A/N Part six. So, we're now more than halfway through! ^^ Enjoy my butchering of more canon characters, and please review! Also- I know it's awful of me to advertise fics for other fandoms on this one, but I know that lots of Sherlock fans also watch Doctor Who, so I'm just going to throw it out there... I do have stories for it... though they're all slash or femslash one-shots XD

Thanks to Electryone and SuperSonicBeatrice

Disclaimer I don't own Sherlock or any associated characters, events, etc.

[6/10]

Sherlock knew as soon as he saw Molly that something was different. She looked relatively normal, just walking out of the building, tugging at the zipper of a jacket with one hand and adjusting her headband with the other. But something was wrong. He knew it the second she glanced up at him, because her eyes kept moving- onto John, then over the rest of the street. Not reacting. Not noticing.

How could she not notice me?

He considered himself to be anything but modest, and with good reason, too, but this didn't even require well-earned vanity to see. Molly Hooper fawned over him, asked him to coffee and did everything he asked her to in half the time it seemed to require, even wrote about him in that ridiculous, kitten-picture-adorned online diary that she kept. Though it was a bit difficult to understand people's emotions sometimes, that didn't mean he couldn't see them, shining out so clearly that it was a wonder people weren't blinded by them. He knew how she felt about him. Didn't care, but still knew. And he'd been gone for three days. She wouldn't look through him that thoughtlessly.

Something's wrong. Something is very, very wrong.

"Molly." He strode towards her, vaguely aware of John hurrying behind him, but keeping the greater part of his mind focused on the woman before him. The closer he got, the more he saw that was wrong. Her nails were painted but chipped, an odd thing for the usually self-conscious but practical woman, her abnormally overdone makeup not disguising the dark shadows under her large doe-eyes, and he could see beneath her coat that she'd lost quite a bit of weight recently- she'd been fine the last time he'd come to work, so she must have practically not eaten anything at all. The idea of sudden anorexia flitted in and out of his mind with the speed of a lightning strike- she was food-conscious, but not enough to go to those measures, and he'd made sure to drop a hint or two about him appreciating her normal weight upon John's request. She wouldn't go directly against what he preferred. That wasn't assumption; it was fact. Truth.

"Molly," he repeated, reaching out and gripping her shoulder when she still didn't react. Her head turned slowly to face him, eyes lifting up without moving another muscle in her face.

"Sherlock?" she asked, the word coming out slowly, almost as if it was moving past some sort of blockage. "...Fancy seeing you... here."

John's breath caught. Sherlock heard this, but didn't turn from his quarry. He was now reaching out, taking hold of her other shoulder, too, and staring down at her. Her face seemed stress, and yet oddly slack at the same time. "Molly, I need you to concentrate. Think. Have you recently seen your boyfriend?"

"I don't have a boyfriend," she replied listlessly.

"Yes, you do. Jim. From the IT. Remember?"

"Jim?" She suddenly jerked away from him with such violence that he stumbled back a half-step, her formerly unfocused eyes now shining with bright fury. "Don't talk to me about him! I don't know anyone named Jim! There was never anyone named Jim. I don't know anyone named Jim! Don't talk to me about him!"

Her words, repeated in the exact same tone, like she was some sort of android, gave John a slight chill. But Sherlock was merciless, snapping back at her.

"Yes, you do! Don't lie to me, this is important, do you understand that? He showed you something, didn't he? He planted information in you, but it scared you literally out of your mind... that makes sense, you've always been delicate. Molly Hooper, the one who'd never join in on the coworkers' horror movie nights... and now getting it out of you is going to be hell... tell me. We know who he is, Molly, we know what he's like- you need to tell us what he did, understand?"

She shrunk back, now visibly shaking, her whole body trembling alarmingly. "N-no! He didn't do anything! He's a good person, I l-like Jim, he's nice."

"You just said that you didn't know anyone named Jim," John spoke up evenly. "Now you're saying that you like him. Something's going on. You don't need to deny it. We're here to help you." His tone was slow and gentle, like one he'd use with a young child. "We can make it better. We can make the hard things go away."

