A/N: I thank you for suppporting my story, fellow readers. I have decided to try and update one chapter a week, on Friday. The journey has only begun...

ps: thank you TheSandFromTheEmbers, Icecat62, and Andristasia Grey-Darcy for the lovely reviews.

TARGETED~

~Chapter 2: The Problem~

Monday- 6:30- AM- 6 Days, 18 hours left...

"Why d'ya do that?" Stewart shouted, holding his cheek with one hand, oblivious and groggy from lack of sleep.

"I haven't seen you in two years! What? You thought I wouldn't care if you only picked up the phone two out of twenty times I called you? Where were you? I was worried sick!" She rambled on like an overprotective mother and punched him in the shoulder, still fuming.

Molly was ready for a comeback, but Stewart simply went to hug her. In a way, he was deeply apologizing for what he had done… but she didn't know that yet.

"I didn't know Molly had a brother," John whispered to Sherlock as they both watched the scene unfold from the background.

"That is because she does not have one." Sherlock simply stated.

"So she told you?" John asked.

"Told me what?" Sherlock answered, perplexed.

"That she was an only child." The doctor specified.

"She told me nothing of the kind." The detective said, a bit frustrated.

"So how do you know she doesn't have a brother? It is rather plausible, is it not?" John suspected, frowning, trying to get his opinion across.

"Molly would have told me. She tells me everything. Anyhow, that man is an idiotic goldfish. It is impossible for them to be genetically related. He is probably an…acquaintance…of some kind." He added, proving his point.

"Oh yeah, acquaintance, right." Watson stifled a laugh.

Their small conversation ceased when Molly and Stewart's discussion started to heat up and burst into flames. Everything went downhill when the hug had been disconnected. "Do not think for one moment that I have forgiven you. You still have yet to tell me why you have been too busy to see me."

Stewart shifted his gaze towards the floor, exuding a culpable aura. Molly caught on quickly like she had read his mind. She gasped. "You didn't… you did! Drugs…really! Last time you used was when dad…" Her sentence trailed off purposely as strain entered her voice. It was unquestionably too painful. Her eyes turned into saucers when a plausible remark clicked in her mind. "Wait, if you are here as a client it must mean that you are in trouble. Brother… what have you gotten yourself into?" Molly asked, worried.

As Sherlock watched the discussion, he noticed how different Molly was acting. She seemed gentle, but also firm. A motherly instinct which appeared alien to him. No profuse anxiety seeped through her actions or words. It was a new side of her that he had never stumbled upon before and it gave him a sense of wanting. An itch to know more about Molly for it seemed that every second that went by, his conventional way of perceiving her started to blur and the lines between what he thought he knew and what he didn't, became harder to recognize. All in all, it started to infuriate him. He always wanted to understand everything and his pathologist was an enigma which appeared unsolvable. Hence, an unsolved puzzle made Sherlock agitated, very agitated indeed. He started to tap on the upper part of his thigh with his right hand, trying to soothe his 'overwhelming incomprehension' overload.

Before any chairs were thrown, John cut in, evidently becoming the mediator. "Let us all have a seat and discuss whatever mess we are apparently about to get into." He gestured to the couch with a strong yet serene voice. He sounded like a tender-hearted general in the middle of a war that was experiencing a period of temporary cease-fire―which was far from a real definition of war. Horrid and doleful came closer to its true form.

After a few minutes and a handful of Jaffa cakes from the landlord, Mrs. Hudson, Stewart started explaining his quandary; all from the beginning.

One Week Prior

"Did you hear about the new drug that is about to hit the streets?" Stewart's alcoholic roommate asked, slurring his words next to a rum bottle that lay on its side, only the few droplets that remained dripped out onto the floor like a leaky faucet. "They want to sell each of them for a… large sum of mon-ey even if they are dirt-cheap to make." Marty extended his arms like a child, giggling. Then, he got serious. "But, Shhhh! It was supposed to be a secret." He whined.

"Yeah? How do ya' know then?" Stewart asked, completely sober and had just gotten home.

