Ok, so here it is. Some people asked me about a sequel to my story "Where no one looks". It may not striclty be a sequel, at least not just a Sherlolly story, but both stories are related (as well as my other story "You always count")

This story is set directly after His last vow, in the moment when Sherlock comes back to London. And again, it's a translation, but this time I'm going to translate it chapter by chapter and I will publish Polish and English versions in almost the same time.

What can I promise? Some action, lots of friendly/family feelings, and some angst... And some Sherlolly.

Again, if you see I wrote something wrong, please let me know, I will be glad to correct any mistakes, as it is a translation.

Enjoy!

The game of a higher price

He was coming home! Whoever was behind that hacking to all the television stations, whoever got that old video with James Moriarty, had just made Sherlock NOT fly on that suicide mission in Eastern Europe. Whatever was coming next, he would deal with it...

The detective got out from the black car and enthusiastically opened the green door leading to 221B Baker Street. He no longer had to hide his excitement from his brother. Sherlock hung his coat by the doors and grabbing his phone, he ran upstairs. Judging by the noise of the vacuum cleaner, Mrs. Hudson had finally gotten to clean his flat. Well, she would be startled... Sherlock ran inside with a wide grin, happy to surprise the old lady.

"Mrs. Hudson? Surp..." The words stuck in Sherlock's throat and the world turned upside down. Mrs. Hudson was laying naked on the carpet, and all Sherlock could see were bloody massages 'did you miss me?' written all over her body. Somewhere there the vacuum cleaner was howling. The noise was unbearable, the sight unforgettable.

He never, ever reacted badly at the sight of the corpse, but now he could barely stop his stomach from twisting violently, as he leaned over the old lady, checking if she was alive out of pure stubbornness. Somewhere in his foggy mind he thought that he should be grateful for her broken neck.

The vacuum cleaner howled. The noise drilled into his ears, driving him crazy. For a moment Sherlock had no idea what was going on, except the general feeling of the walls crushing around him and the spinning floor. He almost blacked out...

There was no time for sentiment. The detective rose on his feet, at the same time unplugging the vacuum cleaner and making it shut up. In his mind, he had one scenario going after another, and all of them were unpleasant. If someone got Mrs. Hudson, who was going to be next...

Sherlock grabbed his phone. One thing at a time, calm down, think...

"Mycroft? Baker Street, now," he barked, as soon as he heard his brother's voice. "Bring Watsons along. Now."

"Sherlock, what..." Sherlock didn't hear the rest of Mycroft's question, as he ended the conversation. He knew without doubt that his brother would come.

The next phone call was to the detective inspector. Lestrade answered at once, surprised that Sherlock called him instead of texting.

"I need police at Baker Street." Sherlock really tried to hide the fact that his voice was breaking. "I have a crime scene in here. It's your division."

Red button. Next call.

Silence.

Dial again.

Nothing. Voice mail.

Dial again.

"Molly!"

Nonononono... Sherlock was already running down the stairs, dialing her number again and again. With no result, Molly's mobile remained silent. The detective went outside and he faced the ice cold wind, but there was a taxi, so he just ran and got into it, instead of returning inside to grab his coat.

Dial again. Dial again. Dial again.

He called Molly twenty seven times before he got to the hospital. As soon as the taxi stopped by the entrance, Sherlock jumped out, shouting at the cabbie to wait for him. He didn't pay much attention to the driver's protests, or the fact that he didn't have his wallet and therefore he had no way to pay for the ride. It really wasn't important right now.

.

Sherlock had no idea how many people he almost ran into on his way to the morgue. Every time he tried to get into his mind palace, the realistic feeling of crushing walls was returning. Somewhere there he heard Mycroft's malicious voice, pointing out how destructive all his caring was, but Sherlock had bigger problems.

"Molly?" he called, entering the morgue. He looked around feverishly, but the room was empty, except a corpse on the table, under a plastic bag. "No..."