She shook her head, a pencil flying out from its position tucked behind her ear and skidding across the wet sidewalk before slipping into a dirty drain. Sherlock glanced over her shoulder for a brief moment, eying a cozy-looking shop whose soft yellow lighting radiated warmth and comfort. Looking at the name block-lettered across the top, he couldn't help but feel a twinge of irony.

"Come on," he said, meeting her scared-rabbit stare again. "Bit chilly out here, isn't it? Why don't we go get a coffee?"

She swallowed. The over-applied makeup coating her face was starting to drip with rain, resulting in a rather alarming look, as if she was melting.

"We can get you something warm," he coaxed. "Something frothy... it's awful weather out here."

"You're going to make me talk about Jim," she whispered, her stare almost sane for a moment.

"We're going to protect you from him," John corrected. "If we don't help you, Molly, he could come back and-"

"NO!" Her shriek was earsplitting, drawing the gaze of almost everyone on the street. Sherlock expected her to run away, but instead she latched onto his arm, clutching it to herself like a lifeline. "I can't," she gasped, voice raw and trembling. "I- do you have any idea how hard it is? Every night... going home... doors locked, windows locked, but I can't sleep, because the images keep coming back. They were real, he really did those things... I'm so... so scared... all alone, the lights have to be on, telly on to kids' programs, because... it helps me escape... and every day, at work, the bodies, the dead people... help me," she finally breathed, the words weak and wispy.

Sherlock nodded, but John was the first to speak. "We will. We will help you. You won't need to be alone at night anymore, okay? You won't have to be alone, not for a single second of the day..." As his companion went on, Sherlock began gently guiding Molly towards the coffee shop. She stumbled along, splashing in puddles, now shaking with dry sobs.

"...You won't have to think about anything he said..."

"B-but it's real. He didn't just say. He sh-showed me. So... so... evil... it's real, oh, God, it's real, this is reality, there's no escaping reality, except for... insanity... I want to be mad." Her voice was sounding more and more uncharacteristic. "I want to be locked up in a hospital, make me a madwoman... am I insane? Am I crazy? Tell me I'm crazy..."

She was only asking for clarification of the truth, and she seemed to want it anyway, but before Sherlock could say anything, John, who was now right beside him, shot him a glare so fierce that he found himself struck momentarily dumb. Looking satisfied, the doctor held open the door to the coffee shop, through which he assisted a barely mobile Molly. They managed to get her to one of multiple armchairs spread out comfortably around the place before she completely stopped trying, her breathing ragged and her eyes wild.

John gave Sherlock a look that was easily translated to just wait, and went over to the counter to speak to the cashier, a young, rather acne-prone man with a few too many piercings for Sherlock's or any other human's taste. The two of them exchanged a few brief words, before the youth nodded and filled up a single coffee mug, adding no small measure of whipped cream on top. John nodded his thanks, passed over a five-pound note, retrieved the change that was given to him, and returned to where Sherlock and Molly sat.

The woman had calmed down a tiny bit, though her body was still trembling absurdly, and her eyes were eerily large and unblinking. She didn't react to the streaming cup that was placed on the table before her with a clunk, refusing to look away from Sherlock.

"Are you really going to help me?" she mumbled warily, a particularly powerful shudder running down her spine.

"Yes," John promised. "We just need you to answer one question. It might be hard, but you can take your time. The sooner you're done, though, the sooner we'll be able to set in place your protection from him. Okay?"

She nodded, quickly, like it was a dive that the wanted to be over with.

"Then... here's the question."

Sherlock was the one to ask it, despite the fact that John had provided the lead-up. He leaned forward, staring straight at her, holding her firmly in his sight. "What did Jim show you that scared you so much? That made you like this? What did he show you, Molly? Tell us everything you can."

Her eyelids squeezed shut for a moment, and from the strain written in every bit of her face, it was costing her greatly to rethink, relive what had hurt her so drastically. Seconds stretched into minutes, and Sherlock's short patience fuse was nearing its end. She wasn't helping. Wasn't doing anything. Did she even remember what he had asked her? He was just opening his mouth to deliver the question again when she spoke. Just two words.

