"And there it is sweetling, that's the worst bit. He loves you and you can see it. But he won't be bothered to do anything about it." His cruel smile fell, and Moriarty looked bored. He heaved a sigh, stamping out his cigarette. "You're not worth the effort."

"Molly?" a cool hand touched her forehead and she jerked her head away, stopped only by the shooting pain that rippled through her body. A week she'd been Moriarty's prisoner. A week Sherlock had moved heaven and hell to stop him once and for all. A week she'd known nothing but a dank basement, lit only by a single bulb suspended from the ceiling and the hideous tortures devised by Moriarty and his right-hand-man Sebastian Moran.

"Take it easy, its okay," the voice was gentle and she blinked, eyes adjusting to the light. John's tired face came into view. "You're safe now," he soothed. "I'm sorry to wake you, but I thought you'd like to know, they set a release date for you. If everything checks out, you'll get to go home day after next."

"Home?" she echoed. She thought her home had been burned. Moriarty had spared no expense in kidnapping the woman who helped Sherlock escape.

"With Mary and me," John said. "We have the house now, and Mary's been wanting an excuse to get away from the clinic for a few months. Now she gets to play nurse for you and look after Ella before she grows up and has to go to school."

"What- what about Toby?" Molly asked. "Mary's allergic, and he'll scratch your chair." John's smile was warm, amused.

"You needn't worry about Toby. Sherlock is keeping him safe at Baker Street; he bought a cat box and a scratching pole and everything."

"Why- I don't understand," Molly blinked again, her eyes blurry. "Why would he want that? He'll just be in the way."

"Well, when we told him you'd be better off with us, he seemed pretty upset, so Mary told him he could mind your cat. Less care needed, and Toby won't mind if Sherlock dashes off on a case." John helped her take a drink, wiping her mouth after. "You should have seen him when he found out you'd been taken," John said, taking a seat beside her bed. "I've never seen him so driven; he even went to Mycroft and begged, yes, you heard me, begged for his assistance." Molly was shocked, and she didn't know where to look.

"Guilt," she blurted finally. "It must be guilt."

John looked sadly at her as she turned her head away from him.

"Molls…can't you tell us what happened? You've got to talk to someone." Carefully, he took her hand, minding the splints on her fingers. Slowly, gingerly, she pulled her hand from his grasp.

"Thank you, John, for what you're trying to do, but I'll be alright," she smiled weakly. "He didn't say anything to me that I hadn't already heard."

"Molly…" John began but was interrupted by a knock on the door.
"Look who's been asking for her Aunt Molly all week," Mary smiled as Ella Watson caught sight of Molly and squealed, wriggling to get closer. Molly's eyes lit up and she immediately tried to sit up, to no avail.

"No, no, no," John was on his feet in a moment. "I'll adjust the bed, don't you dare move,"

"Gentle, lovey, gently, Aunt Molly isn't herself," Mary cautioned, setting the toddler on the bed.

"She's fine," Molly said. Ella crawled into the circle of her arms, gently seating herself beside Molly. For a while she contented herself in amusing the toddler, admiring her sweet face and smile. Only a week ago she thought she'd never see the Watson's again, and she happily savored the conversation between them, glad once and for all to be safe.

"Someone's got a mucky diaper," John said, catching whiff as Ella moved across the bed. "Come on you, let's get you cleaned up and see about finding supper."

"I'll run and pick something up," Mary said, getting to her feet. "Molly, what do you want?"

"Oh nothing, hospital provides and anyway I'm not very hungry."

"Nonsense," a voice from the door made them all turn. Sherlock stood holding two take-away containers. He set one down on her lap, handing her the more generously filled bag of chips, still steaming hot from the fry-oil. "Doctor's orders, you're to eat whatever you like, besides, hospital food is rubbish."

"Right," John said, looking from Molly to Sherlock. "Well, we'll go grab our dinner, and be back in a while, you'll be alright?" he directed the question to Molly, who smiled and nodded.

The door shut and the room was quiet again, save for Sherlock busying himself unwrapping the chips for her and breaking open the plastic fork and knife set.

