Sherlock drummed his fingers on the seat next to him, impatient to reach The Fox and return to Molly. He wished he had not accepted the food from Mycroft, but had just returned to the inn. However, it was too late now. He looked out the window of the carriage at the rain, which continued to come down steadily.

As soon as he arrived and stepped into the inn, wiping his hessian boots at the entrance and running his hands through his hair that had been dampened by the rain, Sherlock noticed John holding an agitated conversation with the proprietor of the inn, and a sudden prickle of apprehension ran through him.

He strode over to his friend and stood in front of him. "What's going on, John?" he demanded, noting his friend's heightened colour and tense stance.

John gave him a rather nervous look, as he shifted uncomfortably, moving his weight from one foot to the other. "It's Molly. She's gone."

Sherlock's mouth dropped open. "What the hell do you mean, she's gone?" he asked, as fear rose within him. "One thing, John. I asked you to do one thing, look after her. How could she be gone?"

John shrugged helplessly, and drew his brows together. "I don't know, Sherlock. I left her in her room so I could talk to the proprietor of the inn. When I returned to her room, she was not there, so I came back downstairs and asked around. Nobody has seen her." And then he added hopefully, "Perhaps she has just taken a walk?"

Sherlock blew out an exasperated breath. "In this rain?" he asked acidly. His stomach was churning now with fear. "You should not have let her out of your sight until I returned, or at least until you knew for sure there was no danger," he grated.

"I messed up, Sherlock. I'm sorry, truly I am," responded John in a tone of sincere regret. "I'll do anything I can to help you find her."

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose and tried to focus. Anger would not get him anywhere or bring Molly back. he took several deep, calming breaths, and finally said, "I'm going to go to our room and see if I can deduce what might have happened."

He almost ran up the stairs in his haste, taking the steps two at a time, with John following right behind. Sherlock swung the door open and looked around the room. The bed was still made, although he noticed a slight indentation where Molly had obviously sat for a short time, and the baggage had not yet been opened. He walked over to the washbasin and saw it had been used. Presumably Molly had washed her face when she had entered the room. He looked along the floor, trying to detect if there were any signs of a struggle, and his eyes alighted upon something shiny. He stooped down to pick it up, and his heart lurched as he saw it was the signet ring he had given to Molly as a wedding ring. He knew then for certain that something untoward had happened to her. She would never have willingly taken it off unless she was in trouble.

Despite his fear, he couldn't help murmuring, "Clever girl."

John, who had been looking in another part of the room, being of absolutely no use, walked to him and asked, "What was that?"

Sherlock swallowed and held up the ring. "I'm certain my wife has been kidnapped. And even more certain that she left this on the floor as a clue to show that is what happened."

John opened and closed his mouth again in astonishment, bemused.

Sherlock frowned at him. "Do stop acting like a goldfish. Come on man, let's go. The game is afoot. It's time to find out what happened to my wife."

Slipping the signet ring back onto his own finger, he hurried out of the room and made his way downstairs, looking back-and-forth until he spotted the proprietor, even as John trailed behind once more.

He spotted the man in the dining room and walked straight to him, demanding, "When did you last set eyes on the titled lady who was here last week, Lady Florence Hooper?"

The man scratched his head and looked from Sherlock to John, then back again. "As I said to your friend, she left three days ago, and I haven't seen her since."

Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose as he had done earlier and thought for a moment, pressing his lips together. Then he announced, "Let's go and have a look in the coach yard, John." He walked briskly to the front of the inn, opened the door and stepped out into the rain. It had dissipated somewhat, but was still coming down enough that it was beginning to make the coach yard muddy.

He observed that there was a phaeton and barouche in the yard as well as the carriage in which he had arrived. An ostler was beginning to unharness the first of the four horses from the carriage, and Sherlock strode over to him. "Stop!" he commanded. "I will be needing the carriage again shortly." Fortunately the horses were still fresh, as the ride from where he had been debriefed and the inn was only a fifteen minute journey.

"Yes, my lord," responded the man, refastening the harness on the horse that he had just loosened.

Sherlock's keen eyes looked around the coach yard once more. He immediately spotted recent wheel marks from another carriage, and pointed it out to John.

"There was another carriage here, and recently," he informed his friend. He peered down at the tracks, then raised his head and looked at John. "I presume that this is the carriage that was used to kidnap Molly. By the amount of rain in the indentation from the wheel marks, I would deduce that the carriage has only left here approximately one hour ago."

John furrowed his brow. "That's all well and good, Sherlock, but which way did the carriage go? North or south?

"Dear God, what is it like in your funny little brain? It must be so boring," retorted Sherlock, rolling his eyes and starting to walk towards the road. Then he stopped and turned his head to look at John, feeling that Molly would not approve of him talking in such a manner. "Sorry. As you can tell, I'm a little agitated at the moment."

