Hello! This chapter was a lot of fun to write, and I am really enjoying making plans for these next few action-packed chapters. :)

Enjoy!

Chapter 10, In Which There is a Frying Pan

Before Sherlock even deplaned, Mycroft had taken the liberty of sending some of his agents to provide a watchful eye over Martha Hudson, Greg Lestrade, and Molly Hooper. His little brother had gotten involved, and he didn't need emotions compromising his brother's thought processes. If he knew his little goldfish were safe, he would be able to focus on the matter at hand.

He'd also made some calls to his best agents regarding the fiasco with that image being broadcast throughout London. He needed answers as to how that had happened, and the names of the people who were to be out of a job. And possibly out of the country.

It was late for that.

Moriarty already had the two people he wanted for this part of his plan. He needed one more, of course, for Phase One. The others – the real fun - they would come later. This was just the frying pan. Soon, there would be fire. A fire so intense it would burn his heart out.

As the broadcast continued, the echo of did you miss me playing over and over again through the empty rooms, Molly wrapped her arms around herself. She was no fool. Jim had used her once, and left her when he thought she was no longer useful. He wouldn't hesitate to…use her again. And if she knew she counted, now, to Sherlock, she suspected that James Moriarty did, too. She shivered, and held herself more tightly. She knew she needed to be someplace more public…or should she lock the doors and hide away, until someone came for her? Surely, someone would come for her.

A knock at the door made her jump, and a little scream escaped her lips. It was her colleague, Dr. Patel.

Molly gasped in relief. "Thank God."

He looked at her concerned, eyeing the room, as if he fully expected all the dead to rise from the morgue, now that two men who had died on the rooftop years ago were apparently both alive and well.

"Inspector Lestrade's texted me, and I suspect you as well. We'll sit in the canteen. I have to imagine he'll be around shortly, to look at the records. What a bloody mess."

Molly nodded, and followed.

24 Hours Earlier

Josephine Conners was attempting to sauté vegetables for a stir-fry for dinner. Sarah Jane was in her room. Jo had music playing, and was focusing so much on singing that she burnt their dinner beyond recognition. She frowned, as she finished singing the ending chorus to Demons, a rather catchy tune she'd heard played on the radio a lot lately. It was sad, and a little angry, but hopeful, and it was different. Much like her attempt at cooking a stir-fry.

She had planned for this, though, and had some extra veggies on hand, just in case. Knife in hand, she began to chop them. A masculine chuckle from somewhere behind her made the hairs on the back of her neck stand on end. She knew Casey's chuckle, and she knew Ian's chuckle, and this was neither.

"Fitting choice of song, Ms. Conners."

She spun around, clutching the knife in her hand. A man stood behind her, medium height, and bulky. He had a pock-marked face and a crooked, leering smile, and Jo barely had time for a scream to escape her lips before he was twisting the hand with her knife in it.

Jo was stronger than he'd guessed, and the burst of adrenaline she'd gotten when he first appeared helped her to fight, but still, she was not strong enough. Her cry of terror turned into a cry of pain as she resisted the meaty hand twisting her wrist. The point of the knife came down, and her struggling caused it to carve a thin line into her own thigh. She gasped in pain and anger, but she wasn't done yet.

She dropped the knife and kneed him squarely in the groin, then grabbed the still hot frying pan from the stove, and holding it firmly in both hands, aimed for his head.

He was prepared, however, and threw up his arm to defend himself. Though the pan hit his arm heavily, searing the skin and most likely fracturing something, he gritted his teeth and swept his leg out to knock her off her feet.

To her credit, Josephine held firmly to the frying pan as she fell, and aimed another blow at his kneecap. She hit her mark, and although the rebound caused the pan to hit her own arm, burning a stripe onto her arm, she couldn't help but feel satisfied as he shouted at her, cursing in rage.

She raised her pan for another strike, but was stopped by the sight of her little sister – her baby, her life – held in a strangle hold by another meaty henchman. Her little white hands were clutching the arm wrapped around her neck, and her eyes were wide with fear and fury.

