AN: Finally remembered to write a quick note for all you wonderful readers! :) This story is completely finished and I'm bringing it over bit by bit from AO3. I will generally upload two chapters at a time and I'll do my best to remember to to mention it, so you won't be confused! This time, though, just the one.

Thanks for all your reviews, I'm so excited you're liking this story!

So here we go!

Baker Street: Mid-January 1819

'I'll take it.' Sherlock declared, earning him an entirely surprised look from Mycroft sitting across from him in John's old chair.

'Are you sure?'

Sherlock rolled his eyes at his brother's sceptical tone. 'Yes. Why would I possibly turn it down?'

Mycroft shrugged his shoulder. 'You have a record of refusing any cases I offer you, not to mention Miss Hooper's emotional state is concerning. I would have thought you would want to be helping her through this time… however one goes about doing that.' The politician wrinkled his nose.

Sherlock drummed his fingers on the arms of his chair and looked away. 'You and I both know comforting is not one of our strongest qualities.'

'We make exceptions for the ones we love, Sherlock,' Mycroft said coolly. 'No one is asking you to be good at it. But it is expected that you try.'

'I would do more harm than good.' Sherlock clapped his hands together, pushing down the rising guilt, and said eagerly, 'Now, when should I expect my client?'

Mycroft stared at him for several moments before finally sighing. 'I shall have him come this afternoon.'

Lord Westminster was very worried. Molly had locked herself away after the funeral, not attending meals or tea, moving about the house as though a shadow, before retreating back into her room. She had closed herself away from the world, both figuratively and literally. He knew that her grieving would take time and that the ache would never truly go away. But he also knew that she wasn't healing, by the way her black gowns hung from her slight frame, the way her eyes didn't sparkle, the lack of the ever-present smile on her lips. She was a sweet child and he knew she cared deeply for his family, especially Sherlock, and Timothy had begun to think of her as a daughter. He could never take her own father's place, but he could do what was possible to comfort her as a father would.

He had kept a close eye on her these past few weeks. And on this day, his vigilance was a blessing. He had entered the library and was delightfully surprised to find Molly standing in the middle of the room. She looked small, almost lost, amongst the massive shelves lining the walls. Her back to him, she had her arms wrapped around her waist and her hair in a messy braid.

'Molly?'

She turned her head slightly in acknowledgement.

'Care for some tea?' He asked gently.

She shook her head once.

Timothy approached her carefully. Her face was worryingly pale and she swayed slightly as she looked up at him. 'Molly, I think you need to see Dr Watson.'

She shook her head. 'I'm fine. I don't need to bother the good doctor.'

'Molly,' he chastised her softly. 'You're not well.'

'I'm fine. I just feel a bit tired, that's all' she murmured, pressing a shaky hand to her brow and frowning at the burning heat she found there. 'Perhaps if I were to just sit down for a… moment…'

Her arms suddenly felt heavy and her legs wouldn't cooperate. She tried to take a step toward the nearest armchair, but found herself tipping toward the ground instead. Blackness seeped into her vision and the last thing she saw before the blissfulness of oblivion pulled her in was the Earl reaching for her as she crumpled to the floor.

Sherlock steepled his fingers and glanced over his fingertips at the man across from him. The politician, who had specified complete anonymity, glared back at him.

'You do understand that it was not my choice to come to you, Mr Holmes. But you come highly recommended in these matters and I find myself with no other options.'

A 7. At least, if not an 8. Sherlock resisted the urge to grin. There were times when having Mycroft as a brother came in handy, specifically when it came to matters of international crime.

'And yet, here you are. Because you're right, you have no other options. The imbeciles at Bow Street are incapable of more than solving petty crimes, or committing them, depending on who you are referring to.'

'Your assistance will be greatly repaid-'

Sherlock stopped the man with a wave of his hand. 'Money is of no concern to me. Now, explain your case.'

'Very well.'

Sherlock tapped his fingers against the arm of his chair as the man finished, only just withholding his childlike glee. Oh, this was a proper case. A proper 9! Finally!

