Disclaimer: I don't own Sherlock, he owns me! Please enjoy, and patience shall be rewarded! This chapter was hard to write, it hit a little close to home. Enjoy!

Chapter Nineteen

"Molly, Lady M, and the Morgue"

Sherlock walked into the pathology lab at St Bart's, looking for his favorite lab partner. The evidence sent over from the crime scene yesterday were stacked in boxes along the far wall, littering the tops of some of the tables.

Molly was attempting to organize the mess, trying to find places for boxes that didn't obscure equipment. Her long hair pulled back into a low tail at the back of her head, and her lab coat was a large one today, almost down to her ankles. The engagement ring still graced her left hand, winking in the sun from the big windows. Sherlock let the door swing shut behind him, and just watched her. Molly didn't know he was there, as her attention focused on the television that was on in the side office. She kept putting the same box down on the floor before picking it up again. She did this a few times before Sherlock wondered what in the world could be so interesting on the television. He walked up next to her, and bent over a little to see past the door jamb. He rolled his eyes, and sighed.

"Do they really have nothing better to report on the news that a man kissing another warrants its own segment?" Sherlock asked, leaning back on his heels and looking at Molly.

Molly shrieked, and dropped the box on the floor. The rattle of shell casings was clear through the sides of the box.

"Sherlock! When – when did you get here?" She spun around, her hand at her throat, face going red.

"Just now." Sherlock bent over, picked up the box, and spilled the contents across the tabletop. It was just the shell casings, and not what he wanted to see first. "Where's the samples from the explosives?"

"Over here, um, lemme get them." Molly lightly ran around the end of the table, and scooted out a box from the middle of the stacks. Sherlock tossed the box into the corner, and nudged the baggies containing the shells out-of-the-way. Molly came back with the box, and he took that one and spilled it out as well. The smell of burnt air emanated from the tubes, and Molly crinkled her nose at the stench. Sherlock tossed away the other box, and snatched up a handful of tubes.

He shucked off his coat while switching the tubes from hand to hand, and hardly noticed when Molly took it from him and hung it up next to hers. She followed him right along to his favorite microscope, and sat right next to him as he turned it on. The screens for the camera lit up as well, and he turned on the outside network connection from the computer terminal attached to the system. Molly was fascinated when he pulled up a login screen for a network she had never seen before. She got a brief flash of something she would've sworn said MI-something before he typed his password lightning fast and he was in.

"You just connected this to something in the government's databases, didn't you?" Molly asked, voice hushed like she was afraid someone would overhear. Sherlock gave her that little sideways glance that always made her brain sputter, and said all innocently, "I haven't a clue what you're talking about."

She just sat there and watched him work, having none of her own to occupy her time for some reason. Her morning had been cleared, and she wasn't expecting some cadavers for a few more hours, as they were still being processed at the crime scene. Donovan had said it was a shootout at a local park. She always enjoyed watching Sherlock work, even when he was being particularly annoying. It wasn't because she'd been in love with him for ages either. She liked watching Sherlock work because he was all economy and efficiency. He knew what he was doing, and he did it well. Over the years working with him, Molly had found her own skills improving, just by picking up his little habits.

"You cleared my morning for me, didn't you?" She asked after a few minutes, watching as he prepared another slide. He had gone through half a dozen tubes, prepping the slides before he even started looking at them. She took the tubes from him one at a time as he finished, sealing them and putting them aside. He didn't even have to look up for a new slide before she was putting it in his hands. It was the practice of long years in the same lab, and she fell right back into the comfortable habit without even realizing it. Most people would have thought her attitude demeaning, but Molly was never more comfortable when in her lab, doing her work. Her nervous smile settled into a real one, her confidence came out, and she was quick with answers to questions. It was only when other people encroached on her territory that Molly lost her confidence. And Sherlock always valued her work, even if he had never shown it before. The trip out last week helping him solve cases had been a fantastic day, as she got to see how he worked outside of Bart's. When Sherlock came out of his own head space to be kind, he did it well.

