A Vicious Motivator - Chapter Nine

[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 Nine

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

A spot at the kerb in front of her building opened up, as if by magic, as soon as the Mercedes drew near. If she didn't know better, she would have thought the other car had been waiting for them to appear before pulling out into the street, but that was too farfetched (even for someone who liked to micromanage every detail such as Mycroft Holmes).

Molly didn't recognize her driver, and she was a little disappointed that it wasn't Soter. Soter still wasn't much of a talker, but he didn't seem to mind her rambling on about her day. He'd even offered a suggestion when she'd been wondering aloud as to the source of a particularly peculiar puncture wound the night before.

Dandelion digger. Soter was an avid gardener when he wasn't driving misappropriated government vehicles and scaring the pants off of paranoid pathologists.

The new guy didn't seem the type to encourage chatting, even the strictly one-sided kind; which gave her plenty of time to quietly think on the drive home.

Her foot ached from a long day of standing in front of autopsy tables. Her head ached from a long day of paperwork. Her body ached from a long day of mounting tension caused by worrying about Sherlock's reaction to their last conversation.

She hadn't seen him since she'd walked out of her flat yesterday.

Molly had been so hesitant to return home that evening, unsure of what Sherlock would say. Had he thought about her words? Had he admitted to himself that he wasn't the heartless sociopath he often claimed to be? Why had he asked if she still loved him?

Sherlock had tried to warn her off, but his wording . . .

It was almost as if he wanted her to love him. Yearned to be the man she needed, but he was too scared to try.

There were times over the last day and a half that she absolutely hated him for reigniting that spark of hope in her, the one she'd worked so hard to extinguish. Why couldn't he have just kept his mouth shut?

It had been both a relief and sheer torture to come home to Georgie waiting for her last night, no sign of Sherlock. He'd even disposed of her half-eaten bagel and nearly empty coffee cup before he left. The only thing out of place was the picture of her and Toby that had been stuck to her refrigerator. It was missing entirely. She'd seen Sherlock looking at it once or twice. He'd probably deduced that it had been taken by Tom, and tossed it into the bin because it had poor composition and offended his delicate sensibilities or something equally ridiculous.

He'd done worse.

He'd tried to incinerate the crocheted afghan her grandmother had made because the yarn was "hideous, scratchy, and made his retina's burn". She'd only just rescued it before he'd managed to light a match after he'd shoved the thing into her bathtub. Molly had scolded him as if he was a little boy, but he hadn't seemed fazed. He had got what he wanted, as she hid it from sight to keep his destructive hands off of it, so he probably thought he'd won in the end.

All she wanted tonight was a quiet evening in front of the telly, spicy take-away, a bottle of wine, and the half carton of ice cream she'd been saving for a rainy day. She didn't want to feel obligated to make small talk with someone she barely knew. She didn't want to make sure she had plenty of clean sheets and blankets on hand for whoever got stuck bedding down on her sofa. And she especially did not want to worry herself to sleep wondering if Sherlock was going to show up in the middle of the night, and slip back into her bed as if nothing had changed between them.

Waking up wrapped in his arms--even one more time--only to realize it meant nothing, would devastate her.

Why couldn't he understand how much that bothered her?

He'd already taken her heart--she'd long given up trying to convince herself she hadn't handed it over years ago, and never managed to take every single piece back before she'd agreed to marry Tom--why couldn't he give her this one little thing?

As long as she wasn't touching him, couldn't hear that voice saying her name, couldn't smell his unique, masculine scent . . . Then she could keep her dignity and self respect. She'd spent years waiting with the slimmest hope that Sherlock would someday realize he loved her. When he left, Molly had taken a good, long look at her life, and she did not like the needy woman she saw.

She'd changed over the last few years. She'd grown up, tried to move on. And then he came back and ruined everything by telling her she was the one that mattered the most to him. He'd very nearly broken her again.

It had taken time, ending her engagement with Tom, even the turmoil of the last few weeks, to rebuild her. And now Molly was nearly whole.

