A Vicious Motivator - Chapter Five

[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 Five

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

The meal had been tolerable, if a bit disappointing.

They had been seated at one of many circular tables set up inside a large, temporary pavilion on the lawn near the main house. There were plenty of flowers arrangements, delicate china, and real silver flatware to differentiate the Barratt's fete from the average garden party.

As for the food, Molly would have honestly preferred sourdough buns and cold cuts. While nothing had been drenched in the dreaded all-concealing sauce, the portions that were on her plate had been very small. She had been careful to take dainty bites, mimicking the other female guests seated at their table. In hindsight, Molly was grateful that Anthea had insisted she eat lunch.

Sherlock, she noticed, hadn't even bothered touching the food on his plate.

Although, at one point during the entrée portion of the meal, he had gestured across the room and loudly asked if that was a member of the Royal Family standing next to the coffee urn. By the time he'd muttered, "No, I must be mistaken," and the rest of their disappointed tablemates had returned to their meals, his and Molly's plates had somehow been switched.

As she dug into his salmon, she caught him looking at her out of the corner of his eye. Molly nudged her leg against his thigh in silent thanks, and he nodded in return.

He also, she noted, made no effort to move away from her for once.

When the last plate had been cleared by the waiters, Sherlock excused himself and disappeared. Molly spent several minutes alone at the table as the other guests wandered away to speak with friends. She wondered when (or if) he was planning to return. She was just considering getting up and looking for a powder room to hide in, when a distinguished looking gentleman stopped next to her table to ask if she'd like to dance.

That was when she'd realized there was music coming from somewhere outside the pavilion. Since there was still no sign of Sherlock, Molly gratefully offered her hand to the gentleman and let him escort her toward the gardens. A decent sized parquet dance floor had been set up under an excessively large number of fairy lights.

She was dancing with partner number four, desperately trying to keep her toes from being crushed, when a familiar voice asked to cut in. Her current partner seemed prepared to protest until he caught sight of Sherlock's imposing figure. The man offered her a sickly smiled and stepped out of the way.

Sherlock took her hand in one of his and rested the other just below her shoulder blade, before leading her into a waltz.

"Thank you for that," Molly whispered once they'd left the other man behind.

"I couldn't really take you home with a broken foot, now could I? I'd never hear the end of it."

"Yes, well, regardless of your motives, I do appreciate your intervention."

Dancing with Sherlock was surprisingly easy in comparison to the other four men. He lead with such confidence and grace that she didn't have to worry about where to place her feet; which was good because she barely remembered anything from the summer dance course she'd taken when she was seven. Even if she had, back then she hadn't been trying to navigate on impossibly tall heels. Well, impossibly tall for her, most of the other women seemed to be doing just fine.

Strangely, she didn't feel the need to fill the moment with nervous small talk for once. Which was probably just as well as she realized he was paying more attention to the other guests on the dance floor than to her. There was a brief twinge of hurt, deep in her chest; but she tamped it down. This wasn't a real date, and even if it was . . . well, it was Sherlock. To expect him not to pay attention to his surrounding would be foolish at best.

The gentleman who had originally brought her to the dance floor caught her eye as she and Sherlock glided past, and he smiled at her. He'd been nice enough, listened when she'd talked and seemed legitimately interested in her answers, and he danced almost as well as Sherlock. Molly lifted her hand from Sherlock's arm and waved her fingers in response.

"If you'd prefer to continue your flirtation with that man, then by all means, let me know. I'd be more than happy to steer you in his direction. Although, in the spirit of our friendship, I feel that I should warn you he is older than he would appear at first glance. Dyed hair, covering grey. Poorly. Capped teeth. Tan is clearly spread on. A girdle under his tux, most likely attempting to cover a paunch. Shall I go on?"

Molly hadn't realized he'd even noticed the other man, much less taken the time to catalogue his various perceived faults. "None of that means he can't dance, Sherlock."

He huffed, and lead her around the outside of the dance floor and, coincidentally, away from her former dance partner.

"Sherlock?"

"Hmmm."

Annoyingly, he continued to look everywhere but at her.

Molly tapped him on the shoulder. "Can I have your full attention for just a moment?"

She waited until he reluctantly gave in and made eye contact with her. "I'm not looking to go home with him. I came here with you, and even though this isn't a date, it would be incredibly rude--not to mention extremely tacky--for me not to leave with the same man I arrived with. Although, I suppose I could get his number, since you've brought up the idea of seeing him again. Maybe I'll give him a call next week and see if he'd like to go out for Thai. Do rich people do that? Go out for Thai?"

