It's always a leap of faith when you get involved with somebody.

― Christian Slater

Sometimes a leap of faith doesn't pan out.

― Edwin Catmull

During the helicopter ride Sherlock's certainty starts to dwindle and his anxiety, conversely, to rise.

What if he's wrong? So he goes over the data and his extrapolations thereof in meticulous - if not excruciating - detail. Over and over again.

Part of the data assembled and analyzed by Mycroft's minions had been regarding property formerly owned by John's grandparents on his father's side. After World War II the land had been divided up amongst various family members, John's father included, before eventually falling victim to rising tax rates and being sold off, parcel by parcel, to strangers.

John and Harry had been children when their parents sold their portion of the land to a family named MacTavish. John had had no further contact with the new owners, seeming to sever all ties with Scotland once his parents had settled in London, but Harry it appeared had not.

Harry had maintained a somewhat erratic friendship with the eldest MacTavish daughter, Isla, who had been a school chum of sorts, and it was this relationship - disregarded as important by Mycroft's moronic minion - upon which Sherlock had pounced on his own review of the Watson files.

Isla MacTavish (single, no children) currently resides in Glasgow. But she maintains the house in Athelstaneford as a property to let, when she herself isn't using it as a vacation home. She keeps meticulous records of each rental, which Sherlock discovers through a thorough (illegal, but he'll let Mycroft sort it out if necessary) review of her accounting firm's records.

There are gaps in those records, and only some of them are for Isla MacTavish's personal use of the house. It's a logical extrapolation that she allows friends to use the house as well - including Harry Watson when she needs an escape from her downward-spiraling life.

They have no evidence that Isla and Harry are indeed still in contact, although Mycroft now has people searching mobile records and elsewhere for signs of such contact.

They have no evidence that John is aware of any such contact between the two women, or that he even knows who owns the house where he spent the earliest part of his childhood.

Lacking evidence, all Sherlock has to go on is instinct and logic - a leap of faith, as it were.

He hates relying on such unstable ground, but has no choice in the matter.

He keeps his emotions tightly in check for the duration of the flight, allowing none of his worries - his fears - to distract him. If ever a man had the force of mind to will the outcome he most fervently desires to come to pass, it's Sherlock Holmes.

He will find John, Molly and Rosie at the house.

All three (but especially Molly and Rosie) will be alive and well.

No other outcome is possible.

Hold on, Molly. I'm coming.

oOo

Molly wakes up. Her body tries to lure her back to sleep but she ignores it. Ignores the pain and the fuzziness of sleep and confusion as best she can, and cautiously, oh so slowly, pulls herself to a more upright position.

The pain that lances through her body at the motion almost smashes her back into unconsciousness but she refuses to give into the seductive call of sleep and the pain goes away that her mind whispers to her.

Instead she rests, breath coming in short grunts and gasps, until the pain subsides, until it's once again caged safely away. Not tamed; she can still feel it stirring and grumbling, waiting for her to do something stupid again. A tiger in her chest, pacing its cage, snarling and staring her down…

"God, Molly, you're a dramatic bitch when you've been shot," she says aloud, as much to hear the sound of her own name as to give herself some focus.

She falls silent, waiting tensely, but the door doesn't burst open to reveal an angry John Watson, waiting for just such an occurrence. Molly lets out a sigh of relief before reaching slowly, carefully across to the bedside lamp and switching it on.

The wave of pain this movement causes is possibly slightly lesser than the first tsunami that had hit her, but she can't be sure. When it passes, she slides her legs to the side of the bed, waits for the next wave of pain to ebb and for her body to decide that yes, okay, we'll let you stay conscious for a bit longer, then manages to get to her feet.

Her legs are shaky, the pain surprisingly manageable as she makes her way to the foot of the bed. She's calculated the distance to the door, and thinks she might just manage to cross it with the help of the various pieces of furniture - chairs, a table, the mantelpiece above the fireplace conveniently, tantalizingly located near the door itself.

