A.N.: Sorry. Thanks for waiting for the next chapter! Warning: This chapter is graphic. Be warned.

Disclaimer: Not my show:(

John followed the tapping sound down to the door at the far end of the abandoned hallway.

A cursory glance revealed no trigger devices anywhere on the door.

Taking a deep breath, John carefully opened the door and slipped inside.

The tableaux that greeted him was a ghastly one. Molly was there as he had predicted. Barbed wire bound her to a chair off to one side of the room. Underneath the chair was a painter's drop, spattered with alarming russet streaks and scarlet puddles. Tools lay scattered haphazardly around, telling the chilling narrative of Molly's captivity.

John was at her side in a moment. He found a pair of wire-cutters and freed Molly from her thorny prison.

Her body slumped with relief.

John devoured her with his eyes, gaze burning across her skin, identifying injuries. Running through first aid protocols. Highlighting trauma sights. A wicked gash in her arm had been clumsily closed. Simple interrupted sutures.

"Anything broken?"

Molly raised her right arm.

The hand was decimated, limp. Crushed by a blow from a heavy object.

John eyes darted around the room.

Hammer.

Bone fragments then. Dangerous. Lethal if allowed to enter the blood stream.

He whipped his belt off and fixed a tourniquet above the hand. Better an amputation from the reduced circulation later, than a bone chip in the heart now.

"Okay. We should go. Can you move?"

Molly looked at him helplessly.

"Molly. What?"

She gestured weakly to her throat.

Cold blossomed in John's chest.

Molly hadn't said a word since he entered, hadn't made a sound aside from the foot tapping that had led him here.

She wasn't gagged. Hadn't been when he'd entered.

There was a kitchen towel tied around her neck. If it wasn't a gag...

John removed the towel and stared. Unable for a moment to process what he was seeing.

The horror of it.

"oh god."

The room gave a sick little spin for a moment. John hurried to replace the towel.

"..god. Oh Molly. Those sick fucks. Jesus."

Molly's throat had a gaping hole in the front. The larynx was ripped apart, sinews hanging like tinsel. All the major blood vessels had been missed and wound didn't appear to have penetrated the esophagus.

Molly mouthed something.

"shh. Okay. Alright. You'll be alright." John muttered it like a mantra, trying to convince them both.

She grabbed his hand and drew two letters on his palm. -M- -E-

"you. What?"

Molly's eyes stared back at him fiercely.

"Y-you did this?! My God. Why would you-"

Her eyes rolled, but the ferocity had drained from them. A couple of tears slipped down her cheeks.

"No. No, you'll be fine. Come on. " John lifted her a gently as he could manage. Her eyes shot open with pain. The tension in her muscles felt like a silent scream.

Greg had just gotten Irene settled into the ambulance when his phone buzzed.

[Molly hurt. Emergency. Need Medicopter. -John]

He raced to Mycroft's side and handed him the phone, panting.

There was a moment of icy silence, and then the world exploded with activity. People were running, orders being shouted. Anthea and Mycroft were both yelling into their phones. John sent them his coordinates informing them he'd be on the roof.

Greg returned to the ambulance, confirming the intended destination with the guard. Bart's would best, Mycroft had arranged a private wing.

Irene smirked up at him from the gurney.

"Don't look so surprised Detective Inspector. Did you really think you could fool John Watson? Personally, I wouldn't have bothered."

Greg felt something twist in his gut. She was right of course. And John would be anything but pleased to learn they'd been keeping him in the dark.

Molly gazed at the stars.

It had taken a lot for John to drag them both up here. He crouched near her, breathing heavily.

She reached her left hand out, lightly grasping his knee. He glanced at her.

She wanted to say she was glad he came. Had known he would find her.

She wanted to say she was sorry, sorry that she'd had to lie to him and everyone. Sorry she had watched helplessly as John had fallen apart after Sherlock was gone.

She wanted to say so many things, things she could never say now.

John placed a hand on hers and squeezed gently. A few more tears trickled down her face. The wetness was making her cold.

"Thank you." he said quietly.

Her eyes widened, surprised. Thank you?

"I know you've been helping him. Irene sort of- well- I figured some things out."

Molly closed her eyes. He knew then. Knew what she had done to him. How she had stood by and watched him withering away and said nothing.

His grip on her hand tightened.

"Hey. Its fine. Its all fine, Molly."

He let out a low chuckle.

"I mean, couldn't stay mad at you if I wanted to. Not after what you've done."

His eyes were fixed on towel.

Jim in her kitchen, trying to wrestle her into a chair. Saying things about making her scream.

How she would sing like the pretty bird she was. How Sherlock should've never trusted her with his secrets.

How she could resist all she wanted, more interesting that way.

She had gotten loose for a second and grabbed for a knife. Jim had laughed. Spread his arms and said "try me, dearie".

The second when she knew. Knew she couldn't out fight him, couldn't out run him. She had no training when it came to torture. No way to know if she'd crack. There was nothing else to do.

In one swift motion she'd brought the knife up and ripped through her vocal chords. He couldn't make her talk if she had no voice.

He had screamed. Howled. Grabbed the kitchen towel and tied it around the wound. For a second he'd thought she tried to kill herself. Tried to die with her information. But then he saw. Read it on her. He'd been outsmarted. He was furious.

Later, after she'd been moved, they'd tried to get her to write what she knew. She'd refused of course. In the end Moriarty had said she didn't need her hand if she wasn't going to use it. The hammer had been the worst of it. She nearly blacked out from the pain, but was terrified. She knew if her head drooped, the hole in her throat could make her airway close. She fought to stay awake.

She had succeeded then.

The edges of her vision were going fuzzy.

She tried to grip John harder. Tried to let him know, but she couldn't feel her hand. She tried to open her eyes wider but her face felt funny. Stiff.

Suddenly she could feel his hands on her, on her face. His voice sounded so far away.

Is John underwater? ...everything is so..

...what is...

...is this...