She thought she'd been fairly obvious that she was only teasing about asking for the other man's number, but Sherlock bristled nevertheless. Molly gave up trying to understand what could possibly be bothering him now, and went back to trying to convince herself that dancing with Sherlock was no big deal and absolutely nothing she should freak out about.

That song ended, and another began. Sherlock pulled her closer, raising the hand on her back slightly until his fingers just grazed her bare skin above the dress. It was all she could do to keep from gasping in shock at the unexpected contact.

They made a full circuit of the dance floor before Sherlock cleared his throat and spoke. "You do look lovely this evening."

Her steps faltered, and she nearly stomped on his foot. Her head shot up to find him watching her. His expression seemed completely sincere.

"Oh. Thank you. Anthea helped. And Janine. A lot. Bit like having my own fairy godmothers. And, of course, your brother paid for everything." There was the babbling again.

He continued to look at her, his expression softer than usual. Warmer. His arm tightened, the hand on her back pulling her even closer until they were nearly pressed chest to chest.

It was a perfect moment.

Too perfect.

Molly was suddenly suspicious. "What are you doing?"

His steps faltered, and he frowned down at her. "Dancing with you. I thought that was obvious."

She tried to draw her hand away from his, but Sherlock wrapped his fingers tighter around hers and refused to let her pull free. "We've talked about this. Just ask me for whatever it is, and I'll either say yes or no. You don't have to try to charm me into it."

"What if I like charming you?"

"Sherlock." His name came out as a low warning that would have carried far more weight if it had been issued by anyone else but her.

His frown deepened. Evidently, he had been expecting a different response. "I was being honest. You do look lovely this evening. Not every compliment I've given you has been disingenuous. Nor have I had an ulterior motive for all of them." He released her hand and put two fingers under her chin to tilt her face up until she could clearly see his expression. There was an intensity there, a warmth in his eyes, which she rarely saw. "It's obvious that I've given you far too much reason to doubt me in the past, but I am trying."

In her heart, she knew it was true; he had been making an effort to be less of a prat of late. She was just so weary of analyzing everything he said or did to figure out if he was being sincere. It was so much easier to assume he wanted something from the start, than to risk believing him and having her feelings stomped on over and over.

Her frame lost its rigidity, and Molly allowed herself to melt against him slightly.

"Forgive me?" he asked, so softly she barely heard it.

She sighed and pressed her forehead against his jacket lapel. "Ugh. Of course I do."

He chuckled quietly, his chest rumbling against her cheek. "You don't have to sound so happy about it."

Molly lifted her head. "You wanted forgiveness, Sherlock. You didn't say I needed to be cheerful about it."

The song came to an end, and he began to lead them away from the dance floor; one hand against the small of her back to guide her. "Right as usual. Come along, Molly. As delightful as it is to dance with you--which is not empty flattery, so don't give me that look--we've got mingling to do, or Mycroft will insist on forcing me to attend another one of these boring things as punishment."

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

Somehow, Sherlock had managed to charm Mr Barrett into leading them on a brief house tour. Under the pretence that Sherlock was extremely interested in the original Victorian architecture that the Barretts' refurbishers had uncovered during the restoration of the house, Sherlock had arranged to get a quick peek at a large portion of the building.

He'd forced her to make small talk with every single person who attempted to greet the rude consulting detective, while he blatantly sized them up and then ignored them.

He'd even stopped by the kitchen so that she could ask the catering crew for directions to the powder room (that she didn't actually get a chance to use), then spent several moments genially chit-chatting with two of the hired waitresses and a busboy.

Now they were back outside, swiftly walking along the garden path that encircled the house and meandered through a portion of the grounds. Molly's feet hurt, and she was getting tired of being led around like a docile pet.
Sherlock looked up at the moonlit sky, muttering to himself about cloud coverage and obscuring shadows.

So much for simply being a plus one to a social obligation.

"Are we on a case?"

He stopped walking, and slowly turned around to look at her for the first time in more than a quarter of an hour. Sherlock tilted his head to the side, considering her words; then his lips tilted up in a hint of a mischievous smile. "Yes. We are. Isn't it exciting?"

