A/N: Likingthistoomuch suggested something on tumblr, and this is 300% not it. But the suggestion set off a chain reaction, which, nearly a week later, has resulted in this. It's in two parts. Hope you like it?

Dangerous Game

by Flaignhan

"I like boats."

Molly nods, in way which she hopes makes it look like she's vaguely interested in this particular golden nugget of conversation.

"Any particular type of boat?" Molly asks, searching her mind for anything she might be able to contribute. Phil - according to his name tag - is sweaty from nerves, his poorly chosen blue shirt giving him away with dark circles spreading from his arm pits, and halfway down his chest.

She's not sure moob-sweat will get him anywhere this evening, and she feels a stab of pity for him, as he stutters over his words.

"I like remote control ones," he tells her. "You know, take them over the park and put them in the ponds and that."

"That's a really lovely hobby," Molly says kindly. "Do you make them yourself?"

"Oh no," Phil says, shaking his head, his eyebrows drawn together in a frown. "No, not at all. I buy mine, from specialist dealers!"

Molly knows the kind of boats he's talking about, has seen them in ponds in parks, has seen twelve year olds playing with the ones they've built with their dads, and she's quite sure that these specialist dealers are taking Phil for a ride.

"What d'you do when you're not working?" He's shouting slightly, and Molly thinks this is, again, from the nerves. All the same it's a little alarming, and draws the attention of the pairs on either side of her.

She casts her mind around for an answer, and decides to go for something safe. "I hang out with my friends," she tells him, and he gives a smile of recognition, as though he's heard of that sort of thing before.

The buzzer sounds, and while chair legs scrape against the parquet floor, Molly downs half a glass of wine.

"Yeaaah, I'm only here 'cause a friend dragged me along. I don't usually go to this sort of thing." Xander (Molly would bet her life savings that his parents call him 'Alex') looks around, and gives a loud, dismissive sniff, before turning his attention back to Molly.

"What is it you do, exactly?" he demands, his dark eyebrows pinched together, his eyes looking down his thin pointy nose at her.

"I'm a pathologist," she replies, despite having half a mind to make up some ludicrous occupation to take her mind of this ghastly three minutes. She could be anything she wanted - sky diver, a professor, entrepreneur, even contract killer might, for a moment, be an appealing career path.

Xander pulls a face. "Pathologist? Sounds frightful. I'm in finance myself." Naturally he can't bear to talk about anyone else for longer than a few seconds.

"Oh right," Molly says. "Sounds utterly dull."

There is a fleeting moment where Molly is treated to Xander's utterly appalled expression, before the buzzer sounds once more, and he storms off, to meet a different victim.

Molly takes another sip of her wine, and vows never to go speed dating again, no matter what the stakes may be.

"D'you get to do a lot of murders?" Gary asks, with only a meagre attempt at hiding his grin.

"Well..." Molly begins slowly. She doesn't know exactly how much to tell him, but she gives him the benefit of the doubt. At least he's showing an interest, if perhaps, a little too much.

"Is that a yes?" Gary's grin stretches a little wider, and Molly can't help but find it off-putting.

"Post-mortems tend to happen when a person dies suddenly," Molly explains. "Or in suspicious circumstances, so yeah, could be murder, but also, you know drug overdoses, natural causes...it's not exactly CSI London."

"Oh I love that show," Gary says, smiling fondly. Something about him isn't quite in the moment. It's as though he's elsewhere, controlling his double remotely while he occupies himself with something far more entertaining.

"I'm sorry?"

"CSI," he says, leaning forward, both hands clasped in front of him. "D'you watch it? You should you know. It's brilliant, the things they can do with science."

Molly sees enough corpses during the day without coming home and putting more of them on her telly. She's caught glimpses of it before, with its fictional technology and pseudo-science, but she doesn't spoil it for him. She's not that mean.

"I don't really get much time for telly," she tells him. "Shift work and everything, makes it hard to stay on top of these things."

"That's a shame," Gary replies, and he sounds genuinely upset by it. "You're missing out on loads!"

Molly smiles, and at the moment, as if the speed dating angels had sensed she was getting to the end of her tether, the buzzer sounds, and Gary waves her farewell before moving on.

Her wine glass is empty, and she looks longingly towards the bar. No angel appears to top her up, and she supposes she might need to pray harder.

"Are you local?" Tony's arms are folded over his chest, and he leans back in his chair, his legs spread wide as though he's awaiting a gynaecologist. Molly pushes that particular mental image from her head, and answers his question.

"Yeah, not too far," she tells him. "You?"

"Yeah, I rent with a few mates up in Archway," he says, nodding his head constantly, as though it's the only way he can get the words out. "No chance of buying in this city!"

