[A/N] I had previously posted one chapter twice! D'oh. Apologies. I do believe I fixed it! Please re-read chapters 22 & 23, if you'd like. ... Also: Thank you for reading, following, and reviewing this fic. You are fabulous!

CHAPTER 24

The young man with the missing ear, also had a broken arm and nose - as well as traces of Xylazine in his system-spent time recovering at St. Thomas's. While he lay in a hospital bed, the man tells the police, Sherlock, and John that he is Mark Johnston, the ex-boyfriend of Carrie Gramble. They had been kidnapped together, and he was kept locked up and beaten, and he thinks Carrie may have been killed. He plainly states Molly Hooper and James Moriarty had been behind the murders.

The man said Molly would write the letters to Sherlock after she and Moriarty would torture and kill a defenseless woman, and then they'd have kinky sex-when Moriarty used his knife to cut her, at her request. Mr. Johnston says Molly killed that Berman woman with her scalpel, removed her head, then cut her own hair to get rid of the blood evidence, because it splattered all over.

When asked about Stan and Anna Crouse - and Adam Worth - the young man claims he knows nothing about them.

Molly Hooper refutes the claims against her, but the evidence does not favor the pathologist. Sherlock goes back to the flat, stares at the sketchbook and letters, and practically abuses his violin.

No one pleads for him to cease the noise.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

The following morning, Sherlock, John, and Lestrade return to St. Thomas's where Jill Berman's head has been delivered.

Mike Stamford performs Jill Berman's autopsy and, receives the results from Molly Hooper's rape kit on his pathologist. Stamford has a bit of good news in the hurricane of horror: Molly had not been assaulted. "In fact," Mike supplied reluctantly, "the examiner noted Molly has not had sex in quite some time; there would have been evid-"

Lestrade holds up his hand to stop Stamford from continuing; they all get the uncomfortable picture. John and Lestrade see Molly as family, so the news of her sexual activities - or lack thereof - were difficult to hear. Sherlock, however, remains stoic, his face an impassive mask.

John departs; he visits Mary to give her updates on Molly. Lestrade and Sherlock go to Molly's hospital room, where Donovan is already waiting, having been directed there by a higher authority. In her hands, she has a warrant, signed by Lestrade's boss. They reluctantly arrest Molly, based on her hand-written letters, the scalpel they discovered in Jill Berman's body, and for the death of Sebastian Moran.

Molly does not protest; she cannot fight, anymore. Sherlock departs, but not before giving Molly a look of pure loathing. She breaks down, sobbing so pitifully, that everyone else - including those in the hallway and nearby rooms - pauses, the raw anguish wrenches at their hearts. One nurse takes pity on the broken woman's sobs, and gives her morphine to help her sleep.

As Molly cannot leave the hospital just yet, Lestrade keeps the guards in place-not for anyone else's protection, but for her own.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Two days pass, and John requests to see Molly.

Lestrade allows him to speak to her for a few minutes, but not longer, as it will look suspicious, as well as place him in hot water with his bosses. John is greeted by the sight of a silent Molly, staring out of her hospital room window, still lying in bed, covered in bandages, bruises, and a leg cast. John gives Molly a bit of good news: Toby is in the flat he shares with Sherlock.

This pleases Molly to the point of tears. After she quiets down, Molly croaks, "How is he?" John instinctively knows she's referring to Sherlock, not her pet.

John does not say anything; he looks away guiltily. Molly does not need to hear the Army doctor say the words; she knows that the Consulting Detective believes she was a willing participant in Moriarty's plan, and she cries some more, this time with sadness. A moment later, she opens her blanket and slowly, painfully, lifts her hospital gown to reveal the gashes Moriarty left on her body. She no longer cares that John is looking at her nude form.

The carved scabs spell out 'IOU'.

John stares at the message for a moment. "Jesus, no," he moans thickly, running his hand over his face.

She grimaced, wiping away a tear. "I know what is being said about me," she whispers gravely. "I know what others believe. But... none of it is true. None. I saw things, had things done to me, and did things to save myself that no one should have to endure. I was never a willing participant, despite the story being told."

She sighed heavily. "I did not understand at first," Molly continued, "but after listening to Moriarty, writing those letters, seeing Jill die, then shooting Moran… I do now; not only did he want to punish me, but this is a message for Sherlock," she croaked. "Yet, I will never show this to him; he should not have something else to think about."

"But, if it was meant for—"

"No, John," Molly rasped forcefully, cutting him off. "I will not give Sherlock any more messages from that sick…" She sighed, "Promise me you will not tell him."

