Okay, so it's time to put you peeps out of your misery. I loved every single one of those reviews, and you guys are amazing. I'm posting the next two chapters together because it's getting a bit too dark for my liking and light is needed, yes? Additionally, the song Molly sings is one by Boy called, July, from their album 'Mutual Friends.' Super cool song.

If I owned Sherlock, I'd have better things to do than write Fanfiction. Like maybe, writing an episode where everything isn't heartbreak.

"Take off your shoes now, you've come a long way. Walked all these miles and now you're in the right place. This is your party – and everyone came. Everyone's smiling – and singing your name. The nightmares and monsters, your biggest fears. Seem lightyears away – no, they won't find you here."

Sherlock was watching Molly from the corner of his eye. She was cooking – Molly tended to cook when she was sad, or when she had a tiring day. A fact Mycroft had taken advantage of multiple times. She was baking tonight. It was the song that always got Sherlock – she sang it occasionally, but periodically and she was always in a strange mood when she did.

"I'll hold your head, my dear – make sure no one's going to wake you. Tomorrow you'll still be here, no matter where your dreams will take you."

She was swaying to herself, singing her plaintive melody. Sherlock wondered what the original song was – it seemed so – light, airy – layered. Like an equation that was simple to see – but had many, many layers, many implications.

"Do you realize –all the falls and flights – all the sleepless nights – all the smiles and sighs. They brought you here. They only brought you home."

Why did Molly sing that song? Why? Why was she always singing that song? Every single time. And only on particular times – Molly sang that song when she was – well, Sherlock did not know how to place a word for it.

Molly sang that song when the autumn came – she sang it quietly, softly, to herself – not in the shower, like those awful songs from pop culture that she preferred in the shower. She sang this one in her room, by herself. She sang it when she was alone, when the sky was ink black and orangey – when the world was quiet and twilight. Molly sang that song in memory, in thoughts of the future – she sang it to remind herself of something – Sherlock wasn't sure what.

"Would you like some cake, Sherlock?" she asked brightly, her face smiling, no trace of the song she sang to herself.

Sherlock's eyes opened. For a moment – for a moment it had seemed like Molly was there, beside him, singing. His mind palace was very deceptive some times.

"We will find her, mate," said John.

Sherlock didn't say anything, preferring to stare into the distance.

"Look, Sherlock – you haven't said anything since you discovered she was missing."

John glanced briefly at Mary, who was watching Sherlock with a mixture of thoughtfulness and thinking.

"He's not moved since then," said John worriedly.

"I know," said Mary evenly.

"She was supposed to be coming home that evening," said Sherlock, finally.

They watched him carefully. Sherlock didn't bother to get up. He continued staring into the distance, and placed the tips of his fingers together. "She was supposed to be making cake because she had a tiring day. She was going to go inside, plug her headphones, and watch a silly movie. I didn't want her seeing those movies, so I did not go to check if she actually came home."

"Sherlock, this isn't your fault –" began John.

"Then who's is it?" asked Sherlock, sharply.

"Ours," said Mary quietly, with conviction. "All of ours. Molly's a soldier, Sherlock, and she fights for the good for everyone. It makes it hard for all of us to see that maybe sometimes, she needs help as well."

Sherlock said nothing.

"Yes," said Mary. "And you have to find her. It's been one night since she went missing – you haven't moved. What have you discovered?"

Sherlock gave the briefest looks of gratitude to Mary and John. "The man who took her was of a military background, sniper, I should think. Tallish – probably six. He's well built, he's intelligent, and most worryingly – he seems to have this curious habit of hurting things around him. There was a cat which was in the same ally as Barts. Strangled."

John gripped Mary's hand.

"Yes," said Sherlock.

"What else?" asked John.

"He was definitely in the army. He probably served in the same war as you – either Afghanistan, or Iraq. His skillset hasn't faded enough for him to be older than that. The relationship between Moriarty and him seems ambiguous, but we need to find out who it was before we proceed further."

"Didn't Moriarty have a team of snipers?" asked John.

"Yes, but this one's different!" Sherlock walked up to the wall – "we're going to need information. As much as possible. All the information on Moriarty. The man has an attachment with Moriarty which should definitely be traceable. It could, in face, also be sexual in nature. He has an injury on his arm – it causes him to hitch it and roll his shoulders once in a while. Light feet – and he used Chloroform on Molly. That should say something about him anyway. Crude, but effective."

"Consider my help in," said a voice by the door.

The familiar umbrella and three piece suit had finally made its appearance. "As if we need ask," scoffed John.

"Well. I don't voluntarily give my help, Dr Watson. You may consider this – out of place."

"Then why are you coming now?" asked Mary.

"Miss Hooper –" said Mycroft, "Is under my protection, shall we say. Everything I have is at your disposal to use. Including all the files on Moriarty."

"Excellent," said Sherlock. "Bring them in. It's been one night. Molly's probably already been through worse than what she deserves."

