Molly very nearly stomped her way down the passageway into the dining car. Of all the ungentlemanly things to do, commenting on her snoring! She flushed in embarrassment at the thought.

Sitting down at a small table, swaying with the train's motion, Molly ordered quickly and sipped the cold, ice water the waiter left for her, trying to cool off her temper. That infuriating man had not stopped riling her up since he suddenly decided to take her to Paris, acting as though he was doing her an enormous service. Which, granted, he was. Molly frowned, partly in regret that she hadn't been more grateful to him, but also because she had no idea why he was doing it. His friend, the doctor, was the complete opposite of the detective, both in looks and personality. Molly felt comfortable in his presence. She imagined if she'd had a brother, John would be just like him.

He was more than happy to assist her onto the train, explain to her the process of journeying across the Russian expanse into Western Europe, and treat her kindly. But Sherlock, on the other hand, was an enigma. He cast her off entirely until she said she wanted to go to Paris. His entire demeanor toward her had changed within the space of a few seconds and he very nearly dragged her to the train station.

Molly sighed deeply, resigning herself to the mystery of Sherlock and simply being grateful for his generosity, despite his brashness.

'May I join you, miss?'

Molly coughed on the sip of water she'd taken and stared up in surprise at the handsome man standing by her table. He was about the same build as John, but with shocking auburn hair that hung over his forehead, falling over his piercing green eyes. Molly blinked and looked about, sure he wasn't speaking with her. The man chuckled and sat across from her.

'Yes, I was speaking to you,' his soft voice teased her. He reached his hand over the table in greeting. 'Thomas Thornton, Miss…?'

Molly blushed and hesitantly shook his hand. 'Molly. Just… Molly.'

The corner of his mouth lifted in a crooked smile. 'I hope you don't consider me too forward, Molly. But I found myself dining alone, as well, and thought it would be nice to have some company.'

'Well, actually-' Molly began, her gut twisting with unease. There was something off-putting about this man.

'How about some of the best wine on the train?' Thomas interrupted and snapped his fingers for the sommelier, one appearing at their table in an instant with a bottle of red liquid in his hands. Molly twisted her fingers in her lap. She didn't want to cause a scene in the crowded carriage, but she didn't want to be near this man; one of her headaches was forming behind her eyes and she knew this man was the reason, there was something familiar about him in a dangerous, uneasy way and she needed to get out.

The sommelier gracefully poured the wine, the liquid swirling in the glasses with the motion of the train, and left them once more. Molly glanced over her shoulder, hoping Sherlock or John had decided to join her.

'Molly, are my attentions unwanted?' Thomas teased, bringing her attention back to him. He raised his glass expectantly toward her in toast. Molly swallowed nervously and eyed her glass of wine. She'd never partaken before, but knew that its effects could dull pain and ease tension in the body. A sip wouldn't hurt, would it?

Her hand shaking slightly, she drew her fingers around the stem and touched the rim to Thomas', the gentle clinking jarring her nerves.

He swirled the liquid in his glass and took a sip, never breaking eye contact with her. Molly copied his actions and hesitantly pressed the glass to her lips, letting the slightly bitter liquid caress her tongue before sliding down her throat.

'Excellent, isn't it?' Thomas sat back in his chair with a pleased smile.

Molly forced a smile and nodded. Her headache was growing stronger and she turned her gaze down, running her finger along the foot of the glass. Thomas was talking, saying something about the quality of the wine, but Molly couldn't focus on his ramblings. She took another sip, growing accustomed to the strange drink. As she set the glass back down, she froze and narrowed her eyes.

Flecks of white powder, nearly invisible, sat just above the wine in the glass, slightly moist and mixing with the alluring liquid. A sudden queasiness gripped her, her senses dulling, and blackness creeping into her sight. Her stomach dropped in horror. The voices around her faded and she could hear the beat of her racing heart as it began pumping furiously as a result of whatever poison had been laced in her drink when she had turned her head. Molly looked up at Thomas, who had stopped talking and was staring at her with a blank expression.

'What… what did you do?' She whispered.