It was only then that Molly realized what she'd said. She couldn't help flushing a deep red at her presumption. But when Sherlock took off, saying he needed to see the bushes below the window of the maid's room, she couldn't hide her grin. Molly hiked up her skirt and hurried after him.

Once the bushes in question had been inspected to his satisfaction, he lead her back to the well maintained garden path, and began to outline the details of the case for her. She knew full well that he was only telling her because he liked to work through things aloud (and enjoyed having an audience to remind him of how clever he was at the same time) rather than expecting her to offer any real insight. But it was still nice to have some idea why they were skulking around the Barrett estate.

"Mrs Veronica Barrett is an associate of my brother. What she does, specifically, has no relevance to the case, and even if it did . . . Well, let's just say that I very much doubt your new security clearance would even begin to cover anything I could tell you--most of which I'm not even supposed to be aware of--and Mycroft would have both of our heads, so I'll just skip to the pertinent bits, shall I?"

Molly wasn't going to argue with him. In general, Mycroft Holmes was a bit of a git, but he had the potential to be a very dangerous git if pushed too far. Which was something Molly had absolutely no desire to do.

"All you need to know is that after the Barretts finished renovations to the estate and decided to make the move out to the country. Mrs Barrett began to work from her home office to avoid the daily commute to and from London. Somewhere in that house is hidden an interior office with no windows and only a single entrance. The door is solid steel, locked with a keypad that only two people have the code for. Mrs Barrett and her personal assistant; Mr Reginald Smythe, who lives in a small guest cottage located elsewhere on the estate."

That would explain why Sherlock had insisted on walking through every room he could get access to; he was analyzing the layout, probably trying to deduce how difficult it would be for an intruder to find the hidden office.

"Exactly."

"Pardon?"

He drew her to a stop, and bent to examine the soil next to a lattice pergola. "You've figured out why I was so interested in the house earlier."

"I'm not even going to bother asking."

"Probably for the best. Do you see the footprints here? And this other set here, near the bench?"

She did, but only after he pointed them out. "Are they important?"

"Possibly. I would say they're roughly three days old. That was when it last rained in this area, and the prints were made when the ground was still wet and soft. The first belong to a man, slight build, shoes are expensive. Italian. Mr Barrett, most likely, although I'd have to see the rest of the household staff to make sure. The second belong to a woman, too tall to be Mrs Barrett, and thinner. You can tell from the depth of the imprint of the heel."

Molly decided to take his word for it. She looked around and considered their location in relation to the main house. "You know, with the height of the bushes, if someone were sitting on the bench, they couldn't be seen by anyone in the house."

Sherlock's head snapped up and he began to shuffle around, checking angles and line of sight. "Good catch, Molly."

She flushed, pleased with the unexpected praise.

He continued to tell her about the case as he searched for more evidence. "Two weeks ago, Mrs Barrett entered her office, just after midnight, to answer an unexpected call from overseas. She noticed a small statuette missing from the shelving behind her desk. The statuette had been a gift from her husband, given to her to commemorate the birth of their only child, a son named Hollis. It was a gold filigree butterfly delicately perched upon a porcelain holly flower. I'm told it was one of a kind, created specifically for Mrs Barrett."

Sherlock crouched to examine the underside of the bench. He pulled a pen light out of his trouser pocket, then leaned forward and crawled underneath. His voice was muffled when he spoke again. "As you can expect, she quickly left the room, and returned with Smythe and a member of the household security in tow, only to find the statuette back on the shelf in its usual position."

He withdrew from under the bench quickly, brushing ineffectually at the dirt and leaves on his hands and trousers. "I don't think the footprints will be important to the case."

"Are you sure?"

"Very. Someone has been holding clandestine meetings out here, but they aren't trying to profit from the government's secrets. On the positive side, at least they've been practicing safe sex."

"How do you know that?"

Sherlock tucked his pen light back into his trousers, then pulled a handkerchief out of an inner pocket of his jacket. He started to scrub dirt off his hands, and tilted his head toward the bushes behind the bench. "There are two used condoms back there."

"OH! Out here? Really?" Molly looked at the bench and couldn't help but wonder at the logistics involved. "And they just left that sort of thing laying about, for anyone to find?"

"I sincerely doubt they were expecting someone to be crawling around on their hands and knees under the bougainvillea."

"True." She was still distracted by the very idea of being bold enough to just . . . go for it, out in the open like that. She had barely been comfortable doing it in her own sitting room with Tom, and then only when Toby hadn't been watching.

"Focus, Molly. On the case."

