Sherlock was lying on the couch back at the flat when he heard the phone ring. Cursing loudly, John wasn't home to get it, he rolled over and grabbed the land line. "What is it now? I'm busy." He snapped. An officer's voice crackled through the line, it sounded like he was running. Sherlock slammed the phone back onto the receiver, grabbed his coat and dashed out the door. They had finally found Molly via the homeless network and she was only a few blocks from the flat. Sherlock ran down the streets, confident that he would find her long before the police arrived. And suddenly, through the gently falling snow, he saw her. Molly was curled up against a building, clothes torn, hair tangled, filthy and bloody, but so very alive. She recoiled as he knelt next to her. His pants were soon soaked with melted snow, but he didn't care. "Molly, it's Sherlock are you alright?" He pulled off his coat and wrapped it around her, ignoring her whimpering. Despite herself Molly pulled the coat closer. Sherlock began shivering in the frigid February air. He noticed that Molly was also still trembling. Sherlock scooted closer to her, wrapping his arms around her, as much to offer comfort as to keep them both warmer. Molly instinctively curled into him and Sherlock shifted so she was sitting on him. He could hear Molly crying into his shirt and he sighed tiredly. He wondered how he escaped her kidnapper, but that really could wait until she'd been to the hospital. "You're alright Molly. The ambulance is on its way." Just then the faint sound of sirens became audible, muffled by the snow that drifted through the air and covered the ground. Sherlock was relieved. Help was here.