Disclaimer: I own not a thing.

A/N: I hope everyone had an awesome holiday season! I had a temporary scare/set back-I spilled water all over my laptop and it stopped working for a week and a half. I had written it off as toast but then one day I just decided to turn it on just in case...it's alive! I am sooooo happy. I was typing on this super old brick of a laptop and I forgot how annoying that stupid paper clip guy was on Word. Anyway, I'm rambling. Thank you everyone for reading/reviewing/following/favoriting/kudos-ing...it fills me with the warm fuzzies. Oh, and another quick reminder that I am American and apologize profusely for any missed Americanisms. Here be chapter 4...

There was a link. There was a connection between these scraps of paper and Moriarty. There had to be. From seemingly inconsequential to undeniably suspicious, each note down the pile had set a lump in Sherlock's throat.

She had kept each note. Each message had unnerved Molly enough for her to set them aside and keep them. Had she also been pouring over them regularly to find a link? To piece together what they could possibly mean; whom they could possibly be from? Judging by her current mental state, it very much appeared that she had been doing just that. Had she done it daily or simply each time a new note appeared? The paranoia, the isolation, compounded with her anxiety…it would be enough to drive anyone mad. Why hadn't she come to him sooner?

The simplest note of all, a simple, 'hi' typed on a yellow note was next to be observed again. If it had simply been penned, that might not have warranted suspicion—of course, that would depend entirely on when it was found and where—but typed? Typed implied intelligent anonymity with malicious intent. Every single note was typed. Whoever sent them wished to leave as little leading evidence as possible. After careful scrutiny, even the papers they were typed on were mass-produced, which meant that there was no chain of evidence there.

Irritatingly enough.

The earlier messages, the seemingly innocuous ones, perhaps might mean the time and location of where these notes were found was the key after all…

Which meant talking to Molly to glean the required information, a task that would be far more manageable if she had not thrown him out of her flat.

Again.

Setting the papers aside, he reached for the card; the one Molly had been sent just a few hours prior. This was another thing entirely. This had a purpose. This card, this latest message, bore the irrefutable weight of significance. The dramatics—or over-dramatic, as it were—the playfully sinister tone; this piece of evidence led him to one conclusion, and one conclusion only. Well, it could, as he had told Molly earlier, be someone else entirely, a copycat.

It could be, but Sherlock knew that it wasn't. With every second that ticked by while he observed and studied the papers before him, certainty settled like a jagged stone in the pit of his stomach. The warning that Moriarty had given him so long ago echoed in his mind and set his nerves on fire…

This was the work of Moriarty.

Now, how to prove it? Everyone else always required an excess of unnecessary information for them to see what was plainly standing before them. If this were anyone else, the course would be clear: use them as bait and wait for their own private villain to strike. He dismissed the idea before it had even fully begun to form in his head. The memory of Molly's wide, terrified eyes and the heels of her shaking hands pressing into her eyes…No, Molly would never be used as bait. The course was unclear, the purpose of these messages was unclear, though he had a very good idea of the intent. One thing was certain and irrevocably clear…

Molly Hooper was in danger.

As he stood before his long, mahogany table, sunlight spilled in through the enormous windows, harsh and bright; time was running short. He needed to speak with Molly. He needed to…

"Sherlock!"

John's persistent shout pulled him from the expanse of his Mind Palace. The papers were strewn about on the coffee table before him. John was looking at him as if he had been calling his name for ages. Judging by the set of his mouth, he had indeed been doing just that, "yes?"

"Bout time. I've been trying to get your attention for twenty minutes." The accusatory tone in John's voice was hardly encouraging for engaging in conversation.

Sherlock sighed. "What a waste of time." He'd never understood why everyone felt the need to divulge their timeline when he had more pressing things to attend to. Who had the time or the patience for punctuality and propriety when there was a case to be solved? If he was in his mind palace, it was for far more important things than any gossip or idle speech that was likely to pour out of their mouths entirely unprovoked.