It's mundane conversation, but it's probably a small step up from CSI and remote control boats. At least, she thinks it is.

"What about you? D'you live with friends? Group of girlies all together?" he lets out a bark of laughter that feels like it cracks the room in half, and Molly waits for the volume of conversation to increase again before she answers.

"It's just me," she says, looking down at her hands. She hates this part of the conversation. "I've got a place near Regent's Park."

Tony's eyes widen and he leans forward, as if to get a better look at her. "Blimey!" For some reason, he's beaming at her. "Place of your own near Regent's Park! Lucky you, eh?"

Molly bites down on her lip to prevent her from snapping anything back at him.

"Must be nice," he says, settling back into his chair. "Living the life of luxury and all that."

It's no good. She can't not say anything.

"Luck and circumstance are rarely the same thing," Molly says coldly. She cannot abide assumptions about her living situation. She lost a dad at twenty and was left with enough for a deposit on a flat. It's not much of a swap. She worked harder than anybody she knew at school, in college, at uni, and beyond, in order to get where she is today. She would trade it all to bring her dad back, but failing that, she will never let anyone get away with suggesting that she's simply lucky. Her gaze is hard, and she doesn't care, because she'll let a lot of things slide, but not that.

Never that.

The buzzer sounds again, and Tony scuttles away without another word.

She really needs another glass of wine.

"So there are two penguins, walking across an iceberg," Olu tells her, his easy smile helping to balance out her sour mood after her run in with Tony.

"Right..." Molly says, unable to keep the smile from her own face. Something about his smile is contagious, and she finds she doesn't mind his company so much.

"And the first penguin says to the second penguin, 'Hey! You look like you're wearing a tuxedo!'." His eyes are bright, and maybe he's had a few drinks himself, maybe, like Molly, he needed a bit of Dutch courage before throwing himself into the lion's den.

"The second penguin," he continues, "turns to the first, and says, 'Well, maybe I am!'."

Molly lets out her obligatory laugh, but it doesn't feel too forced. Olu is, perhaps, the highlight of a rather dreadful evening.

"Go on then," he says, giving her hand a gentle nudge with his own. "What's your joke?"

"Okay," she says, casting her mind around for something moderately funny. "All right. What's the difference between a physician, a surgeon, a psychiatrist, and a pathologist?"

"I don't know," Olu says, humouring her. "What is the difference between a physician, a surgeon, a psychiatrist, and a pathologist?"

Molly takes a deep breath, hoping against hope that she gets the punchline right. "Well," she says, "the physician knows everything and does nothing. The surgeon knows nothing and does everything. The psychiatrist knows nothing and does nothing, and the pathologist knows everything, but always a week too late!"

It takes a moment for Olu to smile, and there's a sinking feeling in Molly's chest.

"It's long, isn't it?" she says apologetically. "It's long and it's...niche."

"No, it's...it's good. It's clever," Olu says, but Molly gets the impression he's being generous.

The buzzer sounds, and she's almost sorry to see him go.

"Any unusual behaviour yet?" Sherlock's elbows are resting on the table, his shirt sleeves rolled up, fingers steepled. His name tag reads 'Scott' - a name which is dotted around memories of medical records, passports, and driving licences. And, of course, his death certificate.

"There was one weirdo who was a bit keen on murder," she tells him. She glances towards Gary, who is now delighting someone else - a blonde, who looks terribly bored.

"Nothing wrong with a healthy interest in murder," Sherlock says, and his words are delicate, as though she's very close to offending him.

"I didn't mean..." Without thinking, she takes his hand, and gives it a squeeze. She regrets it instantly, but her regret is halted when he doesn't pull away as if he's been burned. She realises that it's probably just a show for their cover; a couple of speed daters who might just be having a half decent chat. She moves her hand away, covering the movement by picking up her wine glass. It's halfway to her mouth before she remembers it's empty, and her heart sinks as she places it back on the table.

"I know, I'm just teasing," he says, looking into the mirrored wall behind Molly's head, his eyes searching the room. He looks at her briefly, a small smile tugging at his lips, before his eyes return to the mirror. "It's hardly a good chat up line, is it?"

"Bet you'd use it," Molly says slyly. She's not sure he's ever used a chat up line in his life, even when he's been undercover. She wonders if he'd even know what one is.

"Actually, I've had two offers of intercourse, without mentioning any murder at all." He says this all in a very matter of fact tone, as if reporting the findings of an experiment. He's trying very hard to appear unaffected, and it's almost funny, but she can't help the small stab of jealousy that hits her just below the ribs.

Molly tries to ignore it, but she can't prevent herself from asking, "Who?"