"Video tapes."

"And what was on the video tapes?"

She went on as if she hadn't heard his question, eyes still shut, looking like a horror mannequin with her ruined makeup smeared over her face. "It was just one, really, and I thought it was weird, I didn't know why he wasn't showing me something on a DVD disc. But, no, dusty old tapes. We were going to watch a- a movie. It's was a date, at my house, not out, just the two of us cozying up. He said that he thought Sherlock would probably like them, and he laughed a little when he said that. I was a little upset by that, because I remembered that thing about him supposedly being gay, and I didn't like that he was thinking about a man when it was a night about the two of us. But then... he put it in the VCR... I still have one, I watch my old film collection on it. It started in the dark... and there was someone crying... I asked him if it was horror. I can't watch horror movies. But he said it wasn't. He said it was a documentary. So I asked what it was rated. He said that it didn't have a rating. I asked why."

A long silence stretched out here, but before it could be interrupted, she went on, each sentence coming out monotonously, mechanically.

"But then the light on the screen turned on before he could answer. There was a person. A little girl. Tied up and on some sort of metal floor. The person with the camera asked her what her name was. She said her name was Diamond... then he asked why she was crying. She said she was scared. Then he said that was good. It was funny to see people scared. He liked it when they- when they screamed." A hacking sob worked its way out of her mouth then, and Sherlock took the pause as an opportunity to glance over at John. It was a mistake: his friend looked more terrified than Sherlock had ever seen him, his eyes wide with disbelief, his face pale.

"Then the girl. Diamond. He showed her around the place they were in... her hands were tied, but he helped her. They were in a factory... he said it was where they made... m-meat products."

"Oh, God," John breathed. Sherlock heard him faintly, the majority of his concentration having returned to the terrified young woman in the armchair.

"I said that I didn't want to watch it. He said I had to. I tried to get up, but my body wasn't moving... he said it was because of something he'd put in my drink. I had to watch it. My arms and legs wouldn't work... so I tried closing my eyes... I was crying. So was the girl. But the sounds... I just heard the sounds. They... hurt... a lot. And that man making the video... he was saying what he was doing to her, in the factory. I could picture it... and... I was so scared... I'd never been that scared before, not ever, not in my whole life. I said that this was a horror film, not a documentary. But he said... J-Jim said that it was real. It was all real. I couldn't believe it... I still can't... the whole thing lasted a couple of hours. It ended with an ad. For bacon. From that factory. I'd seen it before, on the telly... but now... it... was really... scary... and then it ended. I asked Jim why he was showing it to me. I asked him why he'd drugged me so that I had to watch it. And he said... he said that I was his girlfriend... and that I should know everything about him... I asked him what he meant... he said... that... the person making the video... had been working... for him..."

"Oh my God," John muttered again. Sherlock was simply disgusted. Moriarty really was awful, if he had nothing better to do than torture innocent little girls. Her name, Diamond, had obviously been a message, an indication... a literal diamond and a figurative one... they were being told the location of those two things. He had good as given away where they were. A meat factory... pathetic.

"I- I can't... remember anything else about that night... or anything really... just... lived in constant fear, like a fog, covering everything up... shattered... broken... my world is gone..."

"We'll get you people who can help you," John promised, and Sherlock noticed him tossing a tiny nod to the young cashier, who returned the gesture and picked up a telephone. "You can get better. I swear, you won't have to live like this forever, okay?"

"O-okay..."

"But there's one more thing," Sherlock began. He hadn't yet asked why she'd thought to go to Mrs. Monkford, of all people. Moriarty had obviously sent her there because he wanted to lead Sherlock the long way around, to laugh at him, but how had he...

"No," John shot back, "there's not."

"Yes, I need to ask-"

"You don't need to ask her anything else right now. Molly, thank you so much for your help. The police are coming to get you in a few minutes, and they'll take care of you. You've done amazingly."

