Molly lightly rubbed the small photograph between her fingers. Her dream of family life had been so shortly lived. She didn't want to give it up now, not for the world. However, as it happened, her small perfect family was in jeopardy. This time, it hadn't been her better half who had put himself right in the firing line, it was her. With all her wisdom and knowledge, Molly Hooper had ended up to be no smarter than the next person. So here she was, at 2:30 am in the morning placing a family portrait under her son's pillow for him to discover in the morning, when she was no longer on this earth. A large, salty tear escaped her eye and rolled down her cheek as she kissed his small head of thick black curls.

Be good to him, love him with all your heart and don't let him forget me.
I love you both too much for my own good.
I'm sorry. — Molly

She left the note on the slide under Sherlock's microscope for him to discover when he woke. She had managed to persuade her husband to sleep on this night for she knew that he needed it more that he thought he did.

Taking one last look around the flat that had become her home, she put on her thick coat. In one pocket was her phone, fit with a new SIM card, and in the other, a small piece of paper. On that piece of paper was an address. The address of saint Bartholomew's Hospital. Bellow the address was a note: I knew your husband once, our games were fun. Come and play, Dr Molly Holmes. 3:15am Thursday St. Bart's Hospital rooftop.—JM.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

It was the sound of soft whimpering tears and a small hand shaking violently shaking his shoulder that awoke Sherlock Holmes. Through the dim lighting, Sherlock could see his son's blotchy face, red eyes and tear stained cheeks. He sat up straight on the mattress so he could study his son to determine the source of his distraught.

In Hamish's hand was a small photograph, Sherlock recognised the family portrait Molly had insisted in getting taken, much to Sherlock's distaste; the back of the photograph had writing on it, clearly Molly's. Slowly, Sherlock turned his head over his shoulder not wanting to see what he thought he would see.

Sure enough, Molly's side of the bed was empty.

Sherlock turned back to look at Hamish's horrified face. Without a word, Sherlock flung himself from his bed to desperately find his wife. Anything, any evidence that indicated that she hadn't left them, was what he sought after. Any evidence that said she was still home, was what he wanted. But what we want and what we see can be two very different things.

Hamish slowly emerged from the bedroom still clutching the photograph, sobbing.

"Dad-dy," he managed between sobs, "w-what does th-his mean?" His small hand held up the family portrait. Sherlock rushed over to where Hamish was standing and knelt down next to him. Hamish placed the photo into his father's large hands as he pushed his head into the nook of Sherlock's shoulder.

Sherlock examined the photo. It was creased; many creases were from Hamish's hands but a few were from where Molly had played with the loved photo may times before. She loved this photo, she would never have given it up, let alone write on the back of it. So why? Sherlock turned to photo over.

To my dear Hamish,
I love you.
Remember me.
Love your mother —Molly

Sherlock's heart dropped. He read it again. And again. It could not be true. It just couldn't. There was no way that Molly would abandon him. Or Hamish.

"Where did you find this, Hamish?" Sherlock murmured trying to keep his voice as steady as possible as he cradled his son.

"U-under m-my pil-low." His sobs rocked his whole small body.

"When?"

"When I w-woke up-p" a new batch of tears surfaced at the memory of waking up to find his mother gone. Hamish rubbed his head against Sherlock's shoulder, creating a small wet puddle of salty tears on Sherlock's pyjama top. One of Hamish's hands clenched the back of Sherlock's pyjama top, his other arm was laced around Sherlock's neck, in a suffocating grip, allowing his little hand to reach up and grip his father's curls tightly as he grasped onto the little amount of reality that was in the moment.

In a few seconds, Hamish would wake up, run downstairs and find mummy asleep next to daddy. Yes. That's what will happen. It is all a nightmare. He told himself.

"It's all a nightmare, it's all a nightmare…" It only took his a small child, who happened to be part of him and a part of his wife, for Sherlock to experience something that he hadn't experienced in years. Despair. He wrapped this small child in his long arms in a tight hug. Sherlock rested his head on the boy's curls and smelt something he will never smell again. The faint trace of Molly rested in the boy's curls. The smell only made Sherlock's grip on the boy tighter. Until Hamish could bear it no longer.

"Ouch," he mumbled, "you're hurting me…" Sherlock pulled away to look Hamish straight in the eye.

"We will find out what happened to your mum. Don't you worry. Whoever brought this upon all of us will soon find out that no one, no one, messes with a Holmes." Sherlock had never been so certain of anything in his life. Hamish's sobs stopped.