'And he was speaking Japanese? You are sure?'

The man nodded. Sherlock narrowed his eyes, checking one last time for any sign of deception and, not finding any, clapped his hands together, his eyes sparkling with barely concealed joy.

'Excellent! I shall take the c-'

A frantic knock on the door interrupted him and he clenched his jaw in annoyance. His housekeeper had strict orders not to let anyone interrupt.

Jumping to his feet, he stalked to the door and whipped it open, prepared to tear down whoever had dared intrude. He opened his mouth to shout only to find himself staring down at a boy, no older than ten, who was sweating and panting awfully. He snapped his jaw shut.

'S-sir?' The boy stammered, cowering under the force of Sherlock's glare.

The detective quirked an eyebrow. 'Yes?'

The boy reached into his pocket and withdrew a folded paper, thrusting it into Sherlock's hand. He waited while Sherlock unfolded it, his panting filling the suddenly stifling silence. Sherlock felt his heart fall into the vicinity of his stomach when he recognised his father's frantic handwriting.

Molly has collapsed. Come immediately.

His lungs filled with ice and he struggled to breathe. Five words, so bland against the paper, the ink stark and simple against the cream parchment, yet he could not help but hear them echo hauntingly in his mind.

Tossing the note aside, he barked at the boy, 'Ready my horse!'

'Sir, I am only a messenger,' the boy began to refute the order, but stumbled back as Sherlock stalked toward him, a dark and dangerous expression on his face.

'My horse. Now!'

Nodding rapidly, the boy staggered out the door and flew down the stairs.

Sherlock grabbed his coat from the hook and shoved his arms through it. 'I apologise, but I am required elsewhere at this time. Please let yourself out.'

'Now, see here, Holmes!' The man protested, but Sherlock was already heading out the door. He paused and turned back for a moment.

'While you present an intriguing case, I find I am no longer available to assist you. Mr Lestrade of the Bow Street Runners is the least idiotic of all their men, I suggest you go to him. Immediately.' With that, he slammed the door behind him and raced down the stairs, tugging his hat on as he went.

It was nearing dusk by the time Sherlock arrived back at the estate, Barbarossa's hooves gouging deep in the grass as he sped toward the house. Barely slowing down, Sherlock pulled the reins in and jumped down from the saddle, handing the horse over to a ready Edwards and immediately sprinting inside. His hat fell off as he burst through the doors, his boots leaving a trail of mud as he took the stairs two at a time until he reached the upper floor. His parents stood outside Molly's door, speaking in hushed tones with John, their brows knit with worry. John glanced up to see Sherlock striding toward them and schooled his face into a neutral mask. But it was too late, Sherlock had already seen the worry in the doctor's eyes.

Without a word to any of them and ignoring their attempts to hold him back, he shoved his way into the room. All the deductions that his mind threw at him faded into nonexistence as his eyes fell upon the young woman lying deathly still on the small bed. His breaking heart thundered loudly and he slowly approached her side, taking in all the changes. Her pale skin was nearly white and gave her a ghostly sheen in the flickering firelight and her hair was brushed and braided over her shoulder, but lacked the softness his fingertips remembered. The sight of her ill figure churned his insides.

He sat on the chair beside her, cringing as the wood creaked loudly. Molly stirred at the sound as he held his breath, hoping to see her open her eyes, to see the brown orbs he loved so dearly sparkle with life.

His heart lamented when she did not wake up, but furrowed her brow and shivered beneath the covers. He reached out and lifted her small, limp hand in his and was shocked to find her fingers icy cold.

'You're cold,' he whispered as concern clouded his focus. Standing up, he walked over to the hearth and used the poker to shift the logs around, stirring the fire in hopes of warming the room up. He picked up the spare coverlet at the foot of the bed and eased it up over her, tucking her arms beneath it.

Resuming his place at her side, he leaned his elbows on his knees and bowed his head.

'I'm sorry I wasn't here.'