Molly noticed the change in Sherlock's behaviour far too late. She had dismissed it as him trying to be nice. She had hoped that he was simply learning how to interact with people without insulting them every five seconds.

She had never been more wrong.

The pathologist now found herself lying on the floor of 221B, her nose bleeding profusely. She struggled to sit up, glaring at the man looming above her, his eyes mocking her.

"Oh dear, is poor little Molly in pain?" he taunted, "I wonder what Sherlock would say?"

Molly stood up at the mention of the name, a new fire in her eyes. The man quirked an eyebrow at her sudden movement.

"Piss off," Molly spat.

"Ooh, no need to get nasty dearie. I only want to play," the man said, moving forward and grabbing Molly's chin violently, "And you two are ever so fun to play with."

Molly stared at the man defiantly, fighting the urge to smack him. She knew it would do no good to do so, and it would probably just make her situation worse, but she wanted to. She wanted to slap him so hard, it would leave a physical mark on his cheek.

"What do you want, anyways?" Molly asked, disdain laced in her voice, "Why do you insist on torturing us?"

"For fun! You see, Sherlock's mind is so beautiful. There aren't many people who have such mental prowess. It's quite sad really. You're no fun anymore. But Sherlock, oh Sherlock. He fights. He fights hard. And it makes him all the more fun to break," the man explained, smirking, blood starting to drip from his eyes as he fondled Molly's face, brushing his thumb over the large bruise on her forehead.

"Just stop it!" she cried, wrenching away from his grip, "You're killing him!"

The man laughed, casually, yet forcefully, moving closer to Molly, successfully backing her against the wall. The pathologist squirmed a little as she looked into the man's eyes. The man laughed again.

"Oh would this help?" he asked, and as he blinked, his black eyes turned back to the icy blue ones that Molly knew so well. Yet, it wasn't the same. The look in them was like nothing that she was used to seeing in the consulting detective. Molly tried to look brave, for Sherlock, in case he could see.

"Not likely," she said, her voice a lot steadier than she felt, "It doesn't change the fact that you're killing him. Not very clever of you though. If you kill him you got nowhere to go"

"Please, I could stay as long as I like. Any damage I do is purely for your benefit."

Molly glared at the-man-that-was-Sherlock-but-not. She desperately tried to think of a means of escape, but there were none. Suddenly, Sherlock was extremely close to her. Far closer than necessary, and it made Molly very uncomfortable.

"He calls for you in here. Pleading with me not to hurt you. It's funny actually, watching him claw at the walls of his own mind at the sight of his own hand drawing your blood," he said, and Molly gasped as a new gash formed on her cheek. Sherlock leaned in and whispered in her ear, "It's pathetic really. He's practically begging me to let you go."

"Sherlock Holmes doesn't beg."

"You're right, he doesn't. He screams."