He resumed walking to the edge of the coach yard and pointed. "You can clearly see the width of these wheel marks matches those of the marks in the yard, and they are heading north. Furthermore, if you note the area in front of the carriage wheels, you can see it was pulled by a pair of horses, rather than a team of four. If we hurry, perhaps we shall be able to overtake them, wherever they are headed."

John expelled a long breath. "Well, I suppose I should go fetch the coachman so we can pursue the carriage. I assume you have weapons?"

Sherlock let out a short burst of laughter, even as he ran his hands through his hair unconsciously. "Of course, John. This is Mycroft's personal carriage. He is always prepared. After all, one never knows when one might be set upon by highwaymen or footpads. Stamford always carries a pistol on him when he is driving the team. Hurry along into the inn and fetch him, while I procure another two pistols from inside the carriage," ordered Sherlock loftily. Even as he showed himself outwardly to be sure of himself, Sherlock feared that he might be too late. He had a sneaking suspicion that Molly's stepmother planned to find a way to still have her stepdaughter's money.

"A 'please' would be nice," muttered John as he turned to head back into the inn, and Sherlock suddenly felt ashamed of himself.

"Please, John," he added in a softer tone of sincerity, and John gave him a smile of acknowledgment and hurried inside.

Sherlock climbed back into the carriage he had so recently vacated and lifted the seat. Inside were several weapons, and he chose two pistols. They were, of course, already loaded.

As soon as John exited the inn, with Stamford in tow, Sherlock gave the man instructions. "We will be heading north, and I need you to look at the width of these carriage wheel marks. Undoubtedly, the carriage we are looking for will be a closed one, in order to keep prying eyes away from seeing who is inside. It is being pulled by a pair of horses, so we will make better time with our four."

"Yes my lord," responded the coachman, as he got ready to climb onto the box.

Then Sherlock decided it would be better if he drove the team himself. Stanford did not have the powers of observation he himself had. "On second thought," he told the coachman, "give me your pistol and I will tool the horses myself. I would still like you to come along in case we need extra support in apprehending the criminals."

Sherlock climbed onto the box and picked up the reins, as Stamford and John made their way into the carriage and closed the door. Within two minutes, they were off, heading north.

As Sherlock urged the horses on, he reflected it was as well he was skilled in driving a team of the animals, having learned at a young age to be a good rider, and later to drive his own horses when he needed to be in disguise for various missions. He handled the reins capably, avoiding the many ruts in the road, and keeping a sharp eye out for those indentations that might indicate the carriage he was looking for had passed before. Fortunately, the rain seemed to have kept most people off the roads.

He had been on the road for only fifteen minutes when he saw a large indentation at the side of the road. He pulled the horses over to a standstill.

John immediately opened the carriage door and called out to him. "What's going on, Sherlock?"

Sherlock peered down at the deep groove. "A stroke of luck, I think. It appears the carriage we are pursuing was stuck for a time in the mud. Look at how deep the channel is that has been made by the wheel rocking back and forth as someone attempted to pull it out." He bent down a little farther. "In actual fact, it looks like more than one person, judging by the two distinct sets of footprints around the channel."

"Is there a point to this?" asked John, a little peevishly.

"Close the door, John. I was merely remarking upon the fact that something happened here, and it was undoubtedly something which should play into our favour," Sherlock remarked to his friend, picking up the reins once again.

By this time the rain had lightened substantially, and Sherlock shook his hair back and forth. Infernal rain, he thought disagreeably. It was turning his curls into an unruly mop. Although, he reflected, without the rain, it would have been almost impossible to determine where the kidnappers had gone with Molly. If Molly had been present, he was sure she would have said that God's hand was upon them.

Within fifteen minutes, he caught sight of the spire of a church and had a sudden overwhelming feeling that this was his destination. As he drew closer, he looked closely for those telltale carriage wheel marks, and saw the curve as they turned.

Yes, he thought triumphantly, schooling the horses expertly into the churchyard, where there was indeed a closed carriage, and a sleepy looking coachman sitting on the box. The man looked up as he heard the new vehicle arriving, and Sherlock took up his pistol, training it upon the man who seemed rather discombobulated.

Sherlock pulled the horses to a standstill, keeping the pistol trained on the coachman who raised his hands. The carriage door opened and John immediately stepped out, also holding his pistol, as did Stamford.

By now, the rain had almost stopped, and Sherlock hopped down from the box. "Were you transporting a man and a woman and a younger woman?" he demanded, looking at the bemused coachman.

He saw the man swallow convulsively. Coward, thought Sherlock dismissively. This type of man was only in it for the easy money.

"Please don't shoot me," babbled the man. "They went into the church five minutes ago. I ain't got nothin' to do with it. They just hired me for the job."

Sherlock curled his lip in disgust. "If you leave right now, I won't set the authorities on you, and you can consider yourself lucky," he told the coachman, who was obviously intimidated by his authoritative tone.