As the brothers walked into the kitchen to bicker, John muttered to Mary – "don't you have to blackmail Mycroft to be under his protection?"

Mary cracked her toothy grin that John found so endearing.

"Molly's cakes, I should think, are blackmail enough."

Moran touched Molly's brown hair and Molly cringed. "Sherlock," she whispered. "Please."

"Imagining Mr. Holmes touching you like that? Tut tut, Molly," said Moran.

"I block you out like that," she said quietly.

"I imagined as much," said Moran.

"Well, nothing seems to really be working –" said Moran, sighing. "What should I do with you Molly Hooper?"

A week. It had been a week.

"Just kill me," said Molly quietly.

"There's no fun in that."

The harness she was hanging from did not numb the pain enough to prevent her brain from knowing what was happening to her body.

"Why do you want to know how he survived?" asked Molly helplessly.

"Closure, Miss Hooper. I wish to know how Sherlock Holmes bested my friend. It's only a little thing – you can just tell me," crooned the despicable man.

"No," said Molly with the same resolve.

"I do wonder where all this courage comes from."

"I doubt you'll find out," said Molly.

"No – I don't think so," he said. "But I could take it out of you, Molly Hooper."

"Never," said Molly.

"We shall see about that," said Moran. He lowered her harness so that she was eye level to him. A little more. Now she would have to look up to him. Molly cursed her short height and inability to even now reach her legs out into the floor.

"I feel like your strength comes from your hair," said Moran.

"Just pull it out," spat Molly.

Moran took out a pair of scissors.

"I have something worse planned."

No – no, no. Molly loved her hair. Brown, and annoyingly straight. She cursed it every morning since she was twelve and now – she would rather die than see this man snip off bits of it slowly.

Molly tried to move further away from him. She tried to push herself out of the way.

Moran reached out, and took a bit of her hair – slicing it off deliberately.

Molly choked.

"You know Miss Hooper –" said Moran quietly, "You are a very pathetic version of human beings."

Molly could feel her hair fall around her. Her father used to love her hair, she remembered. He would finger it gently, tell Molly she was the prettiest girl he had seen and Molly would snuggle beside him. He'd ask her what she would like to do when she grew up, and Molly would say that she'd like to be a witch.

"Why witch?" asked her father.

"No princess has brown hair and brown eyes. I might as well be a witch. They keep hurting the witches in the stories. I'd like to teach them a lesson on behalf of the witches."

"I haven't quite seen a worse version," continued Moran conversationally.

Tears began to roll down Molly's cheeks.

Snip, snip. More clumps of hair fell.

She had never felt so exposed. So bare – so disgusting. So contaminated.

"You're a small, weak woman – you dated Jim and you didn't realize who he was. You're a very stupid woman, I should think. The real mystery is why Sherlock Holmes regards you so much."

Snip, snip. It was physical pain.

Molly couldn't help it. She felt weak, she felt like she was crumbling under Moran's feather touch.

"Sherlock," she whispered. "Please. Make him stop. Someone. Anyone."

"He doesn't really care about you," said Moran quietly. "Don't be foolish, Miss Hooper."

Sherlock cared about Molly. He had kept her safe for so many weeks. He had kept her happy. Being with Sherlock had been the most comfortable time of her life. She had never met someone as attune to her needs, never been with anyone who handled fingers and thumbs with as much care as he did. Sherlock was – he cared about her. He had to.

"Oh yes, he cares about you as a friend," said Moran. "But between John and you? Ask yourself, Miss Hooper."

Snip, snip. Snip, snip.

Molly went deep inside herself and hid inside her own little room. She was in Bakerstreet, and it was quiet. There was no one there.

Well done, Molly Hooper, a voice very similar to Sherlock's baritone said. You've made a Mind Flat.

The Molly in the flat was crying as well. Her hair was falling.

Why don't you shut it out? Asked the voice.

I can't, she whispered back.

Come on, Molly, he whispered. You can do it.

Molly reached again, inside herself, into the dark recesses of her mind. She went inside, further and further.

Who are you, Molly? He asked.

I don't know. I'm a pathologist. I'm not someone who saves the day, Sherlock. I can't do this. Please stop him. I can't do this. I can't.

Snip, snip. She was resurfacing.

A pathologist that has to survive this. Find out how to handle this, Molly. You can do it. I know you can.

Snip, snip.

She was five when she was first bullied. They had pulled her hair. Now, so many years later, Moran was mutilating her hair just like those boys had done. They'd thrown rocks at her.

What had Molly done then?

That's right, Molly, you're getting there, pseudo Sherlock told her.

I'd cried, Sherlock. I hadn't done anything except cried, picked up my books, and left, said Molly dismally.

If you don't understand the beauty of that alone, Molly Hooper, I can't very well help you, can I?

Snip, snip. Her hair was down to her ears, in the roughest, most mutilated cut she had seen.