"Right. Sorry." She was thankful that they weren't closer to the lighted pavilion or the dance floor as she could feel the heat of another deep blush spreading across her cheeks and down her neck.

"At the time, Mrs Barrett chalked the incident up to her imagination and being woken in the middle of the night for the call. A day later, however, a gentleman who had been a involved in a number of important . . . things, involving the sort of business Mrs Barrett and my brother have their hands in, disappeared. He was later found propped up on a park bench very, very dead."

Something about that struck a chord in her memory. "Wait, was this the body you insisted I examine even thought it wasn't on my list?"

"The one with the post mortem bruising that indicated the body had been flat on its back long enough for the blood to pool, even though it had been found sitting up, you mean?"

She was fairly positive he was being difficult on purpose. Perhaps he was uncomfortable standing so close to the sex bench, and was trying to distract himself by annoying her? "Yep. That one."

"Then yes. Really, Molly, I've asked you to examine many bodies since we first met, you should make an effort to be more specific in your questions."

She was about to reply, but Sherlock held a finger up to his lips. Molly heard the low murmur of another conversation seconds after Sherlock. By the time she fully registered the other couple approaching from the direction of the house, he was already pushing her farther under the pergola and off the path. He wrapped his arms around her waist and twisted her so that his back was to the path, before tucking his face against her throat. She wasn't able to control her surprised gasp nor the way she tensed when his lips brushed her skin; but it only took her a moment to realize what he was up to.

As the other couple came even with them, Molly brought her hands up to grasp his hair and pull him closer, effectively hiding most of his distinctive curls from view. She giggled in feigned embarrassment, then pressed her cheek against his hair and purred, "This isn't the time or place, love. I'll make it worth your while to wait until we get home." Molly tried to sound as seductive as possible. She didn't have a lot of practice at that sort of thing, and suspected that she fell well short of her goal. Sherlock's fingers dug into her hips, causing her to gasp again.

She raised her head just enough to catch the eye of the other woman, who gave Molly a knowing smile before latching on to her partner's arm and pulling him down the path and away from the pergola.

The moment they were out of sight, Molly dropped her hands and pushed Sherlock away.

The expression on his face would have been amusing if she didn't have more important things to clarify.

"I'm assuming the neck nuzzling-"

"There was no nuzzling. I don't nuzzle," he quickly interrupted, looking quite indignant.

"Fine. I'm assuming the non-nuzzling was a subterfuge to keep your face hidden? Because you don't want anyone to know you're out here looking around for something specific, rather than taking a moonlit stroll to find a place to steal a quick snog?"

"Very astute of you, Doctor Hooper." Sherlock put more space between the two of them.

"Sarcasm?" It didn't sound as if it was, but it was difficult to tell with him sometimes.

He thought about it for a moment. The tic at the corner of his eye made a brief appearance, which told her that he was truly considering his answer.

"No. I mean it." He looked as surprised to be saying it, as she looked hearing it.

"Huh."

He narrowed his eyes at her inarticulate reply, and she shrugged in response.

"So why wait so long to come out here and investigate? If nothing else, I would have figured the local constabulary or even New Scotland Yard--if they could have managed to work it into their jurisdiction somehow--would have trampled all over your evidence by now."

Sherlock left the pergola and indicated that they should continue down the path. "They would have, if they'd known there had been a crime committed."

Molly followed, forced to be much more careful with her foot placement now as there was less light the farther away from the house they walked. One misstep on a paving stone and she'd be face first in a flower bed. She reached out to tug on his sleeve, slowing him so she could keep up.

Thankfully, he shortened his stride once he realized what the problem was.

"Mrs Barrett didn't call the police?" Molly asked.

"She wasn't even certain there had been a crime, not until it had been confirmed that her contact had met with foul play, and hadn't just had a poorly timed thrombosis. Not that there really is a convenient time for that." He continued to scan the grounds as they walked. "Even that, in itself, wouldn't normally have been confirmation. You would be surprised how often these kind of people disappear, only to reappear on a slab somewhere."

Molly shook her head. "No, I wouldn't."

It was obvious that he'd forgotten what she did for a living. Knowing Sherlock, he may have even temporarily forgotten her name in his enthusiasm for puzzling through the case. Not forgotten. He doesn't forget things. He'll deliberately delete them, if he doesn't think he'll need the information again. He might even misplace them in that vast, bewildering mind of his. But he'll remember eventually, if he thinks it's important enough. He always does.