"I did, yes. This is too important for me not to have quality help." Sherlock slid the first slide under the scope, and he adjusted the zoom until the image came up on the screen clearly. He stared at it, making notations in his pocket notebook. He pulled that slide out, and another took its place. Again he took more notes, and reached for the next slide.

"You ever going to tell me how you do that?" Molly queried, handing him a slide that was just out of reach.

"Nope." Molly laughed, and Sherlock cast her that sideways look again. It was rare indeed to hear Molly Hooper laugh, and Sherlock squirreled away the sound into his mind palace.

They spent the next hour in companionable silence, Molly assisting Sherlock without asking. Sometimes he would get up, and wave her in to look into the scope herself. Not that she had much experience at all with this sort of evidence analysis, but he would ask her what she saw, and then either scribble away at his notebook, or scoot her out of the chair and take over. Molly didn't mind, it was more interesting than cutting up dead gangbangers downstairs. She even prepped vials of samples from the evidence tubes, for use in the mass spectrometer. She figured he would want a full workup of the evidence. He nodded in approval as she started the process, and bent back to his slides.

Sherlock had saved up all the screenshots of the slides, and he opened up a file and rapidly included his notes. He reached out, grabbed the spectrometer readouts, and typed in those results as well. Molly watched in fascination as he sealed it all into a password protected data packet, and emailed the whole thing to someone with a government address. She pretended not to see, and he pretended that she hadn't. Molly figured it was Mycroft. Only made sense.

"What did you figure out? I saw your face there at the end, you had an 'a-hah!' moment." Molly was curious, having contained herself as long as she could.

"Triethylaluminium." Sherlock said, getting up and reaching for the next box of evidence, digging through it. "A type of organometallic compound. It's a pyrophoric material. Used in incendiaries. I sent my results to see if there is a corresponding formula in the databases that can be traced. Lots of arms manufacturers have to list their formulas with government agencies around the world for antiterrorism purposes. Particularly in the United States and the United Kingdom. "

Sherlock found the blood samples, and brought them over to the scope. Molly had already cleared away the explosives evidence, putting them in one of the empty boxes.

She handed Sherlock a new pair of gloves, and took the old. Tossing them away, she saw the television was back to broadcasting the kiss that had so absorbed her that morning. She hadn't been surprised, as she had known as soon as Mrs Hudson had when John broke it off with Mary. Mrs Hudson had called as soon as she had settled in for the night, excitedly jabbering away. Molly had been thunderstruck, as she had never expected anything close to this from John. He had always been so steadfastly straight. She had never gotten a vibe from Sherlock that he was interested in men, but she had never gotten a vibe that said he liked women either. Ever. But his attachment to John Watson had been obvious, and Molly had always believed that love could do anything. If love could make John Watson fall for a man, and if love could make Sherlock Holmes be in a relationship with anyone, who was she to judge? Her heart was a bit tender, but all she had to do was twist her engagement ring around her finger to feel better. The next day, she had gotten an equally excited text from Lestrade, full of CAPS and exclamation marks. He had called Sherlock, and John was in bed with him. That was a little harder to fathom, but then twitter and Facebook blew up a few hours later, with posts and pics of Sherlock kissing John at the crime scene. Or was John kissing Sherlock? It was hard to tell, and she leaned a little more to see the television better.

Sherlock sighed loudly, having seen where her attention had wandered. Molly stopped leaning, and looked at Sherlock, a blush creeping up her neck and across her cheeks.

He just went back to the work, and Molly sneaked another peek at the television.

John left his office, bag over his shoulder. He had typed up his unresolved notes from the previous week, tidied, and locked everything up. He pulled out his mobile, and began typing.

I'm done at work. Took the week off. Where are you? -JW

Not even a minute passed before he got a reply. It wasn't typical for Sherlock to reply so fast, but things hadn't been typical for a while.