Sherlock breaks his gaze away from the mirror again, his eyes on hers as he reevaluates her. He does this, every so often, sometimes even two or three times a week when he'll update his little file on her, and she can see the gears of his brain whirring away behind his eyes.

"What?" She laughs, because really, it is a perfectly reasonable question. "You must have used your three minutes well!"

Sherlock's eyes are on the mirror again, but he decides to answer her question. "A redhead with a fresh navel piercing -"

"She showed you her belly button?"

"No, she just kept putting her hand on it whenever she fidgeted. Infection brewing." He glances back down at her to see that she's taken in his explanation, that she's learning. She thinks he might consider any time together wasted if neither of them learns something new.

"Right, and the other one?" Molly asks.

"Brunette. Just got back from ten days in the Algarve."

"Of course," she says, not bothering to ask how he knows. "Why do I feel like the women here are a touch more respectable than the men? Even, with two offers of sex." She has to be honest, she can't blame them for trying, especially if he was pretending to be normal, or nice, or flirty. She can't blame them at all.

"Maybe because one of the men is potentially a murderer?"

A shiver passes over Molly. "Don't, Sherlock."

He only has time to wink at her as the buzzer sounds, and he moves on to the next table. She can see him in her peripheral vision while Barry is chattering away about his interest in silent films. Sherlock's very convincing false smile is distracting, his flirtatious demeanour downright disturbing, while his unwavering attention elicits a flash of envy from Molly.

She definitely needs more wine.

By the time she reaches the bar, Sherlock is occupied with a chatty blonde, who places a hand, with its neatly manicured scarlet nails, on his forearm while she laughs at something he's said. Molly grits her teeth and gets the attention of the barman. Soon enough, she is cradling a large glass of chardonnay, and Sherlock manages to extract himself from conversation and get a beer.

"Remember you only met me this evening," he murmurs as he sidles up to her, beer bottle looking completely out of place in his hand. She's not used to this type of casual when it comes to him - he's holding himself more loosely, and he's pretending he's enjoying himself, which is silly because no one ever does enjoy themselves at these kind of things anyway.

"Your fake smile's really creepy," Molly says. She takes a sip of her wine, her eyes on Sherlock as a genuine smile comes and goes in a flash. She wonders if his internal screaming is as loud as hers.

"There are tons of people here," he says, and he scans the room briefly before returning his eyes to Molly, keeping up the charade. "You have to flirt with me," he says bluntly. "Or someone will realise we know each other."

Molly scrunches her nose, the idea of it, even of faking it, feeling utterly cringeworthy.

"I'm serious," he says, and his expression, one of interest, of good humour, is so at odds with who she knows him to be that she feels like she's trapped in a bizarre nightmare. Sherlock has good qualities, but he has never been, nor will he ever be, a pleasant social butterfly, and that's perfect because Molly's about as far removed from that type of existence as is possible. It suits her, and it suits him, so to be catapulted into the opposite of that feels like her entire world has been turned on its head.

"Well, you'll just have to show me how to do it," Molly says, meeting his gaze. A faint hint of a smirk pulls at the corner of his mouth.

"No I think you can handle it." He swigs his beer, and Molly takes the opportunity to look around at the other unfortunate souls who were convinced by someone they clearly trusted that coming here tonight would be a good idea.

"You're popular," she comments. There are several pairs of eyes watching her interaction with Sherlock, some gazes fixed on her over the shoulders of other men, while others stare over the rim of their wine glasses as they drink. It's slightly unnerving, but of course Sherlock has likely been nothing less than charming throughout the evening, has probably even researched appropriate behaviour in preparation, so naturally he's getting attention. If Molly's honest, plausible competition for him is few and far between tonight.

She's sure his snugly fitted burgundy shirt, open at the neck, with the sleeves rolled up to reveal lean forearms, isn't hurting his chances either.

"Killer could be a woman, I suppose..." Sherlock muses.

Molly frowns. They both know this is unlikely. "Balance of probability?"

The fake smile is there again and he lets out a chuckle that sounds utterly foreign coming from him. He's keeping up appearances, but Molly knows she's not doing a very good job at playing along.

He places a hand on her upper arm and leans in to whisper into her ear. "Jealousy could be a powerful motivator - you've got five pairs of eyes fixed on you, something could get out of hand."

It's Molly's turn to laugh now, but this is genuine, and probably a bit too loud judging by the heads that turn to look at her. "God, your ego is out of control," she tells Sherlock, her words escaping from behind a smile. She moves closer to him, only a small gap between them, and her words are quiet. "You really think five random women are going to all gang up and commit murder together because they'd quite like to jump you after speaking to you for three minutes? Honestly..."

