"Sherlock, Greg here. Just wondering if you've heard from Molly? I went to the lab but she was gone and she's not at home. It's not like her to drop off the map like this."

"No one has seen her since the broadcast. Did you two have contingencies in place? A bolt-hole for her perhaps? John is calling Mike now, but I doubt he'll have anything more."

"It's not like Molly to just disappear like this is it? I mean you know her best…"

"I'm afraid we lost track of Ms. Hooper before being able to put a satisfactory team in place."

The messages played over and over on Sherlock's voice mail. Sherlock stood in his room, trying to ignore the panic rising in his chest. He had foolishly assumed that whoever was orchestrating this scheme; be it Moriarty or someone else that they would focus on Sherlock himself.

Not her.

But as he stared down at his bed where a familiar colourful scarf lay, he knew that it had been his greatest mistake. This time they had not dismissed the clever pathologist's significance to him.

'Sherlock? Have you- what is that?' John came into the room, freezing as he took in the pink and black, so stark in Sherlock's room. It was like the dark crimson of blood the shade they were so used to, but this seemed far more intimate, more invasive.

'It's Molly's.' There was a break in his voice, a crack as he spoke her name. A snap in the voice he had not experienced since he was a teenager, a young one at that. As shocked and as frozen as he was in this moment, a part of his mind was screaming for him to gain back control. Contain the fear. Don't feel the fear.

'You had it why?' John's tone was curious and bewildered by the sudden reveal. Had the situation not been so dire, or it had not involved Molly; Sherlock would've had a remark or two for John. Leaping to all the wrong conclusions; as per usual.

'It was left here.' His arm extended without conscious awareness of making such a movement, he stopped scant millimetres from the woollen material. Molly's scent of soap, light vanilla and a touch of formaldehyde stopped him.

'Oh.' John's face became resolute and entirely dangerous. Mary appeared in the door, adopting a similar manner to her husband as the sight of the scarf.

'What do we do?' She asked, sitting down carefully in the sole chair in the room, eyes ever watchful of him.

'Do you have any contacts you can utilise Mary?' For the first time since entering the room; he moved away from the scarf, but he still had his eyes on it. For reasons he could not quantify or determine even within his own mind.

'You're kidding!' John turned and glared at him, Sherlock knew the consequences full well, as did she. It spoke volumes about the woman, that she was willing to put her tenuous safety to one side in an attempt to make amends. John's brow furrowed. His dark eyes flickered from his wife to his friend. Sherlock did not want to ask John for more than he had already done so of his friend, however…

'I can make attempts. No guarantees. I am rather limited given the little one and my own situation.'

'I can't believe you are asking this of her. I know its Molly but still…' John grabbed her hand, stroking the back of it with his thumb trying to process what was happening.

'I do believe that Mary owes me at least one favour.' His attempt at humour was only partly successful as she laughed brightly, John, as per usual was not so impressed with a statement. Simply reacting with his usual blank face that usually followed a reasonable request for experimental equipment.

—-

The situation was not going as he wished it was. The delicate situation in which Mary was in, meant that the few ties she could make use of had to be done with surgical precision and as subtly as possible. Not time efficient.

Sherlock had barely a word to Mycroft since his incompetence had landed Molly in such dire straits. It had been what Sherlock believed to be a week. Time had the tendency to evaporate on him in a case. There was one aspect that made this kidnapping highly unusual.

No contact.

In all circumstances, the kidnappers contacted the friends and family of the victim in some form. The timing was too coincidental and none of Molly's associates outside of Sherlock himself had vast funds or other aspects of any such value. Molly was a brilliant young woman, she had made a name for herself in pathology circles; overlooked by the general public but not a forgettable person in the least. It was possible that whoever had taken her was not just doing it to strike at Sherlock. She would be an asset, if she cooperated.

An aspect that whenever Sherlock's mind settled on it; caused an uncomfortable ripple of rage and worry to blaze through him. Like John, Molly's Hooper's moral compass dictated her to always be a beacon of good. She was one of the angels that Moriarty found dull beyond compare.

He mentioned this to her once in passing and she laughed brightly.

"Moriarty didn't understand angels then. Warriors of god they were. Blood soaked and dirty, willing to do whatever it took. Angels, both of you. Willing to burn, even yourselves for what you believe in." These words; like so many she spoke echoed in his palace. He was a warrior, John a soldier, Mary an independent agent surviving and thriving on her own means and wits. Molly never had a category in his eyes. It was one of the reasons he was and still was baffled by her. In many ways she was unsettling to him, a chameleon but unlike The Woman who made it her goal to be obscure. Molly… it was just a facet of her ever evolving character. For as hidden as she was; she was alarmingly open.