"I wo-rk for the company, of co-urse." He slurred once again.

"Which company?" Hooper asked, clearly interested.

"Cariad and Webber. WAIT! Shhh! No telling!" Marty limply closed his heavy eyes and fell to the floor like a rag doll, out cold.

Stewart sat down, intertwining his fingers together in thought. He could finally get his big break. If he got some of the drugs before it landed on the streets, he would be able to sell it to any drug gang in the city. All he needed to do is some blackmailing with the company's CEO. Cariad&Webber was a renowned pharmaceutical corporation which was supposed to be searching for remedies to cure diseases, not creating illegal drugs. It would be a piece of cake. They would have no choice but to listen to him. So, he left his apartment, heading to see the famous CEO; Walter Webber.

After ninety minutes, he was sitting comfortably in front of Walter Webber's desk donning a smug countenance, finishing their conversation. "So ya' see Mista' Webber, let me be your distributor and I'll be on me way." Stewart proposed, leaning forward in his chair.

Walter remained silent, in thought. He did not seem at all disturbed about being extorted. He simply smirked and replied. "Fine. You can be our distributor…for our drug you say? However, I will need the money beforehand. There are rules higher up than me. Just go make a deal with whoever you want and when you get the money, call this number." He jotted down a phone number on a small piece of scrap paper and handed it to the young man. "Then, put it in a brown bag and discard it in the mailbox of house 34 on Chancery Lane. Finally, go to the house six doors down and open that mailbox, you will find another brown bag with everything you have paid for inside." He explained. "Now leave, you have been here long enough." The suited man finished, sitting up and opening the door. And then, Stewart left.

After a few days, Stewart Hooper had acquired five hundred grand from the Turkish gang. It took a lot of persuading, but they soon accepted. It was evident that no one in their right mind would try to double-cross them alone unless they had a death wish. Also, the cartel was in need of new merchandise since they were losing business from the Chinese who were beginning to grow rather expeditiously.

Finally, it was time for the phone call. He only heard one word on the other end when whoever it was finally picked up. "Understood." The line then went dead, leaving an irritating dial tone.

He took a cab to the street indicated for the drop-off and placed the brown bag filled with money in the box, heading to the next destination mapped out in his mind. With a foolhardy smile, he opened the mailbox, ready for his big break, but the ecstasy soon faded and his heart crumbled. There were no brown bags and more importantly― no drugs.

He panicked and ran back to the first post-box. Nothing…the money was gone and now he was a goner. The whole time, he was the one getting double-crossed. Now, he needed to go tell a volatile drug cartel that he lost their money…all of it.

Present Time

"And then I came here." He said after finishing his story about what the cartel told him. Drugs, not money; seven days or your family is dead. "The only target is you, Molly…no more family left but us." Stewart explained solemnly, bowing his head miserably.

"Of all the ludicrous things you've done…Stewart…that scam was apparent even a mile away. A big CEO of one of the richest pharmaceutical companies in the country would not just give away a part of his money and business to some kid!" Molly raised her voice. She was more afraid for her brother than for her own safety.

"I'm no kid, yeah? I'm twenty-five!" Stewart moaned. He did not want his sister to see him as a puny child anymore albeit she was seven years his senior.

"Well, your actions prove otherwise." Sherlock cut in, anger seeping into his tone. "You have made your sister a target because of your moronic careless actions. A goldfish would fend better than yourself." He added. Watson shot Holmes a typical glare.

"Mate's right…I'm rubbish," Stewart spoke up, sighing. "But that's why ye came here. Mo talks about how ya' help people and always win. Well…I need ya' help. For Mo's sake." He looked directly at Sherlock with a beseeching gaze.

