Sherlock Holmes did not consider himself an overly emotional man. Though admittedly in recent years he had begun finding himself no longer as agreeable with Mycroft's sentiments on sentiment, his acquirement of John Watson as his best friend had seen to that. While Mrs. Hudson and then Lestrade could be contributed to the original cracks in his armor it had been John's ready acceptance and admiration of him that had ensured that with the right application of pressure he had no armor at all. It was incredibly inconvenient most days.

Sherlock had gone from a solitary creature with a few select acquaintances to a man with more friends than he knew he could be capable of having. Mary Watson had slipped into the empty place beside John in his mind palace with an ease that made it seem as if she had always occupied those rooms, just as it felt as if those same rooms had always had a nursery waiting patiently for the arrival of their future daughter. Lestrade's room now seemed more active, bustling with the sounds of the Yard and emitting the ever present scent of hot coffee and fresh doughnuts. Mrs. Hudson's room was brighter, sounding more of the smooth jazz she favored these days and less of music to pull your clothes off to. Glitter no longer peppered the edge of the door frame though it still smelled just as strongly of tea, cake and her famous "herbal soothers". Even Mycroft's room, regulated to the attic though it was, seemed to have more life to it. And then there was Molly Hooper. The woman who had somehow managed to no longer have a room in favor of moving herself into the entirety of the palace itself and crown herself queen while he hadn't been looking.

He was entirely perplexed as to when the takeover had taken place. His brain could not seem to recall a specific instance. One minute it seemed as if she had inhabited a small office off of his lab, and then a room of her own had been afforded her given all her touching insight and help with saving his life. And then the next thing he knew she had been saving his life again, her room gone and her presence permeating the entirety of his mind palace to the point he could barely go anywhere in it without stumbling upon one of the dozens of facts about her that he hadn't even realized he'd stored.

To say that he was at a loss about what this change could mean would be an understatement. It was a puzzle that he spent entirely too much time contemplating, though as yet it hadn't interrupted his work. He had managed to remain as focused as ever. This didn't lessen the worry over this development however. He was still finding himself a fair bit alarmed over this…takeover. Even The Woman had only been afforded one suite of rooms scented with sin and decadence. And Molly's fiancé, former now thank heavens, hadn't been allowed in at all. There wasn't a single trace of "meat dagger" anywhere to be found and he had realized none had ever been allowed anywhere near HIS pathologist. The implications of this were alarming. Especially considering the dream he'd begun having lately in which he woke up next to Molly, asking her what was going on, only to have her smile and reply that they were: "Having quite a lot of sex."

It was a dream he'd tried to delete, only to find that he was surprisingly unable to. It always came back. And so he was ignoring it, tramping down any feelings it and Doctor Hooper managed to invoke. Which given all the trouble involving Magnussen hadn't proved as difficult as he had secretly feared. He'd been preoccupied with protecting Mary, and in turn John, and hadn't given any thought to her until he'd been faced with never seeing her again. Then he hadn't seen the point in contemplating the puzzle any further. He would have been dead soon after all. And Sherlock Holmes was not the man to dwell on "might have beens".

It wasn't until the plane taking him to his presumed fate had landed and the tape of Moriarty that had been flashed across all of London had been shown him that she'd been promptly brought back to the forefront of his mind. Later he would scoff at John's insistence that he had been frantic to check on Molly first thing and blatantly ignore Mary's knowing smirk over the relief he'd thought he'd hidden over finding her okay other than being shaken by seeing the Consulting Criminal's face again. She'd proven remarkably stoic about the whole thing however, even going so far as to swear off any manner of protection other than the security of Mycroft's men that he had failed to tell her had been watching her for well over two years now and were to be increased immediately. The secret compromise was the only thing that had kept himself from attempting to shake some sense into her.

He was seriously reconsidering the usefulness of said protection however when Lestrade had texted him that he was headed to Molly's to check up on a disturbance her neighbor had reported. He'd heard little more than Molly's name and domestic before he was out the door and in a cab. With little more to do on the drive but fidget, out of anger that Molly had put herself in danger not worry for her safety of course, he'd texted John. If Molly was in any way needing medical attention then John was the only man he trusted to look her over. They had all reached her door at nearly the same time and had been rather alarmed to find her not answering. That alarm had only grown at the sound of her panicked insistence that she was fine. Even Lestrade had failed to be taken in by that weak attempt to get them to leave, allowing Sherlock to shove him out of the way to make quick work of the lock. It was only the knowledge of just how easy that particular lock was to pick due to his familiarity with it that kept him from attempting to use brute force on the surprisingly sturdy slab of wood.

Pouring into the tiny flat two things became immediately obvious to Sherlock. One, the flat was empty. He didn't need Lestrade's quick sweep of the tiny one bedroom to know that. The second observation was far more chilling, in the center of the room where signs of a brief fight and a small dark stain he could tell from experience was dried blood. At the sight his brain kicked into overdrive, examining everything. "She's gone. What the bloody hell?! Why'd she leave if she if she was hurt? Was she taken?" Lestrade's voice was little more than an annoying buzz as he worked his way methodically through the flat, accompanied by the equally annoying drone of John's own. "I don't know, I really don't bloody well know. It didn't sound like there was anyone else still here but that doesn't mean anything. Mary said Molly had mentioned a date tonight. Some bloke she met in a bookshop, one of those Gothic hero, sensitive types." Sherlock could hear John scrub a hand over his face as he looked at Sherlock. "Could it have been one of Moriarty's? Would he play that game again with her?" It was finally more than Sherlock could stand. "SHUT UP! For god sakes quit blathering on and let me go over the scene without you two distracting me!" There were a couple of choked back sounds of rage before finally silence fell.

It was another ten minutes before Sherlock came back to them, a puzzled frown marking his features. "She wasn't taken. She ran, I have no idea what for but she ran. She was assaulted, cut in some manner, hence the blood stain. Obviously it isn't a terribly serious injury, there is less than a pint there and none any other place in the flat barring the sodden, bloody clothes in her shower. She was capable enough to get up and walk on her own. Well enough even to duck out the window when we arrived at the door, the telltale drips of water from her still wet hair can be seen on the sill. One assailant judging by the footprints, he fought with Molly but she was no match against him. No clue yet as to how he got in, the footprints are strictly limited to the area of assault. He attacked her, overpowered her and took her to the floor, then laid her out when she'd lost consciousness. She came to after he was gone, feeling sick at the violation if the signs of throwing up in her toilet are any sign. Then she crawled into the shower to clean herself off. Stupid! Stupid Molly! Why?! Why would you wash yourself knowing you were destroying evidence?! Why run instead of letting us in to help? Why hide? And where? Where did you go Molly? OH! Get out. John go home. Gavin go file a report or whatever it is you do."

He charged out of the flat, ignoring John's call and Lestrade's angry shout about someone named Greg. He knew exactly where Molly was. The same place he himself would go if he didn't feel safe in his own home. Their very home away from home. He hailed a cab, nearly stepping in front of the car in his haste, before jumping in and directing the cabby to get to Bart's as quickly as he legally could.