4.

"So, what's this all about, Mr Shilcott?" Sherlock asked, strolling into Howard Shilcott's living room. He was the client who had left the bobble hat behind.

"My girlfriend's a big fan of yours," Howard replied.

"Girlfriend?" Sherlock repeated with a sarcastic laugh. Molly threw him the look – the same look Elspeth and Donovan and every woman Sherlock knew would give him. "Sorry. Do go on."

"I like trains. I work on the Tube, on the District Line, and part of my job is to wipe the security footage after it's been cleared," Howard explained, sitting at his computer. "I was just whizzing through and – er, I found something a bit bizarre." Sherlock gave Molly a look that made her giggle and Howard pulled up the footage on his computer screen. "Now, this was a week ago. The last train on the Friday night, Westminster station, and this man gets into the last car."

"Car?" Molly repeated, her nose crinkling slightly.

"They're cars, not carriages," Howard said with a hint of exasperation in his voice, like it was obvious. "It's a legacy of the early American involvement in the Tube system."

Molly turned to Sherlock. "He said he liked trains," he said.

"And the next stop . . ." Howard's voice trailed off as he showed the footage, missing the exchange between Sherlock and Molly. "St James's Park station . . . and . . ." The footage showed the doors of the last car opening. No one got out. Sherlock raised his eyebrows, interested.

"I thought you'd like it," Howard said with a grin. He replayed the footage. "He gets into the last car at Westminster, the only passenger, and the car is empty at St James's Park station. Explain that, Mr Holmes."

"Couldn't he have just jumped off?" Molly asked. Sherlock shook his head.

"There's a safety mechanism that prevents the doors from opening in transit," Howard told her. "But there's something else. The driver of that train hasn't been to work since. According to his flatmate, he's on holiday. Came into some money."

"Bought off?" Sherlock suggested, turning to Molly. She gave him a blank look, blushing when Sherlock looked back at Howard.

"So if the driver of the train was in on it, then the passenger did get off," he said.

"There's nowhere he could go. It's a straight run on the District Line between the two stations. There's no side tunnels, no maintenance tunnels – nothing on any map. Nothing. The train never stops, and the man vanishes. Good, innit?"

Sherlock closed his eyes, replaying a close up of the passenger on the platform. "I know that face."

Suddenly, Sherlock turned and strode out of Howard's flat, leaving Molly to awkwardly thank him for his time and apologise for Sherlock's abrupt departure. While the detective stood at the top of the stairs, still deep in thought, Molly sighed and waited at the bottom.

"The journey between those stations usually takes five minutes. That journey took ten minutes – ten minutes to get from Westminster to St James's Park," Sherlock said, opening his eyes. "So I'm going to need maps – lots of maps, older maps, all the maps."

"Right."

"Fancy some chips?" he asked, trotting down the steps. "I know a fantastic fish shop just off the Marylebone Road. The owner always gives me extra portions."

"Did you get him off a murder charge?" Molly asked.

"No, I helped him put up some shelves."

For some reason, it made Molly giggle when Sherlock told her that, and Sherlock smiled to himself.

"Sherlock," she said hesitantly. He turned to face her. "What was today about?"

"Saying thank you," Sherlock said without hesitation. "For everything you did for me."

"It's okay. It was my pleasure," Molly said, giving Sherlock a small smile as she turned and walked towards the door.

"No, I mean it," Sherlock called after her.

"I don't mean 'pleasure'," Molly stammered, facing him again. "I mean, I didn't mind. I wanted to." She cringed. Why was she saying that? "I'm sure Ellie won't stay mad at you forever," she said. "She'll forgive you and you can do this together again." Her breath caught slightly when Sherlock took a step closer.

"Moriarty slipped up. He made a mistake. Because the one person he thought didn't matter at all to me was the one person that mattered the most. You made it all possible," Sherlock told her. The way he looked at her made Molly's stomach twist. "But you can't do this again, can you?"

Despite herself, Molly smiled. "I had a lovely day. I'd love to – I just . . . um . . ." her voice trailed off as she looked down, Sherlock following her gaze.

"Oh, congratulations, by the way," he said, his eyes resting on the engagement ring.

"He's not from work," Molly blurted out. Sherlock smiled. "We met through friends, the old-fashioned way. He's nice. We . . . he's got a dog . . . we – we go to the pub on weekends and he . . . I've met his mum and dad and his friends and all his family and I've no idea why I'm telling you this," she admitted finally, her cheeks tinged pink.

"I hope you'll be very happy, Molly Hooper. You deserve it. After all, not all the men you fall for can turn out to be sociopaths."