"Molly…" John sighed sadly. "I—"

Molly's mouth set in a firm line, but her eyes betrayed her, and it shocked John to see that Molly held no more hope, no more light. "I do not count, John. I mean nothing to Sherlock. I know that. For him, the lies about me are easier to believe, because he wants them to be true. I do not know why, and may never know why he feels that way, but I will always care about him—always, even when it hurts. I care so much, that I will carry this message for him forever—and he must never know."

Sherlock was wrong about Molly's cleverness, John thought. He had witnessed countless times as Sherlock verbally abused Molly, made the woman cry, sneered at her efforts to help him, falsely flattered her to get what he needed from the lab or morgue… all because Sherlock seemed to believe Molly was beneath him and should stay there. Maybe Mary was right: Molly scared Sherlock, so he kept her at a great distance. John felt sick that he didn't make a better effort to point out to Sherlock that Molly was not a ninny.

And now, the bloody bastard thought she had been in league with a dangerous criminal to get back at him for treating her unkindly. Sherlock was a bloody fool.

John itched to punch Sherlock in the face, again. If he had been present, John probably would have.

Molly sat in silence for a few moments, not hearing the sounds of hospital activity, as she watched John. He had shifted his gaze to the wall above her head as he dove deep into thought, and his features changed from shame to anger to murderous, before he blinked them away, gave her a small smile, then reached up and pulled down her hospital gown and placed the blankets back around Molly. With a great sigh, he turned his gaze toward the window.

John stared out at the brightly-lit parking area; he was torn. Sherlock needed to know what Moriarty had done to her—and how Molly felt about him, but there didn't seem to be a way, so he had to give in to Molly. After a moment, he nodded, also shedding a few tears.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

John, having visited Molly in hospital for the fourth day in a row, thanks to Lestrade, trudged up the steps to his shared flat at 221B Baker Street, bringing the post and some take-away. He barely glanced at Sherlock, but said, "Package arrived for you." He placed it on the box from Molly's own flat, shrugged off his jacket, and went into the kitchen to make some tea.

Sherlock looked at the large, lumpy brown and haphazardly-wrapped envelope; he poked at it, and felt something hard, also soft and crinkly, beneath his fingertip. One of the items was paper, but what was the other? Surely, not another bomb?

He was too impatient to call Lestrade and wait for him and the bomb unit to arrive-again. Sherlock snatched the envelope up, ripped it open, and discovered its contents: Another mobile, a wrapped gift, and a few wadded up sheets of paper fell out onto the box top.

Sherlock immediately recognized the gift; it was the one Molly intended to give him for Christmas. The mobile was hers, too. There were several balls of wadded paper-drafts of the notes from Moriarty? The consulting detective frowned. Why had Moriarty sent these things? Sherlock looked inside the envelope and noticed words scrawled on the inner portion. He ripped it open carefully and discovered a note scrawled in bold handwriting:

Dearest Sherlock,

IOU a thanks for playing such an exciting game! You did well, and I was mildly impressed. But, perhaps it was too easy?

Anyway, I have one last gift for you. These are our Sweet Molly's belongings. Interesting reading, I must say; it would have made me cry, if I had a heart. I'm confident that you will not know what to do with all of this information, because it is sappy and sentimental—and everyone knows you just do not do those. Still, read it all, then delete it from that horribly ordinary brain of yours, as is customary.

Between the two of us, though, we broke our Molly-Dolly. Oops. But the question is: which one of us did more?

Love, Moriarty xxx

"Ahem."

Sherlock inhaled sharply, and looked up to find John standing just a few feet away. "I can read upside-down," the doctor announced.

An eyebrow quirked. "Good for you," Sherlock replied evenly. He paused for a moment, examining his friend. "You have been to see Molly. Has she said anything important? Anything that may help her?"

John shook his head; he had made a promise. "If you want to know, you need to talk to her."

"Damn it, John," Sherlock rasped, "You see but do not observe; I have nothing to say to her."

"No, Sherlock, you think you see, but don't observe," John bit out, tossing the detective's words back at him. "Your stubborn pride is keeping you from gathering proper evidence."

Sherlock sneered. "I, unlike you, will not allow sentiment and personal feelings get in the way, John."

"At least I have feelings, Sherlock. You are a machine! Molly is our friend-one of the few people who actually doesn't mind putting up with your bullshit, so really, she deserves a bloody medal-and friends help each other. Why are you the only one who refuses to see she is innocent in all of this? Did you know she has—" he stopped before he blurted out things he should not. "Oh, sod this," John blinked angrily. "I'm off."

"Where are you going?" Sherlock asked, affronted.