'Moriarty sends his regards,' he said plainly.

Molly stood so quickly, her chair tipped over and the loud crash brought the attention of the rest of the dining car, the sudden silence only accentuating the loud thudding of Molly's heart. That name, Moriarty, sent deadly terror straight through her, as though by saying his name, one was invoking the spirit of the Devil himself. Molly backed up, stumbling over the fallen chair, before turning and striding from the room, pushing past a waiter carrying a tray on his shoulder.

'Miss, your meal!' The waiter called after her in confusion. Molly looked back once, Thomas's eyes boring into hers, a deadly calm on his face. She burst into the adjoining carriage and stumbled along the passageway, tears of pain and fear now falling down her cheeks as she felt her way toward their compartment.

The darkness was quickly crowding her vision and she felt the ground beneath her start to teeter. Desperately, she pulled on the nearest handle, praying it was their compartment, and fell inside just as oblivion took her.


'Molly!' John exclaimed in surprise when the door slid open suddenly. The young woman's eyes rolled back and she collapsed at their feet, her face eerily white. With his army-trained reflexes, he reached for her, but Sherlock was a beat ahead and caught her, gathering the princess into his arms. John grabbed her wrist and checked for a pulse, his eyes widening in horror at the frantic beat beneath his fingertips. The tinge of blue on her lips could only mean one thing.

'Poison,' they concluded at the same time.

'My bag,' Sherlock commanded and jerked his head at the overhead luggage, several of which contained Sherlock's portable laboratory and science experiments, which he (thankfully) never traveled without, should boredom overcome him. John tugged down the nearest one, hoping it was the right one, and popped the latches. With one arm wrapping Molly against his chest, Sherlock reached over and lifted the lid, glancing over the multitude of vials before plucking a small capped bottle and yanking the cork out with his teeth, spitting it to the side. Tilting Molly's head back against his shoulder, he pressed the bottle against her lips and poured half of the contents down her throat.

Several minutes passed in tense anticipation. John kept his fingers against her pulse, looking for any sign that the antidote was working. Sherlock cupped her cheek, patting it lightly, and pulled her eyelid up to examine the dilation of her pupils. He nodded as if satisfied and carefully laid her on the bench, balling up his wool coat as a pillow. 'She will live. Her would-be assassin, however, will not.'

Tucking his shirt into his trousers and straightening his waistcoat, Sherlock snatched John's pistol from its hiding place in the drop compartment of a suitcase.

John stood and laid a hand on Sherlock's arm with a frown. 'Don't do anything stupid, there may be more than one.'

'Nonsense, John.' Sherlock smirked. 'When have I ever done anything stupid?'

With a wink, the detective slid out into the hall, leaving John to shake his head and turn his attention their impromptu royal patient.


Sherlock hadn't been gone ten minutes when Molly stirred. She was still deathly pale and clearly in the midst of a waking nightmare. Her eyes flew open wide, staring at some unseen horror. John slid onto his knees next to her, pressing his hand against her forehead and whispering calming reassurances to her.

She fought against him, her head lolling back and forth as she began speaking incoherently. John knew that the antidote was working, but he desperately wished she did not have to suffer the consequences of the battle inside her body. Suddenly, she fell still and turned her head to look at him, her eyes bright in feverish delirium.

'Papa?' She whispered in a small voice.

John felt his heart break at the innocence and fear in her gaze. 'It's John, Molly. Remember me?'

Her brow furrowed and a tear escaped her eye and disappeared into her unbound hair. 'Where is Papa? He said he'd be here… he said he'd meet me on the train.'

John smiled sadly, but found he couldn't lie to her, not even when she was suffering from hallucinations induced by the poison. Instead, he just brushed his hand soothingly through her hair. Her memories were awakening and he knew the road ahead was going to be difficult for her, grieving a family she had forgotten for most of her life.

'Did James kill him?'

John flinched at the question and drew his hand back as if it had been burnt.

'James Moriarty?' John whispered, his eyes wide. He had been no more than fifteen when the Romanoff family had been executed by the radical, former advisor to the Tsar and he could still remember the terror that gripped the country at the slightest whisper of Moriarty's name.

