~~ just gonna drop this here while being the most sheepish person in the world.

I updated this story four years ago, and started it even further back. It's been such a long time, and I'd like to sincerely tell you that I read every comment over the years. I read all the comments, and I've opened the document over and over trying to figure out how to finish the story.

As such, this particular chapter has been lying in my drafts for a few years now. I've decided to go with the plot point that my younger self was going to use, even though my writing has changed so much, I can no longer recognise how I came up with the idea for this chapter.

I'm also going to confess, this isn't betaed. I've just about managed to get together my thoughts to try and finish this story, and I hope you like it. It was a long time coming and I have so many of you to thank for regularly commenting and reminding me to update it.

Molly took deep breaths in and out. One, two, three, four.

"Right," she said. "Right."

Alright, she thought. She mentally went through what she should be doing: categorise your surroundings.

She was in a small room; one which was unpainted. There was nothing except a barred window, and Molly had a strong suspicion that even if she tried to break those bars, something a lot more sinister might happen to her. She was lying in a mattress of cotton, which didn't give a lot of reprieve from the solid cement at the bottom. The window told her that she was on the second floor: not enough to kill her, but just enough to seriously endanger any escape.

There was nothing much else, apart from a cat flap on the door.

It was terribly dark – the barred window told her that the sun was setting. There were no lights whatsoever, which was just surprising.

What is the last thing you remember? A voice surprisingly like Sherlock's said.

She remembered Sherlock's cold face. "Promise me," he commanded.

Molly blinked. She remembered why there were exaggerated promises being made, but she didn't remember how she had gotten here.

Ideally, it would be around now that the "villain" of the story would appear, and he would be good enough to give her some clues as to how she had made it here. However, none appeared. Instead, a plate of food pushed its way through the cat flap.

Molly surveyed her surroundings again: the window was most certainly a trap. The grill was electrocuted, as soon as you touched the glass, there would be an alarm or – something.

She carefully made her way to the window, and gently touched the cold glass.

Nothing happened.

The camera allowed for no blind spots, she noticed. That would be hard to work around.

Hard to work around, she wondered idly.

Sherlock's face came to her mind again.

Promise me.

She was lying by the stream in the field that she loved. The water was ice cold, yet it was a warm summer day.

"Sherlock, I don't want to read Darwin," she whined.

"You should," he said in that imperious voice.

Molly frowned.

"Hang on. Why am I so old?" she asked.

Eight year old Sherlock really shouldn't be juxtaposed with adult Molly.

"The easiest probable answer is that you've imagined it up," said eight-year-old Sherlock importantly.

"Why on earth have I done that?" she asked.

"You're trying to remember something. Something important. That's how this normally happens," he said, frowning just as much as she did.

"Really?" she teased.

"Molly, is this the time to joke?" he asked.

"You're treating me as if I'm as small as you," she said.

"You are," he said.

"Go away, Sherlock," she said, annoyed.

Molly woke up.

She rubbed her head. She had no idea what was to happen anymore. She had no idea what she was to remember.

She again looked at her body. Molly had noticed that there were a neat set of stitches on her stomach, and she had no idea why they were there. The funny thing was – they looked old. Older than her stay here, in any case. Maybe she had been here longer than she remembered.

The other possibility was that she had been given these stitches before her kidnap, which just perplexed her.

"Hello?" she said to the door again. "I know you lot aren't supposed to speak to me – something about the Evil Background Cast which I have never heard of – but if someone could remind me who has captured me?"

No answer.

"What if I run through a list of suspects?" she asked. "Will you go 'hot' or 'cold'?"

No answer.

"Look, I know you're there, the shadow is there where the crack of the door is," she said.

No answer.

"What if I ran through a list of suspects and you coughed when I hit the right one?"

No answer.

"Talkative lot, this one," said Molly to herself, crawling back into her bed.

"Moriarty?" she asked Sherlock.

"No," he said with a smirk. "I thought we had established that."

They weren't in the field. They were in 221B. Molly was curled up on the sofa, while he regarded her from his chair.

"Irene?"

"She wouldn't capture you," he said.

"No, she wouldn't," she said. "And if she did, I'd be strapped to her bed or something."

Sherlock remained expressionless.

"I wonder if she does the BDSM kind of thing?" said Molly wonderingly. "I bet she's the dominant. She looks the type."