Sherlock Holmes would never have her pegged truly.

He had taken to stalking the streets of London, down the alleyways and parts that people ignored. In the hours that stretched from when she was taken there was nothing. Not even the barest whisper of what was going on.

He found himself at the Thames just as the evening fog was rolling in.

"Isn't it so mysterious Sherlock?" A distinctly far younger Molly excitedly stood at the rivers' edge breathing in the heavy atmosphere. Bright pink spots blooming on her cheeks from both the slight nip in the air and her joy.

"It's fog Molly." Sherlock scoffed as he sat on a benched, inhaling on a cigarette deeply.

"Oh honestly." It wasn't a dismissive statement, more of a good natured sigh. She turned around and looked at him, smiling slightly. Sherlock felt rankled by her knowing grin. Didn't she understand by now that he was far more knowledgeable?

"It is nothing more than a collection of liquid water droplets, perhaps ice crystals being generated by the river, near the ground."

"But there could be anything just beyond what we CAN see. Even you can't deduce much more than that. Doesn't get much more mysterious than that." She tugged down her woollen hat, shoulder length hair flicking out from underneath it. Smile growing even bright as she hopped over to him, plonking herself down on the bench.

"Hm."

"Oh don't pout." She giggled reaching up and ruffling his curls, earning a glare which only made her giggle more.

Memories that he had thought he had long forgotten about her were drifting into the forefront of his mind. His days at university when he had first met her. The days in which she saved his life for the first time, but far from the last. He had never let on that he still remembered her from those days, pretending for all the world that he had deleted her. He had been more impulsive, exercising the muscles of his talents with even less regard he did now for the consequences. He had experimented with so much in those days; he was not innocent in any aspect. University had fostered and strengthened his ambition in being a detective, but on his own terms.

When he wasn't stoned out of his mind or landing himself in a fight; verbal or physical, he observed Molly and her baffling capacity for optimism. Even as her family faded from her and her 'friend' dabbled increasingly into drugs and became ever more caustic towards her.

Where was she?

—

Months passed.

Mary gave birth to a girl. Molly Marie Watson.

John was the happiest man that Sherlock had ever seen.

Sherlock became a god-father.

Molly Hooper was in the wind still.

Once she had been given a name sake in the world, everyone seemed to take it as a sign to move on, assume she was dead and lay her memory to rest.

Sherlock remained frozen by the Thames. There was much Sherlock Holmes had done to Molly Hooper. Cruelty, broken promises of staying clean, staying safe, cutting her down in ways that shocked even Mycroft.

There was one promise that he would never break to her now.

"Sherlock…." Molly emerged from her room; standing hesitatingly in her doorway, backlit from her room. Voice on the edge of a whisper.

"Yes?"

"What happens now?" She stepped into the room, bare feet silent on the hardwood floor. He tried not focus on the fact that she was just in an old baggy t-shirt of his. He must have left with her when he went to rehab. Molly must have kept it as a reminder of the young man she once knew before they reunited and even after that, thinking he had deleted her.

"I dismantle the network. I do what I can to undo what Moriarty created." The flashes of knickers- underwear forced him to keep his eyes adverted.

"I meant me….. I have to stay, it would look really suspicious if I just up and left… But I won't feel safe… not with you gone. What if-" He did not think it possible for a voice to be so quiet, if there had been another sound of any sort, her fears would have simply vanished into the air.

"Nothing will happen to you. I will ensure it."

"You won't be here." She looked up at him, eyes overflowing with tears but gaze steady on his face. Hers was an open book to him at this time, the fear for her safety and his, the guilt and relief that he had survived.

"If you need me, I will do the impossible to be there to protect you. This I promise you." In a move most unlike Molly, she grabbed in a hug, head burrowing into his chest, shoulders shaking with the force of her tears. Instinctually his hands wrapped around her, one holding the back of her neck gently. Sherlock was not one for sentiment, but he would let his sentiment for this woman fuel him. Give him to drive to make sure that she could go back to her life free of fear.

He was going to do the impossible to find her, and protect her.

'Oh someone has been very naughty.' Sherlock's eyebrows shot up as Moriarty's voice called out on his phone. Again it was much like recording, the voice distorted and mechanical.

'Where is she?'

'I do enjoy ours little games. I missed them. This time I made sure you would be willing to burn everything for her… have fun!'

The call ended and Sherlock watched as an image uploaded itself to his phone.

Molly, already a thin woman was emaciated; skin barely stretching over her bones and muscles wasted away due to inactivity. All important points but it was her eyes that he focused on. Still full of fire, simmering away under the surface, untouched.

He had a promise to keep.