Sherlock's meeting with Anderson had gone as well as could be expected. Sherlock was seething as they walked upstairs, and John could practically hear the insult-filled rant that was likely to be running through the detective's mind at that moment. Each footstep Sherlock made landed heavily and his gait was faster than it even usually was. He practically attacked the stairs, taking them two at a time and ignoring the lift completely. John could no longer tell if he was eager to return to the case or was actually that bothered by some silly spat with Anderson, when he knew Sherlock hardly even considered the man's opinions to be of any intelligence.

"Sherlock, slow down." John struggled to keep up with his pace and gave up, slowing himself to a comfortable walk as Sherlock continued to march away.

"Imbecile," He muttered once certain John was out of earshot, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of knowing just how frustrated he really was over the whole Anderson affair. It hadn't started off particularly bad; he had walked in and politely asked if Anderson would analyse the note (here Anderson would probably disagree, saying he had waltzed in and demanded the note be analysed), and Anderson had somewhat reluctantly agreed. An observation had been made that he found to be utterly ridiculous and he had corrected Anderson, in an effort to perhaps better the man's knowledge. Anderson of had taken it completely the wrong way and a minor verbal argument had begun before escalating to the point where he had thrown a Petri dish at Sherlock's head. And people said he was immature. Absentmindedly Sherlock touched the spot where it had hit, glaring at nothing, muttering "imbecile" to himself once more. He made his way to Lestrade's - no, it was Dimmock's now - unit and started going through an evidence bag, waving away the constable who tried to protest. John arrived not long after, Sally Donovan in tow. He ignored them both, glancing at the clock. Four in the morning. Thirty-seven hours without sleep. Unfortunately, if he was to keep working on this case, he would have to stop and sleep soon. John and Donovan said nothing to him as they walked past, but his eyes swept over them. He already knew John had been comforting her (if the slight wet patch on his shirt had been anything to go by) but still, to actually look at her confirmed the why, and also explained Anderson's unusually quick temper earlier. A quiet chuckle to himself before he returned to the plastic-wrapped blade in his hands.

"Where's Parker?" John's voice barely registered with him, as if it came from some far-off, distant place that had nothing to do with cases or evidence or plastic-wrapped bloodstained possible murder weapons. When it did click with his mind, he looked up, seeing John's patient blue eyes.

"I don't know. Isn't she in there?" Sherlock asked, annoyed at the interruption but not overly bothered.

"No, she's gone. She was asleep when we-"

"She wasn't sleeping. Her breath hitched, she was awake, though she made quite the effort to appear as if she was still asleep."

"Maybe she went for coffee," Donovan halfheartedly suggested, still lingering in the background.

"Maybe she didn't," John said gravely, recalling two seperate events where the girl - the girl he was currently supposed to be responsible for - had gone out in the night and returned in less than sublime condition.

A look passed between the two men and Sherlock rose to his feet, walking over to the open door and observing the room with careful eyes. John was beside him, one hand at his mouth, a subconscious gesture made when he was concerned. The room was still full of the many papers and books but painfully empty of the teenage girl.

"She's out of the building."

"How can you tell?" Donovan's voice intruded on his thoughts, but he answered her question.

"My coat. John placed it over her as she slept - she's taken it with her." Sherlock looked down as he realised he only wore his purple shirt and blue scarf. He hadn't even noticed the absence of the coat, too driven by the case, too sleep deprived to properly care. He was beginning to miss details. "What time did we leave earlier?"

"Ten. That's...christ, Sherlock, that's six hours."

"Go out and find her. I don't have time for a distraction."

Sherlock returned to the evidence bag somewhat hastily, ignoring John's protests. Sally was unsurprised by the freak's reaction, but she noticed the slightest frown cross his face. Putting it down to annoyance at being interrupted, she pulled on her jacket and clasped one hand to John's shoulder. "Don't worry. I'll help. She's probably just gone home."

John's tense nod and tightened fists told Sherlock he was very angry at him. He dismissed it, his eyes barely watching as Sally Donovan lead him away, to find the girl. He found himself unable to concentrate after a few moments and sighed, squeezing his eyes shut slowly. Petty emotion. He pulled out his phone and had an apology typed before he deleted the half-written message, switching off his phone. No distractions. The lives of quite a few more girls, and police officers, and the general public, depended on it. Firstly, the murder weapon. And he needed to call Molly Hooper.

She wasn't asleep. She'd woken up the moment Sherlock's coat touched her skin but had stayed still, eyes closed, making sure her breathing didn't quicken and waited until they were gone. Once she was alone she curled up, pulling the coat around her shoulders and closing her eyes once more. Her mind wandered to her boy - her sweet Jacky, the little brother she'd never had. It made her heart physically ache thinking about him and the danger he continually lived in. All she ever wanted was to ensure his safety, preferably with her. But that was impossible; explaining the situation to her mother, her family - the legal rubbish she'd have to go through to keep him with her. Not for the first time Parker wished she had someone to talk to, someone she could tell everything to. Just a person who could listen. Somebody who could help - a knight in shining armour, she mused, though she had no belief in such ideas.

Parker pulled on the heavy coat. It hung well past her knees but she paid it no mind and pulled it close, walking downstairs quietly, trying to avoid notice. She wanted out. Out of the building. Out of the city, out of the country. Out of the reaches of him and his men. Distractedly one hand drifted to brush across her bruised face; she clenched it into a fist and kept walking. She knew exactly where she was going, or so she thought. She was a little surprised to find herself standing outside the hospital, but decided she may as well make the best of an opportunity as it presented itself to her.

Walking inside, she paused before the desk, wondering if she should ask where the room was. The kindly old woman behind the desk leaned over and asked if she was alright. Reminded heavily of her aunt, Parker nodded slowly, reached for a pen and wrote the name carefully on the back of her hand, showing it to the woman. After a quick scroll through the computer, the woman gave her the room number and directions on how to get there. Smiling her thanks, Parker hurried away to the lift. Once inside - and alone, it was towards the end of visiting hours - the smile dropped and turned to a dark frown.

Her hands shook as she opened the door, careful not to make any noise. He laid unconscious and unmoving, the room quiet aside from his heavy breaths through the respirator. Greg Lestrade was no better than he had been in the two days since being shot. Uncertainly, she took his heavy and calloused hand in hers, and pulled the chair closer to the bed. After a moment her lips parted, and her strangled voice, hoarse from disuse, filled the room. He would listen, and better yet, he couldn't say anything.

She told the comatose inspector the story of her and Jacky, and he didn't hear a word.