"How is this relevant?" asked Sherlock.

"I dunno. I've always been interested. Don't they say that if you are submissive in real life, you are a dominant in bed?" asked Molly.

"Molly," said Sherlock warningly.

"You don't suppose its Magnussen, do you? I've noticed that people don't really die around here."

He smiled.

"No."

"Why did you say that, do you know?" asked Molly.

"I know only what you do, Molly," he said. "I am a projection of your mind."

"I have made you very in-character," commented Molly.

Molly wanted to know whether they could hear her and see her.

There was no concrete way to determine this, she thought. She paced up and down the room, wondering how she should ascertain their ability to hear her.

An idea popped in her head, but it was terribly dangerous. She didn't quite know where these reckless ideas came from. She was certain her answer was in Sherlock, but she couldn't quite blame him without proof.

What would Sherlock do?

He would have already deduced it somehow. Something about the food, the walls, the windows – something would have given it away.

She concentrated hard on her surroundings, trying to determine if she actually knew how to deduce this problem. The only thing that really registered was the crack on the wall.

She gave a frustrated groan. She wasn't a Sherlock. She didn't know how to deduce. She could notice, but she could not infer. Well, she could normally infer from whatever was happening inside a body. A small crack there, a tiny amount of chemical imbalance there – she could sense those things.

She tilted her head.

The crack in the wall should indicate that the walls were sinking. Forty five degree angles, after all. The foundation must be crumbling. It wasn't a big enough house for it to be sinking so deliberately, which meant that it was just an old house.

The likelihood of her being in London dropped.

Old houses didn't normally exist in London. Metropolitan cities didn't normally allow for the existence of dilapidated housing, only eighty years old and fading. People who owned housing in London were almost always rich – such was the real estate market.

Well, it didn't tell her if someone was listening, but it was a start.

Sherlock was collecting soil samples from all over the town. Molly followed him around with plastic bags and rubber gloves.

"Honestly, Sherlock," she said. "Be a little slow! You risk messing up the samples!"

"We don't have time," said Sherlock loudly, brandishing his wooden sword. "Someone has been poisoning the nightingales."

She rolled her eyes. Honestly, how on earth could this boy not care about crushing bugs one second, and then care inordinately about the state of the nightingales?

"Memory," said Sherlock-of-the-apartment-and-a-lot-older crisply.

"I gathered," said Molly with a cough. She was curled up on the sofa, yet out of breath.

"I wonder why you were remembering soil samples," he said.

"Maybe it's just a nice memory," said Molly, irate.

"You would think that of all of the things we did."

"I do," she said evenly. "Don't you?"

"I don't have an opinion," he said. "Although you seem to think that he doesn't care for them at all."

"Oh, I wonder how you picked that up," said Molly sarcastically.

"You're angry with him."

"No shit," said Molly.

"Why?" prodded Sherlock.

"Why did he delete it?" asked Molly. "Why did he delete the memories?"

"How do you know he did?"

"He didn't react at all – he – he ignored me! Treated me like an assistant, didn't pay attention to me! Said all those horrible – horrible! – things. I don't know why, but he did!"

"Maybe you should ask him," said Sherlock.

"Aren't you him?" asked Molly savagely.

"I am you."

"Nice to know I have an inner Sherlock."

He smiled.

"The interesting thing, I would say, is why you seem to be returning to him constantly."

"That's easy," dismissed Molly. "He's an irritating fixture in my life."

"No," said Sherlock. "You're trying to remember."

In a brief flash, Molly remembered the white of the morgue, the cold and the bright blue eyes: "Promise me."

"That... was helpful," said Molly quietly.

She glanced around helplessly in the room. "You know, a little company would be appreciated," she told the camera.

She peered outside her window. It was night time. She had been marking the passing of days, and she knew it had been nearly three days. The stars were out, bright in the sky – thousands of them, presumably. The light of the stars was old, very, very old. Across centuries, across lifetimes, it had travelled – creating a connection between herself and Shakespeare just as much as it did with herself and Sherlock.

Sherlock didn't care for the galaxy.

There was a time when he used to find it beautiful, Molly remembered.

The stars are out, Molly.

She shut her eyes tightly.

She missed eight year old Sherlock so much. She missed how easy it was to hug him, to touch his hair, to hold his hand and ask for help. When he was young – this was simpler. It was always easy to read his mood and give him what he needed.

