Arse, thought Molly Hooper for the tenth time in under an hour, as she walked the frigid streets of London in a cocktail dress and a flimsy overcoat. Obviously, she hadn't anticipated the need for a mid-December stroll when she'd chosen the ensemble. She'd been under the impression that, at the very least, she'd be guaranteed a full night in a quaint, warm restaurant, followed by a cab ride home. Even if the company hadn't been pleasant, she should have at least had that much to look forward to.

Instead, she'd been stood up. She sat at the restaurant for precisely forty minutes, before she decided he wasn't going to show. To add insult to injury, she couldn't get a cab, so, finally, she started walking.

And now she was freezing.

And… lost.

Molly swallowed thickly, slowing her pace as she observed her surroundings. She didn't recognize any of the buildings, and there were no helpful street signs. Only darkness. Damn, she thought angrily. Why didn't I pay attention to where I was going? She kept walking, though, hoping she would eventually stumble across something, or someone familiar.

Her throat tightened as a shadowed figure approached from an alleyway. Obviously male, the figure kept his distance, but was clearly in pursuit. Molly quickened her step, and reached into her handbag for her can of mace, hoping it wouldn't be necessary. She focused on the path in front of her, not daring to turn again. As she went on, however, she thought she could hear a second set of footsteps. Against her better judgment, she glanced behind her, and confirmed that another figure—also male—was hot on her heels.

Oh God, she thought fearfully. She turned forward, intent on breaking into a run, only to be stopped by a third man, this one standing directly in her path. "Oh!" she cried in surprise.

"Goin' somewhere, sweetheart?" he asked far too close to her face. His breath reeked of alcohol and debauchery, and Molly gave an involuntary grimace.

"Y-yes, in fact," she said, sounding far less brave than she'd hoped to. "Excuse me—"

Molly attempted to sidestep him and continue on, but he copied the move, ending up in front of her again. She paused, then noticed a street to her right, and quickly turned onto it. She heard cries of protest from the men behind her, but ignored them, half-sprinting along the road. As she walked, she took advantage of what was likely to be a brief window of freedom, and sent a text.

Help me.

Just as she hit the "send" button, an arm caught her by the middle. It belonged to the man who had stopped her before. "What's the rush, love? We've got all night."

"Let go," she insisted. "I'm not your love."

"Oi," one of the other men called, "quit hoggin' the broad, mate!"

Molly stomped hard on the man's foot, effectively loosening his hold on her—and breaking the flimsy heel of her shoe. She didn't give a toss about the shoe, though, quickly discarding both and running as fast as her feet would carry her. She wound through the darkened streets, praying silently to whatever deity could hear her that someone would show up. The next moment, a car screeched to a halt in front of her, and a man stepped out. "Get in," he said gruffly in a voice she didn't recognize.

"Like hell," she muttered, and made to run the opposite direction, but the man caught her and forced her into the car, shutting the door roughly and locking it. The driver took off at speeds that were most certainly not legal, and Molly was instantly grateful that she hadn't eaten.

"You look bloody awful," a feminine voice observed.

Molly jumped and turned her head in the direction of the voice. Relief swept through her as she recognized Anthea, the perpetually-texting assistant of Mycroft Holmes. She didn't look up, but Molly could see a smirk playing on the woman's painted lips.

"How—"

"Shh," Anthea interrupted. "We're almost there."

"Almost where?"

Anthea's smirk only deepened, and she ignored the question. Moments later, they slowed to a stop, and Molly looked out the window. She couldn't help her own little smile; Baker Street. Of course. She couldn't think how they'd arrived so quickly, but decided not to dwell on it. More eagerly than she cared to admit, she bounded up the stairs and into the familiar flat. Sherlock sat in his chair, fingers drumming on the armrests, a look of worry on his face. The moment she entered, his head jerked up, and he shot to his feet. In three quick strides, he was in front of her, and pulling her against him.

"Molly," he breathed. "Thank God you're safe."

Her eyes fluttered closed as she clung to him, head pressed against his chest. She could make out his heartbeat, a somewhat erratic thumpity-thump, further betraying his obvious worry for her. It felt nice, to be worried over. But mostly, it felt nice to be here, with him. It felt like home.

A/N: I tried to add more, but it just felt stretched out and contrived. I think it ends nicely here, anyway. Do you like it? I think there might be one more sequel in the works. Still figuring that out. Review, please!