it's Greek, any idiot would know that."

Just like that, his attitude drained all the fun out of teasing him. "And? What does that mean?"

With an extremely put upon sigh, Sherlock closed his eyes and began to think. Since she was closer to him now, she could see the rapid movement under his eye lids even in the limited light, as if he were looking through the pages of a book. He lowered his hands to his lap, his fingers twitching periodically. She suspected he was searching through his mind palace for any incidental knowledge of the Greek language that he might have stored away at some point.

While he was busy, she shifted back to her half of the seat and brushed her hands down her wrap and gown, trying to smooth out any wrinkles that might have developed during the car ride. The wrap was warm enough to help combat the chill that would surely be in the evening air, yet still looked delicate and light. The gown was very pretty, and she'd hate to ruin it. She'd been told the colour brought out the natural highlights in her (usually dull, to her eyes anyway) brown hair. Too bad she'd never have another occasion to wear it.

She'd look dreadfully silly traipsing about the lab in it. Molly giggled at the thought.

Perhaps she'd meet a bachelor at the party. A handsome Prince Charming who would sweep her off her feet and take her to lots of glamorous parties that required formal gowns, midnight yacht rides, and champagne picnics out on soft verdant lawns. She'd have to have Sherlock vet him first, though. Wouldn't want a repeat of Janine's situation.

Or, perhaps, she'd been indulging in too many romance novels. The kind she enjoyed reading during those rare, relaxing bubble baths she desperately needed after a particularly tiring day at work? The kind of day that almost always happened to coincide with Sherlock deciding to drop in for an unexpected visit to the morgue or lab.

Seriously though, verdant lawns? Definitely far too many romance novels.

Perhaps she didn't need the fancy dress or a handsome Prince Charming at all.

Maybe she should look into booking a vacation at one of those tropical singles resorts. Find a hot, single man (Again, have Sherlock deduce him first, no more psychopaths or cheating married men, thank you very much.) and have a few days of giggly romance and hot, sweaty sex.

She came out of her musings to find Sherlock's eyes open and trained on her. Molly was thankful for the lack of adequate lighting, as the shadows hid the heat flushing her cheeks. She would die if he managed to deduce that she was thinking about sex, especially while she was in the same room (or car) as him. "Did you figure it out yet?"

"You believe Mycroft thinks she's pretty." He said it as if it were they most idiotic words he'd ever uttered.

"No. I believe that Mycroft thinks of her as a beautiful, blossoming flower."

Sherlock scoffed again. He was doing that a lot this evening.

"His flower," Molly clarified, just in case he'd missed that tiny detail.

The scoffing turned into a choking sputter, and Molly smirked at Sherlock's predictable reaction.

He sneered, "Mycroft doesn't believe in that sort of drivel. He doesn't do feelings."

"Or, and this is just an idea, what if that's only what he'd like you to think. I suppose it could have been a completely subconscious gesture on his part; but the fact remains that someone gave his Gal Friday the name Anthea, and the most likely culprit is Mycroft. Anyway you look at it, subconscious or not, it's a bit sweet. And, dare I say, romantic?"

Sherlock's expression shuttered, and he turned to look out the window. She heard him mutter, "Ridiculous," under his breath.

"You're right. How silly of me to have brought it up." Molly followed his example and looked out her own window. She knew she was grinning like a fool; but she was strangely pleased with herself and she couldn't help it.



Part 1 / Part 5