I am SO sorry for not updating for like a month! But school started back up and everything's been all crazy and hectic and I went on an abroad school trip the week I meant to update so I couldn't so I'm sorry :( But it's fall break here now, so I finally have time to update :D

Thank you for your patience!

And also, thank you to all those who reviewed! IceQueenForLife, Get Sherlocked, actressen, MorbidbyDefault, , LvPayne, yes-I-am-a-genius, wheel-of-dawn, Anatomydoc, KittyFoyle and Hedgieowner! You guys are amazing!

Now onto Chapter 4!

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.

Molly still feels his hands on her skin. She can still feel his breath on her neck and his cool gaze boring into her own.

She can still feel her heart beat against her chest, like a hammer pounding a nail into a concrete wall. Hard and fast and strong with fervor.

Even in the dark, she can still see his raven hair as clear as day, and his presence shines through more than any jewel under the moonlight.

Molly hears Lestrade shift in his sleep on his bed beside her, a small smile playing on his lips that she knows is related to her and the dark-haired man she was dancing with earlier that night. She wasn't blind, she saw the way that Lestrade and John were looking at them, the way they parted seas when they came forth, and the way they abandoned both Molly and Sherlock for an early night in.

Molly finds that her heart is soaring at the prospect of seeing him again.

Because who would've thought that the little Molly Hooper and the great Sherlock Holmes would become so much more to one another than just a face in the crowd?

Maybe, just maybe, she misjudged him.

She thinks she's falling in love.

(And this time, she isn't scared.)

He tosses and turns in his sleep, his eyes pursed shut and his lips drawn tightly together in a thin line. He can still feel a pounding against his chest of a different kind of hurt, and he's not accustomed to this feeling at all.

He dreams of flying, of soaring through clouds and dashing through waves and running through backhanded streets and alleyways with his dark coat sweeping behind him in his stride, like a madman with a show to catch and a criminal to pursue.

But at every turn, he sees her face. A soft, female face with dark brown eyes, fair skin and chestnut hair, her eyes look sad but when she senses that his gaze is on her, they are suddenly filled with so much life that he feels it himself. He feels lighter, like he's treading on water on a thin thread but there's no worry of falling and drowning.

But there's another face, of a dark and cackling faceless man in the shadows lurking about, waiting and watching like a fox ready to prance. When Sherlock hears his laugh, an unsettling feeling heaves on his chest, weighing him down and tiring him out, and then suddenly the voice gets louder and louder and louder, and she begins to disappear and fade from sight, her hand outstretched towards him and he can vaguely register his hand reaching out as well.

But he's on his knees, choking and falling and there's nothing he can do but listen to the faceless man cackle wildly until she is gone and there's nothing left but emptiness in space and a deep, maniacal voice whispering into the air.

"I will burn the heart out of you."

Then the world is a haze and Sherlock can only register the sound of the waves crashing against the ship and his deep breathing.

And for the first time, Sherlock has no idea what to do.

He doesn't know why she was in his dream, he doesn't know why he has a heavy feeling in his chest, and he definitely doesn't know why she's suddenly infiltrating his thoughts day in and day out.

And most of all, he definitely doesn't know why it hurt so much to see her disappear from sight.

He needs to find Jim Moriarty.

The sun greets him, not with a warm face, but with a hot glare. Sherlock can feel his eyes burning with white heat, and he drops his head to look at the polished ground, perfectly lined wood and everything.

He hates it.

The clinking sound of silverware rouses him from his thoughts and he raises his eyes to see his father glaring at him from across the breakfast table, now secluded in their own quarters.

"Are you going to lock me in here? Chain me up like a caged animal because you're afraid your reputation will get tarnished?" Sherlock chuckles humorlessly. Siger narrows his eyes.

"I will not," he places his napkin down with an eerie calm, "but I expect you never to see that girl again."

"I never intended to."

Siger quirks a brow, "Now something tells me that's not quite true."

And as much as Sherlock wanted to say his father was wrong, he wasn't.

He walks along the side of the ship, his hands poised gracefully behind him and his chest puffed out like a bird getting ready for flight, there are passengers looking at him with wide doe eyes, young married women getting pulled away by their husbands, but he does not give them a single glance.

Sherlock had never really grasped the concept of human attraction.

And yet, despite his tousled curly hair as a divergence from its usual slicked back style and his all-black suit, he has no inkling as to why someone like Molly Hooper made him feel so alive.

Molly was such a boring name.

But, despite all his graces, Sherlock has never been one to spot the true meaning of his own feelings.

It was one of his…greatest flaws (how can a machine have flaws?).

So, as the ship rocked back and forth and steamed ahead, he pulled his coat closer towards him and walked on, eyes scanning and leaving those who were of unimportance to him, and strode onwards.