She'd come to the realization that she could be Sherlock's friend, even with her unrequited feelings out in the open. He trusted her when he was in need, came to her when he was vulnerable, relied on her when he had nowhere else to turn. She was strong enough to be everything he needed, and nothing more; but only if he respected her boundaries. That was a concession she had to have.

The driver cleared his throat, and Molly realized she'd been sitting there with her hand on the door handle for ages. She apologized and let herself out of the car.

From the pavement she could see the sitting room window. Her curtains were drawn, just as she'd left them that morning. They were no hint as to whether or not Sherlock would be waiting in her flat when she opened the door.

Molly sighed and entered her building. The stairs loomed, ominous and uninviting. For a brief moment, she considered turning around and leaving. Perhaps phoning Meena to see if she'd like to meet up for dinner and a movie.

Sadly, she didn't think she'd be decent company for even that much.

She trudged up the stairs and unlocked her door. She had just begun to push it open when the tiny hairs on the back of her neck stood up.

The odd stillness of the landing finally registered.

Molly felt her skin break out in goose bumps.

How had she not noticed that no one had joined her at the front door? No one had climbed up the flights of stairs with her. No one was standing next to her, politely making small talk while they waited to be let into the flat.

"Are you kidding me?" Molly muttered under her breath.

If she turned around and Sherlock Bloody Holmes was lurking behind her, if he was the one scaring her, she was going to push him down the stairs.

Her heart began to race as she fumbled with her key ring, pulling her flat key free from the door. By the time she actually heard the person behind her speak, she had the door key stabilized between her finger and thumb, ready to slash or jab, just as she'd learned in Meena's classes.

"Doctor Molly Hooper. It's so nice to finally have a name to go with such a pretty face."

She spared a glance over her shoulder to confirm the speaker was indeed the odious man from the Barrett party, and that they were the only two people on the landing.

Pretty face, my arse, she thought. She hadn't forgotten the horrible things he'd written about her to Janine. Cheap harlot and cut-rate substitute weren't the worst of it.

"Mr Chapman," Molly replied through gritted teeth. Her gaze darted toward the stairs. Where was Billy or one of the others from Sherlock's network? Had Chapman done something to one of them?

"Oh, you know who I am? I'm sure Holmes has told you all about me." He puffed out his chest and gloated. "Now, we can do this the easy way, or the hard way. I know which I'd prefer, but I'm feeling generous today."

Chapman took a menacing step closer. "You will call Sherlock Holmes and persuade him to drop by for a visit this evening. He hasn't been back to that quaint rat trap he calls home in days, but I've been informed that he's spent the night here rather recently. It shouldn't be too difficult for you to convince him to do it again."

Molly's mind scrambled to find a distraction, something to buy her some more time until she could find a way out of this mess. "I can't. He's on a case. It's a nine, so he won't make an effort to see me until it's solved. Won't even answer my calls or-or listen to my messages. It's one of the rules of our-our arrangement."

He looked bewildered for a moment; as if it never occurred to him that his ridiculously melodramatic plan might not go off without a hitch. Then his too handsome face twisted into a mockery of a friendly smile. "If he won't come to me, I suppose I'll have to go to him. Tell me where to find him, or I'll be forced to leave a nasty surprise for your meddling boyfriend to find when he eventually gets around to looking for you."

"And if I tell you, will you leave me alone?" She hated that she could hear how unsteady fear had made her voice. Chapman heard it too, judging from the way that horrible smile morphed into an even worse smirk.

"Perhaps. I may just stay and play a little bit, I'm not in any rush." He chuckled. Molly shuddered as the sound seemed to grate against her nerves. "In you go, so we can have our little talk in private."

His big hand wrapped around her bicep--Oddly, her mind registered that his palm was wider than Sherlock's, but his fingers were shorter and thicker, not as elegant. Would they be harder to break?--and he used his hold to try to steer her into her flat. Molly knew with one hundred percent certainty that she could not let him get her into her sitting room and behind a closed door. If he did, she'd be trapped; and she could not let that happen.

Molly braced her foot against the doorframe and pushed backward. She twisted at the waist and drove her elbow into his stomach, then lashed out with her key. He lurched forward with a bellow, his foot coming down hard on her barely healed toe, and Molly saw stars.