John had never seen Sherlock go to bed before that night. He himself was always the first to go, rising from his armchair, stretching, and bidding his flat mate goodnight before heading to the upstairs room. But this time, he remained sitting there as the clock ticked on. Two hours to midnight... one... zero... one past. He didn't move. He wasn't watching the silly program that was casting bright colors and canned laughter over the room, but rather staring out one of the windows that had finally been filled in with glass again after the explosion that had occurred there however many weeks ago. The onscreen happiness, lightheartedness, seemed so false. Molly's words were echoing in his mind, disjointed phrases that formed images much worse than he, even as an army vet, had previously been able to imagine. That little girl, alone in a meat factory with one of Moriarty's workers... a meat factory, of all places. It was disgusting. Horrendous. And the police had come for her, they'd sworn to look after her... so she, at least, wouldn't be alone tonight.

Sherlock had disappeared a few minutes previously, presumably to the bathroom... but why wasn't he returning? Unwillingly, even knowing that he was only stirred up by the day's events, he reached forward for the television remote and switched it off. Abrupt silence and darkness settled over the room. He strained his ears, listening for something, anything. "Sherlock?" he finally called a bit nervously, but he could barely hear his own voice, it was so soft. "Sherlock!" he tried again. This time, there was a muffled and certainly disgruntled grumbling noise from the direction of the bedroom.

John froze, humiliated. He does sleep sometimes, you know. Just because he left the room without saying goodnight doesn't mean that he just got dragged off and murdered in a meat factory. Stop being ridiculous and leave him alone.

But now he was lonely. The remote was still in his hand, offering escapism, humor, whatever he wanted... but that, entertainment, wasn't what he wanted just then. He wanted comforting. Reassurance, in a completely childish way, that everything was going to be all right. And you're stuck with the person in the world least likely to offer that sort of thing. Lucky you.

He stood up with a small groan and limped slightly on his way to the closer of the tall windows, pulling aside the curtain and staring out into the well-lit night city. Faint sounds traveled through the glass, sounds of partying, laughter, happiness. Somewhere in England, once upon a time, there had been a little girl named Diamond. She had lived her life out like any other child would, most likely. Had she liked her name? Had she ever even imagine that someday, simply because of it, she'd get kidnapped and murdered with the help of bacon-making machines? The thought was sickening. God, that poor thing. And now Sarah... Sarah was possibly going to go through the same thing. Or had she already? No, he couldn't imagine that. That was too horrible, far too horrible to comprehend, as was everything about the story Molly had told. He couldn't help but remember how she'd been the few other times he'd seen her- a bit ditzy, a bit nervous, a bit naive... but sweet, really. A nice woman. And now... just look at what Moriarty had done to her. Scarred her to the point where she couldn't bear to talk about it, not even to report him. The world was such a wreck of a place, really. How many other mad psychopaths were there out there, willing to do just a disgusting of things? Worse, even? It was difficult, impossible to imagine, but John knew that it was probably true. The world was a dark place. Dark and lonely...

Those people outside, the partying ones, yelling, cheering, laughing and slapping each other on the back... and the ones on the telly, cracking awful jokes and parading around in bright colors, happy colors... for an instant, he felt that he could glimpse the agony Molly was going through. It was like there was nothing holding him down to the world. There was disbelief, fear, pressing down at him from all sides in the dark room, strangling him like the long, pale fingers of the Golem extending from the darkness...

A sudden shifting noise from behind him caused him to jump, his fist tightening around the curtain as a thousand images flew through his mind, not pausing to solidify, so that he only recognized brief glimpses of shining metal chopping, grinding machines, the sleek, dark grin of a murderer, the scarlet splatter of blood against a dusty glass window, assaulting it with vibrant color...

"John?"

Sherlock.

He turned around to face the figure that stood several feet away, shrouded in blackness so that he could just make out the lines of the familiar blue robe he knew his flat mate to be in possession of. Hastily, he stood, letting the curtain slide shut over the image of cheeriness that was the outside street. Abruptly, things seemed quieter, enough so that he could hear Sherlock's slow, steady breathing.

"You were calling my name," were the only words he uttered. John had almost forgotten about that.