Molly gazed up at him. She had a peculiar way of looking at him, Sherlock noticed, like she wanted to say something but couldn't find the words or courage. When Molly looked at him, her eyes always held a sense of pride and awe; she regarded him as some sort of hero, someone to be admired, and after years of her assistance, Sherlock was slowly realising just how vital Molly was in his life.

"No?" she asked softly.

"No," Sherlock promised. He gave her a smile – a beautiful smile that made her happy and sad at the same time – and leaned in, his lips pressing against her cheek. Molly closed her eyes, treasuring the moment.

"Maybe it's just my type," Molly whispered, watching Sherlock's retreating back.

Save souls now! John or James Watson? Saint or Sinner? James or John? The more is Less?

Mary frowned, rereading the text a few times, before turning around and striding back down the street. It didn't take her long to reach 221B.

"Mrs Hudson," Mary said, relieved when Mrs Hudson opened the door and gently pushing her way in. "Sorry – I – I think someone's got John – John Watson." She darted upstairs, into the living room. Sherlock turned at the sound of her voice.

"Hang on!" Mrs Hudson called, chasing her. "Who are you?"

"Oh, I'm his fiancée," Mary explained. Mrs Hudson smiled, appeased, and walked back down the stairs.

"Mary?" Sherlock asked, walking through to the landing. "What's wrong?"

"Someone sent me this." Mary took out her phone, showing Sherlock her phone. "At first I thought it was just a Bible thing, you know, spam, but it's not. It's a skip-code."

Sherlock looked at her closely, frowning, then turned his attention to the phone. "First word, then every third," he murmured. "Save . . . John . . . Watson." Mary showed his the rest of the text, three words standing out: Saint James the Less. "Now!" Sherlock cried urgently, dropping his chips and racing down the stairs.

"Where are we going?"

"St James the Less. It's a church. Twenty minutes by car." He raced out into the street. "Did you drive here?"

"Yeah."

Sherlock started to pace. "Too slow, too slow," he said. "Ellie!" Sherlock cried suddenly, whirling around to face Mary. "Have you heard from Ellie?"

"Not since this morning," Mary said. Realisation dawned on her. "Oh God, no."

He barely heard her, however, as Sherlock stepped into the path of an oncoming motorcycle and held a hand out. The driver slammed on the brakes, the bike skidding to a halt.

A minute later, Sherlock and Mary had taken the helmets of the driver and his passenger, both of them commandeering the motorcycle; Sherlock had thrown some money at the protesting driver in a desperate attempt to appease him before climbing on in front of Mary.

The bike raced through the streets, Sherlock calculating how long it would take for them to get to St James the Less Church. Mary's phone trilled a text alert: Getting warmer Mr Holmes. You have about ten minutes.

Mary tried ringing and texting Elspeth, but she wouldn't respond. Sherlock's heart raced. If something had happened to them, either of them, he would never forgive himself.

8 minutes and counting.

The bike accelerated, but skidded to a stop when roadblocks stopped them from going any further. Sherlock swore loudly, quickly worked out an alternative route and turned the bike around, riding it onto the pavement between two buildings. The pavement descended into stairs suddenly, but it didn't deter Sherlock as he continued to accelerate.

John couldn't breathe. He couldn't move. He tried to move his hands and lift his head, but he fell back on the ground, groaning. Rolling his head to the side, his eyes flickered when he saw a silhouette of another person lying next to him. After a few seconds, John realised it was Elspeth. She was unconscious.

"Ellie," he croaked. "Ellie, wake up."

Elspeth didn't stir. John wasn't even sure if she was breathing.

Somewhere – John couldn't tell where, he was surrounded by wood and leaves – people were talking and cheering and shouting, like they were watching a great event. John tried to cry out, but all he could manage was a faint moan, and he started to thrash around, trying to break free from the rope that held his wrists together.

Then it was hot. It was so hot. John could feel the heat burning and scalding him. He could hear the flicker of flames as they caught onto the bonfire surrounding him, and no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't manage anything more than a soft moan. John tried to cry out and wake up Elspeth and let everyone know that they were trapped, but he couldn't.

Better hurry, things are hotting up here . . .

Sherlock sped the motorcycle up, but their journey was impeded by a slow moving lorry.

Stay of execution. You've got two more minutes.

When Mary showed him the text, Sherlock consulted his mental map; if he took the motorcycle in a straight line, they would arrive at the Church in one minute. Swerving, the bike tore down a pedestrian underpass. He forced the bike up a flight of steps and out onto the street again.