"No one." Hamish repeated his tone definite. Sherlock nodded, to which, a faint smile pulled at the corners of Hamish's lips.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Icy cold snow was falling lightly to the ground around saint Bart's when Molly arrived. Taking in a sharp breath, Molly slowly climbed the stairs and past the reception. Whoever was behind the desk started calling after her. Molly ignored her and continued to walk, quicker now, down the long stretch of hall way to the elevator.

Stepping out onto the roof, all Molly could see was the silhouette of a man amongst the white snow that encircled them. The voice that spoke was not the insane Irish accented madness that she was expecting. It was a smooth, husky British voice that she didn't recognise.

"This is a turn out, isn't it, Molly," she remained silent, "You didn't bring anyone with you, interesting." Stood looking her up and down with a slight nod of approval, "stupid." A wicked smile played at his lips. "The name's Sebastian Moran."

Molly knew the name. He was Moriarty's right hand man. Sebastian was the one who did the dirty work. Moriarty never actually killed anyone, it was always Moran. The presence of death hung over him like a shadow.

In the years after Sherlock's death was faked, this was the man he hunted. Sherlock had lived with her during this time and she had come to mean the the world to him as he already meant the world to her. It was in their celebration of the belief that this assassin was dead, that they became a family. And now here he was, about to tear that family apart.

The assassin gestured for her to come closer as he turned his body slightly away from Molly's direction. If Molly were to try and make a escape, now would be a good time. However, she decided against it knowing if she ran from this assassin, another would shoot her dead without a second glance. Slowly, Molly moved towards Moran. When she was within arms distance, Sebastian laced his arm around Molly's hip and pulled her frighteningly close to his body. They were close enough that Moran could feel her heart rate.

"Feeling nervous, are we?" Moran got no answer from the terrified Molly. Slowly, Molly was walked to the edge of the building. Looking over the edge, Molly began to feel dizzy. Her head swirled, her stomach churned. Molly couldn't fathom how Sherlock had summoned the courage to jump almost seven years ago. As if reading her thoughts Moran spoke again pulling her back from the edge a little bit.

"How did he do it?" Molly didn't answer, she remained staring at the snow covered pavement below. "You should know, you helped him." Her heart plummeted into her stomach. Nobody had known of her input. Sherlock wouldn't allow anyone to know exactly what happened. A magician never reveals his secrets. No only that, but he would never confess that she meant more to him than he cared to admit and if she were put in harm's way because of him, he would never be able to forgive himself.

"Go on, tell me." Still, Molly refused say a word. "It's no secret that you were involved. I mean, isn't it obvious? Nobody cares about pathologists, they're existence is usually ignored throughout society all together. Besides, Jim always told me about how much you cared and how much he didn't. That's why didn't have an assassin on your trail that day. He ignored you, you didn't matter to him; you probably still don't."

Molly's eyes left the pavement to look Moran straight in the eye. Here she got a propped look at dangerous man. He had short, close cropped brown hair, stubble covered his chin, cheeks and under his nose. His eyes were a dark brown and were undeniably sad under the mask stone hard mask of a killer that he wore.

Rage boiled in the pit of Molly's stomach, yet she refused to say anything. The rage, however much she tried, reached her eyes. Sebastian's eyes widened in a mocking way at her sudden ferocity. It was very Moriarty.

"Tell me this, Baby-doll," the nick-name made the hairs on the back of Molly's neck stand up on end, "why did you come tonight? Not only that, why did you come here alone?"

"Why did you summon me?" The question was only mumbled but it was still understood by her captor. An evil grin spread across his face reaching from ear to ear.

"That's clever, you're clever, Baby-doll," again the name made Molly squirm, "why do you think I summoned you here?" His expression was stone hard as he shot Molly a death stare of pure evil. The pressure of the look made Molly coil, fighting her impulse to lash out and hurt the man in the most self defensive way she knew.

"Don't have any ideas? No? Well, let me make this clearer for you." The strong grip of Moran's hand enclosed on Molly's shoulder as she was swung around. Sebastian pointed at the ground of the roof. "Do you know what was found on that spot seven years ago, Dr Hooper? Do you?" Moran's voice was raised and the effect of the echoed thought the snowy night only made him sound more sinister than he already was. Molly had barely started to nod before Moran's evil voice boomed out over London's streets once more.

"It was my life!" The roof was left in silence. Horrified, Molly looked to Moran's face. Unmistakeable tears had began pooling in his dark evil eyes. Even in evil, there is good. "After he was gone, I was stripped of my job, my security and my only friend." The voice that escaped Moran's mouth was shaky, but when it spoke again, it was definite, determined and down right terrifying. "Sherlock was cold, arrogant and didn't know sentiment. Until he met you. Now he will know what it's like to loose everything you have ever loved."