Sherlock looked at her, really looked at her, for a long moment. His gaze flicked from her carefully styled hair down to her feet in their extremely uncomfortable heels, then back. He was visibly perplexed. She'd seen that expression before, when she'd surprised him with a quiet observation or two about himself.

Then his face cleared. "You're right, you wouldn't. Sometimes it can be . . . difficult to remember that there is a wealth of experience and a backbone of steel hidden behind all of that."

"That?" Molly wasn't sure if she was being insulted again.

He waved a hand at her. "You. The sunshine, the hideously cheerful jumpers, the . . . the willingness to believe the best in someone." His eyes softened again, turning into pale blue pools. Molly was afraid she might drown in them if she weren't careful. "Even when they've let you down, time after time, and given you no reason to trust in them. In me."

He stepped closer, and Molly had the brief thought that he was peering straight into her soul. "You appear to be a timid mouse, easy to overlook and manipulate. But underneath it all, you are Molly Hooper, a force to be reckoned with. And that has lead to more than one man's downfall."

Her breath caught in her throat. For just a moment, no more than a split second, she thought Sherlock was going to kiss her.

He blinked several times in rapid succession--Buffering, isn't that what John called it?--and just like that, the moment, whatever it had been, was gone.

"A bit of research uncovered a string of incidents that, when taken separately, wouldn't draw too much attention; but when you factor in the single common denominator, it soon became apparent that there was something suspect going on. I'm sure you've deduced that common denominator by now?"

She hadn't, but she appreciated that he seemed to think it was possible that she had, rather than assuming it was behind her comprehension. This was the first she'd even heard of the case or Mrs Barrett; but Sherlock was aware of that. Which meant the answer was in the information he'd given her this evening. Probably staring her right in the face. Which would mean . . .

"Mrs Barrett?"

"Oh, very good, Molly. I would have had to spell it out for John."

She very much doubted that was true.

"The theory is that someone has been bugging her office, then?"

Sherlock hummed in agreement, and started walking again. The path had finally begun to curve its way back toward the house.

"It would appear so. After her contact turned up on the park bench, the statuette was examined. Nothing was found, of course."

"Of course." Recording devices were traceable, according to the police procedurals she liked to watch on the telly. Obviously, if one had been found, Sherlock would have had no interest in the case. Not enough of a challenge for him. "So the spy was returning the original when she interrupted him?"

"Or her. Espionage is not strictly a man's game. We're looking for someone who could gain access to a secure area without detection, twice at a minimum. Although I suspect it was more times than that. Far more. Mrs Barrett was routinely in and out of that office at all hours, assuming her schedule is anything like my brother's; which I have reason to believe it is. Therefore, our culprit would need to be nearby, have the ability to move about freely without raising the alarm, and be able to observe the household without arousing suspicion."

He stopped again, eyes shifting from side to side without focusing on anything. Molly knew he was working something out in his head. If she hadn't been paying attention, she might have missed his barely audible, "Or perhaps a part of it."

"Her husband?" Seemed like the obvious choice.

"Possible, but unlikely." Sherlock began to move; first turning around in a complete circle, then pacing up and down the path no more than five meters each direction. She'd seen him do this before, his body needing to burn off kinetic energy while his brain worked on a difficult problem. It was a direct contrast to the unnatural stillness that usually accompanied his forays into the mind palace. "He'd have nothing to gain from it."

Molly offered a suggestion, "Money."

"He's got access to it already. Mrs Barrett loves her husband, and denies him nothing. Including his mistress. Before you ask, no, the mistress isn't a motive. It's quite obvious that Mrs Barrett is aware of her husband's extramarital activities. I would even go so far as to say she welcomes them. They keep him happy, and out of her boudoir. I seriously doubt that she's the one that's been out here cavorting on that bench with her husband. Which is a mental picture I will need to delete as soon as possible." Sherlock shuddered, a look of revulsion momentarily clouding his features. "As I was saying, Mrs Barrett is perfectly content with the state of her marriage. As is Mr Barrett."

"What about the mistress, then? What if she wants Mr Barrett to leave his wife for her?" Molly asked when Sherlock passed by again.

"It's a motive, yes; but how many jealous mistresses/maids would have the means to bypass that level of security, and the opportunity to sell classified secrets to the highest bidder?"

"The PA?"