"I made sure they put the vinegar on first, just the way you like," he said after a moment and she smiled, already putting her first bite in her mouth.

"By the way, I never thanked you," she murmured after a moment.

"It was nothing," he shrugged. "The food here is bland-"

"No…I mean, not just for dinner, I mean, I appreciate dinner too, it's good, that you remembered I like fish, but…I meant, for coming to get me." Sherlock stopped eating, looking at her carefully.

"Why wouldn't I?" She smiled at her lap, and then finally looked up at him. It didn't reach her eyes, and it seemed difficult for her to hold, so she took another bite.

"This is awfully good, Sherlock, thank you." He watched her eat with some gusto, and it pleased him, he'd been right in his assumption then, hospital food would do nothing for her appetite. There was something more behind her eyes, in the way she was behaving that concerned him. To be sure, Moriarty would have loosed hell on earth on Molly, and the traumas she had endured would probably stay with her for some time. Or at least that was what John said. Still, her conversation with him was awkward, bordering on painful. She seemed uncomfortable. Silences between them were never this awkward. They worked together so often in the lab the quiet between them was always companionable and friendly, (unless she was upset with him of course). This time though it was awkward, as if a wall sat between them and she had no desire to move it. It must simply be the hospital. She would feel much better once she got home and was situated.

"They tell me if you behave you'll be coming home," he said at last.

"Yes. John and Mary want to take me in, but…I don't think I want to put them out."

"Nonsense," Sherlock quipped. "You mustn't be on your own so soon anyway, not in your condition."

"I think I'd rather, and Mary could spend more time with Ella-"

"Molly," Sherlock was quite stern then, worried. "You're in no condition to live on your own yet, you can't even manage stairs yet." He ventured the smallest of smiles at her. "Let us take care of you." He seemed to want to say more, but Molly couldn't bear to look at him anymore. The sympathy in his eyes was too much. She could hear Moriarty in her head:

"That's all you'll ever be to him, just one big guilt-trip. The only reason you 'matter most' is because he forgets about you, until convenient. Why else would he ask you? You don't really matter, Molly Hooper."

Sherlock gently took her arm, soothing her.

"Never mind for now," he said quietly. His eyes were soft and gentle, and Molly felt her throat swell. He was only doing it out of guilt. Only guilt would move Sherlock Holmes to touch her. Slowly, she pulled away, red in the face and eyes swimming with tears.

She didn't see the hurt written across his face, and in his head he worried that he had lost Molly Hooper's trust, a horrible thought he had never once considered. Molly was constant in his life, and now that she was back, safe, he meant to take care of her. He loved her, and while the thought petrified him, the idea that she might pull away from him of her own accord threw him for a head-spin and it was too awful to contemplate.

~O~

Just as John promised, in two days time, Molly was released from the hospital. She spent the next month and a half resting at John and Mary's, both of whom noticed the pathologist was much changed.

"She was Moriarty's prisoner for seven days, John," Mary said quietly. "Of course she won't be herself."

"It's not just that," John said, his voice hushed. "She's different." He looked over at Molly, fast asleep on the couch. "I'm worried about her."

Sherlock visited often, happy to babysit Ella when Mary had errands to run. Besides, Sherlock knew it pleased Molly to see him playing with the littlest Watson. Now though her amusement seemed forced, or that it simply didn't please her as it used to. Not even Ella could coax a genuine smile from Molly. Sherlock even tried sending her amusing pictures of Toby, to which she usually responded with 'lol' or 'haha, cat'. Nothing that even hinted of her actual amusement.

Molly did little but rest. At night her sleep was plagued with memories of the awful week. Days weren't so bad; she sat most often in the window-seat of the living room, glad of the sun. It was at night when her heart-rate accelerated, and every creak and tick of the house set her on edge. Her appetite dwindled, and Mary worried. All Molly seemed to eat were crackers and tea. Nothing seemed to tempt her, and try as she might, Molly only poked at her food, eating what she could but ultimately leaving most of it untouched. Molly felt numb and lethargic.

"I should have just died in that basement." She found herself eyeing the kitchen knives and it worried her. She blinked quickly, shaking her head. Forcing herself to get dressed, she took down her coat.