Molly was flung away out of Moran's grasp as he quickly produced a British Army Browning L9A1 from under his jacket. He held it up and directed it straight at Molly's heart.

"It's been a lovely chat. At least your blood will paint a beautiful picture in the snow."

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

The first thing Sherlock did was phone Lestrade. Despite it still only being 6:00 am in the morning, Lestrade answered his phone. Not only that, he didn't even sound half asleep. His voice was alert, his mind ticking something over.

"What is it now, Sherlock, I'm on a case, I ca—" Lestrade was cut off by Sherlock's monotonic baritones.

"Molly left Hamish and I. From the looks of things, she didn't want to go but went willingly, so she wasn't held at gunpoint, but she was certainly threatened. She left notes of love, but there's no sign of a threatening note from her captor."

"Sher—" Lestrade tried to grab his attention but it didn't work, he kept going rambling about everything he had gathered form his inspection of the flat and the two notes she had left, the second one causing an unfamiliar lump to rise in his throat.

"However, she must've been known to us otherwise his threats would be worthless. I found her SIM card which means she doesn't want to be contact—"

"Sherlock, stop." There was saddened tone of great dismay about his voice. "We found Molly."

"Really? Where?" There was a deafening moment of silence that seamed to stretch out for minutes.

"You might want to come to St Bart's." there was another pause before he added "We're on the roof."

Sherlock lowered the phone to his side. He didn't bother to hang it up. It just sat loosely in his hand as the other side of the phone let out a single unwavering annoying tone. Hamish hurried over to his father and peeled the phone from Sherlock's hand and hung up.

"What is it, daddy?" Hamish asked as he put the phone down and looked up at his father's vacant expression. He began tugging at Sherlock's pant leg after ten seconds of silence. "Dad, daddy? Where's mummy? What did Greg say?" Hamish continued to question franticly as his father remained in a state of isolation. His little heart began hammering in his chest as his little hand tugged on the hem of Sherlock's coat franticly wanting questions.

Eventually Sherlock looked down at his son. Tears pooled in Hamish's eyes. Molly's eyes. Two deep brown circles full of curiosity and knowledge. Kneeling down, sherlock placed a hand on Hamish's shoulder looking into those big brown eyes.

"I have to go to St Bart's, I'm going to drop you off with John and Mary while I sort something out, ok?"

"NO! Not ok! I want to come with you!" Sherlock sighed.

"I can't take you with me."

"Why not." He mumbled.

"Because I want to protect you."

"I can look after myself."

"Hamish, do as I say. Stay put at John's and don't ask too may questions. Wait until I pick you up. Okay" crumbling under the pressure of his father's extremely sharp glare, Hamish gave in.

"Okay."

"Good. Now, put a jacket and some shoes on." Hamish tottered off to his bedroom to collect a small pair of boots and a jumper, much like one of John's. He took his time, but on his return, Hamish thrust the items of clothing up at his impatient father. Sherlock tied Hamish's tiny shoelaces, which took longer that he had hoped, and pulled the jumper over Hamish's head, ruffling Hamish's thick black curls when his head finally slid through the head hole.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Impatiently, Sherlock rung the annoying doorbell to John's house for the third time. He was about to ring again when Mary opened the door angrily. She blinked sleepily at the two men who stood on her doorstep.

"Sherlock?" She asked through squinted eyes. "What are you doing here? It's," Mary looked down at her watch "6:15. John had to work night shift last night, you know that, he's not in the mood for crime fighting, not yet at least."

"I need you to look after Hamish for a the day." With this, Sherlock invited himself and his son into the door past Mary. The sneaky little boy slithered past Mary and made himself at home taking a seat on the couch and turning the TV on turning the volume down to a minimum.

"Wha—" Mary glanced between Sherlock and Hamish "Can't Molly—" at the mention of his mother's name, Sherlock's jaw clenched and a soft sob could be heard from the living room, followed by a patter of feet. Sherlock bent down to scoop up Hamish who's arms were spread out wanting a hug.

"Please find her, daddy" he whispered into Sherlock's ear. Sherlock nuzzled into the crook of Hamish's neck and whispered back.

"I'll do what I can. You need to promise me that you will be strong, for Mummy, Okay?" Sherlock's usually uncaring personality seamed to shatter when his voice gave way as tears rose to his throat in a lump.

"Okay, daddy" Hamish's sobs were halted but the tears continued to roll.

"Don't go wondering, and stay with Mary and John. I love you. I'll come and get you as soon as I can, Okay?"