That is, until he was pulled away from the sunlight and into the darkness.

"So what was that about last night?"

"Hm? Sorry, what?" Molly peers up from her blanket.

"You've been awake for a while now, I know you have. Now tell me, what was going on between the two of you last night?" Lestrade pushed the duvet off him and swerved to sit on the edge of the bed, hands clasped lazily between his legs.

Molly gawked, "I-I don't know what you're talking about." She blushed and hid underneath her blanket.

"Oi now, I'm not daft, what was that with you two?"

"What was what with who?" a muffled voice came from behind the fabric.

Lestrade rolled his eyes playfully and yanked off the cloth, ignoring Molly's kicking feet, "That dance with you and Sherlock Holmes!"

"He was just asking me something," Molly said innocently, her eyes blinking bashfully and arms covering her face to shield herself from the embarrassment of her blush.

"Looked like more than that, the bloke looked absolutely entranced."

"Nice word choice there," Molly joked.

"No! In all seriousness," he held his hands up defensively, "He was looking at you like you were some sort of diamond."

Molly felt her heart begin to pump faster against her chest, so fast that she could barely count the beats. Her face felt hot and she felt a smile coming across her face.

"You were looking at him like you had been waiting for him you're entire life," Lestrade continued.

"So don't tell me that there was nothing there, because Molly, you'd have to be blind not to see it."

"I may not have known him for very long, Greg, but Sherlock Holmes doesn't feel."

"Maybe," Lestrade stands up and makes his bed, "but that doesn't mean he doesn't feel anything with you."

"My, my, my, Sherlock Holmes, what a pleasure to meet you indeed," a voice drawled out.

Sherlock turned and stumbled, the door slamming shut from behind him and the blinds drawing shut, leaving only one ray of light to shine through into the empty dock room. There is a distinct creak in the floor, Sherlock notes absentmindedly.

"I wish I could say the same thing."

The voice tsked in disappointment, "A shame, really, but I guess my excitement can more than make up for the both of us."

"Jim Moriarty, I take it?" Sherlock concluded, walking around the room in circles, his eyes penetrating through every wall, every curtain and every detail.

There's a shuffle of steps on the creaky wooden floor, and Sherlock sees a man, shorter than him, walk out of the shadows, his suit as dark and black as his eyes.

"Oh clever, very clever. They did say you were clever," Moriarty chuckled darkly, though his eyes stayed dead and lifeless.

"Who said?"

"Now, now, don't act all stupid, we both know you're better than that. So do what you do best," Moriarty spreads his arms wide like an eagle, "deduce."

Sherlock's upper lip trembles in irritation, "You've been keeping an eye on me."

"Good!" Moriarty practically squeals, "Very good. And?"

"And you have pets," he sneers the word, "around this ship that do your spying for you."

Moriarty grins wide, "Nicely done. I don't like getting my hands dirty."

"So what's so important about me?"

"What made you think you were important?"

Sherlock paced the room gracefully, gliding across the floor with the same decorum as last night when he held…her.

"You mentioned your name directly when you spoke to my parents, you have your henchmen, if I wasn't important then you wouldn't bother to say your real name."

Moriarty bounded on his feet excitedly, a wide maniacal grin already spread on his pale face, "I knew you were worth it."

Sherlock leaned back from the other man's gaze, an uneasy feeling settling in his stomach. "Worth what?"

"Worth following."

"Following?"

Moriarty nodded his head fervently, "Oh yes indeed, Sherlock dear. I've been following you for a while now. Big fan," he shook his head, "big fan."

"And you were so good. So smart," Moriarty began to sneer, "so mechanical. You were the perfect specimen. And then you had to meet her."

"Who?" Sherlock asked, his fingers tapping the pocket-knife he always kept with his tool kit inside his coat pocket.

"The girl!" Moriarty growled suddenly, "The GIRL! The girl with the brown hair and the brown eyes! The stowaway!"

Sherlock felt a stab in his chest, and he felt his throat closing up in an inexplicable manner. "What about her?"

Jim rolled his eyes and bared his teeth, "She did the worst thing someone could do to a machine."

"Which is?"

"She made you human."

Sherlock took a step back, and for a second, there was no sound in the room except for breathing, but even that seemed more deafening than the silence.

"You think she ruined me," he finishes.

Moriarty turns and runs his hands along the paintings on the walls, scrapping the dust off with his fingers and tilting his head to the side, a soft, seemingly innocent smile playing on his face.

"No…" he drawls out, "I know she did."

"You needn't worry about your precious machine," Sherlock leers with narrowed eyes, "she hasn't done anything to him."

"Oh but that's where you're wrong," Moriarty counters, his steps now joyful and light-hearted, like a lion prancing around the room in a skillful and choreographed dance.

