A/N: The reviews are all so lovely and encouraging and thank you so much and I promise I won't be leaving you all in angsty Sherlolly agony for much longer!

Song of the day: "Fools" by Lauren Aquilina

He woke before Molly the next morning, managing to shower and dress in his usual suit that had been mysteriously dry cleaned and hung in the wardrobe. Morning light was just beginning to fill the room when he slipped quietly down the stairs, needing time out of her presence to sort his thoughts.

He'd dreamed of her.

It was rare that Sherlock dreamed of anyone, let alone the nature of… It hadn't been anything of a suggestive nature and, yet, it had been far more intimate than anything he had accidentally stumbled across when he'd decided to nick John's laptop out of convenience. The feeling streaming through him had been painful, cold – helpless in the worst way. Then he had looked up and she was standing there, open arms waiting. With the inhuman speed the state of dreaming allowed him, he had been in her arms in an instant and all he felt was… warmth. Pure, skin tingling warmth.

He wanted to shake the dream out of his memory, delete it immediately, frantically commanding his brain to follow direction.

Nothing for it. The details clung to him like a cobweb. He remembered his desire from just days ago to hold her, to feel her. Had it not been satiated? Had his mind not already begun to clip along at its normal speed again, working to untangle the substantial mystery they had before them? Of course, she had insisted on discussing things other than the case, but he had managed to maneuver through such discussions with people before without being subjected to such emotional responses.

It was because he had touched her last night.

That had to be the reason. Perfectly logical. The contact he had afforded her the previous day was more than he granted most people in a year. Their exchange by the river had not exactly been kind and she had displayed such remorse over what they had uncovered about Mahon. She had obviously needed the comfort. At least, he thought it was obvious. Was he really sure about anything when it came to Molly anymore?

He let out a groan and ran his hands through his hair, ruffling it. Coffee was certainly in order.

He had just sat down to let the black liquid work its magic when Molly emerged from above, fully dressed in jeans and a soft green jumper, her long hair thrown into a loose braid. Her eyes widened slightly in surprise when she saw the extra mug waiting on the table. She glanced at him quickly before peering at the mug skeptically.

"It's not laced with anything, if that's what you're worried about," he muttered as he took a sip from his own cup.

"It's a legitimate concern," she argued, though she bit back a smile, no doubt recalling the stories she had heard from John on their return from the Baskerville case.

Taking the cup in hand, Molly sipped at the coffee and a pleased expression graced her face. Sherlock looked down as the corner of his mouth turned up, hiding in another drink from his cup. He wasn't entirely sure why he had done it. To prove he had been paying attention to something over the last five years, perhaps. One sugar, generous amount of cream, and a pinch of cinnamon.

"I received a call," she informed him, leaning against the counter. "We're reporting to the MI6 headquarters here today. They're taking over my orders from MI5."

"You've been upgraded."

"It would appear so."

The sun hit them hard as they left, burning bright in the clear morning. Sherlock waited as she reached for the keys to the small, attached garage where the bike was stored. The press of metal into his side did more to annoy him than startle him, years of facing the hindrance of stupid criminals dominating his attitude. His body barely tensed as he prepared his line of attack when the metal pressed harder.

"I wouldn't do that," the voice of a male advised in his ear.

Essex, heavy smoker and frequent drinker. Not very intelligent. The deductions stopped when he saw a second man appear behind Molly, his pistol shoved roughly under her jaw and out of sight of any passersby. This man was clean-cut, professional, and handling a furious looking Molly as though she was worthless.

"You are a difficult person to track down, Miss Hooper, especially for a dead woman," the man told her, his accent posh. Sherlock felt his anger begin to boil under his skin when he saw the man's hand slip around her waist, fingers digging into her hip. The man let out a small laugh. "Oh-ho, he does not like me doing that. " Another pull at her body. "Don't worry, we don't need to talk for long. You got away from us yesterday, but luck is on our side today."

As he spoke, a black car pulled along the curb and stopped. The posh man directed Molly with the muzzle of the pistol.

"Into the car please, Miss Hooper," he said. When Molly lurched forward with shove from him, she cast a warning glance at Sherlock, silently begging him not to do anything rash. The man looked at him and gave a small shrug. "What the hell, your boyfriend can come too."

Sherlock was roughly pushed towards the car as well, gritting his teeth against every instinct to fight. He had particular plans for the way that man had handled her. Following Molly, he ducked into the car and joined her on the seat facing the back window, their captors sitting opposite as the doors swung shut and the car rolled into motion. Sherlock knew in an instant his aggressor had been brought along solely for the purpose of handling him. He was pure brawn.