Sherlock watched Mr. Hooper, narrowing his eyes. He possessed fair blond hair which stuck out from every direction and a pale complexion. Also, as said before, he was short but thin, making him appear younger than he really was. He had thin lips like Molly, but his nose was much flatter and his eyes were a grey blue. Stubble was starting to poke through a modicum of pores on his chin. They didn't look or act the same at all, yet they were related. Nature sure enjoyed playing tricks. A buzz of anger stayed strong towards his guest and it perplexed him. He usually didn't care, but something about this case did. His pathologist was in danger of being shot down like a prized duck. Without her, his experiments would be squandered rather hastily. She was a trusted friend, like John. After what she had done for him during the Reichenbach Fall, he had not much choice regarding her as a comrade. He had made a choice; he would solve this challenging case without fault. How hard can it be? All he and Watson needed to accomplish was to get the real drugs from Cariad&Webber. Blackmail would be seemingly easy. If Stewart almost did it, then he could perfect it. He used the same technique over and over again whilst breaking apart Moriarty's grand hierarchical structure of his felonious business.

"I have no choice but to agree since there is no one else who would or can aid you in this fragile matter." Sherlock responded, trying to seem as professional as possible. He needed to act as if it were any ordinary case. Molly would need to be seen as any other victim in need of protection.

John remained silent the whole time, keeping his thoughts to himself. He knew they were getting themselves into something dangerous―especially for Sherlock who had numerous problems involving drug abuse. However, none of that seemed to matter to anyone in the room at that time since lives were at risk; Molly's life to be exact and probably the rest of them after they would start to meddle. Because of this, John did not fuss or complain, knowing that they were the only ones who could help… but he still let himself worry and little did he know that his long list of worries had only begun.

"Sherlock, John…what do I do? I am not prepared to just throw my life away and go into hiding. I cannot have a target on my back and simply live in fear forever, awaiting a murderous death that could pounce on me at any minute by a Turkish mobster. Toby will surely―" She halted mid-sentence, giving up. The past few years toughened her mind and character so she did not cry, but she did rub her eyes profusely as she breathed ragged breaths. She was beginning to comprehend the seriousness of her brother's mistake. Before, she was too much in a state of shock to process all the information that was being thrown her way.

"Just go to work and live your life, Miss Hooper. There is still a little under a week before you are in actual danger. These mobsters really want the drugs they were promised or they would not have offered a deal in the first place. They will keep their agreement. We also do not want them to think that you know something. They may think you contacted the police." John answered ahead of his partner, finally getting a word in edgewise. He was not the only one who knew what he was talking about.

"Indeed, go to work. Anyhow, if we succeed to get the drugs from Mr. Webber, then this matter will be solved today. I will text you if anything happens. If so, then come straight back here. Also, bring him to your residence. He will only be a needless distraction and he is quite…irritable." Sherlock confessed, ignoring Stewart's blasphemous remarks. His eyes softened as he stared at Molly's fragile composure, almost touching her hands to comfort her, but he retracted.

"Okay. Stewart, you know where I live so take a taxi and go there straight away. I have to go to work." She then spoke to the two partners. "And p-please, do call if… anything happens." She took a deep shaky breath and left, leaving the three men alone.

Sherlock arose, throwing on his usual Belstaff coat, waiting for John to follow. Which he did. "Where are we going then?" The army doctor asked.

"Such a simple yet good question, Watson. We are heading to Cariad&Webber. Let us see if we can extract the truth from Mr. Webber himself." With a flip of his coat, the door was shut… leaving poor Stewart alone and forgotten. Until, the door opened once again. "Ah, see yourself out." Sherlock added nonchalantly, closing the apartment's entrance with a rushed bang.

After a few seconds of silence, Stewart got up from the couch and meandered down the stairs where Mrs. Hudson stood. He looked like a lost puppy whose eyes were empty. Like his brain had ceased processing any new information because it fell quiescent.

Seeing the old woman, a little spark was set aflame and he murmured quietly. "Why is she so…calm? Even if Mo's in danger…she ain't freaking out. Why?"

"So, you are Miss Hooper's brother." She smiled, grabbing his arm and leading him to the kitchen table, sitting him down. "Goodness me, you look awfully tousled, my dear. Why don't I make you a cup of tea and we can have a good old chat?" Mrs. Hudson fetched two teacups from a cupboard and brewed some fresh tea leaves. Setting the tea set upon the wooden surface of the table, she herself sat down opposite a nonplussed Stewart, complaining about her hip.

