A lot of you wanted more so I decided to post it. I promise I'll actually finish this story this time. Let me know what you think-thefaultoflegend

Molly's phone dinged from the bedside table, the little rectangle vibrating almost to the floor before the pathologist caught it in her hand and held it above her face. She was lying on the hotel bed, taking a small rest after her and Sherlock's little escapade. The detective in question was currently at the little wooden table in the corner of the room, plunging his mind into Mr. Wise's laptop, trying to crack the code. Molly had tried to help several times but got shooed away by an annoyed Sherlock. Feeding him wasn't working either. She knew he never ate while working on a case, but now that their entire lives were a case, it seemed like an excessive bad habit.

Now she unlocked her phone, careful not to let it fall on her face as she flipped to her messages. A smile took over when she saw that Mary had sent a video of baby Ava discovering Toby for the first time. The baby sat in her bouncer and kicked her legs happily while Toby ran laps around her, chasing a little ball toy that Molly had bought him before she left. Ava squealed and giggled when Toby got too close to her feet, looking to Mary for approval. When she did, Mary would coo, her voice coming across the phone. "Is that silly, little girl?" she asked and Ava laughed again as if to respond with a yes. At one point, Mary zeroed in on Toby, giving her a good look at her feline. How she wished that he was there to keep her feet warm at night. After about a minute, Mary turned the camera on herself. "We miss you, Molly! Come home soon." The video stopped on Mary's smiling face, blurry from the lens being too close.

Molly sat up so she could go over and show Sherlock, but realized that she had started crying when a single tear dripped onto the front of her shirt. It was only the first few days of them leaving London, but already she could feel an absence so strong that her stomach physically ached. She wiped her face and walked over to her boyfriend, wrapping her arms around his shoulders and attempting to distract him from the laptop.

"You've been working on that thing for two hours," she said quietly. He barely moved at her words.

"Yes and I almost have it," he replied in rapid speed. Molly looked to see that he had a spreadsheet pulled up, a list of names going down the columns along with addresses, appearances, and any special identifiers. When he decided the list looked satisfactory, Sherlock finally clicked out, shut the laptop, and reached around to grab Molly by her waist, bringing her to him and settling her in his lap.

"Look what Mary sent," she said and played the video for Sherlock. She didn't need to see his face to know that he was smiling, too. Ear to ear. She imagined that Ava would be the person he missed most this time around.

"Looks like that cat of yours actually does serve a purpose," he said when the screen went to black and Molly deposited the phone on the table.

"Oh, shut it. I know you've grown accustomed to Toby. Just the other day I sent you out grocery shopping and you came back with two cat treat bags and a mouse on a stick."

"They were for a…"

"They were not for an experiment," Molly cut in and Sherlock huffed in protest but then settled into Molly's embrace, her arms wrapping around his torso and her head resting on his shoulder. "You were great today," she said after a couple minutes of silence. Sherlock nodded. He was just thankful that today wasn't a dangerous mission. It was easy. In and out. No explosives. No guns. No questionable disguises. Just him and his Molly, doing what they do best. Working together, them against the rest of the world. Of course, he still felt the absence of his other two partners in crime but knew that the Watsons needed to be home with each other, with their child. If there was one thing that Molly taught him, it was the value of family. He didn't want to know what it would feel like once they really started in on the missions, when they would be in the middle of nowhere and hadn't eaten in two days. When one of them was taken hostage and it was up to the other to free them. He could feel his mind racing, new possibilities forming. His mind was great for figuring out problems but sometimes it became too much to bear, almost like the weight of his thoughts making it hard to hold his head up, to focus.

"We're going to be okay," said Molly softly and it made him relax a bit knowing that he never even had to tell her. She just knew. And she always had such confidence in him.

He was just about to tell her so when there was a knock at the door. Molly and Sherlock both stared at each other in confusion. Who could want them in Los Angeles at eleven o'clock at night? Molly slid off of Sherlock's lap while the detective went to peer through the peephole. He turned around and shrugged at Molly before turning the handle, and granting passage to their visitor.

"Good evening, folks," said the well-dressed man who entered. He held a silver tray in his hand with a white strip of something on top. Sherlock had deduced that he was only working at the hotel so he could get free rooms to have an affair with the concierge worker and that he had been cheating on his wife for the entirety of their marriage. But before he could say any of that, the man thrust the white strip at Sherlock. "For a Mr. and Mrs. Smith," he said and walked back out of the room as quietly as he came.