"She made you fall in love."

Sherlock scoffed. "Sentiment. Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side, I would never subject myself to such idiotic concepts."

Moriarty frowned dramatically, "Oh but Sherlock, it seems that you already have."

Sherlock watched as the other man crept closer, "You've fallen in love with her but you're scared of letting go of everything you've worked for. You're afraid of losing the life that you've built for yourself – the machine. But Sherlock dear, no matter how much you observe, you will never see things that others do when it comes to you, because honey, you're blind."

Jim pounced away, his eyes now narrowed into dark slits, like snakes. "Sometimes, it creeps up on you, but there are other times, when you least expect it, that everything tumbles down like a tsunami wave of water, and before you know it, you've been swept of your feet from the force of the blow."

Sherlock bared his teeth, his nose crinkled in contemplation and his eyes wide as if looking for prey to catch. He felt his breath hitch in his throat as it began to close up, and his palms sweat. Then there was that feeling of walking on air, on a cloud in the sky when he remembered her and last night. He felt calmer when he recalled his hands on her hips and her hands wrung around his neck, her seemingly plain and ordinary face light up the room and her hands when he kissed them goodnight.

Oh god.

"Ah, I see you've finally realized."

Sherlock panted as if in pain, "How could this have happened?"

Moriarty pursed his lips in a slight frown as his mouth turned downwards, "Because you're human. And as much as I love my machines, I am human too.

"You are a work of art, Sherlock Holmes, as am I, and I appreciate art. So I will not, under any circumstances, let a pauper steal the heart of a prince.

"So I will offer you a choice, Sherlock Holmes, and whether you take it or not is entirely up to you, but I am asking you, in kind, to join me. There is no better partner than me, Sherlock, because you are me. We could do so much."

Sherlock stopped and stared, his blue-grey eyes flashing with fading shock as the day's realizations dawned on him and lingered in his mind. Her face, her voice, her story, the mystery, the dance, the way she shivered when he placed his lips on her skin. She knew how to live, and Sherlock was tired of dying every day.

She came in like a tsunami wave and swept him off his feet.

"I am you," Sherlock parroted, "but there is more to you, Jim Moriarty, than you care to say. So tell me," Sherlock cocked his head, "who are you?"

"You, a consulting detective, people come to you when they need help. I do the exact same thing."

Sherlock shook his head, "We may be the same, but there is a fine line between genius and insanity."

"Oh, Mr. Holmes, stop with the flattery you're making me blush."

"Consulting criminal."

"Good! Very good!" Jim praised, his hands clapped together in front of his chest as he leaned forward, a grin etched on his face, spread wide like the Cheshire cat.

"Now, Sherlock, we're going to start a very great game, a game which you have no choice but to play."

"A choice is a choice, that's what it is and I always have one," Sherlock replied tersely, his hands tightening around the rail by the closed window in the room.

"If you don't play, someone will die. Maybe that good doctor of yours, or maybe that police detective? It seems you've made friends on this ship, Sherlock, and I will not hesitate to eradicate each and every one of them if it means that I'm going to get you."

The detective stiffened, and he not only felt, but heard, his pulse race.

This was a game he was not ready to play.

"What's the game?"

Moriarty clapped his hands together, "Oh it's very simple! You get off with me in New York, and you'll get the freedom you've always wanted! If you don't, the woman you love will die."

Sherlock sneered, "Your game doesn't seem very fair."

"My games are never easy."

"You see everything as a game, I see puzzles. Games are meant to be played. Puzzles, solved," Sherlock replied, his fingers now tapping against the iron bar on the window railing. "This is a puzzle just as much as it is a game, and I will find a way out."

Moriarty smiled warmly, "But for now, have you made your choice? Join me, or she dies."

He stretched out a hand, and for a second, Sherlock just gazed at the sickly pale skin and the blue veins decorating Moriarty's skin like veins.

Sherlock was a dead man treading on the veins of life.

But he placed his hand into Moriarty's own and shook the devil's hand in hell.

He made his choice.

Sorry this was short, it was just a filler chapter! The story picks up after this! And I mean, it picks up big time!

It's been a while since I visited The Abundance of Sentiment, so I'm sorry if things don't make any sense or if things are moving too fast (because to me, everything seems slightly confusing, ESPECIALLY the explanation of Sherlock's feelings).

I think everything's confusing, so tell me, are they? And did I explain Sherlock's feelings well enough? Cause I felt like it was abrupt and didn't make sense (it probably is), and it's just annoying me relentlessly -.-

But in general, did everything make sense?

Oh god, my need for clarification is burning brighter than ever, I apologize deeply!

Anyway, thank you for reading my fabulous Sherlockians! You guys are amazing!

Drop a review? :)