Sherlock Holmes slowly pushed open the door to flat 221B of Baker Street. It was odd still. Didn't feel right. He expected it never would; coming home to a flat without John. Not seeing his best friend, though he'd never call him that to his face, sitting in his chair, reading the newspaper and sipping tea. Tea that Mrs. Hudson probably fixed for him, the lazy sod. Sherlock half smirked to himself.

But even without John, Baker Street wasn't empty. Shortly after John moved out to live with his wife, Mary, Sherlock became particularly close to an unlikely person. Molly Hooper. He'd always trusted her. Counted on her. But their closeness . . . That started with a text.

'I'm leaving. Got a job in Manchester. It's a step up. I'll be a proper pathologist now. Have my own morgue and the pay's better. But I want to see you. Have lunch with me? -Molly xoxo'

He'd accepted her offer. After all, how could he not? With John gone, he couldn't lose Molly that easily too.

It had started out alright, their lunch 'date'. But then they'd got to bickering. Molly stuttering and Sherlock being a stubborn arse.

"Stay."

"S-sherlock . . I-I-I can't. I've already accepted. I'll be in Manchester th-this time tomorrow."

"Stay."

Her eyes had started to well up with tears and she bit back a sob. She'd tried explaining that she had nothing keeping her in London. Absolutely nothing. But he wouldn't have any of it. So she took a deep breath, and without the slightest stutter, said, "Give me a reason to."

The reason was obvious. All-encompassing and non-negotiable. He. Needed. Her. She was his in with the hospital morgue, or at least that's what he tried to tell himself. That was all. But that was important. It was enough. But it wouldn't be enough to get her to stay. Sherlock wasn't an idiot. Molly had tolerated him long enough. Tolerated his demands, his disingenuous flirting. Everything. And she couldn't take any more. But the fact still remained, that he needed her. His mind, clever as always, started reeling through the possibilities of the things he could do to make her stay. And after a few moments, his brilliant brain fixated on one thing. The one thing that would ensure she didn't leave.

Without hesitation, and the only warning being a subtle rubbing together of his lips, Sherlock Holmes leaned over the table and kissed Molly Hooper. It wasn't hard or insistent or passionate. It just was. After what he deemed an appropriate amount of time, he pulled back, eyes wide, and stared at her.

Molly's eyes stayed closed for a moment before fluttering open, her mouth slightly agape in pure and utter shock. She tried to speak, she really did. But her mind had gone blank.

"Stay." He repeated one more time.

That was six months ago now. And in that time, Sherlock's passionless attempt at getting her to stay, had evolved into true, deep feelings for that mousy little pathologist. She complimented him in a way he never could have predicted. She was a comforting presence. She was smart. Smarter than he'd ever given her credit for. And she knew him. She knew when to stay quiet. When to speak up. Their relationship had their faults. Probably more than most did. But it worked. For some inexplicable reason, it worked. And before long, Molly had moved out of her own flat and into Baker Street.

Sherlock had come to count on her being there to greet him. Her warm, bright smile. The way she'd go on her toes to softly press a kiss to his cheek. The way they'd sit beside each other on the couch, sipping their tea and reading their books; his on science, hers on poetry.

So when he opened the door today, and was met with an empty, dark flat, you will better understand how he felt. Toby, Molly's cat, ran up to him and mewled loudly. Sherlock flipped the lights on. His flat was normal. Just how he'd left it. Except for the flowered blouse draped over the end of the couch nearest the door. It was Molly's favorite. He reached out slowly and picked it up, bringing it closer to his face. He could still smell her on it. Peaches and vanilla and just a trace of rubbing alcohol.

A small slip of paper fluttered out from the folds of the blouse as he moved it. The writing was dark and elegant. Clearly penned painstakingly carefully.

'I've got something of yours.

98 Baylis Road

Come and get it!'

"Moriarty." He muttered, his tone dripping with hate.

He left the paper where it had landed on the floor, and immediately turned around, back out the door. He didn't care if it was a trap. It probably was. It didn't matter. He needed Molly. And he was going to get her back.

His footsteps echoed as he stepped into the large, abandoned warehouse on Baylis Road. It was dark and damp and smelled faintly of rotting fish. Some kind of disused cannery, perhaps.

Before he managed to take ten steps, a bright floodlight flashed across him, drowning him in its glow. His hand instinctively went to shield his eyes, and he desperately looked around for Moriarty.

"Took you long enough." The consulting criminal's drawling voice seemed to float around the room, and Sherlock couldn't discern where it was coming from. "Molly and I've been having so much fun."

Another floodlight flashed on, this time over the kneeling figure of Molly. Her hands and feet were bound and tears stained her pale, lightly bruised face. A gag across her mouth, tied under her ponytail, kept her from speaking, but her eyes widened at the sight of him.

Sherlock's jaw hardened and his lips pressed into a thin line. "You've hurt her."

"Not much." Moriarty stepped into the light beside Molly and rested his hand on her shoulder. She visibly flinched at his touch and Sherlock took a step forward. "Ah, ah, ah, Sherly boy. Not another step. You think I was stupid enough to bring you here without a little protection?"

At his words, a red dot focused on Sherlock's chest. He sighed, rolled his eyes, and stepped back. "What do you want?"

"Oh, Sherlock, you're so boring! Straight to the questions. Can't we have a chat?" Moriarty's lips curled into a smirk. "I want what I've always wanted, Sherlock. It's what you want to."