"Yes sir, yes sir," he said, wasting no time in picking up his reins and driving out of the churchyard as quickly as possible.

"We must hurry, John," urged Sherlock, as he sprinted towards the door of the church, feeling rather grateful for his long black hessian boots which protected his pantaloons from becoming muddy. John and Stanford were right behind.

As soon as Sherlock entered the church foyer he blinked a little to adjust his eyes to the dim interior, then heard a parson's voice saying words from a marriage service, and he realised exactly what was happening.

Even as the parson asked if there were any objections to the marriage, Sherlock stepped out of the shadows and in a clear, authoritative voice said, "I object," as he noted that Molly stood between a woman and a man who was pinning her arms behind her back.

The three people standing in front of the parson whirled around in shock, two of them horrified at seeing the pistols he, John and Stamford had trained on them, and the other with an expression of such thankfulness and joy, that he almost dropped his pistol at the wonder of it.

The older woman dropped something, which fell to the floor and shattered, and then she stood behind Molly, using her as a shield. The man had released his firm grip on Molly as well in his surprise at the turn of events.

Sherlock was most impressed then, when his wife, taking advantage of no longer being restrained by the man next to her, dug an elbow back into the older woman's ribs and began to run towards Sherlock.

Suddenly, Sherlock saw the man he was certain was Magnussen reaching into his trouser pocket and pulling out a silver pistol of his own. Sherlock didn't know who the man intended to attack, but he was taking no chances. He took aim, glad that Molly was not in his line of fire, and pressed the trigger of his pistol. Magnussen crumpled immediately, as blood leeched out of a hole right in the centre of his forehead.

Florence Hooper, that is presumably who she was, Sherlock mused, shrieked and tried to run behind the altar. Unfortunately for her, due to the mud on her slippers from being outside, she lost her balance as she tried to flee, and fell heavily against the sharp, solid wooden corner of the altar, then dropped to the ground, and lay completely still. Sherlock had observed her trajectory as she fell against the altar, and knew that she had hit her temple fatally.

The parson made no attempt to flee, apparently being another coward who valued his own life more than anything else.

Everything seemed to happen in a blur, first Magnussen fell, followed by Florence. Then the parson walked forward with his hands raised in a gesture of surrender, even as Molly reached Sherlock, wrapped her arms around him, and hid her face against his chest.

Stamford and John came forward to restrain the parson, walking him outside to the carriage, even as Sherlock dropped his pistol to the ground and his arms encircled his wife.

"You…saved me, Sherlock," Molly cried. "I prayed you would find me and you did!"

Sherlock placed a gentle hand under her chin and tilted it upwards. "Are you hurt, my love? I came as quickly as I could. I found your clue." He saw that one of her cheeks was slightly red, as if she had been struck, and could not help clenching a fist. Then he forced himself to unclench it again. If that woman had hit Molly, it was no longer of any consequence. She was already dead, as was her lover. He flicked a glance over at the two prostrate forms, then looked back at Molly as she spoke.

"I am…alright. They had a plan. The parson changed the dates to reflect that my stepmother's lover and I were married already more than a week ago, before I boarded your ship. If I had signed the marriage register, there would have been no proof to show the date was not accurate."

"Oh, my poor love. It is over, and you are safe. Your stepmother and her lover are both dead," he told her, caressing her cheek gently, and then his lips were on hers, desperate and longing, for he knew he had almost lost her.

She responded, throwing her arms around his neck and pressing her body against his, kissing him just as desperately.

They were still kissing a few minutes later, when a polite cough caused them to part, and they turned to see John.

"The parson has been tied up, and funny thing, he can't stop confessing his misdeeds. It's really quite amusing. He even admitted that Molly's father was drugged in order to marry that Florence woman." He picked up the pistol Sherlock had dropped.

Sherlock gave a grim smile, and bent to lift Molly into his arms, so she would not need to walk in the mud. They exited the church behind John who waited for them to come out and then closed the door behind them, leaving the bodies of the kidnappers behind. Sherlock would alert the authorities as soon as they returned to the inn, and he knew Mycroft could be counted on to ensure there would be no scandal surrounding the deaths of the two people in the church.

Molly was safe, and that was all that mattered.

Author's note: This was such a satisfying chapter to write. I don't like to leave loose ends, and I would not have wanted Molly to continue to be in danger in the future.

I hope you enjoyed the way I wrote Sherlock's deductions. I don't find it easy to do that kind of thing, I'm much better with the romance aspect, so i'm crossing my fingers that it worked, and seemed plausible.

I thought it would be amusing to have a little canon with Culverton Smith confessing, as he did in the show. And of course, the method in which Magnussen was killed. I tried to create these little touches to remind the reader that this is a Sherlock story. Same goes for Sherlock's rather rude comment to John, which I borrowed from A Study in Pink.

Any thoughts you have on the chapter that you care to share, are most appreciated.