John cleared his throat. "What's all that?" He motioned to the papers Sherlock had carefully lined up along the table, completely at odds with the haphazard state of the rest of the flat.

Sherlock could not help but roll his eyes. Wasn't it obvious? "A case."

John perked up slightly at that. "You picked up a case since this afternoon?"

"No, I picked up a case since an hour ago." Sherlock waved his hand, dismissing John to the kitchen, "kettle's boiled." Now was really not the time for banal chitchat. Pressing his hands together, he rubbed them against his mouth as he examined the papers before him yet again.

The shuffle of John's feet moved across the worn and dust-covered floors of 221B. He stopped in the kitchen, probably in front of the kettle. Sherlock heard the faint ting of fingernail to glass as John flicked the surface. "Well, it might have been."

The water in the kettle was already cold again; that would suggest that it was much longer than an hour since he stepped into his flat and set the kettle to boil. He flicked his eyes to the windows to note the barest touch of light starting to stretch out over the sky. All right, much longer than an hour then. He had not planned to enter into his mind palace. Apparently, this problem was occupying his brain far more than he had thought that it would.

Sherlock observed his friend quickly before flicking his eyes back to the table. "Next time sleep on the sofa. The back of that chair is too high and forces your neck forward." Without looking at him, Sherlock continued, "you're out early."

John rubbed his neck and let out a little laugh. "Hadn't planned to sleep in the chair, but that's parenthood. Mary said you'd need some help. I grabbed some real sleep in an actual bed before heading this way." John grabbed the chair at the desk and set it down on the other side of the coffee table. Clearing his throat, the good doctor put his elbows on his knees to get a closer look at what Sherlock had been looking at for…hours, apparently. "What've we got?"

"A series of notes left by an unknown for the client to find. She's being stalked."

"Eh, lovely," distaste was heavy in John's voice, "so where were they found?"

The very question he wanted to know. For now…"Molly stated that they were found in locales ranging from work to home."

"These belong to someone from her morgue?"

"No, they were left for Molly."

"Molly?" John asked, surprised.

Sherlock held up the card. "This card, the most recent message was mixed in with some papers that Lestrade returned to her at Bart's." A detail that he had already asked Lestrade about and which he was waiting on a reply; interrogating criminals was a more difficult—and time consuming—undertaking for most. "As I have hinted at since the broadcast, I think it is now clear that Moriarty is back. He appears to have been waiting for the perfect moment to make his move." He motioned to John, inviting him to take a look.

After John had read through the entire pile, finishing with the card, he blew out a breath. Sherlock looked up to find John starring at the card with unease. "Jesus. At her home too, you said?"

Sherlock nodded. Here he fought to maintain the façade of detachment, even as fear twisted under his skin. "It's as I have feared; he is targeting her."

"This could just as…"

"Easily be a copycat," Sherlock snapped, "Yes, it could, but it isn't. This is Moriarty, even you have to be able to see that."

John laughed slightly, not a shred of humor in the sound. "Okay. What next?"

Frustrated and unsure, Sherlock growled and ruffled his hands through his hair before erupting to his feet. "Waiting. One of Mycroft's people will be looking into it in the morning."

"Well, good." John sounded reassured. When the silence stretched on and Sherlock did not comment, he heard John shift behind him. "That is good, right?"

"No. Mycroft appears to be operating under the idea that Moriarty is dead." When things never developed after the broadcast, Mycroft quickly became disinterested with anything to do with James Moriarty. And even if Mycroft did believe that Moriarty had survived, he had said that he sees no reason why 'your little pathologist'—John certainly didn't need to know that bit—would be of any significance. "In short, he doesn't share the same concerns as I do." He looked away from John, at the empty fireplace as he said what he had no desire to speak aloud, "he thinks I'm letting sentiment cloud my judgment."

"Well…" John's contradictory tone did nothing for Sherlock's temper.

"No, John. You haven't seen Molly. Something is different. Something is wrong." Still John said nothing. "How often have I been wrong?"

"Really want to scratch at that?"

"John."

