A/N: Thank you for the continued support! I own nothing, and all errors are my own. Enjoy!

"Where would he have taken her? Why haven't we heard anything yet?" Sherlock was beginning to lose any semblance of self control he had been maintaining. "He wanted to dispose of her so that I should see, but he can't play that card any longer. So what's he waiting for?"

Molly had been missing all night and it well into mid-morning. There wasn't much to go on; her duffel bag left outside her flat, dropped on the ground, and a cloth discarded near it that smelled faintly of ether. Cleared up where she was taken. Sherlock was sitting in his own flat, hands steepled while Mycroft, Mary, and John milled about.

"Let's examine everything again," Mycroft said as he sat across from Sherlock, "I fear it's possible we...may have missed something. It has been known to happen." He added snidely.

Sherlock's eyes darkened at the roundabout mention of the woman. "Fuck off, Mycroft. Duffel bag packed for a few nights, clearly in a hurry; this is nothing new, we already know from Mary that she was heading over there as fast as she could. The cloth is clearly how they took her with little struggle. Soaked in ether, it would have rendered her unconscious almost immediately."

Mycroft was turning the cloth over in his hands, thinking. "It seems strange to me that they would just drop the cloth, no? Especially when she would not have afforded much of a struggle, not when-" He cut off, eyes snapping to Sherlock. "This was planted, Sherlock. Look," he passed it over to Sherlock, pointing to the corner. A small, delicate monogram was embroidered, almost undetectable, having been bleached to blend in.

Sherlock sucked a breath in, cursing himself for the oversight. He'd never dreamed that there may be such an obvious clue. It was a small cafe, where Molly had once bragged that she and Moriarty had gone for coffee. "I know where she is," he announced as he sprang into action, while in the back of his head, he couldn't help but wonder, why there?

The room was chilly, and goosebumps had raised themselves up and down Molly's arms. She fought down a shiver as she stared at the ground. She had watched as the the faint grey light gradually brightened as the day grew longer. I understand Sherlock when he got bored so much better now, she thought ruefully. The latch in the door suddenly opened with a clang, and the door swung open, and she jumped at the sudden noise.

Moriarty stepped in, hands in his pockets, the door closing heavily behind him. "Well now, settling in are we?" he asked in a lilting voice, wandering closer, "Sorry to keep you waiting. We ran into a bit of a snag, you see." He shrugged nonchalantly, looking at the ground as though bored by the whole affair.

Molly said nothing, staring back at him. "We had such a great plan, it was really something special. Sherlock must have thought he was so very far above it all; didn't even realize what you meant to him. I knew though. I knew, because I felt it a bit, too. Something about you, I suppose." He stood in front of her, a storm suddenly brewing in his eyes. "What I didn't expect was for you to attract more than one Holmes boy, or to provoke Sherlock into such violent action."

Molly froze, unsure of how to react. "Sorry?" she choked out. Something's happened, oh god…

"We had a plan, that you were supposed to be his final undoing. Make him watch while everything he cares for burns."

What?

He bent over her, placing his hands on her cheeks and looking deep into her eyes with intensity, before leaning over to whisper in her ear, his words ghosting over her skin. "It's always been you, Molly." The effect was profound, her heart suddenly hammering. Too many thoughts began to cloud her mind; Sherlock, care for her? Nonsense, not possible. And what did he mean, make him watch while-

Oh.

So she was to burn, then. The force of the revelation knocked the breath out of her. She barely felt Moriarty's lips press against her cheek as he murmured, "It's almost time, Molls" before he pulled away, closing the door behind her.

The sound of the door closing galvanized her into action. She jumped up, pacing around the room, surveying her options.

There weren't many. Molly bit down the panic welling inside of her, smothering the urge to crumple in the corner in fear. She grimly decided on a course of action, resigning herself to it. She'd have to be quiet, and there were no guarantees, but there was no way in fucking hell she was going to sit around to await execution. Not bothering to think it through, she tested the window.

He always had underestimated her. But then, everybody always had. She pulled her shoe off and used it to prop the window open (what kind of idiot doesn't latch a window when he's holding somebody hostage?) before she stepped back so she could run and launch herself up to it. The opening was small, and Molly had to squeeze through, scraping her shoulders and stomach along the sides. She had half her body through it before she realized why the window wasn't latched.

She was four stories up, with fewer and fewer options. With a sick lurch in her stomach, she looked about, noticing the cafe they had gone to on one of their dates. Fucking sick sense of humor, she thought, resolving herself to it. She pushed out of the window, managing to keep hold on the windowsill. She took a deep breath before launching herself as far as she could, aiming for the next roof over, a story lower.

Mycroft and Sherlock had gotten to the cafe as fast as they could, and had begun to search for a place that Molly could be held. Sherlock was trying not to despair, spinning on the pavement with his hands on his head. He looked up, blanching at what he saw.

Molly Hooper (she was alive!) was wriggling out of a window four stories up. He watched in horror as she launched herself out of it, hitting the next roof and disappearing from view. He took off as quickly as he could to get up onto the nearest building, barely noticing that Mycroft split off towards another.

Her lessons in judo paid off as she struck the slanted roof, managing to take the fall without much injury. The next fall wouldn't be so graceful. She rolled down, catching herself in the stomach on a pipe in the roof, knocking the wind out of her. She grimaced with pain before trying to shake it off to keep going. Resetting, she stood and ran to the next roof over, a flat building. An external staircase wound down the building and she fled as quick as she could.

Not quite quick enough, it would seem. From the other side of the building, she saw two men heading for her. Before she could get down, they were upon her. She managed to throw one into the railing where he stumbled and collapsed to his knees, but the second got her in a vice grip. She was losing. A last ditch effort, and she threw her weight back, nailing the lackey's kidney with the railing. He grunted, and she used the disadvantage to kick out, hitting the downed man in the head solidly, and fell to her knees to toss the other over her shoulder, dropping him over the edge.