When he had grown up, she didn't feel welcome – like that – anymore.

And out of nowhere, she had a blinding memory of him holding her hand.

And it wasn't in friendly emotion. They were not twelve and gazing at the stars, waiting for a meteor shower. The hand was actual Sherlock's actual age, and it was holding her with urgency and tension.

"Interesting memory," said Sherlock conversationally.

"Thanks," said Molly sarcastically.

"Don't you remember anything before the kidnap?" he asked.

"I remember the conversation we had in Baker Street," said Molly, frowning. "I remember Sherlock was working on locations. I remember he had narrowed a couple down – I remember he had to use all of our help – which was odd, because he normally works alone. I remember Mycroft being odd."

"Mycroft," snorted Sherlock.

"He's not all bad, Sherlock..." said Molly gently.

"You are saying that?" asked Sherlock.

"Well, yes," said Molly. "He's a bit of an arse, but he's always got your best in mind."

Sherlock's face swam in front of her. "Promise me," it said.

"I wonder what I was promising," said Molly, with a frustrated groan. "I have no clue!"

"Memory can normally be urged by olfactory senses," said Sherlock.

Molly blinked. "That is true."

She paused. "What does Sherlock smell like?"

Coffee.

"He smells like coffee," she said quietly.

Sherlock smelled like coffee, right after she had given him a cup. He smelled like expensive aftershave, and strawberry shampoo which he always stole from her. Molly had switched to lemon after a while, because he liked the strawberry one. He said he was merely a creature of habit, but she knew better.

Sherlock smelled like –

Like –

Chemicals. And gravel – after a chase.

And sharp – like the acid of a lemon, she got a clear image of him again –

His lips on hers.

"That wasn't the memory I wanted!" she said angrily to no one in particular. "I don't want to remember him kissing me. That happened at my apartment. I want the morgue!"

She paused.

It occurred to her that the memory didn't happen in the brown-yellow background of her apartment.

It had happened in the white of the morgue.

"Did I... kiss Sherlock?" she asked. "Before I left?"

No answer. She was alone in Baker Street. She sighed to herself.

"I wish I could remember," she murmured.

Out of nowhere, the Sherlock of her mind erupted. He gripped her shoulder, turned her around and kissed her – full on the lips. And Molly's head burst with the image of Sherlock kissing her in the morgue.

"Promise me," he said. "Promise me. You have to get out of that place."

The face faded, and Molly found herself in the apartment once again. "Oh, heaven on earth," she said to the once again empty apartment. "He kissed me before I left."

Which could only mean one thing.

Sherlock and Molly had known she was about to be kidnapped.

"Do you think I'll remember the whole thing if I tried to remember the smell of the morgue?" asked Molly, playing with the wool of her sweater.

"You might," said Sherlock.

Molly shut her eyes.

The morgue smelled like disinfectant and death, lemons and chemicals. She could remember, clearly – her own polishing of all the surfaces, the brand of cleaning agent she used, and the sharp, smell of a well cleaned morgue.

The image of the morgue swam before her, and she remembered entering with Sherlock.

"Well, how much time do we have?" she asked.

"An hour. They'll wait only as long as I leave. They'll move in as soon as I'm gone. If I stay longer than an hour and a half, they might enter anyway."

Molly remembered biting her lip from nervousness.

"Well, what do we do?" she asked.

"We could ask Mycroft to send men. But if they know that – they might move in faster. And with the way the woman was talking to the man – there's more than two people involved. I wouldn't be surprised if there's a lot more than we know. The disadvantage there would be that we manage to take out a majority, only to have one of them take you."

"Or you," Molly reminded him sharply.

"Doubtful," he said. "It's a game, after all. We know that much. You can't play the game with the star player missing."

"Or you take out the star player, make the smaller ones play – ensuring the other side will lose."

Sherlock smiled humourlessly. "You're becoming good at this."

Molly chewed her lip again. "I don't think it matters. Are you sure they are here for me?"

"Positive," said Sherlock. "They didn't even glance at you when they saw you walking in. One of them looked at me – that gave it away. You don't look at your victim, not even once. Besides, you got those flowers, didn't you?"

There was a vivid image of roses, with three crosses on the card, nothing else.

