Author's Note: Thank you to everyone who is reading. Here is a nice long chapter for everyone.

BTW...Sorry for all of the grammatical errors, which I am sure there are plenty. The English major in me is in tears in the corner. But, please know to me, commas are my Mycroft, my arch-nemesis. On the surface, friendly enough and just misunderstood, but deep down not above taking you into a dark alley and having the exclamation points beat you up. So I just use friendly periods, dashes and ellipses. They never have anyone beat up for lack of understanding. Thank goodness for that...

Thanks so much for reading and hope you enjoy...

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.

The ride home was the most uncomfortable ride ever for all of them that seemed to last forever. Sherlock and John obviously wanted to talk about what happened and what the next steps should be to track down the "low-lifes that did this" - as John put it anyway, but Molly just stared out the window nudging closer to the door each time she felt Sherlock move as he sat beside her. She said nothing, but John, sitting opposite of them both, would occasionally see a tear well up and lazily make its way down Molly's face. She made not attempt at swatting them away. In fact, all she did was continue to worry her fingers together and mutely stare at London as it passed by. She knew with every sign...every turn...every passing minute, her old life was vanishing away. Soon it would be "before" or "after" this..."incident", every time she tried to remember something. She sighed and closed her eyes no longer wanting to remember...no longer wanting to remember anything.

Upon arriving to the flat, John opened the front door to 221 and Sherlock bounded through and up the stairs ready to get on with this puzzle. John looked over his shoulder and watched Molly climb the few steps to the the door slowly and unsurely. He held out his hand to her but she grimaced and shook her head. Eventually, she made her way through and equally as slowly started up the steps to the men's flat.

As John climbed the stairs behind her, he could see the pain she felt in every step she took. The bruises were evident...Hell..even the cracked ribs were easy to spot, but it was the slight tilt of her head towards the pain...the pain she must have been feeling elsewhere from where those bastards touched her...no...tortured her... that grew more in focus for him as he stood behind her on the steps. He almost expected her to fall at any moment as she would suck in a breath with every step feeling the pain course through her. She faltered once and grabbed the banister with both hands. John was there immediately but she shook her head and pulled away sharply as his hands went to steady her. He could see that she wanted...needed to do this by herself and stepped back. She looked forward and continued the climb and finally made her way into the flat, but not before catching a glance back the way she had came and realizing how those 17 simple steps had felt like an eternity.

John followed her into the flat and suggested a spot of tea followed by bed. He immediately started to busy himself in the kitchen.

'Bed? Where am I even going to sleep?' Molly thought as she glanced around the flat eventually spotting the sofa.

Almost reading her mind, Sherlock said 'I'm on a case. I will not be sleeping anytime soon. Molly - why don't you take my room?'

Without saying a word, she turned and looked down the hall. 'Sherlock's bed...' How many times had she thought about his bed. About lying there enveloped in his arms snuggling against his tall frame. 'This would...this would ruin it. This has ruined everything.'

She sighed and turned towards the door instead and slowly headed up the second set of stairs. She had been here before and knew where John's room was. She knew he wouldn't mind. After all, he's a doctor... a friend ... one of the few people she trusted...he wouldn't mind if she stole his room just for a little bit. In no time flat, she would be at home away from all of this anyway and he could have his room back.

She entered his room and she could immediately see that everything had its place. There was no clutter. The bed was made with military precision. A dresser stood in the corner with a wood box with some sort of military design carved into the lid on top of it and some cologne sitting next to it. A desk sat in the other corner with a neat pile of files and a cup of pens. Everything was in order. Maybe if she stayed in here, all this order would rub off a little onto her life.

She slipped off the hospital-supplied slippers and climbed between the covers and curled yet again into fetal position. It made her feel so much more protected to have her knees against her chest and her arms around them. To her is made herself seem smaller and harder to grasp or see. She laid there like that for a while and stared numbly at the wall just willing sleep to come.

Of course John didn't mind that she took his room. He was a little surprised considering how in love with Sherlock she always seemed. He figured she would have found solace surrounded by the detective's things and his scent but he figured she must have thought his room was the safest room in the flat since it was the farthest from the door. As he peeked in on her and found her sleeping on her side, he realized he was just happy she was able to get to some sleep at all after the ordeal. Hell...she could sleep under the kitchen table if she wanted to as long as he knew she was safe and was able to rest.

John went downstairs and slumped into the couch. Sherlock sat in his chair plucking the strings of his violin obviously deep in thought. They sat there for hours - John eventually nodding off- until they heard it. A blood curdling scream that ripped down the stairs and through the flat. John and Sherlock ran up the stairs and to Molly's side. She was dreaming but otherwise okay.

'John!' She screamed 'John - help me! No, Jim. Please don't - Why!?'

'Molly... Molly, we're here. Molly, it's John and Sherlock. We're here. You're safe. It's just a dream.'

Her eyes rolled behind her eyelids and she involuntarily reached out her hand in her sleep.

'John? John - don't let them see me like this. Don't... Don't call him. He won't understand, John. He won't. You will but he won't...' she whimpered.

John kneeled next to the bed wanting so badly to wipe her tears away...to wrap her in his arms and save her from the men in her dream, but he knew he shouldn't touch her especially after what happened today. There was no way to predict how she would react if she woke up and he needed her to continue to trust him. Instead he whispered, 'Who won't, Molly?'

'Sherlock. He won't... He won't ever see me the same again. I'm just damaged goods now. No puzzle there.' she whispered another tear escaping down her cheek 'John - I hear them coming back. John... I'm so scared..." she whimpered again and then nothing. Her face went slack.

John gave Sherlock a look and took Molly's hand. He could see Sherlock wrestling with this. Usually a man supposedly without emotions, John knew his friend did have emotions but kept them locked neatly away. But to see this poor woman so pained at what he would think of her after all of this...to know deep down that was one of the things she truly worried about after all of the things that happened to her was even a little too much for Sherlock. The detective let out a shaky sigh, shook his head and left the room. If she didn't want him to see her like this, he would follow her wishes. Even he wasn't that heartless.

As Sherlock exited the room, John turned back to Molly. Her breath had started to even out and her eyes had stopped flickering behind her eyelids as she was pulled into a deep sleep thankfully without the nightmare. He stayed by her side for another fifteen minutes or so until he was sure she was okay and got up and left.

After closing the door as quietly as possible behind him, he walked down the stairs and saw Sherlock in his chair with his fingers steepled beneath his chin. John wanted to give him some space to think and walked into the kitchen thinking that some tea is what they really needed right now. It would make things start to seem all right when so many things were so very wrong.