She screamed in pain and rage. Rage that this bully, this arsehole, this abusive fuckwit had dared to put his hands on her. On instinct Molly swung around and drove the heel of her hand up into his nose.

Chapman's head snapped back. He covered his face with both hands, but that didn't stop the blood from running past his fingers in little crimson rivers. The scratch from where she'd raked his cheek with her key, narrowly missing his left eye, was raw and red with welling blood. Even through the muffle of his hands she could hear the fury in his voice as he screamed, "You bitch!"

He reached out and wrapped his fist around her ponytail, yanking hard enough to bring more tears to her eyes.

The door across the hall was wrenched open with enough force to crash into the wall inside. Molly's neighbour Jacob came barrelling out, bellowing an unintelligible war cry, swinging a cricket bat over his head as if he were some sort of Viking warrior.

Chapman took one look at Molly's saviour and released her hair, before running down the stairs.

Jacob stood in front of her, waving the bat menacingly at the stairs until they both heard the sound of the main door to the building slam shut. As soon as he heard it, Jacob lowered the bat and clutched his free hand against his chest, over his heart. "Christ, I can't believe I did that." He held his hand out level with the ground. "I'm still shaking!"

Jacob turned and whatever else he'd been about to say was quickly forgotten as he realized Molly was swaying in place. Judging by the expression of horror on his face, she looked as shook up as she felt. She wanted to reassure him, but everything went a bit dark and she began to crumble to the ground instead.

Luckily, Jacob was there to slow her descent, and she ended up sitting on the ground with her back against the hallway wall.

"Molly, sweetie? Are you all right? Should I call an ambulance? The police?" He'd dropped the bat in his hurry to keep her from hitting the ground, but he dragged it closer with a suspicious look toward the stairs as soon as she was settled.

She swallowed hard and cleared her throat. Now that the initial shock had worn off a little, her head was no longer spinning. "No ambulance. I'm not that hurt. Just call the police. Please."

Jacob nodded and started to stand, as Molly reached out to grab his hand. "Ask for Detective Inspector Lestrade. Greg Lestrade."

He nodded again. Molly gripped him tighter, squeezing his hand briefly. "Thank you, Jacob. That was very brave of you. Not everyone, well, not everyone would have done what you did."

"That's because some people are arseholes, my dear. Trust me, I was scared spitless, but I wasn't about to leave you out here to fend for yourself. Although, it looked like you were doing all right without me."
"Regardless, thank you."

He nodded, and then asked, "You want to come in with me while I call your detective?"

"God, yes."

With Jacob's help, she managed to get back on her feet. He waited as she took a moment to pull her door closed, then he helped her limp into his flat. "You're just lucky Mikey forgot to put his gear away after the match the other night. Elsewise I would have been out here swinging a mop. Not nearly as intimidating."

இڿڰۣ-ڰۣ—

She had expected it to be louder.

Molly had never had reason to visit New Scotland Yard before. On the extremely rare occasions when Sherlock had requested her presence at a crime scene, someone had picked her up at Barts and then driven her straight back when she was no longer needed. But she'd long been a fan of police procedurals on the telly. There was usually always a cacophony of background noise in the scenes that took place around an officer's desk or in the squad room; phones ringing, criminals ranting and raving, witnesses and victims sobbing.

It wasn't anything like that in reality.

At least, not where she was at the moment.

Sergeant Donovan and another officer had responded to Jacob's call. Donovan had requested that she come in to the station to give her statement. Before Molly would agree to leave, she had insisted that someone official come and examine the scene for forensic evidence. She wanted samples taken of the blood that stained her hand, clothing, even her hair, and that was embedded in the grooves of her key. She didn't trust that evidence wouldn't end up considered 'contaminated' if she waited until they got to the station. She'd heard Greg and Sherlock complaining about solicitors getting evidence thrown out often enough, and she insisted the chain of custody was well documented as a preventive measure. Chapman was a rich man; and rich men often had an army of solicitors at hand, and powerful allies that could make things disappear.