John let out a resigned sigh. "Mary did say that something was off."

Sherlock picked up a book and began drumming his fingers in a furious rhythm along the surface of the cover. "That's putting it lightly. She's having horrific nightmares, vivid hallucinations. Anxiety, paranoia…"

"Those symptoms might signify drug exposure, specifically a hallucinogen," John said, and Sherlock looked at his friend who had slipped swiftly into the role of medical professional. "Do you think she's being drugged?"

"It's the only thing that makes sense, but how am I supposed to find out? She'd hardly give me a urine sample." Or would she…

Bringing his hand up to his forehead, John shook his head, seemingly suppressing some emotion. "Please let me be there if you do happen to ask her for one." Humor, apparently. "Until then, you're not gonna lock her in a military facility and torture her with a recording too, are you?"

Oh, dear lord. "You are never going to let that go, are you? You were perfectly fine."

"You prick, I was on the verge of…"

"Oh, for God's sake!" Sherlock threw the book down onto the nearest surface. "You're fine now, what does it matter?"

John muttered something, the distinct intonation of expletives clear. What on earth did he have to be so upset about? He hadn't actually drugged him…he had only thought that he had. That the Baskerville facility was hard-wired for it had been entirely unexpected.

"Nevermind." There was exasperated, utterly seething resignation in John's tone this time. "You never answered my question."

"Did you ask one?" Sherlock asked airily.

"Christ! You're not going to turn her into a lab rat, are you?"

Oh, that. "Don't be ridiculous. I'd never do that to her."

They both fell silent at that. The distant sound of sirens wailed in the distance, faintly overriding the occasional honk and shout that drifted up from the street below.

John broke the silence. "Right. What was that about sentiment again?"

Looking away from John, Sherlock moved to the window. Observing the countless people coming and going. If he focused on that which was right before him, he wouldn't have to think too long or too clearly on the truth of John's insinuation. He had absolutely no time for emotions at present; he couldn't keep Molly safe if his head was flooded with anything but case-related data. "It is a chemical defect. Nothing more."

A knock sounded outside the door.

"Sherlock, here's what you asked for." Mrs. Hudson walked into the room and stopped short, likely noticing John. "Oh, John, it's good to see you!" Mrs. Hudson crooned like a giddy mother. It had only been a week since she had seen him. "How's the baby doing?"

Oh, for God's sake. Did anyone talk about anything else anymore? Was it some requirement that he was unfamiliar with? The moment anyone had a baby, all conversation must shift to discussing said baby?

John cleared his throat. "Fine, just fine."

"Yes, yes," Sherlock snapped, yanking the book out of Mrs. Hudson's hands, causing her to jump. "She's fine. He's fine. We're all fine. The Watson's are hardly the first couple to have ever had a baby. Now, if you don't mind, I have a case to solve and you're cluttering up my thinking space."

"Just see if I bring you the mince pies I have cooling downstairs, young man." Just at that moment his stomach decided to growl in interest at the mention of pies. But no, eating took up too much time, too much energy that was far better spent in other pursuits. Mrs. Hudson's voice broke through his thoughts again; though not entirely unwelcome this time. "You're welcome for the book, by the way."

Walking over to the lamp, he began yanking the pages open. "And you're hardly the first person to ever carry a book up the stairs," he muttered under his breath.

"Oh, he's in a mood!" Mrs. Hudson commiserated to John.

As he devoured the words before him, Mrs. Hudson and John carried on from by the door. If only they would move about fifteen feet below where they were right now…

"What's the book for?" John asked.

"I don't know. He just asked me for my journal, well, part of my journal. A few dates. You know, I started keeping one as a way to keep track of goings on and the people I see buzzing about outside. After Mrs. Byrd was robbed six months ago, I thought it might be a good idea. I saw it on the telly." here she paused before continuing on in the most obvious, put upon voice that even he could not ignore the barb behind the tone. "When you get to be my age, going up the stairs is as much of a…"

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson!" Sherlock said, rolling his eyes, "your arduous trek is much appreciated. Now go away." He spoke only in hopes of silencing her. It was hardly likely. Everyone else appeared to be overly fascinated with the sound of their own voice. It had to have been that, for it could not have been the fatuous words that heedlessly poured from their mouths. What was the point of all that noise if nothing was to become of it?