Lab at Bart's. Coming here? -SH

On my way. Don't worry, I've got my gun. -JW

Nothing for a moment, then he got a reply.

Very practical, my dear doctor. Do hurry. –SH

John grinned, and pocketed his mobile. Walking out of the clinic, he went to the corner and waited for a taxi to come by. The sun was out, but the air had a nasty chill to it, and he hunched his shoulders against its bite. Then something across the street caught his eye, and he stood up straight in surprise.

Mary? Is that…? There was a woman standing across the street, her back to him as she talked on her mobile. She had a hat on, the same color as Mary's, and the same kind of scarf. He tensed up, wondering if it was her, and what he should do if it was. John relaxed, and realized it wasn't. Mary had short, bright blonde hair, this woman had long red brown hair peeking out from under her hat and over the collar of her long black coat. It was the way she was standing that had triggered his flash of recognition. Same way of holding herself, the set to the shoulders. The hat and scarf must be popular.

John scolded himself for being silly, and flagged a taxi coming down the street. He hopped in once it stopped, and gave the address to St Bart's. He took one last look at the woman on the corner, for some reason still disturbed by her presence. He was at the wrong angle to see her face, and he lost sight of her as the cab pulled away.

The woman on the street corner hung up the phone, and tucked it away. She watched the cab carrying John Watson as it left, presumably heading to St Bart's where she knew Sherlock Holmes to be. She pulled the hat and scarf away, and let the cold wind lift her hair.

How sweet, he's off to join his lover. Hope they treasure this time together, it won't be for much longer. Soon it'll be all over, for them and for me.

She walked down the street, to where her people waited. The black town car hugged the curb, giving off a subtle predatory vibe. The two men standing in black suits next to the vehicle probably didn't lend it much of an innocent look, but she wasn't worried. John Watson's observational skills weren't to the same caliber as his partner's, so she needn't worry that he'd notice the car, or remember it. She had wanted to see him close up, her curiosity too strong. It had always been her one failing, being too curious. Got her into lots of trouble. But that was ok, she adored trouble. It was part of the reason why she wore the hat and scarf. Just to see if he would notice. To her delight, it appeared he had noticed them, and he kept trying to see her face. It was a good thing he had finally decided she wasn't Mary, else she might have had to move her timetable up. Couldn't rush revenge, otherwise what do you have to look forward too once it was over?

She had wanted to see him, the man who made the great Sherlock Holmes open up. Pictures never really did a person justice, and she'd had enough of the flat surveillance pictures. Though the video of the two men kissing at the scene of her midnight party had been delightful. She figured they had appreciated her artwork, and her little love note. So much blood, so many people to threaten. From the descriptions of people's' reactions to her message, she knew she had gotten her point across.

The man closest opened the rear door without a word, and she slid into the lush interior. The door shut behind her, closing out the sounds of the outside world. Her henchmen got in, and she nodded for them to drive away from the clinic.

She watched the streets of London flash by, and she tugged off her gloves. The band of gold on her finger flared in the sun, and she lifted her hand. The ring she wore wasn't hers; it had been his. The love of her life, her sole reason for existing, and the man she had lost to Sherlock Holmes. The signet ring was simple, gold and obsidian. The only decoration it had was an ornately stylized letter M.

"My Lady? Where to?" Her driver asked, respect clear in his voice.

"To the prison, where my dear husband is being held. Time to go see him before I set things in motion."

"Yes, my lady." The car growled as he hit the accelerator, and she relaxed into the leather seats, idly twirling the ring around her finger.

Soon it would start, and the people of London would share her pain.

John took the familiar route to the pathology lab, and realized as he did that it had been years since he'd been there. The last time had been when… John's stomach rolled at the memory, and he had to stop in the hall outside the lab as a wave of sick terror washed over him. The last time he had been here was the day Sherlock Fell. The day he died. John swallowed, and closed his eyes. A memory of blood on the wet paving stones, the rain dripping into his eyes as he stared at the corpse on the ground, broken and limp….

