"Come on Molly, pick up," Sherlock dialed her number again as he raced down the street toward St. Bart's. In the back of his mind arose the thought that he wished he had grabbed his coat before rushing out into the January morning, but the forefront was MOLLY MOLLY MOLLY MOLLY.

Finally, the phone clicked and Molly's voice came over the receiver. "Sherlock? Is everything okay? You never call when you can text."

Sherlock wrenched open the door to the pathology department and practically flew down the hallway. "Where are you?" he yelled into the phone.

"I'm at Bart's. Just about to walk into the morgue. Why?"

Sherlock hurtled down the hallway just as a bloodcurdling scream echoed both through the phone and from down the adjoining hall. Turning the final corner to the morgue, he burst through the doors and ran headlong into Molly, who had stopped just inside.

The room was completely trashed. The only light came from auxiliary units mounted on the wall, casting eerie shadows about the room. Broken glass and paper littered the floor, tables lay upturned, and the door to Molly's office hung awkwardly off its hinges as though someone had attempted to rip it from the jamb. Most disconcerting, however, were the bodies of two interns strewn across the autopsy tables, fresh bullet wounds between their eyes.

Sherlock snapped back to attention at the sight of a shadow moving in the back of the morgue just as a gunshot rang out and smashed into the glass of the door behind them.

"DOWN!" he yelled, throwing Molly to the floor and landing on top of her, muffling her scream. Rising to a crouch, he half dragged her to the door of her office and threw her inside, shutting the door the best he could and hefting a heavy examination table in front of it.

"Sherlock, behind you!" Molly called, watching through the window of the office. Sherlock ducked behind the metal table just in time, a bullet lodging itself in the steel where his head had been a moment before.

Sebastian Moran stepped forward, bathing him in the ethereal light of the emergency lamps, a wicked smile crossing his face.

"You weren't supposed to be here, Holmes. I just came to kill your girlfriend, then off I pop back to the boss. Think you've seen some of the boss's work-take it Tom sends his regards."

Seeking cover, Sherlock dove behind one of the overturned autopsy tables, forcing Moran to step further into the lighted area of the room. "I suppose you won't tell me who that boss is, then?" Sherlock continued a silent crawl behind the discarded equipment, determined to keep Moran talking.

"Not who it should be. To be perfectly honest with you, Holmes, I wasn't even supposed to be here. But see, I believe in an eye for an eye, and you took the person I cared most about, so I'm taking yours."

"James Moriarty didn't care about you," he spat back, ducking behind another table as another shot ricocheted off the metal drawers.

"That's where you're wrong, mate. I was his right-hand man. And you went and killed him," Moran fired three shots successively, each bullet pinging off the table behind which Sherlock was currently crouched.

"James Moriarty killed himself, but I wouldn't expect someone like you to know that," Sherlock rolled out from behind the table, coming to his feet next to Moran.

"Someone like me?" Moran asked, pointing the gun at Sherlock's forehead.

"Someone who can't count," Sherlock lunged forward as Moran attempted to fire from the empty chamber. Knocking him to the ground, the gun skittered away as the two men grappled for purchase on the glass-covered floor.

Moran delivered a swift punch to Sherlock's face, sending him flailing onto the floor. As Moran made to come down on him once more, Sherlock pushed up with both legs at once, effectively propelling Moran backwards into the autopsy lamp, sending sparks flying as the bulb smashed into a thousand pieces, exposing the electrical workings beneath.

As Sherlock made to lunge once more, Moran thrust the lamp in front of him, Sherlock's fist connecting with the exposed wires rather than Moran's face. A deafening pop rang out as light filled the room, Sherlock thrown backwards with the force from the electric shock, landing hard on his back. Moran smiled as he stepped forward, picking up the gun from the floor and reloading.

Just as the hammer clicked in place, a stream of scalding hot water hit him dead in the face. Molly directed the stream next at his hand, causing him to drop the gun once more. Dropping the hose used to sanitize autopsy tables, she made her way across the room, retrieving the gun as Moran clutched his singed face.

He looked up at her with menace, taking a step forward when an electronic ping rang out. Stopping in his tracks, he produced a mobile phone from his pocket and read the message that had come through, his face immediately changing from homicidal to slightly frightened. He quickly wiped the look from his face and replaced the phone in his pocket.

"Looks like today's your lucky day, pet. Enjoy your crispy detective."

Before Molly had a chance to react, Moran had run out the back door of the morgue. Nearly frozen in fear, Molly dropped the gun on the nearest table and rushed to Sherlock where he lay motionless on the floor.

His right hand was badly burned from the collision with the lamp, still slightly smoking. Molly reached to his neck, feeling for a pulse and finding none.

"Oh god, oh god, oh god," she repeated, checking to see if he was breathing. Clasping her hands together, she began compressing his chest with as much force as she could manage, desperately trying to not slip into hysterics. After five chest compressions, she knelt down and delivered two quick breaths to his mouth before continuing. After her eighth compression she felt a nauseating crack, Sherlock's ribs giving way beneath her panicked attempts to bring him back.

Tears streamed from her eyes as she continued, finally a gasp issuing forth from the unconscious detective, his eyes shooting open, red and watery. He took several deep breaths, punctuated with coughs as Molly sat back on her heels and buried her face in her hands.