"Fair point," he mutters. "It was only a hypothesis. But it is weird isn't it? All these women watching us talk? That's weird."

"Hardly," Molly says with a roll of her eyes. "There's not much..." she searches for the right word, "talent," she says it with a grimace, "here tonight. And you're..." she trails off, not wanting to inflate his ego any further, nor admit to him that she's noticed, even though they both know she has.

"Go on..."

"You know," Molly says pointedly, but she's still smiling. "You just want me to say it."

"Maybe I do," Sherlock replies with a shrug of his shoulders. "Or maybe I'm entirely ignorant about these matters."

"I thought we were here to try and track down a murderer?" Molly reminds him. She won't be goaded, not when they have a job to do and she's spent all evening feeling grossly uncomfortable in order to help them do it.

There is another crack in his facade, and he shines through for a heartbeat, a twinkle of amusement in his eyes. "Quite right."

"Have you seen anyone dodgy?" she asks, taking a sip of her wine and looking around the room.

"Because murderers are so often dodgy, aren't they?" Sherlock replies, poking fun. He shakes his head, and has another look around the room.

"I'd class them as dodgy," Molly says. "Best avoided."

"Not if you're trying to catch them."

Molly's stomach plummets. "Sherlock..."

His rather limited patience runs out, and it's as though Molly's tone has kick started his engine, his words coming out a mile a minute, his gestures no longer controlled and low-key. "Fine, if it's dodgy characters you want then this room is teeming with them. Collectively there's been more porn watched in the last week than should be watched in an entire year."

"And how much porn should be watched in a week?" Molly interrupts. She presses her lips together, trying hard not to look too amused.

Sherlock shoots her a look, and she knows she's in the dog house. "Statistically -"

"I don't want to know statistics..." Molly tells him, shaking her head. She certainly barked up the wrong tree there. "What else?"

"Well everyone's lying here. I can barely concentrate because it's all just lying, lying, lying everywhere." He's frustrated, and he's trying to hide it, but his jaw is set, his brow fixed in a hard line.

"But that's what people do at these things, Scott." She takes a sip of her wine - she very much enjoys teasing him these days. It's very easy.

"I'm undercover," he says indignantly. "How am I supposed to find the dishonest person amongst all these liars? It's like searching for a needle in a...big pile of needles." His eyes go around the room again, and he pauses on random individuals. "He's lying about his job - he hasn't got one, he's pretending he doesn't live in his mother's basement, she's saying she's never been married, he's talking about a car that he keeps as his screensaver but has never been within spitting distance of in his life, she's pretending to be interested in whatever he's talking about -"

"All right," Molly says, "I get the point." She lets out a sigh of frustration. It's not his fault, the room is far too crowded, and the people far too dishonest. Besides, it's not like anyone's lying about being a murderer, so how can they pick someone out? What if they did pick someone, and they chose the wrong person, and the real murderer claimed another victim while they were messing around with someone entirely innocent?

"D'you think they'll stay to the end?" Molly asks. "And pick a victim then?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "You ran the toxicology tests, you know the answer to that."

Molly thinks back, her eyebrows drawing together as she collates the information in her head.

"Don't frown, it makes it look like we're not hitting it off."

Molly bites back a retort, but drops the frown. "None of the victims had very much alcohol in their system...and if you spent longer than half an hour here, you'd have to have several drinks to keep you sane."

"Very good," Sherlock says approvingly. "Plus everyone always remembers the stragglers. They're far too easy to identify. People who leave during the middle of the evening, not so much."

"Makes sense..." Molly thinks for a moment. "So do we need to keep an eye on the exits?"

Sherlock shakes his head. "Too obvious. We just need to leave."

"Together?" Molly asks.

"I'll walk you back." Sherlock says, and he drains the last of his beer, before placing the empty bottle on one of the tall tables dotted around the hall.

"But don't you think that'll put him off?"

"Even better," Sherlock tells her. "Serial killers always think they're smarter than everyone else - so if they can fool the police into thinking someone else is the killer, even just for bit, they'll get a real kick from that."

"And it means they're not being watched," Molly adds. "Which means they can..." She doesn't finish her sentence, an uneasy feeling swirling in the pit of her stomach. If their killer is here, then they're taking a big gamble. What guarantees does Sherlock have that they'll be the ones who are followed?

"Stop worrying," Sherlock says, and he puts an arm around her, pulling her a little closer to hide her troubled expression from the eyes of everyone else.

Despite Sherlock's instruction, she can't help worrying. There's too much at stake. She's had three bodies on her slab in three weeks. She does not want to recognise a fourth.