"Thanks." He muttered, accepting the tea that had been offered to him.

"You want to know why Molly isn't terribly frightened?" She did not let the man answer. "Why she has complete faith in Sherlock Holmes, of course. All his friends do. That's how you can distinguish between the two."

"What two?"

"Between the real and the fake friends, young man. In life, if you look at true friendship as those who have your trust, then you realize that you possess fewer tangible friends. However, then those remaining are perceived as more precious than before." She explained. "Sherlock does not have many friends, bless him, but he understands that the ones he does have, trust him and vice versa." She concluded with a gleam of wisdom in her eyes.

"But she's trusting him with her life…that's a lot of faith in one chap." Stewart spoke up, still slightly bewildered.

"If you ever get to know him, you would understand." She then whispered to herself. "And the way she looks at him…" Mrs. Hudson knew that there was something that gave a person even more trust and it was love. Something which was positively bubbling inside the heart of Molly Hooper. She could not fathom if it was also happening to the second party. She dared not say.

"Sorry, did ya say somthin'?" The younger Hooper asked, perking up.

"Just the hip, nasty old thing, always aches when it's about to rain." Mrs. Hudson replied loquaciously.

"…um…I should get goin'. Me sister's orders." He took a final swig of the lukewarm tea and bid the perculiar woman farewell, walking down one of London's foggy streets. If Molly trusted Mister Holmes, then he would have to as well.

Monday-8:01 AM- 6 days, 16 hours and 29 minutes left...

Holmes and Watson sat in a taxi, each looking out of their own windows, absorbed in the silence that came before all the drama; the calm before the storm.

John kept glancing at his friend, opening his mouth, but closing it soon after. He performed the same act a few times before he decided to say something. "Doing alright?" He asked a simple question, but it was certainly a tough one for Sherlock.

"Why wouldn't I be? There is a case, I am wholly preoccupied and my boredom has dissipated." He stated as he kept his vision out of the car's back window.

"This case is personal Sherlock. One of the people you regard as a close friend is in danger. You cannot tell me you do not care." John furrowed his brow. He understood his partner's low emotional quota and his disability to show many strong sentiments, but it was impossible for him to feel absolutely no fear or discomfort. So, he concluded that Sherlock Holmes was lying and was probably duping himself as well.

"I do… feel… somewhat anxious, but it is nothing I can't take care of." He replied, adjusting his scarf.

"You can't just take care of your emotions, mate. You can try to put a plaster over a wound, but it doesn't mean it still won't hurt. Is the anxiety because the case's main theme is drugs or because Molly is on a Turkish gang's hit list? Just wondering." John smirked, amused by how he was able to baffle a man who could deduce just about anything except feelings.

"We have arrived. This conversation has ended. Pay the cabby. I will be inside." He then turned back and added swiftly, "just so you are fully aware… I have no wounds for plasters to be put upon." He disembarked with a clipped tone, not wanting to thoroughly examine Watson's question. There were just too many insignificant sentiments rattling around in his heart and it bothered him substantially. All he wanted to do was save Molly and get on with his life. Nothing added and nothing taken away. Change was something he did not desire in his life right now. Everything was as it should be. Although it would be better if John moved back in, the detective mused.

As Sherlock ascended the concrete steps that led to the immense building, he studied it meticulously. It was a tall futuristic structure of approximately thirty-five floors which were embalmed with glass panes from head to toe. Its name―Cariad&Webber―was encased in blood red bold letters along the top of the building for all the city to see. The skyscraper stood erect like a predator, engulfing the other edifices surrounding it. It was like it was proving a specific point; that it surmounted them all. Stepping inside was just the equivalent to the construction's exterior mirrored encasing; spotless and symmetrical. Large picture frames were hung on the left wall, depicting the generations of the firm's head management over the years. Every portrait was that of dismissive and insipid men. Sherlock felt like he just stepped inside a physician's surgical procedure room. He did not find the area alluring and Watson had a similar qualm. From the polished marble tiles to the smell of lemon-scented disinfectant, everything was deemed too… perfect and unblemished. However, Mr. Holmes knew that it was imperative not to judge a book by its cover. Or in this circumstance, a pharmaceutical company.

