Author Note: Thanks to everyone who is following and have already posted reviews. :-) Please remember this is my first fic,so Sherlock may be a little OOC but this is what I imagine him like after seeing him care for Mrs. Hudson in SAB.

Disclaimer: Please know that I don't own these characters. The world of Sherlock Holmes belongs to Moffat, Gatiss, BBC and, of course, Sir A. C. Doyle.

'Molly!' Sherlock yelled into the phone but there was no answer on the other end.

'Now what?' He thought to himself.

He sifted through the clues:

Time: 2:00 AM

Day: A Tuesday

Molly: Normally a homebody out on a week night? Must have been out with friends for dinner. Why else would she be out? Dinner and drinks at this hour - so at least slightly inebriated by this point in the evening depending on the number of drinks she had between dinner and now. She would have taken a cab if it had been too far to walk so she must have been within walking distance of her apartment.

He knew his town well. He also knew his pathologist well and knew she likely would have considered six blocks walking distance based on her inebriated state. Going through a map of London in his head, as he donned his coat and scarf, he brought up a five block radius of Molly's apartment. There were only three alleys with dead ends, which is likely what she meant by a 'back' alley. One of the three was on the way home from a bar he knew she frequented since she had invited him to it multiple times since he'd known her.

'Hold tight, Molly. I'm on my way.' He thought as he flagged down a cab.

oOoOo

He ran down the alley.

'Damn cabbie. 9 minutes and 26 seconds. I should have been here 2 minutes ago.'

He looked around and saw her foot peeking from behind the trash bin... her bare foot. He rushed towards her and saw a bundle of jeans and sweater curled into a fetal position - shivering... no... crying - as snow gently began to fall around her. He saw her curl up tighter as she heard his footsteps on the pavement... obviously scared of what might be coming. He reached her quickly and crouched next to her. Immediately, he could see what had happened... the haphazard way her buttons were done up...her hair down, unusual in itself, but also clumped and matted with blood ... her bare feet ... the blood under her nails and pooling under her temple... the streaks of tears down her cheeks.

'Molly?' He said gently as he leaned in to touch her.

She gasped and jerked away from his outstretched hand.

'Molly - you're okay. I'm here now.'

'Sherlock?' She whimpered.

'Yes... it's me. Now you have to let me see where you're hurt. I can see the pool of blood under your cheek. Not enough that you will pass out from but enough for me to know that you must be hurt. Please can you turn your head and let me see?'

She looked up at him with big eyes and he could see the terror of the night lingering there, but then they focused on his eyes and registered him trustworthy enough for her to lift her lead and turn it ever so slightly.

He reached out again, and with his long elegant fingers, he felt the wound and the bump on her head that had started to grow and from which she was bleeding. She hissed as he touched her and pulled back.

'Lestrade and his team on their way and should be here shortly. I called John on his date - at Angelo's, of course - and he should be here soon as well.'

'No, Sherlock. No - I don't want anyone to see me like this.' She continued to cry - scrunching her eyes shut and pushing the heels of her bloody hands into them. 'You - you weren't even supposed to see me like this...'

Sherlock reached his hand out and placed it on her shaking shoulder to comfort her. That seemed right - that's what John would do. She gasped in pain and fear at the touch but didn't shrug him off this time. Instead she drew closer to him - almost as if to seek shelter in his tall frame now on his knees in front of her... hovering over her - but not close enough to touch. Almost as if she knew he would keep her safe but was scared to get too close to him because of what had just happened. She continued to weep.

'Oh, Molly. It will be okay. We'll sort this out.'

She looked up to him again. 'It was Jim. Well, not Jim himself, but his men. They... He...' she choked, 'Jim, Sherlock. Jim.' She shook her head and shuddered. Then she fell silent as tears welled in her eyes. A single tear escaped down her cheek as she curled back into her ball, tighter than before, throwing her arms over her face and around her head trying to block out the world.

Sherlock could do many things. He could diffuse a bomb, could tell paternity by the turn-ups on a pair of jeans, could catch a criminal by the type of cologne he wore, but never did he know what to do with a crying woman ... especially this hurt dove of a girl he knew was infatuated him and had experienced such terror and pain that night.

'John... where are you...' He thought, rubbing his thumb in circles on her shoulder, as he continued to watch the alleyway for John, the one who would know what to do.