"Now, was that so difficult? Though I wish you wouldn't be so rude about it." Wha—oh, she thought it a true declaration of appreciation. Well, that made this social interaction easier.

"What dates?" John asked the room at large.

"Two dates over the last few months." Sherlock offered absent-mindedly. "Days that Molly came here."

"You remember the dates of when Molly came to see you?" Suspicion was heavy in his voice.

"John, my mind is…"

"Oh, save it and read."

That tone had been absolutely patronizing and it gave Sherlock pause. John and Mary appeared to both be operating…it didn't matter. All that mattered right now was the case, the work…keeping Molly safe. Who had time for…potentially softer emotions when her life could be in danger? No, now was definitely the time for work and nothing more.

Reading the entries, Sherlock snapped the journal shut in frustration—what she had for dinner, whom she talked with on the phone—nothing that would help him. Not anything of the slightest import whatsoever. Everything was categorically, "Pointless!"

"Well excuse me, but some of us have to make do with what we've got."

"Nothing of significance! You noted nothing abnormal." He shoved the book back into Mrs. Hudson's hands before throwing himself down on the sofa. "I have gone over every interaction with Molly in my mind, every potential moment that could have a hidden clue and I have come up with nothing." Nothing. Apparently that would be the theme of today…yesterday…whatever day it was.

"I'll just leave you two." Mrs. Hudson said quietly. Her weary steps faded into the background, followed shortly by the distant sound of the door of her flat opening and closing. Remorse niggled at him, making him feel distinctly uncomfortable; he should not have been so unkind to Mrs. Hudson.

"What did Molly say about all this?" John asked.

Sighing, Sherlock changed course in his mind and snatched up the subject change with reluctant vigor; he wanted to solve the case, but he definitely did not relish the idea of talking of Molly to…anyone, at the moment. "She attempted to brush it off. Said that she figured it was just someone at work having a go at her."

"What if it is?" John said even as Sherlock glared at him. "Sorry, but nightmares and odd notes on paper don't mean she has a stalker. The two things could be unrelated. Even you have to admit that."

"Even me? You said yourself that she sounded as if she was being drugged!"

"I said might, might be drugged. Most of those notes there aren't enough for you to be getting on with! Unless there's some odd stationary being used there? A particular type of…I don't know…ink from a very specific shop?"

"Nope." He popped the 'p'. "Everything is irritatingly mass-produced." He motioned to the kitchen table that was covered with beakers, cylinders, etc., "And not a trace of anything that will lead us anywhere."

"Ok…" John's voice was unsure. Sherlock waited the usual 5-10 second pause that usually accompanied John's reveal of whatever thoughts were churning in his sometimes-observant brain. "Why aren't you at Molly's? That's the only way you'll get the information you need to get to the next step…right?"

"She threw me out."

"What?"

Sigh. "She threw me out for the second time today—no need to play dumb, Mary already told you. Molly had a hallucination involving a cadaver that sent her running out of Bart's. I went to her flat where she soon kicked me out again. I have every intention of turning her flat upside down as soon as she leaves for her shift in…" He glanced at the clock on the mantle. "An hour. Until then I have Wiggins keeping an eye on the place for me. I've also informed Lestrade to pull any surveillance footage surrounding Molly's flat and her commute to and from Bart's."

"Is Greg doing that?"

"Potentially. " Sherlock sunk his hands into his hair before sliding them down and over his face, to steeple below his chin. "He felt the need to inform me that it wasn't his area." Counting on the detective inspectors warm regard of Molly to persuade him into action, Sherlock felt fairly confident that the reminder had merely been to state the difficulty in obtaining such pertinent information. It would seem that Graham would need a pat on that back after this task was completed.