Anderson, of all people, had shown up in the next car. He'd given her and Donovan a pained smile, which Donovan ignored for the most part. "Lestrade called me. I don't know if you've heard that I'm back, working part-time."

Donovan huffed. Molly wanted to yell that it wasn't the time nor the place to play passive aggressive with your former lover, they weren't standing around on a social visit, but she bit her tongue.

Anderson caught Molly's eye and grimaced. "Right. Listen, Lestrade thought you might feel more comfortable with a familiar face and, well, everyone knows Nestor is not the most thorough."

Nestor was one of Anderson's replacements . . . former replacements, apparently, if Anderson had been rehired. He was also incompetent. Even Molly knew that, and she liked to try to give everyone the benefit of the doubt if possible. It was only a matter of time before Nestor screwed something up for one of Sherlock's cases, and then the resulting explosion would be a hundred times worse than any insult Anderson had ever received.

"Thank you," Molly replied. Anderson may not have been her first choice, but he was a familiar face and fairly decent at his job (contrary to what Sherlock might say).

Anderson had smiled in relief. He set down his case and pulled out a pair of sterile gloves. Donovan stormed off and didn't return until he was done.

Then they'd all toddled down the stairs and left for the station. There had been a flurry of activity until Greg had finally appeared at her side. He'd had a peace offering of a cup of horrid coffee in his hand, and an apology for being unable to take her statement himself on his lips.

Now she was sitting in his office, curled into an uncomfortable chair in the corner. There were several large interior windows that gave her an almost unobstructed view of the detectives and officers working out on the floor. She knew the enclosed space was muting some of the noise from out there, but still . . . quieter than she expected.

Greg was at his desk, looking through paperwork with a heavy frown. She knew some of it, at least, had to do with her.

Molly took a sip of her stone cold coffee and grimaced; then leaned forward to set the cup on the edge of Greg's desk. A glance at a clock on the wall told her it was getting late. It had been hours since Chapman had ambushed her. How much longer was she going to be expected to wait before Greg would be ready to give her that promised lift home? She'd talked about getting a taxi and had been vehemently shot down.

There was a faint commotion out in the other area. Molly saw several people stand up from their desks and cubicles, craning their heads in the direction of the lifts. Soon enough, Sherlock and John appeared, storming past the maze of desks and officers to blow into Greg's office.

Well, Sherlock stormed and blew, his coat bellowing behind like some sort of superhero's cape. John followed at a slightly more sedate and civil pace; although he did hustle just a bit at the end to keep from getting shut out of the office when Sherlock slapped the door closed.

Greg was apparently expecting them, as he didn't look the tiniest bit surprised to suddenly have an agitated Sherlock leaning across his desk, pummelling him with a rapid fire stream of questions.

John, at least, acknowledged her presence. He crossed the room in a few strides to stand next to her chair, and she could feel him looking down at her.

She had hoped to make it home and clean herself up before she saw him or Sherlock; but someone--Greg, the traitor--had obviously notified them. She lowered her head and hunched her shoulders, curling in on herself. From under the cover of her lashes she could see Greg push away from the desk, putting some additional space between him and the consulting detective.

Sherlock never even looked in her direction. It hurt a little, but she wasn't surprised. Considering how he felt about sentiment and caring (utter claptrap), only an idiot would expect a grand show of concern from him. Especially when there was a case to be worked. Still, a quick "Are you okay?" wouldn't have killed him, would it?

Greg pushed a folder across his desk toward Sherlock. "Her neighbour called it in. Got his statement, then sent him home. He barely saw the guy, and what he did see wasn't enough to get a concrete description."

Sherlock aggressively snatched up the case file and flipped it open. "How did he manage to get past the safeguards?"

Molly assumed he meant Mycroft's men and the street people that had been assigned to babysit her when she was at home. But why would he be asking Greg about them? Unless . . .

She curled her fingers into fists. Obviously, Greg was also aware of the arrangements Sherlock had made. Did everyone know? Did no one think she was capable of taking care of herself?

