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"Isn't that what Jim Moriarty said to you, that time at the pool? 'I'll cut the heart out of you'?" Watson asked, trying to contain his own nervousness as he hovered over Sherlock. Predictably, his friend's face had remained calm and passive as he read the email that had been sent by a JLeo .

"No," Sherlock breathed, staring at the email with narrowed eyes, his hands steepled under his chin, "Moriarty said 'burn', this said 'cut'."

"Oh, my mistake," John scrubbed his face roughly with his hands, astonished that Sherlock didn't even seem remotely horrified by the email sent from someone they were pretty sure was a cannibal. In fact, they had gathered enough evidence that Scotland Yard had issued a warrant for his arrest. And because the individual known as Dr. Jonathan Leonardo was in fact a transplant from Amsterdam, INTERPOL had issued a red notice regarding Leonardo, among other international policing agencies.

And to get an email from a known cannibal talking about cutting out body parts…normal people would've been on edge. Sherlock however had been monosyllabic at best since John had managed to draw him out of his mind palace. Normally, Sherlock was moody and quick to thrown temper tantrums if he was interrupted while he was in his mind palace, but this time, he'd been reserved, quiet.

"What now?" John asked, hearing the impatience in his own voice. The back of his neck had started prickling, as if there was someone standing behind him, a looming figure of doom and gloom just beyond his comprehension.

"He obviously doesn't mean my heart," Sherlock murmured after a few moments of John pacing while he stared at the email, "if he had wanted to cut my heart out he would've done so already. He's smart enough to break into a secure government building in the middle of day, murdering and cannibalizing someone in broad daylight with countless police and agents in the building. If he wanted to consume my heart, he could have easily accessed Baker street and subdued me. Or intercepted me during my night walks or on my way to Bart's or somewhere he knew I regularly frequent. He has known of my pursuit for the past several weeks, he has had ample opportunity to attack me. This threat is not intended for me."

"Christ!" John hissed, stopping dead in his track, his heart thundering in his chest as he looked at Sherlock.

Sherlock's entire body seemed to go limp, his shoulders sagging, the expression on his face lax with horror, "Molly," he whispered.

Lestrade drove like a maniac through London traffic, honking his horn as he drove with one hand and held the phone against his ear with the other. "But Molly's on holiday isn't she? She's safe! We've just to phone the hotel she's at and warn her not to step out by herself until we get someone over to her."

"You don't understand," John's usually calm voice was now high pitched with anxiousness, "I phoned the hotel she's supposed to be at and she wasn't there, she never checked in."

"She wasn't on the flight to Singapore either. We traced her itinerary from here to her destination," Sherlock's voice had dropped an octave, his voice so low and he was talking so fast that Lestrade could barely understand him, "she checked in for her flight at Heathrow but never boarded. The flight was delayed but she never presented her ticket when the airline finally got it together. She's still in London," he hissed through the phone.

"Christ," Lestrade nearly avoided hitting a double decker as he rounded the corner on two wheels, "how do you know he has her? What if she just went to her parents' instead?"

"John phoned them, they haven't heard from her either," Sherlock's voice practically garbled now, and Lestrade hung up, throwing the phone in the passenger seat, trying not to imagine what it would be like to find Molly's body torn apart.