The detective removed the bag to uncover the body. Male, about sixty, stated Sherlock after first glance, but he couldn't relax. Whoever had killed Mrs. Hudson, they could have enough information to know about Molly, and, what was worse, they could be... creative. Therefore Sherlock followed the first thought that crossed his mind, and started removing the fridge drawers, one after another, every time scared to death that he would see Molly Hooper there, dead or alive. He was still too confused to think clearly ant try to deduce the motives and preferences of the killer.

Sherlock saw Molly a moment later. The pathologist came into the morgue and froze at the sight of the chaos, her eyes wide open in astonishment.

"For God's sake, what's going on in here?! Sher..." The woman stopped, as the detective made three long steps and closed her in a tight embrace.

"Molly..."

"Yeah, I'm glad to see you too, but you will break me," said the pathologist. "So they called you back, like I thought they would..."

Sherlock collected himself a bit and loosened his grip, so that he stopped crushing her ribs, but he didn't look like he was going to let go of her.

"Did you see? The video?" he murmured somewhere near her braid.

"Yes, I guess everybody saw that," replied Molly, more and more confused and worried by Sherlock's behavior. "But it cannot be him, I mean I saw him on this slab, lacking half of his brain," she reminded her friend. "Sherlock?"

"You didn't answer your phone. I thought they killed you too." Sherlock spat out and let her go. Only then Molly saw that he was wearing only his suit, and his hands had signs of what supposedly was a dried blood.

"Too?" she repeated numbly. "W-what do you mean?" For a moment the old, stuttering Molly was back, but this time for another reason.

"Mrs. Hudson. Right in the middle on the carpet in my living room. She's dead," explained Sherlock in a dead voice. "I thought that you were dead too."

"Oh my God..." This time it was Molly who embraced him, trying to comfort him and seeking for comfort. Suddenly she realized why Sherlock came here so frightened. Suddenly she was scared too. "Sherlock? Your mobile is ringing," she realized after a moment, feeling the phone buzzing in his pocket.

"What? Oh." The detective caught up and fished out his phone. "Yes?" he asked sharply.

"Jesus Christ, Sherlock!" greeted him an angry John. "Answer your phone, would you! We're trying to catch you for the last quarter!"

"John? Are you with Mycroft? At Baker Street?" asked Sherlock hurriedly.

"Yes! And you know what we found here... And your coat was on the floor, your mobile not responding..." John was clearly mad. He shut silent for a moment, and then asked in completely different voice. "Sherlock? Are you... Did someone..."

"What? No, no!" reassured the detective, almost physically feeling what was going through his friend's head. John assumed that he had been kidnapped.

Molly, who stood close enough to hear both sides, suddenly grabbed Sherlock's mobile.

"John? We're at Bart's. Sherlock... came here for me" she explained awkwardly. "He's fine," she said, glancing worriedly at her friend.

"We're on our way," added Sherlock and took back his phone, as suddenly as Molly a moment earlier. "Come on," he said to the pathologist and grabbed her hand, ready to go.

"Sherlock, wait!" Molly stopped him. "Let me take my bag and jacket," she pointed out reasonably.

"Fine." Sherlock obediently turned back. He stood in the office door, nervously drumming his fingers, while Molly quickly collected her things and sorted the documents on her desk. But before she finished, she didn't resist. She came closer to Sherlock and immobilized his fingers.

"Go and wash your hands," she asked quietly. Sherlock nodded, still looking a bit confused, and left to the morgue, where was a big sink in a corner. Just like Molly asked, he kept rubbing, trying to get rid of the dried blood, until his hands reddened and got warmer. When the pathologist finally emerged from the office and closed the doors behind her, the detective turned off the water and dried his hands with a paper towel.

"Shell we go now?" he growled unpleasantly, trying to regain control of the situation. His fingers shook nervously again, so Molly grabbed his hand and nodded, still dumped in the face. Sherlock left the morgue without a word, dragging her behind. Only outside, when he saw the waiting taxi, he realized what he had forgotten about.

"Err... Molly? Do you have any cash?" he asked, embarrassed. "I forgot my wallet."

"Yes, I have."