"Yeah, about that . . . I got called down to the holding cells an hour ago. A young lady going by the name Georgie had been asking for me, and the message finally managed to make its way up here. Apparently, she'd been brought in on a vagrancy charge earlier today. An anonymous caller, concerned about a 'sketchy' homeless lady casing the area. A patrolman brought her in. She said to let you know she's sorry, and you'd know how to find her if you needed her again."

Molly twitched. Chapman had arranged to have Georgie arrested, to get her out of his way, and the woman felt the need to apologize to Sherlock for it. As if it had somehow been her fault.

John reached down to lay a reassuring hand on her shoulder. Molly instinctively flinched away from the contact. He quickly removed his hand and offered her a softly spoken apology.

"I had her released, no charges," Greg rushed to reassure Sherlock. Or, judging from the concerned look he sent her direction, his reassurance might have been meant for Molly.

Sherlock briskly nodded, his eyes rapidly scanning the information contained within the case file. "He had to have known she was being watched over, Graham." It was a testament to how tense the room was that no one even bothered to bat an eye at Sherlock's--usually annoying--mistake. "Mycroft's men are showy, they stand out. He should have seen them drop her off and wait until she was inside to drive away, and then made his move. But he removed Georgie from the area prior to Molly's arrival, which means he knew she was there. And, more importantly, why. It couldn't have been a spur of the moment decision. My people excel at blending into the background, he must have had someone watching her building for days; keeping track of when Molly came and went, and who she was with. He was tired of waiting."

He sneered at Greg. "Not an attack of opportunity, as the report implies."

"Yeah. I figured that out on my own. Listen, Molly was pretty adamant about naming her, erm, alleged assailant. . ."

She snorted. "Alleged, my arse."

Sherlock still hadn't looked at her, but she did notice that he'd tilted his head in her direction when she spoke; proof that he was aware that she was in the room, at least.

"Look, Molly, you know I believe you. If you say it was Francis Chapman, then it was Francis Chapman as far as I'm concerned. But there are rules we've got to follow, and Chapman is a big deal to some people around here. A really big deal. Donates a lot of money to a lot of important campaigns, if you see what I'm saying? I have to make sure we do everything strictly by the book on this one, or his solicitors will rip us all apart. I'm pushing it as it is, being involved at all. B and E and assault aren't even my division, unless there's a body . . ." Greg trailed off and blanched. "Anyway, the head of the department is a friend of mine. He agreed to accept the help of a few of my men since he's currently understaffed, and he's sending me copies of everything he gets."

He nodded toward the file in Sherlock's hand.

"It's the best I can do at the moment. In the meantime, I would really hate to see someone come down on you, Molly. Solicitors screaming about false accusations. The papers trying to run you through the mud like they've done to . . . other people." He pointedly did not look at Sherlock.

She lifted her head the rest of the way and glared at Greg, even though she knew he was right.

"Why isn't the blood analysis going to Barts?" Sherlock snarled, aggravated about something he'd read in the report. He must have found a copy of the expedited processing request that had already been sent off.

Greg sent one final imploring look toward Molly, then gave Sherlock his full attention. "Anderson and Molly agreed it might be best if the blood and skin samples were routed somewhere other than Molly's hospital. To minimize accusations of tampering."

Sherlock grunted, and continued to read.

"Blood and skin samples?" John interjected. He looked at all three of the others in turn, waiting for someone to explain. "Whose blood?" The concern was obvious in his voice. She could practically feel the weight of John's gaze as he visually examined her for any signs of injury.

Sherlock's shoulders tensed and drew up ever so slightly toward his ears, barely perceptible if you weren't hyper focused on his every movement as Molly was. The folder started to crinkle in his hand as his grip tightened. He may have still been looking at the papers, but Molly suspected he wasn't actually reading anything at the moment.

"Not mine." For the first time since John and Sherlock arrived, Molly spoke clearly. She lifted her arm, exposing the stains on the cuff and sleeve of her cardigan. Dried brown splotches that would need to be soaked in cold water as soon as she got home if she ever wanted to be able to wear it again.

She wasn't sure she did.

"I broke his nose." Even though the words were addressed toward John, she kept her eyes trained on Sherlock.

He finally turned, and Molly's breath caught in her throat. His expression was stark and complex, one she couldn't remember ever seeing before. Not on his face. And definitely never directed toward her.