"Anywhere but here," John replied scathingly. As he wandered over to the sofa to pick up his jacket, an idea suddenly formed in his head. "Just… take a look in the box."

"What is in the box?" Sherlock asked suspiciously, eyeing the copy paper box that had once been in Lestrade's vehicle.

"You cannot deduce that on your own, oh, Great One?" John's voice drips sarcasm.

Sherlock does not reply; his mulish expression spurs John on. "There are things in there you really, really need to see—and do not just skim over them. Stop being you for once, Sherlock, and be a human being. Maybe it will help repair the damage," John said cryptically. "I have made you some tea and there's Beef Lo Mein on the counter. I'll be back later. Maybe."

"Why are you leaving?" Sherlock demanded.

"I cannot be around you right now," John growled. "You are being the worst sort of bastard, and I do not want to deal with it. Besides," he added, "you will need some time alone with all of... that." He gestured to the box and the contents on top. John said nothing further, just picked up his jacket and walked out the door.

Sherlock looked at the box and the items on it as if he were suddenly staring at a great rabid dog. He wanted to run away, to hide in his room, to flee the flat—Something! Anything!—but he was frozen in place, unsure of what to do first.

Gah! Stupid feelings.

Curiosity took over. His fingers itched to touch something, so he reached out for the wadded papers. He smoothed them out and noticed Molly's handwriting. He read the first line of the top note, and felt as if he'd been knocked over by a cab.

Sherlock, I am scared and really need you. I do not know where I am, but I hear a waterfall. He tells me I am not in London, but still in the UK. You have no doubt received my first letter. I wonder where he left it? I did not want to write it, but he made me. I've been so stupid. I am wrong about a lot of things, Sherlock, and now it is too late to correct them. It was stupid to tell you to stay away; I should not have done that. Please do not hate me. Please find me. - Love, Molly xxx

'So, these must be the notes she had been stuffing into her pillowcase. Could they be a trick?' Sherlock wondered.

But he read the next crumpled note:

Sherlock, He must see me writing this, because there are cameras everywhere, but has not taken it from me—yet. I do not know why I hide it; you will never see it. But I need to write what I really feel, not what he makes me say. He cut me again today. It hurts so much. I am running out of bandages and think these gashes are going to be permanent scars. Please, Sherlock, find me. It is fine if you have to pretend to like me to do it. I do not care. Just come and get me. I do not want to be afraid anymore. - Molly

Moriarty cut her? Where? There had been too many bandages on her when they'd found Molly, and he was too angry at her for ending their brief call-and shocked by her hair loss-that he did not look for anything else. That was not well done of him.

His reached for next wrinkled letter:

Sherlock, I think he is trying to inscribe something on my skin. I do not know what it is, and I hope he is done. I am in so much pain. He does things to me when he cuts me, touches me. I feel dirty. It needs to stop!

And the next:

Sherlock, can I tell you something? I have loved you for a very long time. I don't know what I expect you will do with that, but at least it's finally being said. If only you had not been so horrible to me. Why were you? God, even now, when I might die, I want to know why you treated me so unkind.

Sherlock pushed back on the uncomfortable feelings that threatened to rise up, and texted DI Lestrade: The marks on Molly's skin. Describe them.—SH

A moment later: Knife lacerations on face, arms, legs, chest, navel, and pubic area.—GL

Anything resembling hieroglyphs?—SH

No hieroglyphs.-GL

So, Molly was not being truthful, Sherlock decided. As for her proclamation of love… Sherlock sneered at this. What did she know about that? Molly never talked about family or outside activities. Weren't those sorts of things people loved? Sherlock chose to shun sentimental feelings; Molly simply had no clue about them, so to 'confess' she loved him, was another lie.

Sherlock continued reading the scraps of wadded notes. He was this far into it; he might as well read some more. At least it was a distraction from boredom.

Sherlock: I think I heard a woman screaming today. It was awful. I do not want to be next. Please, Sherlock, where are you?

Sherlock: I think I am going to die here, and you have not come. I understand; I hope the women's families will get some peace. Please help them, Sherlock. Goodbye. Love, Molly xxx

'Ah, guilt,' Sherlock thought wryly. 'Her paltry attempt at using guilt to make me feel something was a good move. Brava.'

And the last:

He is coming. He said he is coming for me. I am so scared! I DO NOT WANT TO DIE! I love you, Sherlock. I wish we could have been

The words ended there. What did she wish they could have been? Friends? Lovers? He dropped the paper like it had burned his fingers, and threw himself back into his chair. Oh, she was good. She was trying to get him to feel sorry for her. Well, he was smarter than that.