Sherlock is alive! Shit, calm down. Sherlock is alive, he's home. Calm down! Am I having another panic attack?! I haven't had one in over a year!

"John! There you are, I thought I heard someone coming down the hall….? John?" It was Molly, standing in the doorway, holding open one of the lab doors. "John what's wrong?"

She sounded worried, as well she might. John dropped his bag, and grabbed at the wall. His lungs couldn't pull in enough air, and he was seeing spots. Terror was making his throat feel like it was closing up, and he struggled not to start hyperventilating in response.

"Sherlock!" Molly called back over her shoulder, her voice echoing in the lab. "It's John!"

Molly ran to his side, and put her shoulder under his. John thought he heard something crash to the floor in the lab, and the next thing he knew Sherlock erupted through the doors and was at his side.

"What happened? John? Are you hurt?" Sherlock went to John's other side, and John wrapped his arm around Sherlock's neck and hung on for dear life.

"It's a panic attack, Sherlock. He used to have them all the time after…. After you left." That was Molly, her voice low and sad.

John was losing the battle with the panic, and he was shaking. He heard Sherlock swear, and his arms came around him, holding him up. Molly still had his other arm, and together they supported him into the lab, and into the small office. There was a couch in there, the standard office edition, but it felt like heaven under his weak legs. Sherlock sat with him on the couch, and Molly hovered at the door. John put his head between his knees and concentrated on slowing down his heart. Sherlock's warm hand was on the back of his neck, his touch helping.

"John, I'm here. I'm sorry John, so sorry….." Sherlock sounded lost, so lost. He didn't know what to do other than apologize, and John wasn't having it. He felt anger stir, pushing back against the panic. He had forgiven Sherlock, he truly had. Sherlock still had to forgive himself.

John reached out his hand, and grabbed Sherlock's thigh. The contact steadied him further, and John sucked in a breath, held it. Slowly let it out. Repeat. Sherlock moved closer, and put his head on the back of John's shoulder, his arm around the doctor's waist. John heard something so unexpected that the surprise of it startled him out of the vicious cycle he was caught in. Sherlock was humming… John kept breathing, feeling Sherlock hum quietly against his shoulder, and focused on the sound. His voice was deep and smooth, and John recognized the song from the one Sherlock had played for him the other night.

"Danny Boy again, Sherlock?" John's voice was raspy, and he coughed. Sherlock stopped humming, and John thought he felt Sherlock smile into his shoulder.

"Tell no one, my reputation wouldn't survive it." Sherlock's voice had a sad edge to it, but he was trying hard to sound his normal snarky self. Didn't work so well, as John knew his panic attack had done as much damage to Sherlock as it had to him.

"I haven't had one in a long time." John sighed, and leaned back. Sherlock's arm came to rest around his shoulders. John snuggled into his shoulder, and dropped his head under Sherlock's chin. His heart was still racing, but he relaxed in the warm heat of Sherlock, glad he was there. His presence was clearing out the residual panic.

Molly was still in the doorway, her hand over her mouth. She had suspiciously glittery eyes, and he heard her snuffle. She was looking at them with the most unusual expression, and John smiled at her. Molly smiled back, and wiped at her eyes. "You should probably eat something, maybe some tea. I'll make it."

"Um, thanks Molly. Sorry to be such a pain." John watched as she went to the little electric kettle in the corner, and turned it on. She pulled a tin of biscuits from the cupboard, and brought them over.

"Its fine, John. I've had them before. Takes time, and avoiding triggers. Something must have triggered you when you came here. It likely started the second you walked in the building." She sounded so nonchalant, like she was discussing the weather. She put the tin on the small coffee table, and went back to the kettle. She had just admitted to having debilitating panic attacks, and she wasn't at all upset to tell him.

"You? Can I ask….? Sorry, never mind. Mine is obvious, haven't been here since…" Sherlock squeezed his shoulder, and John leaned into him more.