"Sorry, I didn't realize that you'd gone to bed. I'm fine, don't worry..." But something inside him was saying otherwise. The frightening emotion that had been beginning to rise up inside him was suddenly quelled in Sherlock's presence, like it had never existed in the first place, like he had just woken up from a nightmare to find himself safe in his own home. It was soothing. Relieving. But he knew in the back of his mind that as soon as he was alone again, it would return. Stay with me? he wanted to plead. All night, if you have to... because if you leave, I'll be afraid... it's so stupid, so childish, but I need somebody right now...

"No, you're not fine." Sherlock took a step closer. "You're... you're scared, aren't you? That story about the little girl scared you."

"Obviously I'm a bit shaken up. Anyone would be." Sherlock's pale eyes glimmered in the murky darkness. "Almost anyone," John amended tiredly. "I mean, it wasn't just a ghost story, was it? That person's really out there. And he has Sarah." And we met him. Moriarty, insane as he obviously had been, didn't seem like too much of a villain in person. Little bits of an evil nature had slipped through, certainly; he could recall the chilling singsong-turned-scream of the near-chanted That's what people DO! And, worse yet, the rasping promise of I will burn... the heart... out of you. Still, to think that little Jim from the IT had been responsible for so much death, so much agony and blood and distress...

"I suppose so," Sherlock agreed. The two of them stood there, staring at the little they could see of each other's faces. He's not going back to bed, even though I said he could, John thought numbly. And then words were coming from his mouth, even though he didn't mean them, even though he wanted the perfect opposite.

"I guess I'd better turn in, then. Blimey, it's almost two... all-nighters don't work well with me..." His voice sounded false, normal, when he felt the other way. He knew that he wouldn't be able to get any sleep that night; why was he kidding himself?

Sherlock wasn't fooled, either. "You're too upset to sleep," he pointed out calmly.

John found himself shrugging. "Nothing I can do about it. Might as well try."

"Don't be ridiculous."

"Well, what else am I supposed to do?"

"You need company."

"I-" he broke off, squinting in disbelief at the other's faint outline. "Wait. Are you implying something? What are you trying to..." Something twisted in his stomach without his permission. It wasn't an altogether bad feeling, just one he didn't feel up to attempting to identify at two o'clock, any more than he wanted to figure out if Sherlock's words were suggestive or just plain clueless.

"Nothing," was the hurried, ever-so-slightly nervous response. "Nothing like that. It's just... if you wanted company... I can't afford for you to be tired in the morning, so... I'd be willing to... share my sleeping space. But if you-"

"No, that's-"

"Would rather not..."

"...Fine."

There was a longer, heavier silence there, which John finally broke with a slight cough. "If you don't mind," he mumbled hastily.

"Of course I don't mind, that's why I was offering." It was the prime spot to throw in a casual I'd do the same for anyone. But John knew not to expect it, because Sherlock wouldn't have done the same for anyone. He wasn't the type to offer night company; he'd sooner scoff at them and tell them exactly why the dark and silence had such an impact on the human mind, what caused fear, maybe throw in a bit of dry grumblings as to what idiots modern humans were... but this, comforting, was something else entirely. It was an odd thing to process, but it seemed that John really was the detective's only friend. He wasn't sure quite what to think about that.

"Well... thank you. I suppose I'll... go change, then."

"Right."

When he finally entered Sherlock's bedroom, it was to find the detective tightly curled up with his back facing the door, still in his robe, far too tense to be asleep. John couldn't help but smile a tiny bit at the stiff figure as he lifted up the edge of the sheet and slipped in under the covers. "Calm down," he muttered, turning to stare at the faint outline of the door.

The response was a faint grumble and a slight tug on the sheets. John didn't answer, just gazed into the darkness. He felt better now. Much better. Just knowing that someone else was in the room with him was comforting. Like a kid who needs his parents. Pathetic, perhaps, but undeniable.

It was two in the morning, and he was exhausted. Perhaps if the next thought had been given a little more time to develop and flourish, it would have brought him to some form of realization. But things couldn't always work out perfectly. And so it was that the fact sure to have a bigger impact later on occurred to him quite briefly before he drifted off.

You and Sarah had a while to go until you were even sleeping in the same room.