'Papa said that James wasn't his friend anymore and to not trust him. I never did, James was scary.' She looked up at him with fear filled eyes. Even in her memory regression, Molly was proving to have been an observant child, with an understanding he couldn't fathom.

'They're gone, aren't they?' She whispered, tears now falling freely. 'Papa and Mama and Natasia… they're gone.'

John felt his heart break anew and pulled the princess to his chest, maneuvering to sit beside her on the bench and let her cry into his shirt. She wouldn't remember this when the fever broke; but he would give her what comfort her could now, as a brother might console a sister.


Sherlock ran his fingers through his curls and growled in agitation as he stalked back to the compartment. Nothing. He had searched each carriage thoroughly (he'd have to delete the memory of the couple in compartment 94 from his Mind Palace, as soon as possible) and failed to find Molly's would-be assassin.

He had examined the evidence in the dining car, questioning the sommelier and waiter, the other patrons, trying to determine who the man was that had accosted Molly. An older woman and her daughter were eager to embellish, claiming the young man was utterly smitten with the trampy girl to their delighted disgust, as though it was a scandalous bit of gossip. Sherlock rolled his eyes, but took their description of the man as most accurate, being the nosy pests they were. By his estimation, the red-haired man was Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's right-hand assassin and directly responsible for the murders of the wife of Tsar Nicholas, as well as Princess Natasia.

But why Moran had not followed Molly to ensure she died from her consumption of the poison was baffling to the detective. Unless… Sherlock came to stop just outside their compartment. The only possible explanation. Whirling about, Sherlock broke into a run, jumping from carriage to carriage, knocking over other passengers without care. His heart was racing and adrenaline coursed through him like the purest of solutions. Finally, he came to the front of the train and burst through the door into the engine room.

'Hey, you can't be here!' The engineer shouted over the roar and clattering of coal being shoveled into the furnace.

Sherlock ignored the idiot and simply pulled him from his position at the window, the engineer too stunned to put up a fight. Leaning out into the rushing wind, Sherlock narrowed his eyes at the pressure and felt his heart drop somewhere near his feet. Moran would not have given up unless he had a secondary plan to ensure Molly's demise. And the bridge crossing the chasm less than five miles ahead would be the perfect failsafe.

'You need to stop this train!' Sherlock shouted as he pulled himself back inside.

'What? Are you insane?!' The engineer bellowed, his face red from anger and the heat of the furnace. The men shoveling coal stopped to watch.

'Don't waste your breath arguing with me! You have less than five miles before we go plunging to our deaths!'

'What?'

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but the retort on his lips died when they felt the train shudder just before a thunderous dull roar filled the air. He rushed back to the window and watched in horror as piece by piece, the bridge burned and caved in on itself, falling into the ravine below.

'Stop. The. Train!' He bellowed, shoving the engineer toward the window.

The man's eyes widened and he paled considerably. Suddenly jumping into action, he began barking orders to his men to stop shoveling coal and start emergency braking. Sherlock left them to their jobs, knowing that at the rate they were going, there was sufficient time to stop before the bridge. He rushed down the passageway, past people stumbling with the sudden loss of momentum, and slipped into their compartment.

John was sitting with Molly's head in his lap, tear tracks marring her sleeping face. Sherlock felt something around his heart clench at the sight, but he brushed it aside.

'Did you find him?' John whispered.

Sherlock shook his head and took a seat across from them, stumbling slightly as the train slowed down even more. John frowned and glanced at Sherlock in question.

'I found out who he was. Sebastian Moran. But he's long gone, most likely having jumped the train when we made a slow ascent up a mountain. Before he left, though, he made sure Molly would die, by poison or not.'

'How?'

Sherlock quirked his eyebrow. 'By taking out the bridge pass.'

John's eyes widened in horror.

'Not to worry, I managed to convince the idiot of an engineer to stop in plenty of time,' Sherlock waved him off dismissively. 'But it looks like it's going to take us a bit longer to get to Paris than I had anticipated.'