Molly had finished making the tea, carrying over a steaming mug and handed it to him. Her face was thoughtful, and there wasn't a trace of unease.

"I haven't always wanted to be a pathologist, messing with crime scene evidence and cutting up dead people for the police." She smiled at them both. "Sherlock knows, I'm sure." She gave Sherlock a small look full of meaning, and she straightened up, shoulders back, smoothing her hands down the front of her lab coat. "Don't worry about the mess, Sherlock, I'll take care of it. You two stay here, relax."

John watched as she walked back out to the lab, her long pony tail swaying with each light step. Molly always moved like she was still a girl, all float-y steps and birdlike movements. She was more relaxed in the lab than anywhere else, her stutter almost nonexistent. John found himself warming to her even more, impressed by her compassionate heart.

"The resiliency of the meek Dr Hooper is impressive indeed." Sherlock must have pulled his mind reading trick again, his words so closely matched John's own thoughts.

"She helped you save the world, and didn't tell a soul. Pretty damn impressive." John sipped his tea, feeling better as the heat spread through his limbs.

They both sat watching Molly as she swept up the broken glass on the floor next to where Sherlock had been sitting. Neither felt the need to speak, and Sherlock's fingers played with the soft hair behind John's ear before trailing down his arm, and back up again.

"Did you learn anything yet? From the evidence?" John asked, enjoying the tingles Sherlock was causing with his fingers.

"Some things, yes. I sent my results to Mycroft's people. Should hear something from them about it this afternoon. I was about to start on the blood samples."

"Well, let's get working then. Sooner we get this disciple, the better off we'll all be." John set the empty mug down, and got to his feet. He reached out and pulled Sherlock up with him. Sherlock looked at him, clearly assessing whether or not he really was okay. John kissed him, pressure firm. Sherlock lowered his head, and kissed him back, and things heated up fast. John was thrilled when Sherlock's tongue found his, and one smooth stroke back from his tongue made Sherlock shiver all the way down to his toes.

There was a tiny sigh from the lab, and John knew Molly had seen. Sherlock lifted his head, and gave him a very serious look that made John's stomach do an ecstatic flip. Oh let's hurry up on this case, I want to see where that look takes us….I've got a week off and there's no place better to be than in bed with someone you love!

There was chirp from a mobile in the lab, and Molly checked her messages.

"Sherlock, my dead bodies just arrived, I've got to go. I can come back later once the post-mortems are finished."

"Thank you Molly, you've been invaluable." Sherlock walked out with John and John added his own thanks. Molly just gave him that tiny smile of hers, and waved as she left the lab.

"So. Blood samples. Those I can help with." John said, taking off his jacket and putting it with Sherlock's.

"I was in the process of setting up my slides." Sherlock went back to his seat, and took up where he left off.

John had trained at Bart's back in his university days, and he knew his way around the labs. Prepping blood slides was as easy as walking, and just as mindless. John appreciated the ease of the work, the familiarity, and doing this with Sherlock was enjoyable. Even if they were hunting a madman.

Molly had only been gone for ten minutes when Sherlock's mobile began to ring. Absently Sherlock answered, putting it on speaker.

"Molly, you could have just come back up here….." Sherlock started in, but Molly interrupted him, her voice full of such terror and panic both men stood up in shock.

"Oh God, Sherlock get down here! To the morgue! Oh God…" there was a sob, and they could hear tears in her voice, "Bring John! Hurry!" They could hear her crying in the background as the call died out.

The morgue was on the bottom floor, and usually a five-minute walk from the path labs. Sherlock and John made it in three, having forgone the elevator in favor of the stairs. They ran down the cold hall to the morgue doors, and burst through them together. Molly was standing next to her desk, boxes from a crime scene open next to her. She was crying into her hands, eyes wide in shock. There were bodies still in their black bags arranged on the tables, all of them occupied.