She only has to rest twice, nearly falls twice as many times, but agonizing minutes later (how many, she has no idea) she reaches in triumph for the doorknob.

It's not locked. She'd been terrified that it would be, but it isn't. She lets out a slow breath of relief, nearly dizzy with the combination of emotion and physical pain, and gently pulls the door open.

The hallway is lit by a soft night light. There are two other doors, both of them closed. And there, in the hall - oh blessed miracle! - is the telephone. Or one of them, anyway; she assumes there's another one downstairs, which is where she thought she'd have to make her way. But no, it's right there, not ten feet from where she leans so heavily against the white-painted door frame, and if she can reach it without falling, she might be able to make her call before John wakes up and catches her.

She looks at the phone. Looks at the other two doors - the small table is set directly between them. Behind one of those doors is John, sleeping, hopefully with Rosie in the same room with him. Because if sweet, innocent Rosie Watson wakes up crying in the night, it would be better for all of them if she's right next to John's bed so Auntie Molly doesn't have to fret about him rushing into the hall and catching her there.

Molly gives herself a mental shake. Stop worrying about all the things that might go wrong, Hooper, and start worrying about how to get yourself across the hall to that phone.

Putting thought to action, she slowly, deliberately places her back against the wall and braces herself against it. Just as slowly and deliberately, she slides herself down until she's seated on the floor. She waits for the wave of pain and dizziness to pass, then moves in a sort of humping motion, bum and legs and one good arm, until she reaches the table.

She's breathing hard, her heart thundering in her chest, as she reaches up and oh so slowly fumbles the phone down to her. It's cordless, thank goodness, and she quickly punches in a set of familiar digits, praying all the while that Sherlock actually picks it up and doesn't ignore it like he does most calls to his mobile.

If that man's obsession with texting is the reason she dies, she thinks (not entirely rationally), she'll haunt his ass forever.

The phone rings. She waits with bated breath.

"Who is this?"

She breathes, eyes closing in relief at the sound of his voice. "Sherlock," she says in a low voice, hearing his breath catch but rushing to get the words out before he can speak. "Sherlock, it's Molly. I don't know where we are, but you need to trace this call or something. It's John, he's gone mad, he thinks I'm Mary…"

"Molly, thank god-"

Without any warning the phone is snatched from her hand. She cries out, "John, no!" but it's too late. He spins around, smashing the phone against the wall, the noise loud enough to awaken Rosie, who begins to wail.

Molly feels like crying herself but the tears she blinks back are of rage and frustration rather than fear. How had she missed hearing his door open, the sound of his footsteps…but she knows how she missed the sounds. Her own voice, the pounding of her heart, the intensity with which she'd been focusing on the call…yes, she knows how she missed hearing his approach.

She sits up as straight as she can, looking him dead in the eyes as he stares down at her. It's hard to read his expression in the near-dark of the hallway, but she thinks he looks more disappointed than angry - certainly not as crazed as she might have expected, considering the violence with which he destroyed the phone. "John, Sherlock will find us," she croaks. "Please, just take me to the nearest hospital, leave me and Rosie there, and I promise I'll keep him from going after you."

He reaches toward her; she flinches, but all he does is stroke her sweat-matted hair away from her face. "Oh Mary, you know I can't do that," he says, sounding legitimately regretful. "We'll be leaving, yes, but you and Rosie have to come with me." His face convulses, and he makes a choking sound, blinking back tears of his own as his hand continues to stroke her hair. "I can't let him take you away from me. I can't lose you again."

Then he stoops down, while Rosie continues to sob in the background, and lifts her in his arms. "Back to bed with you for now." His voice is tender, but it still makes Molly shudder. "I'm going to get the car ready; we can't stay here. Sherlock'll find a way to trace the damn call or deduce where we are, and I can't take that risk."

This time he takes care to lock the door behind him when he leaves the room, and Molly stares up at the ceiling in despair.

End note: Sherlock is coming, but John is fleeing! Who will win the day? Just gonna have to wait to find out! [The Author cackles in evil glee even as she thanks everyone for their lovely reviews]