Five hours later…

"Greg," Sherlock pulls Lestrade aside with urgency. "Molly Hooper," he says breathlessly. "Euros rigged her flat with explosives and set them off hours ago."

"Jesus," Lestrade mutters with surprise, bringing his hand to his mouth.

Sherlock furrows his brow. "You hadn't heard anything about it then?"

"No, I had no idea. Nothing like that's been brought through the Yard today. But I'll send my best men over now to check it out."

Sherlock nods thoughtfully as Lestrade steps away and speaks into his radio. His phone pings as John joins him at his side.

"Mycroft?" John guesses.

"Of course it's Mycroft," Sherlock remarks uninterestedly. "That's the third text in an hour. If I didn't know any better, I'd think he was actually worried about me."

"Are you alright?" Watson asks.

"I'm alive, aren't I?" Sherlock answers vaguely.

"Right, but that's not really what I asked now, is it?"

"I'm fine," the detective insists, his voice laced with impatience.

Typical. John shakes his head in disappointment. He'd really thought Sherlock would open up after all they'd been through in the past twelve hours.

"I know it's difficult for you, but if you want to talk about it-"

"I have to go," Sherlock announces. He seems lost. Distracted.

"You what?" Watson replies, shocked. "Sherlock, your flat was demolished this morning and that wasn't even the highlight of our day. Where could you possibly be going?"

"Nowhere. Don't worry about me, John. You should get home to Rosie."

"Sherlock!" Watson calls out. But the detective was already striding away toward the street where he would inevitably hail a car.


As the cab turns onto Molly's street, Sherlock expects all the indicators of recent destruction to present themselves. Ribbons of smoke, the smell of charred wood, caution tape, crowds lingering on the sidewalks. But there was nothing of the sort.

In fact, Sherlock's jaw all but falls open as he lays eyes on Molly Hooper's perfectly-intact flat. The cabbie mutters something in the background but Sherlock ignores him, shoving some cash in his hand and stepping out of the car in a daze.

Could it be? With a glimmer of hope in his heart, Sherlock's mind and pulse begin racing in double time. This didn't make any sense. What could Euros have hoped to gain from bluffing? Was the game really over, or was he walking into a trap?

When Sherlock can't stand it any longer, he dashes up to her front door and knocks urgently, simultaneously trying the doorknob. Locked.

"Molly! Molly, it's Sherlock. Please open up."

No answer.

Without hesitation, Sherlock fumbles around for the spare key which he knew she kept hidden in the artificial plant on her front steps.

"Molly!" he calls out again as he opens the door. Sherlock combs through her flat quickly, but Molly is nowhere to be found.

"She's at work," a familiar voice calls out unexpectedly from behind. "How did you get in here?" Lestrade asks, having just arrived to find the front door wide open.

"She keeps a spare key on the porch," Sherlock replies impatiently, rolling his eyes. "How do you know she's at Bart's?"

Lestrade holds up his cell phone with a confused half-smile.

"Oh." Sherlock quickly realizes he isn't thinking straight, despite his relief at knowing Molly is alive.

Several uniformed men enter the house, bringing with them two dogs and all sorts of equipment.

"She was working the night shift," Lestrade explains. "But she's on her way over now. In the meantime, we're sweeping the place to make sure it's clean."

"Good," Sherlock retorts weakly.

Greg senses his unease. "Look, Sherlock, we've got everything under control here. We'll make sure Molly is safe. There's no need for you to stay."

"I know, but I- I'd like to see her," Sherlock says as casually as possible, avoiding eye contact.

Lestrade hesitates, but ultimately can't hold his tongue. "Have you considered the possibility that maybe she doesn't want to see you right now?"

Sherlock stiffens uncomfortably. "You've seen the footage," he states knowingly.

"Of course I've seen the bloody footage," Lestrade admits. "They sent if over from Sherrinford straightaway."

Lestrade may not have been a keen man by Sherlock's definition, but he could sense the uncertainty in his normally-confident comrade. "Look, Sherlock, it's none of my business, but as a friend of both you and Molly, I'm just not sure that you being here is the best thing right now."

"When have I ever been known to do the 'best thing' in any situation?" Sherlock remarks lightly with self-ridicule.

"Well you've got me there," Lestrade concedes, throwing his arms in the air and turning his attention to his fellow officers.

Sherlock observes Molly's flat openly for the first time. He'd been there before of course, but had never taken the time or made the effort to look around. The stylings were practical but also wishful. Muted colors and uncluttered surfaces mirrored her workplace. There were several plants littered throughout the living spaces, and next to her medical books stood a collection of works by the likes of Joseph Conrad, Robert Louis Stevenson and Johnathan Swift. Interesting. Molly clearly had an affinity for the tropics. Sherlock scolds himself for never having picked up on that in the past.

The detective loses track of time as he commits every detail of the flat to memory.

Not ten minutes after receiving the call from Lestrade, Molly walks through her door, overwhelmed by the number of police vehicles outside and officers running around scrutinizing her flat. However it isn't until she catches sight of Sherlock that Molly's breath catches in her throat. Even now, the familiar silhouette of his tall, lean form standing in the doorway of her kitchen with his back to her made the pathologist's heart skip a beat. Damn you, Sherlock, she thinks silently. However just as Molly is wishing she could disappear, Sherlock senses that someone is watching him and turns around.

Sherlock Holmes had never given much thought to the euphoria of happiness until the moment he laid eyes on his dear friend Molly Hooper, alive and well. There she stood in her lab coat. Hair disheveled, as ever. With wide eyes and a deep sigh of relief, Sherlock's entire body relaxed, as if waking from a nightmare. "Molly." He says her name with genuine joy and disbelief, stepping forward with every intention of engulfing her in a warm, protective embrace. Only Molly puts a hand up and steps backward, away from him.

Sherlock is slightly offended, but not overly surprised by her reaction. "Molly please," he coaxes, "let me explain."

"You can't-" Molly struggles to form a sentence, even more than she usually did in his presence. "You can't be here, Sherlock. I don't know what's going on, but I don't want to see you right now."

Ouch. That hurt more than it should've. Molly averts her eyes as she shoves past Sherlock to speak with the police.

The consulting detective stands frozen in place, numb and dumbfounded. His phone pings. Sherlock absentmindedly glances down at his cell. 'Where are you? -M'

"I'll take over from here," Lestrade's familiar voice interrupts. "You should go home Sherlock. Go and be with your family."

Sherlock swallows and nods mechanically, turning his collar up as he steps out into the cold, night air.


A/N: Thanks for all the follows and reviews, guys! I really do appreciate it. Sorry for the gloomy chapter, but things are going to get better for Sherlock soon, I promise ;)