The car was pushed to its maximum as the driver raced from the airport to St. Barts, it had been the first demand Sherlock had made after learning why his plane had been turned around, and his exile had been cut short.
Mycroft had rolled his eyes at his brother's demand, but he also knew it was a clever move, if Moriarty truly was back; Molly was indeed the first person he would be expected to go after.
'Molly,' Sherlock yelled out her name as he rushed through the doors to the lab, only to come face to face with Mike Stamford. 'Molly isn't here, she left twenty minutes ago, it was about time too, she's been looking sick for weeks,' the man said shaking his head.
John looked to Sherlock, 'actually Sherlock, how long has it been since you've seen Molly,' the look on Sherlocks face had spiked john's curiosity.
The guilt was evident on the consulting detective's face, but he refused to answer, running as quickly out the doors, as he had entered through them.
'Not since she slapped him,' Mycroft answered the question his brother had not, even though he knew the doctor had most likely already figured it out. John was clearly angry, but he would save the fight for later, when he knew Molly was safe.
'Molly's flat,' Sherlock barked at the driver as he jumped into the car, John and Mycroft barely even made it inside before it sped off.
Sherlock was worried, it was plain to see, and to be honest John was worried as well, and Mike had said she was ill hadn't he. Thankfully the drive to Molly's flat was short, and they were soon out of the black sleek car in a run up the stairs to Molly's residence.
John would later think of how quickly they got inside to look for her, but it was not on his mind as he watched Sherlock going through every room of the silent flat in an increasing pace before he stopped at her bedroom door.
Sherlock gasped, his right hand went to the doorframe in an attempt to hold himself from falling to the floor.
He watched the consulting detective run through the door, and he heard the strangled cry tearing from Sherlock's throat. 'Molly,' he croaked, 'Molly wake up.'
John, Mycroft, Mary, and Mycroft's two henchmen walked into the room almost at the same time to, much difficulty.
Molly was on her bed, her clothes drenched in sweat, her breath ragged and incoherent. Her tiny frame was shaking, and her eyes were clenched shut, her small hands curled into tiny fists. John could see she'd been neglecting herself for a long time, her cheeks were hollow, and her ribs were almost visible through the shirt clinging to her body.
The phone on her bedside table rang, the noise shocking most of the people out of their though, but Sherlock had collected himself, and was once again the unfeeling, cold, and insensitive man most of them knew him to be.
'It's raining, it's pouring, Sherlock is boring. I'm laughing, i'm crying, Molly is dying' came the unmistakably sing-song voice of James Moriarty.
Sherlock shivered, the song had haunted his mind-palace even after he'd been shot, Molly had saved him then, and if he did nothing else, he would save her.
'What do you want this time Moriarty,' he asked tensely, clenching his jaw to calm himself down.
'Oh I want nothing; I promised you I would burn the heart out of you, didn't I. She'd burning from the inside Sherlock, the white hot pain is floating through her body, killing her slowly as we speak,' his words were spoken with an almost childlike glee, and it sent chills through everyone in the dark, cold, room.
Mycroft left the room, John and Mary were frozen on their spot, and Mycroft's two henchmen stood silently, watching the scene in front of them.
'So that's it? That's the game, Molly dying?' Asked Sherlock his voice shaking slightly.
'I'll prove it, that this is the end,' he said happily, but not from the speakers on the phone, they all turned to watch Jim Moriarty walk through the door to Molly's bedroom, he barely got two steps inside before one of the buffoons had shot him down, this time for good.
Sherlock yelled in distress, Jim had without a doubt planned this, but he had been the only one to know how to save his Molly, Sherlock knew he would have gotten it out of him, he had to believe that, but it was too late, and all he could do was watch as Molly's breath became shallow.
A few minutes passed by, and the tension in the room was killing him slowly, the pitying looks from his friends and Mycroft's men was trying his impatience, but he stood by her side, he would stay with her till the end.
Another minutes passed before Mycroft stalked into the room, he nodded to the two men at his side, and they quickly grabbed Sherlock, John, and Mary, shoving them out of the room.
Mycroft had known exactly which poison had been injected into the small pathologist, and even though he highly disapproved of his brothers feelings for the girl, he knew Sherlock would never forgive himself for her death.
He poured the antidote into her mouth, and signalled Mark to hold her down, the antidote was even more painful than the poison, and she was not out of danger yet, she would have to fight.
Sherlock was pounding on the door, yelling at his brother to let him inside, but when her screams started, his blood froze, and he sank to the floor. His insides turned as her screams of terror kept going, he felt numb at his incapability to help her, to help his Molly.
John was astonished to see the tears silently streaming down the consulting detective's face, he was mumbling Molly's name over and over in a soundless broken voice.
When Mycroft opened the door his brother was curled up on the floor in front of him, his eyes red from crying, and his hands shaking from listening to the endless sounds of terror coming from the young woman he most obviously loved. Mycroft stepped over him, and once again nodded to his men before leaving the building.
The two men carried Sherlock into Molly's bed, placing him gently next to the now sleeping pathologist, he face showed the pain and horror she'd been through, but she would live, she'd survived, she'd been strong.
John and Mary were signalled to move, to go to their home, to appreciate each other, and that was exactly what they were going to do, seeing the consulting detective had shown them just how lucky they were, and they would never take each other for granted from that time on.
When Sherlock woke his throat and mouth was dry, he had trouble remembering why and where he was.
He felt a hand running softly through his hair, a finger removed a stray curl, and lips pressed to his temple lightly. 'Hello,' her voice was weak, but firm and, Sherlock took a long deep breath in relief, she was alive.
He opened his eyes, only to meet her chocolate brown gaze smiling down at him shyly. He raised his hand intending to run it over her cheek, to move it to the back of her neck, and to pull her down for a long overdue kiss, but he hesitated.
She smiled again, once again running her hands through his raven black unruly curls; he shuddered at the gentle touch, and finally found the courage to do what he had wanted to for so long.
Molly sighed as their lips met, Sherlock realised their position wasn't optimal for her, and that she would most likely get a sore neck from it, so he moved. She was on her back, and he was leaning slightly over her, but careful as not to hurt her in any way.
Their foreheads touched as he tried to slow down his breathing, 'I couldn't save you Molly,' she could tell he was trying to pull away, she knew him well enough. 'Don't you dare Sherlock, don't you ever leave me again,' she made him look at her before she crashed her lips to his in another kiss.
'You promise me,' she said once their mouths had parted once more 'promise me that you'll never leave me. Unless it's for cases of course,' he gave her a sheepish grin, 'I promise,' he whispered to the side of her neck.
He repeated his promise a year later, just as he promised to be with her in sickness and health.