"Where are you going?" Mary asked, seeing her heading for the door.

"Just for a walk," Molly replied, wincing as she swung her coat over her shoulders, shoving her arms through the sleeves.

In the cool March air she took a breath. The sun was warmer this time of year, though the chill of winter still wasn't entirely gone. Plodding along the sidewalk, she wasn't looking where she was going and nearly collided with someone.

"Sorry," she murmured.

"Doctor Hooper, it is good to see you up and about at long last." She looked up, startled that the stranger knew her name, only to realize the voice belonged to Mycroft Holmes. "May I offer you a ride?"

"No, thank you," she made to step away but he caught her arm gently, opening the door of the car.

"It would be my pleasure," he said. Having no strength to resist, she climbed in, scooting over to make room for him. She was surprised that the back seat was empty. Usually Mycroft had his PA with him.

"Where are we going?" she asked, once the car had pulled into traffic.

"Your flat was destroyed when Moriarty captured you, was it not?" he asked.

"Yeah, it was." She felt she was slouching tremendously, and she felt dumpy and unkempt, sitting across from the polished and poised Mycroft Holmes. Somehow she couldn't make herself even try to sit up straight.
"My PA has found a new flat for you, furnished of course. They allow pets."

"Oh," she blinked stupidly. "Um…why did she do that?" Mycroft's smile seemed to be pleasant, or at least he was trying for that.

"You don't have a home, Doctor Hooper, and my brother tells me you seemed quite distressed at staying with the Watson's. One can assume it is because you prefer to be alone."

"I don't prefer that at all," she snapped, and then sat back, looking at her lap. "I just…I don't want to put anyone out. Ella will be off to school soon, and I'm nearly better now, I don't need to bother anyone anymore."

"I assure you, Molly Hooper, you are the least bothersome of anybody."

"Because no one notices me. Stupid. Fat. Ugly. God, stop looking at me."

Mycroft studied her as if reading her thoughts, and Molly didn't doubt he possessed that ability. She shrank even further into the collar of her coat, unable to keep from glaring at him. Mycroft did not seem offended; he merely retrieved his phone from his pocket and went about his business.

"Good. Stop effing looking at me you colossal ass-hat."

She blinked, realizing she was still glaring. Why was she so angry? Mycroft was being nice. Three months ago she used to bribe him with cheesecake to make him be nice to her. Now all of a sudden she was being rude? She felt a twinge of guilt, and pushing her shoes against the floor of the car, she sat upright.

"Thank you," she said finally. "For the ride." He looked up from his mobile.

"My pleasure." His smile was polite, and his usually cold eyes were soft and kind. She felt like bursting into tears, either from guilt or because someone was being nice to her when she wasn't being very nice to herself, or, for that matter, to anyone else.

The car came to a stop and Mycroft reached for the door. He helped her out and then stepped aside to let her go ahead of him up the steps to the front door. Anthea was inside, setting things up. Molly had lost almost everything in the fire; Anthea had sent a team to rescue what they could. Hearing the door open, she scurried out the back door and around to the car.

Shuffling her feet, she scuffed them along the front rug, wiping her shoes.

"It is only two blocks from Barts, the neighborhood is decent, and the upstairs tenants are rarely home, so you needn't worry about bothering them," Mycroft said. "Shall I have the Watson's send over your things?" Molly hadn't even seen the rest of the flat, but she nodded.

"Yes please." Mycroft watched her go to the living room, still in her coat, clutching the strap of her purse, and sit down, looking around the living room. He frowned, not quite sure what to make of her actions. Molly Hooper was certainly not herself. John Watson was right; there was something amiss with the pathologist.

John and Mary's House

"What do you mean she's moved?! You just let her?!" Sherlock roared. He'd come to visit Molly, only to find Mycroft sitting at the kitchen table, Anthea was in Molly's room, carefully packing up her things. John and Mary seemed equally upset.

"She wished for her own flat," Mycroft shrugged. "You're always asking me to repay her kindness; I've found her a perfectly lovely apartment not far from Barts, so she needn't be put out when you call her up at all hours to do your bidding."

"She's in no condition to be on her own!" Sherlock insisted.