The posh man… he was an independent contractor, in as many words. A free agent. Too groomed to be your average thug and something about him hinted at time in government work. He knew the game. And he benefited from it, judging by the suit, the expensive timepiece, and the sleek pistol that had pressed into Molly's flesh. His lip curled as he thought of it.

"He really does not like me," the posh man smiled at Molly as he adjusted his suit. She stared back with a cool expression.

"Don't be flattered, he doesn't like anyone," she said dryly. "Who are you?"

"You can call me Smith and leave it at that," he said as he continued to smile.

"What do you want?" she asked with barely contained irritation.

"Money, primarily," he said bluntly, waving a dismissive hand when Molly opened her mouth to respond. "No, not from you. Someone else. And it would truly be helpful to me if you exposed Mahon's work."

"How did you know - "

"He knew her," Sherlock cut her off, setting a piercing gaze on Smith. "Perhaps not personally, but she fell into his professional network. It's how he knew to find you when she died, Molly. Doesn't know what she was working on specifically, if he did he'd be intimidating someone far more connected than us. He knew she was set to betray someone and he stood to profit from it. Running low on funds, are we? The cheap haircuts are a concession, obviously." Smith ran a hand self-consciously along his hairline. Sherlock could see Molly's smirk as he verbally took down their captor. "The connections he has in government are failing him, he's not as useful as he used to be. Traveling all the way to Vienna to ensure someone's failure against the government?" He clucked his tongue in disapproval. "Getting desperate. Desperate to continue to impress the women as well, I'm guessing. Accessories more impressive than the action figure?"

Molly actually snorted at that, ducking her head in amusement before Smith cut him off.

"All right, fine, enough," he cried roughly, shifting in his seat. Sherlock looked away, feigning boredom. "I shouldn't even… the nerve." He cleared his throat and pulled at his tie. "But as you are… correct… Derry, Ireland. Man named Sean Finn. Ever since they lost Mahon, they've been scrambling for a replacement."

Smith looked pointedly at Molly and Sherlock felt his nerves prickle at the implication.

"Get in with him, you'll have all you need. And hopefully so will I."

The car came to a sudden stop and Smith threw the door open, nodding towards it without of a hint of the smile he had worn before. Molly slid out first, standing on edge until Sherlock joined her on the sidewalk, slamming the door shut with a final withering glance at the two men. They had been returned to the flat.

An impressive looking senior agent named Harry Pritchard, all copper skin, dark eyes, and muscle, listened to Molly's recounting of the events as they sat inside an office in the MI6 headquarters. He expressed disappointment in the anonymity of their source of information, but the advantage of having said knowledge seemed to outweigh the displeasure.

"You come highly recommended by Mycroft," he informed Molly as the conversation turned to the subject of the necessary response to what they held in their hands. "We know there is chatter making its way to the Middle East. We know this faction in Derry is showing signs of activity and with Mahon's ties to the IRA… What we need now is proof. Are you willing?"

Sherlock's eyes locked on Molly. She was a brilliant pathologist; she had been doing work for the government for years. She had kept her true position hidden from him for five years, no small accomplishment. But going undercover in a group with possible ties to terrorism? The risk, the probability that she could wind up in serious danger…

"Yes."

He had known her answer before she even spoke it, but hearing the word put lead in his stomach. Feeling Pritchard's eyes focusing on him, Sherlock ripped his gaze away from Molly's resolute face and looked up at the man.

"And Mr. Holmes the younger – still highly recommended, but with a warning that you can be a bit of a livewire," Pritchard said with a quick glance back at Molly. "Is he as good as they say?"

Sherlock leaned back in his chair and leveled his gaze.

"Your gallbladder removal recovery would be going a great deal smoother if you cut back on fats."

Pritchard raised his eyebrows and gave an approving look. Molly smiled.

"Believe me, he's holding back," she said with a glance at Sherlock.

"We'll make the arrangements."

The mood on the plane ride leaving Vienna was dramatically different than it had been approaching the city. The literature pushed on them to become familiar with before landing in Derry was enough to keep them occupied for over half of the flight. Naturally, Sherlock dismissed a great deal of it and finished far more quickly than Molly, turning his thoughts to what they faced. It had begun to coalesce in his mind and, if he was correct, they were undoubtedly about to enter perilous territory. The fact that they had been issued holsters and semi-automatics was testament to the seriousness.

If Molly felt any of the impending risk, she did not show it, only putting down the packet in order to take a phone call in the privacy of the rear of the plane.

Eventually, she tossed the packet to the side and let out a heavy sigh.