What a shame Mr Holmes. John is quite a Guy!

Mary showed Sherlock the text. "What does it mean?" she shouted over the wind whipping in their ears. Sherlock's head whipped around as the bonfire blazed suddenly, the onlookers cheering.

"Oh my God," he said. Sherlock accelerated the bike towards the only gap in the fence surrounding the square, racing it into the park. He and Mary jumped off, the bike dropping to the ground on its side; Sherlock raced towards the fire, pushing people out of his way.

"John!" he shouted. "Ellie!"

"Get them out!" Mary yelled behind him. Crouching down, Sherlock peered into the fire as he threw bits of wood out of the way, not caring that the fire burned his hands. He had to find them.

"Help!" John screamed from deep in the bonfire. Sherlock plunged his arm in, throwing pieces of the bonfire to the side as he cleared a path, grabbing hold of John's arms. He hauled him up and out, Mary grabbing hold of him so Sherlock could then search for Elspeth. Catching sight of her still body, Sherlock screamed her name and threw himself deeper into the bonfire, barely noticing the sleeve of his coat catching. His hands groped for her, eventually finding her arm.

Sherlock pulled as hard as he could, wrapping his arms around Elspeth as soon as she was close enough and picking her up. He barely had enough strength to keep them both upright, collapsing to his knees with her lying next to him.

"Ellie," Sherlock said, rolling her onto her back. "Ellie, wake up."

She wasn't breathing. Why wasn't she breathing?

"Ellie," Sherlock repeated desperately.

Suddenly, Elspeth coughed. Her eyes flickered open as she rolled onto her side, coughing and spluttering and trying to catch what little breath she had left. Whimpering, Elspeth swayed from side to side, leaning heavily against Sherlock when he gently pulled her upright, both of them sitting on the ground by the bonfire. Someone called an ambulance; Elspeth vaguely recognised the sirens.

"Am I dead?" she moaned, her voice hoarse. Sherlock laughed softly.

"No," he said. Holding her close, he stroked strands of hair off her sweaty forehead. "You're fine."

"Don't feel it," Elspeth mumbled, her eyes sliding shut. She said something under her breath.

"Don't mutter, Elspeth," Sherlock scolded lightly, pulling her even closer to his chest. "What did you say?"

". . . didn't miss this," Elspeth murmured, and despite everything, Sherlock leaned down and pressed a kiss to her head.

"I did," he admitted softly.

". . . which wasn't the way I'd put it at all. Silly woman. Anyway, it was then that I first noticed it was missing. I said, 'Have you checked down the back of the sofa?'" Wanda continued. She'd been talking for some time. Sherlock screwed his face up, pressing his fingers together as he struggled to concentrate. "He's always losing things down the back of the sofa, aren't you, dear?"

"Afraid so," Timothy, her husband, agreed with a smile.

"Keys, small change, sweeties. Especially his glasses. Blooming things. I said, 'Why don't you get a chain – wear 'em round your neck?' And he says, 'What – like Larry Grayson?'"

Sighing, Sherlock looked across at John's armchair. Elspeth was curled up in it, listening to the older couple with a small smile on her face. She'd arrived at 221B early that morning, coughing but recovered from the previous night. "I'm only here because they are," Elspeth had warned him when she walked upstairs. They both knew it wasn't quite true.

"So did you find it eventually, your lottery ticket?" Sherlock asked, rising to his feet and stepping on the sofa between the couple. They both leaned out of the way, gazing up at him with confusion.

"Well, yes, thank goodness. We caught the coach on time after all. We managed to see St Paul's, the Tower . . . but they weren't letting anyone in to Parliament," Wanda said with a hint of regret. Sherlock frowned and looked down at her. "Some big debate going on."

The living room door opened, John stopping and looking at the couple in surprise as he walked in.

"Sorry, you're busy," he said.

"Er, no – no – no, they were just leaving," Sherlock said, stepping off the sofa and pulling Wanda to her feet. Laughing, Elspeth crossed the room, surprising John even more by kissing both of them on the cheek.

"No, no, if you've got a case . . ." John tried to protest, moving out of the way as Sherlock continued to usher the man and his wife out of the room.

"No, not a case, no – no – no. Go," Sherlock said to Wanda. "Bye."

"Yeah, well, we're here 'til Saturday, remember."

"Yes, great, wonderful. Just get out," Sherlock insisted, herding them out into the hallway. Before he could shut the door, Wanda turned and stuck her shoe into the doorway, forcing Sherlock to keep it open. He glowered at her.

