Sherlock was pacing back and forth almost manically. The wall behind the sofa was covered with crime scene photos, maps, and newspaper clippings. Molly even saw her own photo up there along with one awkward photo of the Holmes brothers. She was sitting in his chair by the fire, nursing a cup of chai and a book in her hand. Despite how much she tried, though, Molly simply couldn't keep her attention on the story, having reread the last paragraph three times to make sense of it. A week had passed since the identity of the murderer was now known, and Sherlock had been working nonstop to track him down.

Molly shut her book closed loudly, a sight escaping her lips. "Sherlock, why don't you take a moment away from the case, and actually eat something?"

"It'll only slow me down—we need to catch Moriarty. He's not as clever as his deranged brother, which is why he's been laying low. Too much activity and he's sure to be found," Sherlock explained. He felt exhausted. The case was going nowhere. Feeling a bit lightheaded, he supposed Molly was right about him needing more sustenance—he hardly ate a morsel this past week.

"Your homeless network is scouring London for the man. Until he comes out from the shadows again, there isn't much else to be done," Molly told him. She stood up, leaving her now-empty cup and book on the table, and closed the distance between them. "Come to bed with me, Sherlock. You need some rest…we both do." She was due to work a double shift starting bright and early in the morning.

He frowned in confusion. "I thought you wanted me to eat something?"

"I do, but if it's between eating and sleeping, then at least get some rest if nothing else," she replied, almost pleading. "What we need to do is wait until we get a tip from someone before he strikes again."

"Order takeaway and eat it in bed?" he suggested.

"Best idea you've had all day," she agreed.

"Mmm," Molly remarked, happily swallowing the first bit of chow mein she ate from the carton, chopsticks in hand. "This was a great idea."

Sherlock nodded in agreement as he ate, listening closely to the program on the small telly that now sat in his room. It was Molly's, brought over from her flat. She was going to leave it, but Sherlock knew how she loved falling asleep to a favourite program sometimes, so he insisted they bring it along. They were watching an American show that could only be described as a conspiracy theorist's wet dream. Despite the absurdity of the show, Sherlock found that he enjoyed it quite a bit.

"Do you think I'm spooky?" The male protagonist—Mulder—asked Scully.

"We should do this," Sherlock told her.

"Do what? Become FBI agents? Join the MI6?" Molly laughed.

"No—go out on the road, solving mysteries," he explained.

"Isn't that a bit Scooby Doo for you?" she asked, stuffing more chow mein in her mouth.

Sherlock smirked in amusement. "And for once, I got that reference." He had loved the show as a child. It taught him that the real monsters were only human, and fed his compulsion to solve crimes.

They finished their food in companionable silence. When the episode finished, Molly reached out for her fortune cookie. She broke it open, her eyes taking in the words, a gasp escaping her lips. "Sherlock, open yours."

"Molly, I don't—" His eyes widened when he read hers.

You'll be next.

He scrambled to open his, forcefully breaking it apart. His fortune bore the words that the consulting criminal had spoken to him years ago.

I will burn the heart out of you.

Mycroft Holmes was having a fitful sleep. He felt as though something was wrong, but he couldn't pinpoint what it was. This brother of Moriarty's that bore the same name—it was alarming. He was seeking revenge for his brother who he felt had died in vain all because Sherlock Holmes still lived. They were all targets supposedly, but it had been too quiet lately. Colonel Moriarty had been keeping a low profile, and rightly so.

His eyes fluttered closed in an attempt to fall asleep, and it worked for a bit until his mobile rang. Mycroft shot right up, noticing it was Anthea calling him. She never called him. He answered it, speaking her name in an uncharacteristically frantic manner. There was no direct reply, but he could hear her struggling, followed by a shatter of glass. She was fighting back whoever was attacking her. Mycroft didn't wait another moment; he threw on the simplest outfit and was out the door in moments. The last thing he heard before the phone call ended was a gun shot.

Philip Anderson studied the wall of connections and theories he had concocted. It wasn't dissimilar to the one he created whilst Sherlock was gone. What he had found out so far was that Colonel James Moriarty was a stationmaster up until three years ago when he had a psychotic break. It obviously runs in the family. He's been taking out anyone who ever betrayed his brother. In Sherlock's case, it wasn't betrayal, but the fact that he was still breathing meant that Jim Moriarty died in vain.

If only he could discover where the stationmaster was hiding out, he'd have a lead for Sherlock to follow. He had a theory, but first, Anderson needed to find out the specifics from an expert. Who was that fellow that Sherlock and Molly spoke with for a case a while back? Philip wracked his brain, searching for the answer, and then it hit him. He looked up the number, dialing it into his mobile. "Ah, Mr. Shilcott, I have a couple questions for you."