"You've got that look," she told him with a slight wrinkle of her nose.

"Which look? I've been informed I have several that seem to cause concern."

"The one when you're onto something," Molly replied. "You, ah, you have it figured out, don't you?"

"Very possibly," he murmured, rolling his ideas over in his head. After several moments silence, he continued. "Mahon managed to successfully hide her family's association with the IRA. Until her husband got sick and the relatives began to come out of the woodwork. She needed their money and they needed her skills. The money, well, that was coming from the promise of a weapon… a weapon that depended on the expertise of a bacterial expert."

"Only her husband died before - "

"Before they had time to complete it," Sherlock finished for her, watching her eyes go wide with the realization. "She tried to back out. Unsuccessfully, obviously."

The magnitude of the situation threatened to topple his self-control. They still needed proof. It was all speculation until then, regardless of his certainty. Which meant Molly being shoved into the lions' den with the promise of skills to rival the dead woman's. He felt the return of the shallowness in his chest, the tightening of his throat, his body betraying him as he tried to push away the worry. He didn't want her doing this, endangering herself. He wanted her back at Bart's, with him, showing him corpses and smuggling body parts.

It was raining hard when the plane landed in Derry. A black car again waited for them, the driver promising to provide Molly's sportbike the next morning, just as had been done in Vienna. They were delivered to an overly clichéd Irish city street, complete with A-frame roofs and whitewashed walls. Quiet, out of the way, and with a direct route out of the city, Sherlock noted.

The driver held an umbrella for Molly as she struggled with wet fingers to unlock the door to their new flat, finally shoving the water swollen wood open to a musty smelling stairwell. With a quick thank you, she hurried inside and Sherlock followed. The dark stairs ended on a second floor studio flat. Corner kitchen with a small table and two chairs, beige love seat facing an outdated television, and a queen size, wrought iron bed tucked against the wall by the window overlooking the street.

A totally foreign terror seized Sherlock as he realized the situation.

One look at Molly confirmed he was not alone in the realization. She looked as though she had just swallowed something bitter.

Dropping her bag to the floor, she crossed the room quickly and opened the door that sat opposite the bed, peering inside. She backed out and looked at him with the same seasick expression and pointed towards the door.

"Just… just a loo," she informed him, voice pitched a bit higher than normal. Shaking her head slightly, she crossed back to the kitchen and began opening drawers. "I'm going to kill… oh, if I ever get my hands on…"

"As much fun as the cryptic muttering is, Molly, would you mind filling me in on what you're doing?" Sherlock demanded, his irritation only halfhearted as his eyes slid warily to the bed again.

"It's very unlikely that anyone we will be encountering will suspect that I'm alive, let alone recognize me," she told him. "But it's not worth the risk."

He watched her carefully as she dug around in the kitchen for a time, finally pulling what she wanted from a drawer. Grabbing a chair from the table with one hand, she pulled it with her as she approached him. Hand outstretched, she presented him with a pair of scissors. He looked up into her eyes, knowing what she was asking of him. He forced away the horrified feeling that swept over him. Taking the cold steel in hand, he swallowed as she sat down in the chair, dragging the hair band away and combing her fingers through the braid, letting her hair spill over the back of the chair.

He blinked rapidly and reached out to thread his fingers into the soft cascade. The strangest feeling of regret took him, knowing he wouldn't get to run his hands through her long hair while he held her… He quickly shut down that train of thought. It wasn't what was needed in this moment. She must have sensed his hesitation.

"It's just hair, Sherlock," she said bravely. "It grows back."

He strove for passiveness as he slid the shears through her brown locks, doing his best to leave her with something close to a fashionable bob. He'd never cared about the fuss and maintenance of women's hair before, finding it utterly tedious, but he forced his hands to take care with Molly. Moving to kneel in front of her, he scrutinized his work, coming to the conclusion that it was as good as could be expected.

If it was possible, she looked even younger.

Then he noticed the bruise that had formed along her throat, just below her jaw. Light, but distinctly purple from the muzzle of the pistol. Feeling the rush of anger bubble up again, he reached out without thinking and tenderly brushed his fingers along the mark. He vaguely registered the rise and fall of her chest increase in speed.

"You really ripped into him," she said quietly, the amusement at the memory causing a small smile to appear on her face.

"I didn't like the way he touched you," he said gruffly, surprised by his own response.

"I didn't care for it much, myself," she agreed as his fingers slipped away from her throat. When he didn't respond, Molly tucked a now short strand of hair behind her ear and nervously increased her smile. "I'm famished… dinner?"