Sherlock knew what he meant. The need to keep his mind working. To never let it stagnate, lest he die or go mad from sheer boredom. Minds like theirs need constant stimulation.

"But that's not all."

"Of course not. I want you. Or more specifically, to beat you." Moriarty reached out and started gently stroking Molly's hair. "Shall we show him our pretty little token to him?" He asked her, and fresh tears started to slip down her cheeks.

Sherlock watched, his gaze fixated on Molly, his hands clenching and unclenching, as Moriarty moved the neckline of her shirt to the side. A dark red 'SH' had been carved into her skin just below her collarbone.

Sherlock couldn't hold back the gasp that slipped from his lips. He quickly regained his composure, and shoved his tight fists into his pockets.

"She insisted, you know." Moriarty grinned. "I was going to do my own initials. But this little woman of yours," he shook her slightly and she shuddered. "Insisted that if she were going to have initials carved into her, they were going to be yours. Such a loyal, feisty thing." He ran his hand along her cheek before pinching it.

"Get your hands off her." His tone was commanding and just a touch anxious. "Do not touch her again."

"Or what?" He poked her shoulder playfully, his almost manic grin still on his face. "Not like you can do anything to stop me . . . Or can you?"

Sherlock swallowed thickly and raised his hands above his head. "Take me instead." Molly's eyes went wide and she shook her head furiously, but he continued anyway. "I'm the one you want. You said so yourself. Now let her go . . . And you can have me."

"Actually, I said I wanted to beat you." The other man corrected quickly.

Sherlock's eyes closed for a moment and he took a shuddering breath before speaking quietly, but resolutely. "You have. You've taken the only thing left that matters."

"Beg." Moriarty's grin widened and his eyes flashed with bubbling over insanity.

Sherlock sighed and slowly knelt on the ground, his arms still raised above his head. "Take me. And let her go . . . Please."

"I can't hear you!" The sing song voice reverberated around the immense room.

"Please! I . . . beg you. Now, let. Her. Go." His gaze was harsh and penetrating to match his tone.

"Let her go? The one thing left that matters?" Moriarty quoted mockingly. "Fat chance."

Before there was any chance of anyone doing anything to stop him, the consulting criminal slipped a short knife from his sleeve and slashed it brutally across Molly's throat.

Her muffled scream was cut short as she fell forward, blood seeping from her neck and dripping down her chest. For a moment, time went in slow motion for Sherlock. He could see her body as it thumped against the ground with a soft thud. Her bright eyes, dull and wide, forever transfixed in fear, as her life blood pooled across the concrete floor. His ears were filled with a soft ringing as his mind went blank, devoid of everything but the woman before him.

"MOLLY!" Sherlock's voice was a shriek of anger and anguish and sounded like nothing he ever thought he could sound like. No longer concerned with the sniper, he dove forward and scrambled to kneel beside her, gently taking her into his arms. Moriarty watched on, with no signs of stopping Sherlock. He was simply enjoying the show.

"Molly, Molly." He pulled the gag from her face and cupped her cheek. "Molly. Can you hear me? You have to hear me! You can't be gone! Not yet. Not yet. You need to hear me, Molly." His voice was cracking and he ignored the tears that started leaking from his eyes. "You need to hear me . . . Because I love you. I love you Molly Hooper. And I need you to know that. You have to know that." He closed his eyes and gripped her close, pulling her bloody, lifeless body against his chest and burying his face in her neck. He allowed himself a few moments of pure, unbridled emotion, as sobs racked his body. It had been so long since he'd let himself go like that. He'd been just a boy the last time.

After he brought himself back under some semblance of control, he gently set her down, got to his feet, and faced Moriarty. His eyes were dark and his teeth were clenched behind his lips, causing his jaw to appear even sharper than usual.

"Do you realize what you've done?" His voice was a low growl.

"I killed Molly Hooper." Moriarty shrugged his shoulders.

"Yes. You took the last thing I had left." His hands were clenched so hard, his nails were biting into his palms. "And now . . . There is nothing to stop me. Nothing to hold me back. I have nothing to lose, and there is nothing to stop me from ripping you apart."

"Oh, I like you like this." Moriarty snickered almost gleefully. "I should've done this sooner."

"James Moriarty, you have just made me the most dangerous man in the world."

"I have, haven't I?" He smirked and shoved his hands into his pockets. "And I did it just how I said I would."

Sherlock's brows furrowed, but he kept his brutal gaze fixed on the devil in front of him.

"Don't you remember? 'I'll burn the heart out of you.'" He quoted himself. "Molly Hooper was your heart. And I just burned her."

Sherlock lunged forward, his hands grasping at Moriarty's neck. His teeth were bared and he let out a feral growl.

"Don't you see it?" Moriarty gasped out as Sherlock crushed his windpipe. "You're perfect now. Nothing's in the way anymore."

"In the way of what?"

"Of you . . . becoming totally and completely . . . me." His eyes sparkled and he smirked, despite the decreasing flow of air to his lungs.

Sherlock's hand immediately released the criminal's neck and he stepped back, watching Moriarty grasp at his throat and gasp for breath.

"No."

"Too late for that, darling." He chocked out, his voice hoarse, but his eyes still gleaming.

"No. Because you've missed one thing." Sherlock took another step back.

"What?" Now it was Moriarty's turn to furrow his brows in confusion. "I didn't miss anything!""I can never be you. Because I am Sherlock Holmes." He spoke clearly and defiantly. "And I will always love Molly Hooper."