Sherlock was running for his life. His chest burned and his lungs heaved as he ran through the Serbian forest, the sounds of his assailants drawing nearer through the trees. Blood soaked the back of his favorite tartan dressing gown, the fresh wounds seeping beneath the soft fabric. Suddenly, the trees melted away, leaving him falling, falling from the rooftop of St. Bart's, though this time with no one to catch him. He screamed as he fell, preparing for the fatal impact, instead feeling the soft cushion of foam beneath him.

Sitting up, he tried to reach out to hold his still-sore shoulder, only to find his arms restrained. Struggling, the straightjacket only seemed to get tighter as the door to the room opened, a dapperly dressed Jim Moriarty strolling in carrying an umbrella.

"Where's Molly?" shouted Sherlock, his voice getting lost in the hollow vastness of the padded room.

"Dead. They're all dead, Sherlock-and it's all your fault," said Moriarty, gesturing with his head to the room behind Sherlock. As Sherlock turned around, the straightjacket fell away, revealing his familiar black coat, the wool causing his body to sweat uncontrollably. His eyes met the sight behind him-eight identical black granite tombstones, golden letters distorted through his tears.

John. Mary. Molly. Mum. Dad. Mycroft. Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson.

Sherlock fell to his knees, holding his hands against his ears as Moriarty began his heartless laugh, echoing through the graveyard. Sherlock screamed, feeling himself falling again through space, fog, and a seemingly-endless whiteness.

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Molly shook Sherlock's good shoulder again, gently willing him to wake. His brow glistened with sweat as his head thrashed back and forth.

"No, no, no…" he repeated, eyes still closed with sleep.

"Sherlock, wake up! It's me!"

His eyes flew open as he scrambled upwards in bed to a sitting position, Molly trying to support him lest he re-injure his arm.

"Shhh…relax. You were having a nightmare."

Sherlock's eyes darted back and forth across the room as his chest heaved. He seemed to finally notice Molly's position and blinked heavily, his eyes feeling as though they had only recently been glued shut. He tried to shake his head but was stopped by both of Molly's hands grasping his cheeks.

"You're probably going to feel a little funny-I'm sure the drugs haven't completely worn off yet," she lowered her hands to his wrist, taking his pulse quietly.

Slowly the fog lifted from Sherlock's brain, leaving him hazy, but aware.

"What time is it?" he started, throwing the blankets off his body and moving to the edge of the bed.

"A little after 3am," sputtered Molly, hopping backwards to avoid being knocked over by Sherlock jumping out of bed, swaying slightly. "Sherlock, you should really lay back down, you're probably going to experience some dizziness-"

"I have to go find Moran," he snarled, locating his discarded trousers and slipping them on. "Although thanks to you the trail has probably gone cold."

Deciding that buttoning a shirt was beyond his capabilities at this point, he opted to wear only the t-shirt as he made his way out to the living room.

"Sherlock, you know it would have done absolutely no good for you to go rushing out to confront Moran on your own," Molly followed him out of the bedroom.

"He tried to kill me, Molly! Moriarty tried to have him kill John and Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade!" Sherlock shouted, turning back to her and throwing his hands wildly into the air.

"Jim is dead, Sherlock!" Molly shouted back, her voice rising to meet his.

"Oh, of course, I'm sorry-Jim," he mocked, "I forgot you were on such intimate terms with him. Well, if and when I see Jim I'll be sure to tell him that you only dumped him because you were fawning after me," he spat.

Molly stopped, not wanting to rise to the bait. "Shut up, you have no idea what you're talking about."

"I don't know what I'm talking about? All those times you asked me for coffee? All the times I got everything I wanted just by making moon eyes at you at the appropriate time? You haven't had a real relationship in years, not since your dad died, you hadn't even-"

Molly couldn't stop the slap that erupted from her hand, the sound of her palm striking his face ringing loudly throughout the suddenly silent flat.

"Don't you dare," she started, only to be interrupted by Sherlock's derisive snort.

"That only works when I'm high, Molly, but this time the drugs are your fault. Perhaps you want to go write about this on the blog you keep that no one reads? Well, no one but total psychopaths who you apparently end up dating," he turned and headed toward the door.

"Better a psychopath than a freak," Molly sobbed, tears freely flowing down her face.

She regretted the word the moment it left her lips, deepened by the fact that Sherlock stopped dead in his tracks, turning slowly to face her. The look on his face was one she would never forget-complete and utter hurt. Betrayal.

"Sherlock, I didn't mean-"

"No, it's fine, Molly. Don't worry. As soon as I finish this I can have your things moved back to your flat and you can go back to your life," he turned and slammed the door behind him, Molly remaining immobile in the middle of the room.

She slowly sank into his chair, sobbing.

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John, I messed up. Sherlock left. I think he's going to do something stupid.-M

Left? How is he even awake?-J

He had some sort of nightmare. Woke him up. We had a fight. Can you come over?-M

Be there in a tic.-J

I'm coming too, Sweetie.-Mary

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Molly clutched the steaming mug of tea in her hands as she sobbed into Mary's shoulder, recounting everything that had led up to Sherlock storming from the flat.

"It's going to be ok, Molls, he does this all the time when he's on a case," said John, gently swaying Abigail back and forth in his arms.

"John, this isn't a normal case, I said horrible things," Molly said weakly.

John was saved having to answer by the sound of the door opening and footsteps on the stairs. Molly rose from her seat excitedly, visibly deflating when Mycroft opened the door to the flat. She turned and flopped back into the chair without a word.

"Well, isn't this a warm reception?" Mycroft droned.

"Sorry, she was hoping for a different Holmes," answered John. "I take it we don't have to fill you in?"

"I believe I understand the basics. I'll leave the finer details to those more intimately involved."

"Mycroft, do you know where he is? Is he okay?" Molly finally addressed him, wiping her face and walking toward him.

"Unfortunately I lost him from CCTV surveillance about an hour ago. He does that every now and then when he wants to sulk in peace. I wouldn't worry, Miss Hooper."

"Doctor Hooper," said Mary and John in unison.

At that moment the tension was punctuated by a shrill ringing. Molly looked around quizzically, roaming toward the sound.

"That's Sherlock's mobile. He must have left it here," she said, extracting the mobile from his coat pocket. With a wince she realized that the coat's presence meant that he had gone out in just a t-shirt, and was undoubtedly freezing at this point. Holding the ringing device in her hand, she approached the small group gathered in the living room and pressed the button to answer. The voice that issued forth from the speaker froze her to the core:

"Hello there, love. Been a long time," Moriarty's voice was unmistakable, his Irish lilt adding a degree of menace to his words. "Now you're going to listen closely, pet, because if you don't do exactly as I say, people will die. People you care about. Come to the sweet factory. In Addlestone. You remember where. Come alone. Now off you pop."