"Too obvious. He's the clear suspect. Access, opportunity, would know exactly who to approach with the stolen information. Only an idiot would implicate himself like that."

"As you are overly fond of pointing out, the world is full of idiots, Sherlock."

His head snapped around until he could see her again. "You're right. It is. But not Smythe. I've met him, he's anything but an idiot. However . . . I'll need to see that office. Come on."

Sherlock took off at a decent clip, and Molly had to lift her skirt once more to try to keep up. They bypassed the dancing area all together and headed straight for the pavilion where they'd eaten.

"Once we're inside, be helpful and bring me Smythe. I'll need to speak with him about arranging a time for a return visit."

"Not Mrs Barrett?"

"Not just yet. It wouldn't do to be seen speaking to her for any length of time. There's still a chance the spy isn't aware that we're on to him."

"Or her."

Sherlock gave her a sharp look when she parroted his earlier words back at him, then nodded. "Or her. For tonight, I'm officially here on behalf of my brother, who is an old friend of the family. Nothing more. The fewer people who realize what I do, and start speculating as to why I'm here, the better."

They stepped under the pavilion roof, and surveyed the area. While they'd been gone, the catering crew had been hard at work. The circular tables had been cleared off. A long buffet table had been set up off to the side, covered in various desserts. The smaller table with a coffee urn was once more being manned by a waiter. There was even an open bar.

Sherlock nodded his head toward one of the men standing near the bar. "There's Smythe. The short gentleman with the well-waxed handlebar and the fuchsia pocket square. Extremely competent and organized, but he has an overly developed flair for the dramatic. Probably asking the bartender to make note of any guests who may need the offer of a ride home this evening."

Molly nodded along to everything he was saying, although she realized very little of it was actually relevant to the task Sherlock had set for her. She very much doubted the state of the man's moustache would play into her request for him to meet with Sherlock in a less conspicuous area.

Minutes later she had done just that, asked Smythe if he had a few minutes to spare to speak with Mycroft's brother; and they were just finalizing where the two men should meet, when an unholy bellow filled the pavilion. Molly whirled around to see a tall, stocky man once again yell, "YOU!"

There was just enough time for her to think the man might have been very attractive if his face weren't twisted in rage before he barrelled across the room, straight toward . . .

"Oh fuck," Molly whimpered. He was charging straight for Sherlock; who, apparently, didn't have the common sense to get out of the way. If anything, he braced himself for the imminent impact.

Smythe was quick to try to intervene, dashing across the pavilion with Molly hurrying closely behind.

"Where is she, Holmes?" The man swung his fist at Sherlock's face, and Sherlock easily dodged it.

Another wild punch met with an efficient block.

Even in his tux, Molly couldn't help but notice that Sherlock was extremely fit and agile. And now really, really is not the time, Molly.

"If she wanted you to know her whereabouts, Chapman, she would have told you."

Smythe stood just outside of harm's way, hands on his hips, and beseeched them to stop. "Gentleman, please. Can't we sit down and discuss this like civilized men?"

It didn't take a genius to deduce that Smythe's suggestion was going to be blatantly ignored. However, they were beginning to draw a crowd, and she could already hear people whispering Sherlock's name.

"Sherlock, people are-"

The instigator of the fight spoke over her as if he didn't even realize she existed. "I know she was at your place, Holmes. I don't know what lies you've been telling Janine, to lure her away from me, but I'll get her back. Don't think I won't." He moved closer still, trying to use his bulk to intimidate Sherlock.

From Molly's point of view, it didn't seem to work.

"She came to me. Couldn't wait to get as far away from you as possible," Sherlock taunted the other man. "She told me she found your attentions repugnant." Somehow, even though they were similar heights, Sherlock managed to look down his nose at Chapman. Who, apparently, was Janine's ex, the creepy stalker Francis.

Molly huffed, annoyed. "Really, Sherlock? Is this really the time to be provoking-"

"Shut up, bitch!" Chapman snapped his head around to glare at her for a second, then returned his attention to Sherlock with a sneer. "Keep your tart in line, Holmes, or I'll do it for you."

Sherlock's eyes narrowed dangerously, and his lips parted to deliver what would have surely been a deadly verbal cut, but Molly beat him to it. "Who the hell do you think you are?"

Suddenly, Chapman shoved her, his hand hard against Molly's chest. She fell back against a chair, bounced off of it, and barely managed to keep from pulling a table down with her when she landed on her arse hard enough to knock the air out of her lungs.



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