43 minutes later, Sherlock and Mycroft were standing in one of the elder Holmes' dark and damp warehouses, with a young pale boy on his knees before them. On route to the leader of the homeless network (that he had used to apprehend the boy so quickly) Sherlock had phoned his brother, both as a persuasion so he wouldn't be arrested for his actions, and to update him on Molly's condition. During the years that followed 'The Fall' Mycroft and Molly had crafted a strange kind of relationship. Sherlock stayed in her flat, creating the perfect bolthole for himself in the calm, and the lemon scented air, but often taking down a criminal mastermind's minions meant leaving that safe haven. Sometimes for a few days, sometimes for weeks. The longest period of absence had been 2 months and one week. It had been hell for her, not knowing if her detective was alive or not, and not knowing if he would return. Mycroft recognized this, and in his own way; could relate.

The Holmes brothers did not love each other obviously. They loved each other through government protection, and favors for Her Majesty. Sherlock loved his brother through sly little insults and tales of his diet cheating to Mummy Holmes. They were family. And so despite his global powers of protection, security and surveillance, there were moments when he could not see Sherlock, or say for sure that his heat beat on. These were the moments he found himself on Molly Hooper's couch, watching meaningless TV and eating cake with the only other person in the world who understood.

Mycroft eventually came to realize that Molly Hooper was no mere GoldFish. She was intelligent woman (even if she couldn't see a divorce was imminent when a man was wearing spots instead of stripes on his tie), and one with powerful persuasion skills. He would never admit it to anybody, even under duress he would take with him to his grave that the small woman had made him watch 'Bambi'.

And so Mycroft Holmes would use every resource he had in his repertoire, every inch of power at his disposal to ensure her safety. And he would make damn sure that this scum payed for ever even placing his eyes upon her. He was certainly not a man to mess with, and that was exactly Sherlock's thought process when he phoned him. So there there were. The boy had his hands tied tightly behind his back with thick, rough rope. His nose was bleeding, his lip was split, and there was no way out of this predicament; he was surrounded by Two tall, well dressed men, and 10 decidedly more dangerous men braced in tactical assault gear and armed to the teeth. He swallowed thickly.

4 hours later a body was found in a back ally somewhere in London. The body of a young male, wanted for many petty crimes. He was holding onto his life by a thread, with a bullet hole blasted through both knee caps, a broken- well, a broken everything, two fingers missing as well as several teeth and a severe stab wound just to the right of his stomach. But unfortunately his case one was never solved, paperwork lost in the system and such. As far as anyone was aware he spent the rest of his days in prison, unable to tell his tale of woe without a tongue.

Sherlock and Mycroft arrived back at Molly's bedside just over 2 hours after Sherlock had left, there having been no change since his departure (other than the fact that Sherlock's mind was much clearer and at ease). John would later question what happened to the young arse wipe, and Sherlock would answer honestly. John would nod, and they'd never speak of it again. Eventually Molly would ask too, but Sherlock had quite a different tale to tell her; something about a small fight before he was apprehended and taken to prison for life. But the great detective had many other things to tell Molly before that would come up.

Like how he loved her. Not like he loved Mycroft, not even like how he loved John. He loved her in a way that one could only love Molly Hooper. She had never given up on him, had loved him through his lowest (and meanest) moments, and through the soaring highs- when he had quite forgotten about her. Now it was his turn to do the same. Molly was broken here, in this disgustingly white hospital bed, and Sherlock planned to put her back together in time for their wedding.

He predicted this would take about a month, if that.

'Damn you Sherlock Holmes', was all John could say as Sherlock and Molly sped off for their honey moon in Paris 3 weeks and six days later.

And that's a rap! Originally I was going to have Molly wake up and do a big dramatic thing where Sherlock gushed out his feelings and kissed her, and all that, but as I was writing it I thought it was a bit cliche, and even a bit out of character for him. So I decided to give him a cocky ending, one that I hope was a wee bit more original.

I really hope you enjoyed this story (despite how long it took me to finish it) and that you'll review and tell me what you think. If you liked this then please check out my other Sherlolly story: The Detective and His Pathologist, and give that a review too!

Thank you to everyone that followed this story, to anyone that reviewed it, to anyone who read and and most imortantly to anyone who enjoyed it.

With all my love and wishes for good fanfics,

Beansprout1997 xxxx