"Her external injuries are practically healed," John broke in. "What I'm concerned about is what's going on in her head, she's not herself."

"Finally, someone said it," Sherlock gestured to John.

"Until she wishes to open up, we have no right keeping her here," Mary said. "We'll keep an eye on her, but she's got to be allowed to know her own head and heart right now. If she wants to be alone, fine, she needs time to process what's happened."

"I'll see her security detail is kept in place," Mycroft promised. Seeing Anthea come down the hall, suitcases in hand, he got to his feet. "For now, I suggest we keep it to ourselves."

"We can take those," John said, nodding to the suitcases.

"I'll go," Sherlock volunteered. Everyone turned with some surprise at him. "What?" Anthea didn't even look to Mycroft for permission. She handed the cases over to the consulting detective with a look that said 'Be nice or I'll murder you', and he nodded solemnly.

"I'll go with you, shall I?" John reached for his coat, looking between Sherlock and Mary.

"No I'll go myself. No need to mob the poor woman," Sherlock said and hurried out, not bothering to wait for John to complain.

~O~

The knock on her door was unexpected, and Molly groaned inwardly, realizing she had to get up. Her strength seemed completely gone lately, everything was an effort. Shuffling to the door, she checked through the peephole first before unlocking the door.

"Sherlock, what are you doing here?"

"Anthea packed up the rest of your things," he said, pushing past her. "I decided to bring them over, oh, hm, Toby is still at Baker Street. Is the bedroom this way?" he asked, heading down the hall, knowing very well where the room would be located.

"Sherlock, don't- you needn't unpack my things," she followed tiredly after him. He'd set the suitcases down on the bed, opening them both.

"Nonsense, you'll be living out of them for weeks otherwise," he said. "Now, according to John, everyday pants and bras go on the right, but the lace fripperies-" he looked through the suitcases. "You haven't any fancy pants," he stated. She colored modestly, crossing her arms, she hunched over, as if to fold into herself.

"I don't have any," she snatched the under things out of his hands. "Waste of money anyway. Thank you, Sherlock, but I can unpack. You can even watch me if you like, but I'd rather do it myself. I don't need a sock index."

"Might do you some good," he shrugged. She slammed a drawer shut with such force the lamp nearly fell over. He raised his eyebrows in surprise, not sure what he'd done wrong. It only took him a moment to understand and he nodded, realizing. "I meant to shorten your morning routine, Molly. You're actually quite organized."

"I'm so glad I meet your standards," she grumbled, turning away from him. Her head down, concentrating on what to put where, she didn't see Sherlock's reflection in the mirror. His gaze was sorrowful, watching her drift back and forth from the suitcases to the dresser and then closet. He noted her weariness, the circles under her eyes. Her pyjamas were not clean, nor were the sheets. He sent off a quick text to Mycroft before pocketing his phone again. Molly glanced at him under hooded eyes, seeming more and more agitated by the moment. Finally, Sherlock stepped forward, taking the things from her hands.
"Leave that be for now," he said quietly. "Go and take a shower, wash your hair." He found a clean pair of trousers and handed them to her along with a blouse. "Get dressed, and we'll go and fetch Toby."

The last thing she wanted was to go out. She didn't want to have to stare at the back of a cabbie's head, or have to make polite conversation with Mrs. Hudson. The only thing that made her move towards her bathroom was the fact that poor Toby probably hadn't had a decent meal in ages.

Once the door closed behind her, Sherlock set to work unpacking the rest of her things. He went to the linen cupboard and took down a clean set of sheets. He made quick work of the bedclothes, changing out the old linens for fresh, and then turning down the covers for Molly once she got back. Likely the only thing she'd want to do once she returned was sleep.

Just as he finished, his phone beeped.

Understood. CCTVs of the basement have yet to be found. Setting a team on recovering them. Will notify when found. –M

Sherlock went to the kitchen to wait for Molly; he studied the text once more, thinking. The basement that she'd been found in had been rigged for cameras. Whatever Moriarty had done to her, he'd filmed it most probably with the intent to send to Sherlock. If the tapes could be found, it would shed light on what had happened and why Molly was closing herself off from her friends.