There was concern, but she'd seen that before. She'd even seen his face twisted in rage once, but not quite like this. Never had she seen them both at the same time. He wasn't angry with her, though. For her, perhaps?

And there, hidden behind the rage and concern, there was something deeper. Something she couldn't bring herself to identify because it looked so much like . . .

Molly refused to follow that train of thought.

"What else?" he demanded.

"You broke his nose?" John asked in disbelief. He seemed to be having trouble digesting that small detail.

"I heard the crack, and felt it give under the heel of my hand; so yeah, I broke his nose." She didn't spare a glance for John.

She continued to make eye contact with the intense consulting detective. "What do you mean, what else? I've told the police everything I remember. You've got the damn report right there in your hand!"

Molly winced at the way her voice had risen. Other than the brief moment of shakiness right after the attack, she had managed to hold it together fairly well; but she was starting to have trouble keeping her emotions in check.

He waved the file at her. "I read what the sergeant thought was important enough to include, but there are barely any details other than the obvious." Sherlock broke off to flip through a folder to find the name of the officer who had taken her statement. Disgust contorted his features as he turned to glare at Greg. "Donovan? You seriously believed she was the best choice for this? Absolutely no one else was available? No meter maids with an hour to spare?"

"It's not as if anyone is going to accuse her of falsifying anything to help a friend of yours, are they?" Greg stood up from his chair and came around his desk. "She wouldn't spit on you if you were on fire, and everyone knows it. She's also one of the best I've got."

"You really broke his nose?"

Molly whipped her head around to snarl at John, "Would you like a demonstration?"

John's smile was boyish and disarming, and immediately made her feel guilty for barking at him. "Good on you."

She dragged her attention back to Greg when he spoke again. "They've sent a car round to pick up Chapman, but . . ."

"You're concerned since Molly is relatively untouched, and Chapman will be visibly injured, he may try to turn this around and accuse her of attacking him," Sherlock quickly summed up.

"Yeah . . . well, yeah." Greg gave her an apologetic shrug. "You don't think I should be? He sounds like a real gem, and that's the sort of thing arseholes like to do when they're backed into a corner. I've seen it before. Never ends well."

Sherlock dropped the folder onto Greg's desk with enough force that several of the pages slid out and nearly fell off the other side. "He won't. Not only would he have to come up with a plausible explanation for being at Molly's flat in the first place, he'd have to admit that a tiny, feminine whirlwind bested him in a physical fight. He would never be able to bring himself to do that. It would make him appear weak, and that is something Chapman wishes to avoid at all costs. He'll try to pretend it never happened at all."

Sherlock thought for a moment, hands against his chin and eyes narrowed. "He won't agree to come in on his own, and you haven't enough to issue a warrant just yet. He's probably already meeting with a reconstructive surgeon to have his nose fixed. No doubt, when you finally get to see him, there will be some fiction about a skiing accident or a fender bender to explain the facial damage. It will be his word that he wasn't there, against Molly's and her neighbour's. Chapman will assume his money and minor influence will be enough to let the accusation die. He'll have a solicitor on the phone the moment your man introduces himself; at least that's what it will look like. I imagine he's got a firm that's used to handling this sort of thing for him, and he's already contacted them to work out a strategy should Molly have turned to the police; but having a his legal representative waiting at his house would be too suspicious if he's planning to deny the attack."

"So I'm just supposed to let it go, then?" Molly grumbled in disbelief.

Greg rushed to reassure her, "No. We'll get this guy. It just . . . might be a bit more complicated than usual, that's all."

Sherlock snorted and looked to John as if he couldn't believe the words coming out of Greg's mouth. "He made a mistake in not realizing how much of a threat Molly could be. He didn't do his research. She's not just my girlfriend, as he assumed. She's important to my work, and by extension, that makes her important to certain members of the Yard and . . . other places."

He'd begun to pace as he talked, and missed the looks the other two men gave Molly when Sherlock called her his girlfriend. She was just as confused as they were.

"Erm, Sherlock? Are you saying . . .?" John was the first to find his voice.