When Mycroft arrived at Anthea's home—a cosy little townhouse—he noted that there were no lights on from the windows he could see. The door had been left ajar, and he crept inside, making sure not to hit any of the creaky floorboards. He had memorised them from the many times he had been over here, needing a reprieve from reality. Just then, he realised that it wasn't much different than Sherlock using Molly's flat as a bolthole. And just when he could possibly stumble across her lifeless form, Mycroft finally admitted the truth to himself: he loved her.

Please don't be dead, he repeated in his head, silently mouthing the words. Little by little, he moved quietly through the house, his hand hovering above the pistol he never used, sitting in its holster that was clipped to his jeans. Soft sobs grew louder as he approached her bedroom door on the second floor, a dim light spilling out into the hall. He pushed it open slowly, and found Anthea, unharmed, crouched beside her bed. Despite the fact she had worked for him for years—almost fifteen now—Anthea had never been caught in the crossfire of a serial killer.

"Mycroft," she called out in a broken whisper as the elder Holmes knelt down in front of her. "You need to be careful; he's still in the house."

"I need to get you out of here," he insisted. "I didn't see anyone, but that doesn't mean he's not waiting around." Mycroft attempted to scoop her up in his arms, but all was a blur what with Anthea screaming. A sharp pain ripped through him—well, not quite all the way through—and was that blood? He slumped forward, heavy footfalls running down the stairs and out the door most likely. The last thing he remembered was the warmth of Anthea's tears splashing onto his skin.

"Oh God…"

"Less than an inch away!"

"…a lot of pain when he wakes up."

"Don't wait a moment longer."

"Mycroft? Please wake up, darling."

Bright florescent lights blurred then focused into view. Standing by the door was Sherlock in full crime solving attire sans Belstaff, and Molly only in her sleep attire, though his brother had thrown his coat over the pathologist's shoulders to keep her warm. He felt a smoothness running over the back of his right hand, and turned to see the source of it. Anthea sat beside his bed, both of her hands holding his, her thumbs running across the back of it. Her face was blotched and swollen from crying, tears still running down her cheeks.

"Hey you," she managed to choke out. "I thought you were lost to us."

Mycroft finally remembered. "I was shot."

"You were," Sherlock's voice cut through the tension. "The bullet was lodged within you, nearly missing your heart."

"It was less than an inch away," Molly added. "You were very lucky."

Feeling his mobile vibrate, Sherlock answered it despite the name that popped up on the screen. "Anderson, what is it? There's been—" He listened closely to him, his face hardening. "I see. Good work, there may be hope for you yet."

"What?" Molly asked. "What is it?"

Mycroft and Anthea only looked on in curiosity.

"Anderson's found a lead on Moriarty—he may be hiding out in the old York Road tube station." The station had been closed for decades—ever since 1932—but that was why it was a fitting hideout for a former stationmaster. "Don't worry, brother dear, rest assured I will find him."

Molly cleared her throat. "Don't you mean 'we?'" she asked. "I'm not letting you go this alone."

"Molly, it's too—"

"Dangerous? Risky? I know, Sherlock. That's why you can't go this one alone. You need backup—I know how to fight. You and Mycroft made sure of that," she told him. "I'm not going to sit around and wait, wondering if you'll ever make it back."

Sherlock sighed in defeat. He knew she would just follow after him if they didn't go together. And then what? They'd arrive separately, and it could put her in more danger than if she accompanied him. "Fine, but we're stopping back at Baker Street first. You need a change of clothes."

Before walking out the door, Molly turned back to Anthea. "Remember what Sherlock said…don't wait a moment longer." And they were gone, off to slay a dragon, as Mycroft would say.

"What did she mean by that?" Mycroft asked.

Anthea gave him a small smile, wiping at the tears that still stained her face. "I love you, Mycroft Holmes. Don't you dare scare me like that again."

A look of awe crossed his face, and though he didn't respond verbally, he lifted her hand to his lips. It was enough to let her know he felt the same.

Author's Note: Through sickness, a second degree burn, and school draining my creativity, I finally managed to get this chapter written. I gotta say, I never expected to have a mini Mythea storyline going, but there it is lol! I'm thinking only two more chapters left before this is finished, soooo that's exciting, but also bittersweet. Oh, and I love the X-Files, and I don't think it's absurd, but thought it would be fun to kinda see it through Sherlock's eyes.