The Game

IV. The Ambassador's Ball

Molly watched the rain fall against her window, watched as each drop raced down. She shifted and looked at her gloved hands, liking how the light from the moon made them look pale and delicate.

Molly stood up and made her way to the tall mirror in the corner of her room, standing in front of it and studying herself. Science and logic told her that this was her reflection. Her eyes said otherwise.

She was not a stunning princess, but she wasn't herself exactly. No, when Molly looked in the mirror, she saw someone who looked brave and beautiful.

Not shy little Molly.

A loud knock on her door echoed off the walls of her room.

Oh. She was so busy admiring herself she had forgotten completely about Sherlock.

She scurried over to the door, hesitating before she opened it. Her fingers hovering over the doorknob, Molly wondered what he would think of it.

Would he compliment her? It wasn't likely. With a pang of bitterness, Molly remembered the Christmas party at John and Sherlock's flat. She didn't have anyone to celebrate with that night, and she was overjoyed to attend.

He had practically torn her to shreds, stripping away her joy. He had apologized, but she had doubts.

Had he really meant it? Did he respect her?

Molly shook her head. No. She wasn't going to be sad. She was going to be happy, and she-

Was going to open the door for Sherlock.

Quickly Molly wrenched it open, feeling stupid.

Sherlock stood waiting, his hands folded behind his back and a bored expression on his face. He gave her a small smile and whirled around, striding down the stairs before Molly could get even take a breath.

"The car is outside." Sherlock simply said. "We should get going, can't keep a murderer waiting."

Molly joined Sherlock at the bottom of the stairs, fixed her jewel toned flats and set off for the car.

Sherlock opened the door for her and
Molly slid in beside him, ducking as the raindrops splashed against her skin and her rich lavender gown.

"It's a good thing you wore flats, we might very well be running for our lives at some point tonight." Sherlock causally mentioned, flipping open the glove box.

Molly felt a twinge of uneasiness. She hadn't begun to realize the actual danger she was putting herself in. Yes, she worked in the morgue surrounded by tons of ghastly bodies everyday, but she had never actually been in the line of fire herself.

No. This is what he wanted, wasn't it? To scare her out of joining him. He didn't want her to come, exactly. She suppressed the urge to smack him and faced Sherlock.

"It is, isn't it?" Molly quickly said, hoping to shut him up. "Don't want to be murdered today."

Sherlock simply looked at her with a vacant expression and Molly was sure she had stunned him into silence. Good. Molly stared out the window, ignoring how the road and cars blurred together and made her vision spin, like a whirlpool of traffic and raindrops. Anything was better than acknowledging Sherlock's gaze burning into her head.