Before being allowed to even penetrate into the lobby, an adamant security team with metal detectors and scanners awaited any visitors or employees at the very periphery of the main entrance. "Bit much, isn't it?" Watson addressed his friend.

"Not really." Both of the gentlemen turned around to an unfamiliar voice. It was a tall blond woman, wearing black high-heeled Prada's and holding a white Gucci bag. Sunglasses covered her icy blue eyes and she looked like she stepped out of a magazine. She wore a woman's fitted suit and her hair donned a tidy ponytail. Her appearance was charming, but she had an air of superiority that made Sherlock comprehend how he was able to get under his comrade's skin and even a stranger's. "It is imperative that my medical breakthroughs stay secure from the prying digits of our competitors." She then quickly added, wanting to keep an amiable superficial image. "And certainly from my fellow co-workers as well." She cut in front of them, placing her valuables, shoes and metal items into a grey plastic tray. "Now, if you excuse me, I have a job to accomplish." Passing through she quickly flashed her employee card amassed her belongings and trotted away without a second glance.

"Well, she was a ray of sunshine." Watson chortled sarcastically. "Reminds me of someone." John smirked and Sherlock scoffed, rolling his eyes.

"May I see your ID or do you have an appointment?" One of the male guards asked with a raspy monotone voice. He stood in his blue uniform, waiting impatiently for a response.

"Neither, but we wish to speak with Mr. Webber. Official business, Scotland's Yard. I am a detective and this is my partner." Sherlock flashed a police badge. The one he easily pick pocketed from Lestrade the last time he worked a case with him. Sherlock knew it was necessary; it came in handy handfuls of times.

The guard nodded with widened eyes. He picked up a phone, informing Walter Webber's secretary of their arrival. Hanging up, he told the duo, "he is awaiting your arrival. His desk is on the last level. You may pass." They got to skip the metal detector; the privileges of having a police badge.

Watson shook his head in disapproval but still donned a grin. "You really need to stop stealing Greg's badge." They entered the elevator, pressing the button for floor thirty-five.

"Liar. I know you find it tremendously beneficial. You shake your head since you enjoy to reprimand me…for some reason." The detective stated with mirth.

"There are many reasons Sherlock. Your annoying nature is one of them."

The elevator made a loud ding and the doors slid open, revealing a small area fitted with a secretarial desk that had behind it a double-door glass entrance with the name 'Walter Webber' inscribed upon it with gold plated letters.

"Are you the ones from the Oxford police?" Mr. Webber's secretary swivelled her chair towards the pair. She was of African descent, medium weight and petite. Large round earrings and bracelets jingled as she moved and Sherlock found her complexion quite unsatisfactory for it was caked with make-up. Like she wanted to look ten years younger but couldn't pull it off. She smiled and Sherlock almost had the urge to clean the red lipstick from upon her front teeth.

"Obviously. May we enter?" Sherlock motioned to the CEO's bureau.

"Of course, go right in. I have already notified Mr. Webber of your arrival." The secretary blushed slightly at the mention of her boss' name. Sherlock scoffed. Typical, just typical. Secret office affair… how insipid, Sherlock grumbled internally. It was always the secretary and the big married CEO. It was like he solved a murder that was undertaken by the butler.

Without a second more, the lady opened the door, showing them inside. Just as they both passed the door's threshold, she closed it, leaving them to continue her desk-work.

At their moment of entry, a chair swivelled around, revealing the person of interest. "What seems to be the problem? I do have a business to run, you know." Walter Webber sneered, crossing his arms with a look of displeasure etched across his face. Both partners sat down on leather chairs which were settled in front of the man's desk.

Sherlock stared profoundly into the man's eyes with an unfaltering countenance. He simply said, "it seems you possess something that is not yours. And I intend to get it back... With any means necessary."