"I can't tell you how glad we are, Sherlock. All that time people thinking the worst of you," she said quietly. "We're just so pleased it's all over." Sherlock tried to force the door shut. Wanda didn't budge.

"Ring up more often, won't you?" Timothy asked. Sherlock made a noise of agreement under his breath. "She worries."

"Promise?" Wanda asked. Sherlock glanced over his shoulder, his eyes flickering between John, who was pretending not to notice the exchange, and Elspeth, who was grinning widely from ear to ear. Finally, he promised. Wanda smiled, reached up and gently touched Sherlock's cheek.

"Oh, for God . . ." Sherlock shoved the door shut, letting out a deep sigh as he turned to face John. "Sorry about that."

"No, it's fine. Clients?"

Sherlock and Elspeth exchanged a look. "Family," she told John. "My grandparents. His parents."

"In town for a few days," Sherlock explained when John turned his incredulous gaze on him. "Mycroft promised to take them to a matinee of "Les Mis". Tried to talk me into doing it."

"Those were you parents?"

"Yes."

"Well . . ." John's voice trailed off as he laughed to himself. "That is not what I . . . I mean they're just . . . so . . ." Sherlock gave him a hard gaze, narrowing his eyes. "Ordinary," John finally said with a smile. Elspeth grinned.

"It's a cross I have to bear," Sherlock complained. "Ellie likes them for some reason."

"Did they know, too?" John asked. Sherlock wouldn't meet his gaze. "That you spent the last two years playing hide and seek." Elspeth's grin faded and Sherlock continued to avoid looking at either of them.

"Maybe," he said.

"Ah! So that's why they weren't at the funeral."

"Sorry," Sherlock said. He looked up then, first meeting John's eyes, then Elspeth's. "Sorry again." John took a step towards the door. "Sorry," Sherlock repeated softly. He smiled. "See you've shaved it off, then."

"Yeah, it wasn't working for me," John admitted.

"I'm glad."

"What, you didn't like it?"

"I don't think anyone liked it," Elspeth said with an apologetic tone in her voice.

"I prefer my doctor's clean shaven," Sherlock said with a grin.

"That's not a sentence you hear every day!" John said incredulously, slowly crossing the room and taking his usual seat in his armchair, which Elspeth had vacated when she said goodbye to her grandparents.

"How are you feeling?" Sherlock asked him.

"Yeah, not bad, bit . . . smoked."

Elspeth laughed at that, but started coughing mid-way through. Sherlock and John exchanged worried glances.

"Last night – who did that? And why did they target us?"

"I don't know."

"Is it to do with the terrorist thing?" Elspeth asked when she stopped coughing.

"I don't know," Sherlock repeated. "I can't see the pattern. It's too nebulous." He looked towards the wall by the sofa, his eyes flickering over the information he had pinned up. "Why would an agent give his life to tell us something incredibly insignificant? That's what's strange."

"Give his life?"

"According to Mycroft. There's an underground network planning an attack on London – that's all we know. These are my rats, John."

"Rats?"

"My markers: agents, low-lifes, people who might find themselves arrested or their diplomatic immunity suddenly rescinded. If one of them starts acting suspiciously, we know something's up. Five of them are behaving perfectly normally, but the sixth . . ." Sherlock pointed towards a photo. It was the man who got into the train and disappeared. "Lord Moran, peer of the realm, Minister for Overseas Development. Pillar of the establishment."

"Yes!" John said excitedly, rising to his feet.

"He's been working for North Korea since 1996."

"What?" Elspeth asked, frowning.

"He's the Big Rat. Rat Number One," Sherlock said. "And he's just done something very suspicious indeed."

Thank you xxxMadameMysteryxxx, meg, GeorgyannWayson, quidditchandsonicscrewdrivers, youngblood killjoy, Greeting'sAndSaltations, Ms Moonshoes Potter, tardislover1, Starcrier, Nostalgic Beauty, Anna, Aimee, bellechat, KirstyLaura, ElizabethCullen08, Tayla, zare downey okumura, iwanttobeaneverdeen, Adrillian1497, fmxc17 and LoverofWords22 for reviewing!

The names of Sherlock's parents were never actually specified, so I decided to name after Benedict Cumberbatch's parents, who did an awesome job in their roles :')

I've had to write chapters 4-6 about seven times now (I'm not exaggerating) because my laptop kept crashing yesterday. It was highly irritating but I'm nearly there! I wouldn't expect an update this weekend though, as it's actually my birthday tomorrow! I'm going to be eighteen and a legal adult, but I highly doubt it'll make me any more mature . . . hope you enjoyed the chapter! It only took me a whole day to rewrite!