"Put the pan down." The man didn't need to make any threats. She knew what could happen to her sister if she continued to fight. Slowly, trembling, feeling the searing heat of the cut on her thigh and the burn on her arm, she set the pan on the floor next to her.

"Good girl."

A sharp blow to her head, and Josephine Conners was not going to wake up for quite a while.

Back to the Present

Molly waited fretfully in the canteen. Dr. Patel had left her there, waiting for Greg. He'd offered her tea, and when she'd refused, he decided he couldn't sit still and went to look up the records of one James Moriarty, alias Richard Brooks, on the hospital computer.

Mycroft's men got to her before Lestrade did. They'd already retrieved her things from her locker, and assured her that she was safe, as long as she stayed with them. She insisted that they stay and wait for Greg, because although she'd met Mycroft in the time after Sherlock's 'death' and did recognize his men, (they all had sharp business suits and a special sort of pocket handkerchief that she suspected had more uses than just wiping your nose), she'd feel safer with a friend. They had no objections, as their only instructions were to guard her, and the place was public enough.

To keep herself occupied, she went through her oversized messenger bag. Wallet, keys, phone (texts from Greg, telling her he was coming to see her, and a text from John, telling her Mycroft was sending her some protection – but strangely, nothing from Sherlock, yet), iPod, lip-gloss, tissues, hairbrush with extra hairbands around the base, a half – used pack of spearmint chewing gum. And there – at the bottom – something that had not been there this morning. She frowned, and her heart began to beat a little bit faster.

It was a CD, or a DVD. Homemade, in a cheap little plastic case. She went to touch it, to pull it out, and then, in a moment of clarity, used one of her tissues to do so instead. She felt just a little tug of pride at having remembered not to contaminate potential evidence.

She turned the black case over, and there, on the cover of the little CD case, was a picture of her and Jim. She felt the blood drain from her face, and her breath became shorter. It was their second date, and he'd watched Glee with her, and had been perfectly lovely. He'd wanted to take a picture with his phone, to 'prove to his mates' he was actually dating a 'beautiful doctor'. Toby had somehow poked his head in between theirs, and the picture of the three of them was candid and one of the few Molly truly liked of herself. Her eyes were bright, and her cheeks were rosy, and her smile was sweet and sure. And her hair looked nice. Jim didn't look half bad in it, either. Now, though – knowing what he was, knowing what he did, she felt bile rise in throat. Closing her eyes and fighting back panic, she looked at cover again.

Under the picture was a message.

Hello again, love. Please give the contents of this case, and this message, to Sherlock. We'll catch up over coffee soon. I look forward to it. –xJim

She wasn't sure how much time passed as she stared at the case in her hands, but at the motion of Dr. Patel in front of her, with a cup of tea, she startled out of her dark reverie. She quickly turned the case over, so only the black side was visible.

"Couldn't find anything amiss with the records. In fact, I couldn't find them at all. Hard copy will be in the paper files, of course, but I couldn't bring myself to check those alone. Think we'll wait for police support for that. Er," he said, warily looking at Mycroft's men behind her, "who might these be?"

"Oh," Molly breathed, thankful for the distraction, and the wakening of her senses. "They're…they're protection. From the government. They must think…well…it's all right. I trust them." She smiled weakly at the doctor. "Thank you for the tea."

"You're welcome. I fear I am too restless to sit here, though. Forgive me, Dr. Hooper."

"Not at all. I mean, it's fine. You don't have to sit here."

As Dr. Patel walked away, Molly pulled out her phone and began to text Greg, John, Mary, Sherlock, and what she hoped was still the number of one Mycroft Holmes.

Sherlock walked off the plane, vacillating between joy at his stay of execution and grim determination to protect his friends from the dragon who had reared his ugly head. He strode smartly up to his brother, relieved to see that John and Mary were still staring, through the car window, in confusion at the small console in Mycroft's vehicle. John turned to grin at him as he walked up.

Sherlock returned the grin, for a brief moment. "Five minutes. Couldn't last five minutes without me, could you?" He then focused on the image still broadcasting from his brother's call.

