The hallways were silent, causing Sherlock and Mary to slow down to a quick walk, skimming for John and Molly. When they heard gun fire, the two broke into a run. Then a wounded John hurried behind the corner of a doorway, clenching his right arm as he shot another bullet before leaning against the wall, looking up at the ceiling, gasping.
The two skidded to a halt.
"John!" The detective called with large eyes at the sight of his wounded friend.
The doctor looked at him with wide eyes that grew relieved. "Thank God you're alright! I shot one, but I don't know if I killed him."
"Allow me," Mary offered with coldness in her voice.
Before Sherlock tried to stop her, the woman hurried to the doorway, quickly drew her gun, and fired, then leapt aside to her husband just as another gun was fired. John kissed the back of her head with love and relief on his face as he closed his eyes as his wife slightly turned her head into him with comfort and love.
"Sherlock!" A voice from the inside of the room shouted with anger.
The detective gave a signal to his friends to stay back and they gave a curt nod of their heads.
Mary then threw her arms around John's neck burring her face in his shoulder, too eager to hide her emotions as John rest her head in her neck, savoring her love.
Sherlock headed for the door, allowing the couple to be relieved that they were back in each other's arms, and walked inside the large room, finding two men dead and a sobbing Molly sitting in a chair with her head hung low. When she raised her face, Sherlock was taken aback on how unhealthy she looked in three short days, but he saw her eyes light up at the sight of him. He was too focused on his hurting girlfriend to notice the killer slowly approaching her with a gun drawn, aiming at him. Molly looked like she went through Hell. If only he was able to find her sooner! If only he was able to protect her better! His keen eyes then met the man with anger boiling his blood. "What did you do to her?" He demanded, wanting to beat the man to an inch of his life.
"I wanted to see how much she had faith in you," the man spoke.
"You're not Moriarty. Oh, I know all about you and the fan club!" He spat, holding back the anger. "Wanting to finish what he started… You really are an idiot," he snarled. "You even broke into my flat, threatened to kill my girlfriend, then you do this! If Moriarty could see you, he'd laugh."
That was probably true.
Before the young man could open his mouth, Sherlock demanded, "Who are you?"
"Why should I-"
"So the police know," he answered with an emotionless voice.
The killer's light-colored eyes grew blazing with rage, stretching his arms out, aiming the gun at him.
Molly was staring at her boyfriend with large, terrified eyes, fearing the worst.
Then a gun was fired.
Expecting to feel pain in his chest like when Mary shot him, he felt nothing, but watched the man in front of him stagger, clenching his gut. Distant sirens were echoing, making the detective quietly sigh with relief and whispered, "Finally." He turned around to find Mary, holding the smoking gun. "Thanks." He hurried to his girlfriend's side, quickly untying her wrists as she was beginning to tremble. He tried to comfort her as he was undo the rope's knot as Mary helped by untying her ankles, but she didn't listen. She tried to force her hands to be free. "Molly," he soothed, "calm down." When the rope finally fell to the floor, he was about to check on the pathologist, but she threw her arms around his neck and held him tight.
Sherlock held her tight, running his fingers through her hair, catching on a knot or two. He turned his gaze to Mary, who was comfortingly rubbing her back with sympathy. "What happened?" He softly asked, fearing the worst.
"She hasn't been fed since she was kidnapped," the blonde answered quietly. "They would hit her once in while and I could only protect her as much as I could. They kept telling her that they were going to kill you and trying to break her spirit."
Sherlock kissed his girlfriend's head, then looked at the doorway, finding that John was no where to be found. "Where's John?"
"He went to meet the police."
At that moment, cops came in the room with Lestrade taking the lead.
"Can you walk?" He whispered to the pathologist.
She nodded.
He helped her to her unsteady feet as she refused to let him go.
"What happened?" The inspector questioned the detective as he approached the three of them. When he noticed the shape that Molly was in, his blue eyes grew wide with horror. "What happened to her?"
"She was kidnapped along with Mary," he answered in a mild rush. "There are three thugs, the other one is laying dead in the other building."
An officer approached Lestrade. "He's alive, but he needs medical attention."
When the inspector turned to find the wounded man, Sherlock was heading to the door with his arm around Molly's shoulder with Mary following. He had to find John and get Molly checked up. He knew she was going to be alright, but the sight of her still scared him. Never had he seen her like this, nor has anyone else. He tried to talk to her, trying to keep her in check. The traumatized woman kept nodding a muttering answers to him, but was still clenching his coat in a death grip. The trio made their way out of the building, passing a couple of officers. John was sitting on the back of the ambulance, still clenching his bloody arm. Probably refusing to get attention until we showed up, the detective thought. When the blogger noticed them, he leapt off, ignoring the doctor. "Are you alright?" He asked them, until he noticed the sight of Molly. His eyes grew wide. "Jesus. Mary wasn't joking."
"She'll be fine now," Sherlock muttered. He looked at his friend's wounded arm. "Shot in the arm again?" He gave small smirk of humor.
John shook his head. "Yeah. Can you believe it? Same bloody arm." He smirked with humor. "Literally."
"Is this the right time?" Mary whispered, wrapping her arm around her husband's back. "Let's get you fixed up, love."
Sherlock then stepped forward with worry. "You're a doctor. Is Molly going to be alright or is she going to need medical attention?"
John became the doctor he was as he gently placed a hand under Molly's chin to make her look at him. After a quick analysis, the doctor stepped back. "She needs rest and food, but not much at once. Also she is dehydrated, but not critical." He looked up at his tall friend. "Other than that, she needs you."
As if a cue, Molly got closer to her boyfriend, nerves beginning to relax.
John's phone then went off, making him answer it. "John Watson."
His eyes grew wide at the words on the other end.
"We are actually ending a case right now. Is she available to come over tomorrow morning?"
He earned all pairs of eyes from the trio.
"He will be there. That is for certain." He smiled. "Thank you. I have to go. Thank you again." He then hung up the phone, looking back to the eager eyes. "We found the mother."
"Are you serious?" Sherlock asked with a puzzled smile.
"It was the bartender. She came by and matched the description." He grinned with excitement. "We found the mother!"
Sherlock released his girlfriend, clapping his hands together with excitement. "Ah, two cases completed in one night!" He then looked at his friend with wonder. "When is she coming?"
"Your flat at nine in the morning."
"Good." He then smirked. "You go to the hospital and get your arm healed. I'm taking Molly home."
John gave a small nod as his wife looked at him with concern. "I'll keep in touch. Take care of her, Sherlock."
The detective smirked, holding his girlfriend again. "I will."
The two couples said their good-byes and went their separate ways. Sherlock had to talk to Lestrade as Molly was waiting in the back of a cop car. After the report and explanation was made, the detective joined his girlfriend and hitched a ride back to the flat.