"Three kisses means romantic attachment," muttered Molly.

"Precisely."

"You aren't attached to me romantically, however." For some reason, she thought she saw him twitch unconsciously. The moment was gone as soon as it came, however.

"Moriarty was."

"Good point."

The memory was fading again. Molly shut her eyes, struggling to remember the morgue and Sherlock. She allowed herself to remember the smells of them both – of the experiments Sherlock had been doing in the morgue that day.

"So. Now what?" asked Molly.

"I don't know," he said, frustrated. Molly could sense his worry – she could feel is ebbing in his person, and reaching out to her.

"Sherlock, calm down," she said softly. "Let's do this logically. Deduce the man and the woman you spotted. If we can understand where they will take me, what they plan to do – maybe we can get a head start here."

He nodded. "He was wearing a Manchester United scarf."

"Right," said Molly. "Does that necessarily mean anything?"

"That he supports a terrible, show-off of a team that –"

"Sherlock," said Molly.

"The woman was also wearing a Manchester jersey, which could easily mean that they were trying to blend into their location. What really gives it away is her accent – it's Northern, most definitely, but she seems to be originally Russian. She's picked up an accent from wherever they are located, so has he. He's definitely originally Australian. You're going to Sheffield, I would say."

"Comforting to know where my kidnappers intend to take me," said Molly.

"They're all highly trained, extremely good with the reflexes. Did you notice how he caught his key before it reached the ground? Smoothly, too. Your location would be remote, considering the number of people who are here just to kidnap you."

"Wonderful," said Molly. "Do you know what they plan to do afterwards?"

"Considering Moriarty's pattern, they'd have me run around trying to save people I don't care about," he said. He looked unconcerned about the people that might die, but Molly could sense a trace of genuine fear.

She looked at him.

"I don't care about them, Molly!"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, Sherlock," said Molly.

"Here," he said. He took out a small bag from his coat pocket. "Mycroft had asked me to put these trackers on my friends, but I had refused it so far to spite him primarily, and to avoid crossing the bounds of privacy secondarily."

"You added that second one just now didn't you?" she asked him.

He didn't smile. He didn't seem very conducive to jokes at the moment. "You activate it by pressing this button. It's a small thing, but I don't want to risk activating it right now in case it is detected."

It was quite small. "Well, where do I hide it?" she asked.

"Ideally, you should stitch it in your body," said Sherlock.

"The appendix," said Molly. "The stitches won't look out of place then."

"If they tried to detect it?" Sherlock prodded.

"Well, I doubt I'll find out if they took it out until later," said Molly. "It's worth a shot, anyway."

"Right," said Sherlock. He watched her as she prepared a table for herself speedily, as she quickly began the procedure on her body.

Molly opened her eyes wide. She rushed to the bathroom, into the shower, drawing the shower curtains. She lifted up her shirt, finding the sutures she had placed neatly on her stomach.

As soon as she fingered the stitches, she noted that they weren't fresh. Still three days old. They hadn't taken out the thing in her body.

"Whichever the case, we can depend on this unknown entity not doing that. He's not operated like Moriarty at all – Moriarty preferred to have me running around without the incentive of saving one of my 'liabilities.' It makes the chaotic chase more enjoyable for him. Someone's trying to punish me."

He hesitated. There was something unsettling about his stare – the way it was looking at her as if there was nothing left, no more excuses. "They don't depend on you coming out alive."

Molly blanched, but ignored her thumping heart. She shifted the strap of her bag, arming herself.

"Alright," she said.

"Alright?"

"Alright," she repeated.

"Molly," he said slowly. "I – don't – I can't –"

"I know," she nodded. "Do your best. This isn't your fault."

He gripped her arm. Molly backed into one of the tables, and she found him looking at her with an intensity that she couldn't escape.

"Sherlock – I'll – I'll be fine."

His hands were on hers. She felt trapped by his stare, unable to escape, unable to ask him what was wrong.

She might definitely die.

Oh, heavens.

"I love you," she told him.

He kissed her – his lips pressed on hers, with extreme force. She felt their teeth clacking as his tongue flicked across her lips. "Promise me," he said against her mouth.

"What?" she asked.

"Promise me you'll get out of that place."

"I will," she said.

He always asked for too much.

It's been four years, and I love reviews even now. The next two chapters will be published within the hour.