The room fell silent once more. John moved to look out the windows. "If he is back, if it really is Moriarty sending her all that," he motioned to the table and papers, "what's the point? Why do it?"

He had asked himself this very question countless times. Revenge most certainly appeared to be within the confines of Moriarty's character. But why now? Why practically three years later? Could the consulting criminal simply be operating in the basal emotional level that spawns revenge? It was anyone's guess where he had been the past three years. "Moriarty's being patient, biding his time. Molly is only a target due to her having helped me defeat him. She helped me cheat at the game he set last time. Of course, he didn't exactly play by the rules either. I still have no idea how he could have survived the rooftop. No one could have survived that, even if there had been blanks in the gun. I'm missing something. A vital clue. He's not just targeting her, he's toying with her. Something is different this time."

"Oh, Sherlock! You've got a package!" Mrs. Hudson's voice called from below.

He didn't have time for this. He had a mystery to solve. Someone had targeted Molly. Determinedly not reacting to the declaration that sought to lure him from his task, Sherlock steepled his fingers and closed his eyes to think.

"I'll just go and get that, yeah?" John was irritated as he left the flat and trudged down the stairs.

Only fair, Sherlock had been irritated for hours.

"Here you are." He could hear Mrs. Hudson speaking to John from the ground floor. "It really is good to see you, John. Stop by before you leave. You can take some goodies home to Mary. But why don't you see if you can't perk him up before you do?" That was followed by the sound of a door closing and—presumably—John ascending the stairs.

John's footfalls sounded as he moved toward him. Silence stretched except for the faint sounds of what sounded like John offering him the package. Sherlock didn't take it; why would he? He hadn't ordered anything.

Huffing loudly, John carried the package to the table. "If I wanted to do everything for someone else, I would have just stayed home with Evey. Scratch that, she's less demanding than you are."

"I don't recall asking you to come over."

"You did, actually, yesterday. That's why Mary came over. And for what exactly?" The tone of his voice was so smug, so incredibly knowing that it raked over Sherlock's nerves. "So she could be your bloody security blanket."

The sound of John roughly opening the package almost made Sherlock jump. Almost.

Sherlock slapped his hands on the couch and sat up. "Oh, enough. You and Mary are entirely convinced that I have feelings for Molly…"

"Sherlock."

"This childish prodding has grown tiresome. How many times must I…"

"Sherlock."

"Explain this to you both. I am excessively concerned with her current predicament, but that does not mean—"

"Sherlock!"

The panicked tone finally broke through Sherlock's tirade. Turning, he looked over to find John, pale faced and eyes wide as he stared into the contents of the box that he had brought up. "John? What is it, what's wrong?"

John swallowed heavily as his eyes finally tore from whatever he had been looking at to Sherlock. "I think you're right."

Sherlock threw himself off the couch to stand next to John as he followed the doctor's gaze. Nestled in the bottom of the box was an envelope. His stomach dropped when his eyes fell on the devastatingly familiar red, wax seal and the single magpie that adorned it. He tried his best to ignore the shake in his hands as he reached into the box. He quickly broke the seal and peered inside.

When he saw what sat inside the envelope, every piece suddenly started to fall into place.

Just as he was about to reach inside to pick up the object in question, his phone began to ring. Looking down at where it sat on the table in front of him, Sherlock felt as if he could hardly breathe.

Molly.

Scooping up the phone, he answered it and brought it to his ear in a single movement. "Are you all right? What's wrong?"

Her panicked, practically incoherent speech set every single nerve in his body on edge. He could barely understand her, but something was wrong. Someone had been in her flat while she slept and she was terrified.

Someone had been in her flat while she slept.

Without a word to John, he rushed out of his flat, shoving the envelope into the pocket of his coat. "Molly, listen to me. Do you have someone close by that can wait with you?" He hailed a cab. "Good, yes—don't be alone right now, do you understand? I'm coming for you as quickly as I possibly can." He gave the address to the cabbie. Fear like he had never felt before began to blaze beneath his skin. He had been right; Moriarty was back.

The game was on.