"What?" Sherlock stopped moving and realized they were staring at him. Molly had gone extremely pale. "Oh, oh. Honestly, Molly, I may have phrased it poorly, but surely you know of my feelings on the matter by now?"

She swallowed hard several times. "I-what? This is the first I've heard of it."

He frowned. "When I said that you were important to the Yard because of your assistance with my work, I didn't mean that was the only reason you would be important to any of us. You're very capable at your job, intelligent, and you're . . . personable? I'm not explaining myself very well, am I? John?"

John shook his head, incredulous. "That's not really the bit we're confused by, mate. It's more the 'Molly is my girlfriend' part."

Now it was Sherlock's turn to look confused. "I thought it was obvious that Chapman thinks Molly is my girlfriend. It's even in the report." He gestured toward the file on the desktop. "Called me her boyfriend. My point is that he assumed that's all Molly was, and he didn't bother to look any deeper. Why is everyone looking at me like that?"

"I honestly have no idea, anymore." Molly rubbed her temples, and wondered how much longer she was going to be stuck at the station. A hot bath and a bottle of wine were beginning to sound like a necessity once she got home.

"Just to clarify," John began, speaking slowly. "Chapman thinks that Molly is your girlfriend. But she isn't, really?"

Sherlock's eyes widened in a way that should have been comical if it didn't make Molly want to throw up instead. "Did someone else say she was?" He made eye contact with her and frowned at the expression on her face. He looked so unsure of himself.

Greg cleared his throat, freeing Molly from the hypnotic pull of Sherlock's gaze. "You think he'll send his solicitors after her, to try to keep Molly from pressing charges?"

"It's a very real possibility. Someone will be digging up dirt on her as we speak; he'll discover he's underestimated her soon enough. And when that happens, he'll default to what he knows best. He'll try to intimidate her, and when that doesn't work, he'll . . ." Sherlock's voice trailed off. He blinked, then focused on Molly again. "Get out."

"Excuse me?" she squeaked.

"I said, get out." Sherlock spun on his heel and took a few steps to reach the office door. He pulled it open and gestured toward it.

Greg sighed, and without argument reached for the suit jacket he'd hung over the back of his chair. John looked mutinous for a moment, then shook his head and reached down to offer his hand to help Molly out of the chair. She didn't need the assistance, but she appreciated the gesture.

Sherlock raised his hand to stall them as they started to file out the door. "Everyone but Molly."

Greg looked as if he were about to protest, but Molly waved him off with a confused, "Whatever. It's fine."

The moment the two men stepped through the doorway Sherlock slammed the door and turned toward her.

"You're moving into Baker Street."

Molly gaped at him as if she were a suffocating fish. "You've gone mental."

She could see Greg and John leaning against a table in the other room, both avidly watching her and Sherlock. It was difficult to ignore that they had an audience, but she tried anyway.

"Molly," Sherlock rumbled in warning. "I am serious about this."

"So am I. You've lost your mind if you think that I'm going to agree to something that-that-that bloody insane!"

Sherlock ran his hands through his hair, and then shook a finger at her. "Give me one good reason why not."

She had plenty of reasons, and he knew almost all of them. Molly was tempted to smack that wagging finger out of her face. "I don't even know where Janine is. He's not going to find her through me, so stop worrying about it!"

"I don't give a shite about Janine!" he roared.

Molly jumped, startled, and he immediately looked contrite.

Sherlock reached up and cupped her cheeks in his hands, tilting her face up so that they were nearly nose to nose. "This isn't about her," he said, his tone much softer. "Not anymore. It's about you, Molly."

"I don't understand."

"Of course you don't. Why would you, after everything I've said and done?" He released her and took a step back.

After a moment of silence while he glanced around the room as if searching for something, Sherlock tried again. "We've already established that Chapman sees himself as the breaker of strong women. You have just proven how very strong you are. You've practically painted a giant red bull's-eye on the back of your jumper."

"Are you saying I should have let him-" Molly started.

"NO!" Sherlock surged forward and grabbed her shoulders. "Never. You did exactly what you needed to do; and I hope if you're ever in a similar situation, you won't think twice about defending yourself. Break his nose, again. Claw his eyes out. Do whatever you need to do to stay safe for me, Molly."