James Moriarty. Smirking, photo-shopped, his mouth moving in jerky, puppet-motions as the robotic voice repeated, again and again – "Did you miss me? Did you miss me?".

He frowned. "Mycroft. This is impossible. I saw him die. This could be anyone."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "Keep watching, o ye of little faith."

Sherlock watched the next few moments, and sure enough, after about one minute, the image froze, and then he could see James Moriarty, in real life, from behind, turning to show off a wolfish grin, saying "Did you miss me?". The real Moriarty beamed for a half a second more, and was then replaced by the photo-shopped image on repeat.

He eyed his brother, communicating that he saw the signs of aging, and that he understood that Moriarty, somehow, had maybe – possibly – probably - performed the same miracle that he himself had.

Sherlock pressed his lips together, trying to contain a grim sort of grin. "The game, John, is most definitely on. Mycroft," he hesitated a moment, refusing to meet his brother's cool gaze. "I assume-"

Again, Mycroft suppressed the urge to roll his eyes. "Protection, yes. I've already taken the liberty of sending men to watch over your goldfish, brother mine."

Sherlock eyed him. "Which ones?"

"Which men? Brother, I assure you-"

Sherlock gritted his teeth. "You know what I mean. Which…which…goldfish."

John and Mary looked between each other, confused.

Mycroft sighed. "Martha Hudson, Inspector Lestrade, and Dr. Hooper. I've also called for some reinforcements to meet us here at the tarmac, to take Mrs. Watson to a secure location."

Sherlock seemed to relax at this news. Mary began to protest, but John pulled her aside, and after some loud whispering (What was the point of whispering if everyone could hear you? Sherlock thought, irritated), he convinced her that she (and the baby) should be taken somewhere safe, just until they knew where they stood, with everything.

As John kissed his wife goodbye, everyone's cells began to buzz at once – John's, Mary's, Sherlock's (which had been returned to him as he left the plane), and even, surprisingly, Mycroft's. The four glanced at each other, expressions unreadable, before looking at the screens on their phones.

It was a text from Molly. Several texts from Molly.

A vein strained in Sherlock's neck as he opened the messages.

Jim's left me a not. – MH

Sorry, note. - MH

For Sherlock. – MH

It's a CD or DVD. - MH

I didn't touch it. – MH

I mean, I didn't touch it with my fingers. – MH

I haven't opened it yet. – MH

What do I do? – MH

Sherlock snorted, and then breathed deeply. He didn't realize he'd been holding his breath. Her texts, so very Molly in their content, reassured him that Mycroft's men had secured her safety, for the time being.

He looked up at his brother. He knew Mycroft would insist on screening that CD before it was ever played.

"We need to be sure it won't unleash some sort of virus or virtual bomb. We can't afford to be incapacitated because you were too excited to get back into your game."

Sherlock nodded. "I know."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Very good of you to see reason, Sherly. I'll have my people-"

Sherlock snorted. "No. That would take too long. Even your best men are only two thirds as good as Sarah Jane."

Mycroft's eyes narrowed. "Sarah Jane is a child."

Sherlock's voice dropped very low. "So was Sherrinford."

Mycroft glared dangerously. "Josephine would never allow it."

Sherlock snorted again, matching Mycroft's glare. "Don't tell me you have goldfish as well."

Mycroft rolled his eyes, and Sherlock knew he had won. "Ridiculous. I simply prefer to avoid having emotional children involved. However, you present a logical argument. Sarah Jane would expedite the process."

John was busy typing a reply for Molly to stay put, and then ushered his wife into the car with the Mycroft's men. He hesitated, and Mary smiled at him, a hand on her round belly.

"John, I'll be fine." As an afterthought, she added, "I am a pretty decent shot, after all."

John laughed. "Yeah, yeah…you are. Be safe." One last kiss, and she was gone.

The three men contacted Molly and instructed her to meet them at the Conner's flat with the CD.

The frying pan was slowly heating beneath them.