"Molly! What is it?" Sherlock went straight to her side, and looked down as she pointed with a shaking finger to one of the evidence bags. There was a slim woman's wallet in it, along with a mobile with a shattered screen. The wallet had an outside ID screen, and the ID card had a name and picture on it that made Sherlock's blood run cold.

Mary Morstan

John came up beside him, and looked down. He read the name on the ID, and froze. Molly continued to cry, as she turned to face the bodies still hidden in their bags on the tables. There was no sound in the morgue other than the hum of the refrigeration units and Molly's tears. The atmosphere went colder, and sunk into their bones.

Sherlock moved first, like he was sleepwalking, one hand lifted. John followed behind him, air cutting jagged rips in his lungs, as Sherlock grabbed the first bag's zipper. His hand stilled, fingers shaking. Molly started to cry harder, tears running from her eyes down her cheeks. John felt like he was going to be sick, and Mary's name was a running litany in his mind, screaming. He could only watch in sick horror as Sherlock began to drag the zipper open.

Molly gagged, her voice choked by relief and a stranglehold of terror. The bag opened to show the destroyed features of an adult male, skull blown away by a gunshot wound. Sherlock let go of the zipper, and dread sank into his soul as he turned to the body on the next table. John followed, a few steps behind, his skin ice-cold and his heart felt frozen, like it was pumping ice water instead of blood.

Sherlock tugged on the zipper, and John swallowed back the urge to vomit, certain he was going to see the desecrated face of the woman who still held a large part of his heart. Broken and bloody and unrecognizable… the zipper was open enough, and Sherlock pulled the edges back. Molly screamed, no control left, and she ran to Sherlock's side, looking down in a crazy mix of disbelief and glee. It wasn't Mary; it was another man, his face caved in by a powerful blunt force trauma, the blood the only recognizable thing about his face.

They all turned to the next bag, this one holding a body slightly smaller than the previous two. Molly had a death grip on Sherlock's arm, and he dragged her along with him as he went to the head of the bag. John stood where he was, incapable of moving. Fingers gripped the exam slab so tightly he couldn't feel them. John couldn't feel anything. Adrenaline was making him ill, and he could look nowhere else but at Sherlock's fingers, where they gripped the zipper. Sherlock was shaking so badly that he lost the tab, and had to clutch at it again. Molly buried her face in his shoulder, peeking out of one eye like she couldn't stand to look, or look away.

OHGONOOHGODPLEASE NO! John was screaming, screaming so loudly in his own mind he was certain everyone could hear him. Sherlock took forever to pull that zipper down, and John lost it. He ran to the table, pulled the zipper from Sherlock's hand, and ripped the bag open.

Blood. The stink of brain matter exposed to the air. John gagged, backing away from that last table, and the torment of the last couple of minutes.

Thank you God, Thank you God….

It wasn't Mary either. It was another gunshot victim, a man. Not as large as the other two had been, but big enough to notice that it couldn't have been Mary. She was short, a tiny woman compared to most. If they had been able to think past the dread and terror, perhaps they might have seen the truth earlier. Molly was crying all out now, Sherlock holding her to his chest. John felt his knees give out, and he fell to the floor next to the last slab. He felt like he was going to be ill. Sherlock walked over to him, and peeled the still sobbing Molly off of his shoulder and gave her to John. John's arms opened automatically, holding the crying pathologist to him as they sat together on the floor. He drew strength from the fact that Mary wasn't dead. She wasn't in the body bags. She wasn't dead. John tried his best to comfort Molly, and he looked up at Sherlock.

Sherlock's face was a stone mask, eyes assessing the bodies. An expression settled over his features, and John knew that Sherlock had made a connection that he hadn't seen.

John could think of nothing, his own mind lost in relief and shock. Molly was still crying, and he stroked her hair in soothing motions. Sherlock stood over them, and he captured John's gaze as he pulled out his mobile. He dialed a number, and waited, phone to his ear.

"Lestrade. Listen very carefully." He paused, and John felt the world shift at his next words.

"Mary Morstan has been taken."