Sherlock shut the door and turned the strip, which was actually an envelope, in his hands several times, his eyes not leaving it for a second. It was a plain white business envelope with nothing written on the front, which meant that somebody would have had to drop it off at the hotel. It was a bad habit of Sherlock's to not just open their mail but rather deduce it, and Molly was about to just go over and rip it open herself, but Sherlock's eyes suddenly had a look of realization, his head jutting up so he could stare at her, his mouth hanging open.

"What?" she asked innocently. He peered at the envelope again, holding it to the light, smelling the seal, feeling around the edges. He felt frozen in time, unable to think or move, but one look at Molly and he knew he didn't have a choice.

"We have to leave. Now. Get your things." The detective quickly began pulling Molly's bathing products out of the loo and throwing them into a duffel bag so that surely something would spill. His movements quickly became frantic as he paced back out and into the main room to look out the window briefly and assessing the sky before turning back. Molly just stood there watching him, her arms crossed.

"You didn't even read the letter," she pointed out and Sherlock brushed past her, throwing open dresser drawers and emptying their contents into backpacks. The original plan was to travel heavy now and light later on, but it seemed as if circumstances had changed.

"I don't need to read the letter," he said in a low voice. Molly couldn't possibly imagine what could be inside to cause Sherlock to want to leave. He said that this first take down would be easy, wouldn't be dangerous at all, that Mycroft had everything under control. It would be just like doing some undercover work at home. More like a game than anything else. They were supposed to stay at the hotel for another night so that the next location could be sorted.

"You said we'd be fine here," said Molly, now sitting on the bed, blocking Sherlock's access to her night stand.

"I know what I said. I was wrong. Now would you please help me pack?"

"Why are we leaving?" she asked seriously and Sherlock turned around on her so fast she literally leaned back.

"This is exactly why I didn't want to bring you here," he yelled at her. She stood up then, finally packing her things and making note to quit upsetting him. She hadn't had such a good record the past few days and she knew that he hated yelling at her as much as she hated being yelled at. They met at the door, bags in both arms. Sherlock's face was red, veins popping out of his forehead in anger. Molly looked at the ground.

"You're mad," she said and Sherlock huffed.

"Yes. Because this situation has just become extremely dangerous and you're trying to play twenty questions." Molly didn't even have time to remark on the fact that he even knew what the game was called. He grabbed the door handle quickly, flung it open so it hit the wall with a crunch, and stormed to the stairs, marching to the bottom, both of their footfalls echoing on every step. Molly watched his head the whole time, the determination in his eyes that she usually found so comforting. Sherlock just focused on getting out. Getting out now, because he knew what was coming.

He brought all the bags to one hand and reached for his cell with the other, dialing quickly as he would never risk leaving his loved one's contacts in his phone. And what use was a mind palace if he couldn't even remember a couple of phone numbers? He pressed it to his ear and heard the other end click in, static taking over due to the cement of the stairs but he could still hear his brother's words.

"I assume something has gone wrong," said Mycroft, his voice heavy from sleep.

Sherlock sighed as they reached the last set of stairs. He knew he couldn't get into detail right now and that it might be the last time that even speaks to his brother. So he said the only thing he could, the only thing that had any real meaning to the two. "Vatican cameos," he said softly into the phone and hung up.

On the last step he pulled the fire alarm, causing people to immediately flood the stairwells. Mothers cried for their children. Husbands cried for their wives. People began to be trampled and crushed against walls, running down, down, down. Molly realized that this was big, bigger than just her and Sherlock. And suddenly it all clicked for her what Sherlock must go through every time he has a case. How many lives are in his hands, how much he actually prevents bad things from happening. And these people would never know who saved them, just that someone did. Molly had always thought that Sherlock never realized the impact he had on people, good or bad, and maybe she was right.

All she could do was stand and watch them all, hundreds of lives that will keep living, until she felt a firm hand on her elbow, a force pulling her out into the street, and a gentle fist pushing her into the back of a cab. As the detective and the pathologist drove away, Molly pressed her face against the window and saw the hotel burst into flames.

"If we're going to make this work you need to listen to me when I say something. And not because I'm your boyfriend, but because I'm your partner in this mission. Is that clear?" Sherlock asked her sternly, not even bothering to turn around and watch the blazing fires that rippled through the entire building, breaking glass. Her heart broke for all those people, all the teddy bears that had been lost, all the valuables left behind, all the people that could have died, because she hadn't acted quickly enough.

"Yes," she whispered to the consulting detective. "We're clear."