"Molly-what happened, where's Moran?" Sherlock groaned, trying and failing to sit up. She pushed him slowly back to the floor.

"He's gone. You almost died. You did die, you idiot!" she struck him lightly in the chest, now sobbing openly on the floor.

"Molly, it's okay, I'm fi-"

Sherlock stopped midsentence with a high-pitched yelp, falling back to the floor and grimacing in pain.

"What? What is it?" Molly screamed, fearing his heart stopping again.

"My arm. I think it's broken," Sherlock reached over and grasped his shoulders, his face screwed up, sweat beginning to form on his brow.

Molly reached out and gently unbuttoned his shirt, grateful for the lack of his enormous coat. Sliding the material away from his skin, she lightly dusted her fingers over his shoulder, Sherlock jumping at the sensation.

"Posterior shoulder dislocation. It probably happened when you got shocked," she said, trying to keep her voice steady through her tears.

"Well, can you reduce it?" Sherlock asked through gritted teeth.

"I haven't done that since medical school, Sherlock," she answered, trying to remember what she had learned years ago.

"So you have done it, then."

"Yes, but, you can just go upstairs, they can do it in A&E."

"Molly," he pleaded, looking directly into her eyes, "please."

She let out a deep breath, shakily getting to her feet. "Sherlock, this is going to hurt."

"I know. Just do it."

Grasping his wrist, she gently raised his arm to a forty-five degree angle, kicking her shoe off and placing her foot under his arm to brace herself. "Ready?"

He nodded as he grabbed the leg of a nearby table, closing his eyes and taking a sharp inhalation of breath.

With all the force she could muster, Molly pulled back steadily, trying to ignore the muffled whimpers of the man on the floor. With a definitive pop, the joint slid back in place, both Sherlock and Molly relaxing slightly. Laying his arm gently across his chest, she sank to the floor and willed her heart to return to a normal pace.

"Molly, promise me something," Sherlock said, his eyes still closed. Molly looked over, unable to even verbalize a response. "When this is all over, we're going on holiday."

They were both just barely able to garner enough strength for a smile as the doors to the morgue burst open, half of New Scotland Yard streaming in, led by John Watson.

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

"Well, your chest sounds normal but I'd like an electrocardiogram to be safe. And we'll need to x-ray your shoulder to make sure it's properly in place," John took his stethoscope and replaced it around his neck as Molly helped Sherlock secure his arm into a sling.

"That will have to wait, I have to find Moran before the trail goes cold," Sherlock stood, fumbling to button his shirt with only one hand, the other heavily bandaged covering a rather severe burn on his palm.

"You can't be serious," Molly replied, shooing his hand away and buttoning his shirt for him. "Sherlock, your heart just stopped. For the second time in six months. You need to rest."

"He's not going to stop, Molly. Moran and whoever he's working for will not rest until I am dead," Sherlock looked at John, hoping for support and receiving none.

"How do you know he's after you?" Molly asked.

"IOU," John replied, causing Molly to look at him in confusion.

"IOU-you were muttering that-in the lab before you asked me to help you fake your death," she looked at Sherlock, taken slightly aback by the wild ferocity in his eyes.

"Brother, dear, if you've finished your ambitions to become a bug zapper, I have the CCTV footage you requested," Mycroft stood in the doorway of the commandeered hospital room, a tablet in one hand, Sherlock's coat in the other.

Sherlock leapt off the table and walked in between John and Molly, accepting his coat from Mycroft with one hand. After an awkward attempt at swinging it over his bad shoulder, Mycroft rolled his eyes and took the coat, holding it out so Sherlock could slide his good arm into the sleeve. He hefted the other side over the arm in its sling and buttoned the top button before looking back up at Sherlock.

"Um, thank you," Sherlock replied quietly, Mycroft nodding gently.

With a swish of his coat and no goodbye, Sherlock took the tablet from Mycroft and swept out of the room.

"Are you really going to let him go out there and get himself killed? For real this time?" John asked angrily, pointing in Mycroft's face.

"Dr. Watson, do you honestly believe I would send my little brother into danger without keeping a very watchful eye on him?" With that, he extracted a mobile phone from his pocket and held it up, revealing a GPS map screen and a tiny blinking dot now moving away from "SAINT BARTHOLOMEW'S HOSPITAL."

"The tablet has GPS," John nodded, reaching out for the mobile, surprised when instead of him Mycroft handed it to Molly.

"Dr. Hooper, I expect the trail shall run cold for him in approximately four hours, at which time he shall undoubtedly return to Baker Street in a huff. You have my word that if his path…strays at any time to a less than reputable area, I shall contact you immediately," he reached out for Molly to give him the mobile back.

Handing it back, she grabbed Mycroft's wrist, forcing him to look at her face. "Promise me you're not going to send him into something where he won't come back…again," the last word was spoken with the subtext of her knowledge of Sherlock's mission in Eastern Europe, of which, Molly had figured out, had most likely been a suicide mission.

"You have my word, Dr. Hooper," Mycroft raised an eyebrow at her, "and might I say, your pairing with my brother may be a dangerous one."

"I know what I signed up for," she answered, her gaze never wavering.

Mycroft turned to leave, followed by John, who turned to address Molly one more time before leaving. "Take care of him, please?"