"Yes, Daddy. Goodbye" Hamish pulled away from his father's tight embrace to face Mary with his arms outstretched. Carefully, Mary took Hamish from Sherlock who was strangely reluctant to let go. She marvelled at the detective, a man who she believed to be such a hard, cold man, as he quickly whipped away a salty tear from his eye.

"Goodbye, Hamish. Mary." With that, Sherlock closed the door on Mary's face and left, as quickly as he could getting back into the cab he had hailed to get him here.

"Where to?" Asked the cabby

"St Bartholomew's Hospital."

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Mary just didn't know what to do. Hamish sat, nestled in Mary's arms. The poor thing was so tired that he had no more energy to sob, and tears just rolled off his cheeks onto Molly's shoulder.

"Do you want to tell me what happened?" Mary asked soothingly. Hamish just shook his head, rubbing his face dry on her shirt in the process. "No? Ok. Do you want anything to drink?" Again, Hamish rubbed his face against Mary's shirt. "No? Oh, ok. Food? No? Shall we just watch telly?" Hamish gave a little nod pulling his face out from the safe confines of the t-shirt. One of his small clenched hands remained full of soft pyjama top as he used the other to point to the television.

"Yeah," he mumbled resting his head down lightly on Mary's shoulder. She took a seat and adjusted Hamish so he was sitting on her lap with a good view of the telly, but he could still rest his head, if he needed it.

"What channel would he usually watch?" She asked herself while staring at the remote. Before she even had time to decide, Hamish started clawing for the remote with slight grunts, too tired to use proper words, until his little sweaty hands encased the remote as he punched in the number of his preferred station. Bright colours and over dramatic people greeted her as Hamish settled back down.

Mary fathomed over how Sherlock coped with this extremely bright and overacted noise blaring in the background 24/7 and then realised that Molly was probably the one who made Sherlock sit thought this torture due to the "educational" channels that Hamish could easily outsmart already.

However she tried, Mary couldn't see what Hamish found so enticing about the particular program that was playing, resulting in her mind flashing back to the tear Sherlock had shed on her doorstep, the small meaningful conversation he had held with Hamish and how it was only a mention of Molly's name that had set the two of them off. Only Molly could have brought the great Sherlock Holmes to shedding a tear with his son. She itched to know the answer as to what had happened to Molly. Her thoughts were interrupted by the sound off John's shuffling feet.

"What the hell are you watching?" He rubbed a sleepy eye as he walked around the corner to see Hamish resting sleepily against Mary's shoulder watching an extremely colourful show about shapes and colours hosted by a terrible actor. "Oh…"

"Hello, John." Came Hamish's sleepy little voice muffled by Mary's shirt.

"Hi, Hame. Where's dad?" Asked John.

"Looking for Mummy." John frowned.

"Why, what ha—" seeing Mary's warning gaze, John stopped himself from saying anything more. "Oh, ok then." John turned on his heals to head back to his room and grabbed a phone on his way to give Sherlock a much deserved call.

~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~.~

Sherlock threw the money he owed the cabby at the driver in desperation when he saw the familiar police car parked on the curb. He went to run inside as fast as he could, but the cold ice was slippery and forced him to walk agonisingly slowly up the stairs of St Bart's Hospital. Once he was in side he was able to move faster. His legs moved at a quickened pace but he slowed, momentarily, when he saw Lestrade at the end of the hall talking to one of the doctors. The doctor wore a concerned and slightly terrified face.

"I hope you sort this out Inspector. I wouldn't want a murder running around the hospital; it would scare the already stressed out patients."

"We'll do your best. Don't worry your patients, I'm sure he won't be of any danger to any of the patient's or their doctors."

"You called for me, Lestrade?" Sherlock interjected. The doctor walked away giving Sherlock shifty eyes.

"Ah, yes." Lestrade looked down at his hands.

"You said it concerned Molly. Where is she?" His voice was incredibly firm in a slightly threatening way.

"She's on the roof top." Sherlock turned quickly to the stairs bounding up them two at a time; the elevator would've taken too long. "Sherlock!" Lestrade called after the tall man as his coat billowed out behind him. Lestrade tried matching his pace, it wasn't easy, but he manage.

"Stop!" He huffed when he had gotten close enough to grab the hem of Sherlock's sleeve. Her whirled around fire blazing in his eyes. Lestrade took his time to regain his breath delaying the news he had to tell. "She's… well, she's not exactly alive"
"What do you mean?" Sherlock knew exactly what Lestrade meant. He just refused to believe it. Not until he heard the words.

"Sherlock," Lestrade let out a sigh, hung his head low and pinched his eyes closed, "she's dead."