Molly couldn't contain the soft gasp that escaped her lips. There was no way she had heard him correctly. That simply wasn't possible.

"Forewarned is forearmed, and we know how Chapman is likely to react to any threat to his manhood."

"Did you just tell me to stay safe?"

He flinched, but--to his credit--he didn't walk away or attempt to deflect her question. "I did."

"For you? To stay safe for you."

"Yes."

Her thoughts scrambled to come up with an explanation other than the obvious one. "But why?"

His hands slipped upward from her shoulders until he cradled her face between them once again. "Because . . . Because I need you." Sherlock paused, searching for the words to express the rest of his thoughts.

Surely he would say something about morgue access, or having a spare sounding board when John wasn't available.

The longer he thought, the more distressed he seemed to become.

"Sherlock, it's all right. Whatever it is you want to say, just tell me. I promise to try not to get upset."

"I . . . Sod it."

She felt his touch grow firmer, one of his thumbs caressed her jaw and tilted her chin upward; then his lips were pressed against hers.

Molly froze, unable to move, barely able to process the sensory input of Sherlock's firm lips against hers. They were cool, in direct contrast to the heat generated by his hands. His eyes were closed; long lashes dark against the paleness of his skin.

Before Molly could break the paralysis that had kept her still, Sherlock drew back. He touched his forehead against hers and sighed. The barest puff of his breath caressed her sensitive lips.

"You didn't kiss me back."

"Sh-shock," Molly somehow managed to stutter.

Sherlock asked, "Is that good or bad?" His voice was small and almost insecure, at direct odds with someone of his stature and confidence.

"Depends."

He frowned and stepped away from her, his hands no longer on her skin. Molly immediately missed his touch. She wanted to cry out at the loss.

"Depends on what?"

"Your motive."

"My mo-" he gasped, taking another step away from her. He looked insulted, then frustrated, as he ran his hands through his hair and turned to stomp away. He didn't get very far; Greg's office wasn't that large.

Now that Sherlock was no longer directly in front of her, she could see more than a dozen people raptly staring at them through the glass of the office walls. Her eyes narrowed in a fierce glare. All but John and Greg found something else to do. She saw Donovan weave her way past the others to speak to Greg; then she, too, turned to look at the arguing couple in Greg's office.

"Have I really given you so little reason to believe that I care for you?"

Molly's attention snapped straight back to Sherlock. Somehow he'd managed to make her feel as if he were the injured party in all of this. "No, of course not. I know you care about me. But there is a huge difference between friendship and-and the sort of caring that results in kissing someone on the lips."

"Damn it, Molly!"

She jerked, and fought the instinct to retreat as he stalked toward her.

"How many times do I have to remind you that you are the one person that matters most to me?"

He was close enough to touch now, and Molly tried so hard to deny the urge. Her hands shook as her restraint crumbled and her fingers made contact with the wool of his Belstaff.

He bent to kiss her again. When his lips touched hers, Molly whimpered. Sherlock groaned in response, and she swore she could feel the sound vibrate along her spine like the thrumming of his violin strings. His arms wrapped around her waist and hauled her upward and even closer to his chest. She squeaked as her heels left the ground, and he took advantage of the moment to nip at her lower lip. The first glide of his tongue caused her knees to threaten to buckle.

Far too soon, Sherlock lowered her back to the floor.

Molly touched her fingertips to her tingling lips.

"Do you believe me now?"

She cleared her throat. "Yeah."

"Good." He nodded once, and put his hands on his hips. "Good. So now that we've cleared that up . . . What were we talking about?"

Before Molly could answer that she had no idea, she noticed that their earlier audience had returned. Several people she didn't recognize were laughing amongst each other. Donovan looked utterly disgusted. Greg was smiling slightly. And John was grinning like a bloody fool. As soon as he realized she was paying attention to them, John flashed her a thumbs up.

"They're watching us, aren't they?" Sherlock hadn't even bothered to turn around to see what she'd been looking at.

"Yep."



Part 1 / Part 10