"Just shut up." Sherlock lays back on the wall, rubbing his eyes with his palms. He's thinking about the consequences this man deserves to go through. A policeman steps up, handing John a file, then steps back into place.

"His name, Sherlock, is James also." John was flipping through the few papers, "Mother must've not been too bright." He cracks a look at James, wishing his insult took root. Sherlock drops his hands, watching the man pull on the bindings.

"You aren't a psychopath, Moriarty. I can tell. A man like you doesn't go killing for fun. So, why did you drug them?"

The brother stops fighting and finally turns his head to give both John and Sherlock a taste of his frosty eyes. "You know why, loon. MY DEAD BROTHER can't speak for himself. Which is a good thing, really, he was always picking on me. But he didn't deserve to die." Those same eyes gave an annoyed roll. Sherlock cocks his head. "Why didn't you kill them? Why was Molly targeted? Hmm?"

John looks to Holmes, questioning softly with, "Molly targeted?" after what he just heard. Sherlock holds a hand to John and waits for a reply. It takes a few minutes until James can properly place his tongue, "She got away scratch free last time, if you can remember. Even Kitty couldn't find the heart to break up with him, but Hooper could? Sense made none." The way he popped the 'n' made nearly all the staff cringe.

John threw the file into Sherlock's arms, "What did you do?" He ran to threated James, then turned his head back to Holmes, "Sherlock, what did he do?" He was out of the loop and it made John angry. But not even his colleague could find the heart to tell him. Not here. "Look. James, this is your confessional. I know what you did, God knows what you did, you know what you did. But if you don't say it out loud, and pay for your crimes..." He droned off, dropping the file on the floor.

James laughed once more, "Prison. I like it. Plus the people are always so nice." He turns his head to a guard, "Don't you think?"

Another hour of arguing with the maniac and nothing. The only reason Sherlock and John left was because he passed back out, the drugs having a second run.

"What did he do to Molly?" John was pacing very quickly beside Sherlock. They were walking the streets home this time, both needed time to walk everything off. Holmes shrugged. John got louder, "WHAT did he do?" They both sped up walking, taking out their frustration on their feet. Sherlock huffed, "I'd rather this not be something everyone knew. I only found out because I noticed, and I wish I hadn't. But it was necessary."

John was finding it harder to keep up, "Sherlock! I am not everyone. I care for Molly also, she is a friend. I'm finding it very odd you can't tell me!" Sherlock sped up further, "Take this up with Molly, it is her buisiness anyway."

John stopped, halfly because his legs burned like a mother, and partly because he's had enough. "She won't tell me, you know that. But if you want to help her, I can also." He watched Holmes slow down, then stop by a street sign and lean on it. "Fine. I'll tell you." John was finally sighing in relief and began walking to Sherlock. But he looked to John, "Meet me at the cafe!" And sprinted into an alleyway much too fast for Watson to process him leaving.

"You Fucker."

ten minutes later, and three cafe's later, John met up with Sherlock. He wished he had specified on which one, would have saved leg work. Holmes was sitting dashingly at a booth, sipping coffee. John sat across from him, "Tell me, then." He finally replied.

Sherlock laughed, scooting over a tea he previously ordered for his colleague. "Drink." And John did.

"For the sake of her privacy, I beg that you tell nobody but yourself. And do nothing about it. Alright?" Sherlock was serious then, completely motionless until John said an, "Okay, agreed."

Sherlock prepared himself a minute, taking in a few breaths to compose what horrible story composed in his mind. "Molly met James a few weeks ago. Just like Jim in IT, he put on a facade mask. Molly, in the first few moments of meeting him, was baffled and charmed. Until he." He verbally stumbled, looking down at his coffee.

John asked, "He, what?" Sherlock continued softly, "He threatened her, told her if she said a word about what happened, then she would pay. He raped her, John." It was those subtle details that unfurled the full story, the complete 'Murder She Wrote'. And it stung. "That twisted demon, I will rip him a new one!" John was immediately put on edge.

Sherlock held his attention, "You promised me you would keep quiet."

Watson slammed his hand, "This is Molly Hooper we are talking about! The nicest girl on the planet and you are telling me to not help her?"

Holmes nodded, "Yes. This time, yes. It's what she wants of us, and I think it is for the best."

John sat more comfortably again, "Oh. The best? For whom? Her or everyone else? That child shouldn't exist." And for even John's liking, those words were bullet holes. It was just a baby. An innocent child.

Sherlock stood, slapping money on the table on walking out, "I will see you tomorrow." He uttered, flipping his collar up and walking into the quickly cold night.

John sat there, swearing at himself and dancing curses into the air. He watched many costumers walk in and out until a waitress came to the table, taking the money up. His eyes followed her, watching her go to the counter then turn around, weirdly. She came back. John raised an eyebrow, "Was there not enough to cover the bill?"

She shook her head, "You must have mistakenly put this in with the money." She awkwardly handed him a small slip of paper in the mix of bills. John took it, reading her name tag closely just incase this would end up being another case to solve. Mary. "Thank you." He smiled at her, and she sheepishly grinned back, standing there until John did a double take.

Odd.

He unfolded the small paper and read, P.S. The busgirl with the shorter blonde hair likes you, if you ever get tired of me. Noticed last time we had brunch.

John looked back up, eyeing the visible staff and saw the girl with the shorter blonde hair. It was Mary. "At least she's not a threat."

A/N: P.S. Sweets, I love you so much. You guys are my everything. So far this summer I have cleaned up after tornadoes, went to at least ten funerals, and worked nearly everyday except Friday. So what crap kind of story I give you (sorry i could do better) is what I manage. But I love you and that's all that matters.