She heaved a few breaths, before shouting registered in her ears. She looked up, and with a shock saw the Mycroft sprinting towards her.

Hope exploded in her stomach; hope that she might just survive. As he reached her, she could see the worry etched there that was being replaced with relief. Not bothering to speak to her, he clasped one hand on the back of her head before leaning in and kissing her soundly on the lips. She bent back, instantly lost, her hands instinctively curling into the lapels of his suit jacket. Her body was humming with relief and shock and good god the sensation of his lips working against hers. He pulled back to look at her, and out of the corner of her eye, she saw him over Mycroft's shoulder.

Sherlock.

She gaped at him, and Mycroft visibly stiffened, before placing a hand on her lower back. "We need to keep moving; it isn't safe here." Molly allowed herself to be steered down the stairs, heading to the street where a car was waiting. She clumsily clambered into it, Mycroft sliding in next to her. She stared at the floor when the other rear door popped open and Sherlock dropped in, fury emanating off him in waves. Her face burned and she stayed like that the entire car ride. When the car came to a stop and both brothers got out, Molly slowly followed, drifting up the steps to 221B slowly.

Upstairs, John and Mary were waiting. "Oh god, you're alright! Oh, we were so worried!" Mary had thrown her arms around her, snapping Molly out of her fugue a bit.

"Ah, yes, well, erm...I'm alright. Just a few scrapes."

Sherlock's attention snapped to her. "Where? Did he hurt you?" His eyes were probing, looking for the offending injury.

Molly faltered, noting those were the first words he had spoken to her in months. "No, I'm fine, I just scraped myself up a bit going through the window-" She broke off, trying not to gasp as he lifted the lower hem of her shirt, exposing the five inch cut running down the upper curve of her hip. She looked away, unwilling to see the odd mix of emotions running across his face.

"I'll help you get that cleaned up, come on then, Molly." John stepped in, noticing her discomfort. She smiled gratefully and followed him to the bathroom, where he closed the door. "It will probably just be easier if you go off with your top, if that's okay with you."

Molly didn't argue, working the buttons to her blouse open and tugging the material off her shoulders. Her torso was already beginning to blossom with other bruises from banging against the small window and the roof. John noticed them as well, his face turning serious. "You're lucky you don't need stitches, Molly. This is going to sting a bit." With that, he began to clean the wound as she gritted her teeth. "So, how come you told nobody what's been going on the last few months?"

Molly sighed. "Because the first time I tried, nobody believed me. I began to wonder if I wasn't just crazy. And then I began to think that he'd forgotten me." A beat later, she added, "Because I'm an idiot, apparently." John finished bandaging her and she pulled her blouse back on her shoulders, buttoning herself up again. "Either way, it happened, and we're here, so we might as well get on with it." She stood and made to leave bathroom, feeling a little guilty for the rude outburst. As she reached for the doorknob, it turned and Mary entered.

"John, we might come back and regroup later. It looks a bit like Sherlock and Mycroft are going to murder each other, and I think we'd rather not be around for it." She looked at Molly, something a bit off in her expression. "I'd offer to take you, Molly, but something tells me I ought not to try." Molly followed them out of the bathroom and back into the lion's den, where the two brothers seemed to be readying themselves for a fight. The energy in the room crackled.

"John and I are off, but we do expect an update, and we'll need to reassess Molly's security." Mary spoke decisively.

"I'll come with you," Molly desperately wanted out of the flat that had become hellishly uncomfortable in the past few minutes. The tension was incredible.

"John, Mary, I'll be in touch," Sherlock brusquely said, "Molly, you are staying where you are. Last time you tried to go to John and Mary's you didn't quite make it. I believe you've had enough travels. You'll remain here until we get this sorted."

Mary gave her a sympathetic look as they walked out, and Molly was infuriated, absolutely blown away by the nerve of the man. "Sherlock, you can't tell me what to do, you don't own me!" she burst out, rounding back on him. The hard set of his features told her he wasn't going to budge, and she spun on her heel, to angry to argue further. She bounded up the stairs into John's old room, slamming the door behind her and hurling herself on the bed, her bruises protesting loudly as she did so.

Mycroft watched as Molly fled the room and slammed the door behind her. Sherlock looked back at Mycroft, seemingly ready to round on him, and he stared back at him steadily. Here we go.

"What. The. Fuck, Mycroft."

"Well it wasn't as though I planned it, brother mine. It simply happened. I'm sorry you should be so offended by it." Mycroft smirked at his brother.

Sherlock was nearly speechless with anger, quite the unusual occurrence. "You know what? Let's not even talk about that, let's talk about how, right after a trauma, you essentially force yourself on the poor girl, as though she hadn't been through enough?"

"She certainly didn't seem too traumatized," he countered, antagonizing him, "Jealous?"

Sherlock stared daggers at him, before turning and flinging himself into his chair. It was too easy to provoke him sometimes, and he couldn't help himself. Finding Sherlock's attention averted for a moment, Mycroft took the opportunity to revisit the moment with Molly, savoring how very soft her lips were, how pliant she became in his arms. The signs of enjoyment and arousal were certainly there, though they were no doubt partly fueled by the adrenaline from the situation. Just as quickly, he remembered why she had so much adrenaline to begin with, and his smirk dropped.

He sat down opposite Sherlock, quite drained. "We both messed up, Sherlock. Both of us are to blame for Molly's abduction."

Sherlock turned a razor sharp eye to him, though Mycroft could tell he knew he was right.