Thank you for your reviews, follows and favourites! :) I'm not sure about this chapter, so please tell me what you think. This one's more from Sherlock's perspective.

Sherlock looked down from the window of 221b Baker Street. Snowflakes gently fluttered down in the inky blackness of the night. The streetlights illuminated a small figure - Molly. She was walking slowly down the street, her fiancé having just driven off in his car. He knew he should offer to take her home, but he was disappointed in her choice of future husband. Although he didn't seem to be a psychopath, he was dreadfully boring. As soon as he and John had returned from entertaining the press, he had endured three hours of listening to his mundane chatter about him trying to get promotion of his job. Sherlock could tell he didn't have a chance in hell. He had been on his best behaviour though - he hadn't wanted to upset Molly because he wanted her to be happy. She deserved it. Surprisingly, he had actually enjoyed the evening, apart from him being there, reconnecting with his only friends.

"I'm going now, Sherlock. I'll see if I have any interesting cases for you tomorrow," Lestrade announced friendly as he turned to go.

"We're going home as well. Pop round tomorrow," John added. Sherlock turned round and narrowed his eyes.

"You're not going to stay here? But I'm back now," he stated.

"I live with Mary now. Frankly, she's a lot better at being a housemate," he said jokily, squeezing the shoulders of his girlfriend. Slightly annoyed, Sherlock picked up his violin and started tuning it. He hadn't played in two years.

"Goodbye,".

"See you soon, Sherlock," John sighed.

Lestrade certainly didn't disappoint Sherlock with the promise of an interesting case, even by Sherlock's standards this was intriguing. A top London banker had been murdered in his office, yet there was no sign of his killer on the CCTV. It was definitely murder though. When Sherlock searched he found a box covered in the banker's blood, and secured with dozens of little locks. The box he deduced, had meant to be found, so as expected there were none of the killers fingerprints on the box. The cause of murder wasn't due to money problems, it was a long running family dispute. He decided he'd visit the family in the afternoon, after he'd looked more closely at the box.

He strode through the doors where Molly worked. "Morning. Just like old times already," he greeted Molly, as he placed his possession on the table. They had rearranged everything since he had last been here, so it took him some time till he found everything he needed. Molly was curiously quiet, he noticed. She had only said hello to him, whilst normally she would attempt to strike up conversation between them or at least offer him coffee, even if he was busy. Although he would've liked to solve his case first, his two years away had taught him to appreciate what he'd had, like Molly. She wasn't presented in her usual way, was exhausted and her mind was preoccupied with something, he could tell. Suddenly, she swivelled round to look at him, but he looked back down at his work. "Can I have a pencil, please?" he asked, wanting to get a closer look at her.

Sherlock dropped the box from the top of the stairwell at and watched as it plummeted. This was the fastest way to open it. He was confident it contained nothing breakable anyway. As he raced down the seven flights of stairs, he wondered who had done that to Molly. Apart from the cuts and being a bit subdued, they hadn't done anything else to her, not even taken anything from her. The words 'DON'T TELL' sent a shiver down his spine, hoping that it wasn't his presence back in her life that had caused the events. When John had been taken, they both knew it was because of Sherlock.

The box laid on the floor. There was a slight fracture in the bottom, nothing else. Damn. He should've known it wouldn't open if he dropped it. It was obvious. How stupid was he?

He returned to the lab. Molly was sorting through some paperwork, and shyly looked away from him, blushing. "Did you open it?" she enquired.

"Obviously not," he replied. Sherlock quietly walked over to her.

"Sherlock! Wh-what are you doing?!" she exclaimed, batting him away with her hands. He removed a bobby pin from her hair.

"I need this to open the box," he smiled.

He slowly unpicked all 25 of the locks on the box. Sherlock opened it up to reveal several signed wills of the victim, made on the different dates. The last was made only a week ago. Sherlock smiled delightedly. "He knew he was going to die, so he changed the will,".

"Couldn't it have just been a coincidence?" Molly asked.

"No. He liked rountine and he updated his will every ten years. He knew he was going to die, when and where too. So he went there. He didn't want a struggle, so...".

"But how did he know he was going to die?".

"He was threatened. Lestrade said they found no evidence of why he was killed. Knowing those idiots, they've probably missed something,' he grimaced. "I'm going to interview the family this afternoon. I'm sure it's got something to do with them,". Sherlock put the wills back in the box. "In the meantime, I can investigate what happened to you,".

"Only if you have nothing else to do...". She then explained all she could remember about the previous night to him, whilst she tidied away the mess he'd made.

"And you can remember the address?".

"17 Placard Avenue,".

Sherlock knew something was wrong as soon as they turned into the street. This wasn't where you'd find a hotel. It wasn't a nice part of London either. He got out the cab, thanked the driver and knocked on the door of no.17. A short bald middle-aged man opened it. He had no long term partner or children, was unemployed and from his clothes had just been away, Sherlock deduced, and certainly didn't run a hotel. It was worth a try though.

"I'd like to make a booking for the hotel,".

"Hey?! What you on about?" he stared at Sherlock blankly.

"Yes, thought so. May I come in, Mr Weston?" he strode in confidently. Although the walls were unpainted, the lounge was full of the clutter Sherlock would expect from a man like Mr Weston. The dust on the shelves and telly was thick and undisturbed. "What the hell do you think your doing?! You can't just come b-".

"Can't I?" Sherlock sighed, as he pushed past him and started up the stairs.

"Look here, I could call the police you know! Get you arrested," the man panted behind Sherlock.

"No you couldn't. I work for the police,". Sherlock opened the door at the top of the stairs, to reveal a corridor with five doors. It matched Molly's description. He opened the first one to reveal a messy room - the man's - the floor covered in a sea of clothes. A suitcase lay open the bed. He'd been away on holiday, up north to see relatives for a week. The second he opened was a spare room. It contained a bed, chest of drawers, book shelves full of books and a dressing table. Unlike the rest of the house though, there was no dust on anything. Furthermore, the marks on the carpet showed the furniture had been moved around, within the last day or so. They people who took Molly must've rearranged it."Why though?" Sherlock pondered aloud. Why go to all that trouble?

"Why, what?" the owner of the house exclaimed. Offering no explanation, Sherlock continued to search the room. Then his eyes locked onto something. A letter on top of the boxshelf. He reached up and took it down. On the front the word 'SHERLOCK' was written with dark red.

"I-Is that blood?" the man quivered next to him. Sherlock nodded. He slowly opened the letter, dreading what he would find inside, scrutinising the envelope for clues. 'DID YOU SAY YOUR LAST GOODBYE TO HER?'. Sherlock could've sworn his heart stopped. This was a trap. He'd been dragged here so whoever hurt Molly could her even more. Sherlock pushed the man aside as he sprinted out the room, praying he wasn't too late.

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