Hello!

Apologies for the delay. It has apparently skipped straight from winter to summer here where I live and my allergies are making my eyes all itchy and watery and this makes typing for long stretches of time very difficult.

This chapter is a bit short and another sort of transition, with lots of dialogue and explanations but not a terribly lot of action (sorry!) but the next will contain more action, and the beginning of the end of the Lissie case. Also, I feel like there are only a few chapters left in this story. Lissie's case and the sniper case will most likely be over in three or four more longer chapters, and then I'll tie it up with some fluff (because who doesn't like to end on a happy note, eh?)

So I'm a bit sad and happy about that at the same time.

For those reviews I can't PM:

Black Night - Thanks for your review! I'm glad you liked the quick resolution. I'm no lover of drama, that's for sure. (Well, some is okay - but I can only take so much...) :)

Arcoiris - Thanks! I really just like sweet romance sometimes. I'm glad you enjoyed it. I hope the Lissie case is made a bit more clear in this chapter, and that you pick up a bit on Sherlock's plan to catch the sniper. Let me know what you think!

Mina - Thanks for your review! I'm very glad you're enjoying it.

Please let me know if you spot any really distracting grammar issues, because again - I've done my best with these allergies but every time I reread this chapter I find at least two more mistakes to fix.

Chapter 28 – In Which Love is Rough Around the Edges

As soon as she reached Sherlock's side, Molly left it to attend to John.

Seeing John gingerly prodding his neck with his fingers, she frowned and gently pulled his hands away to take a look herself.

"Diagnosis?" He said gruffly, eye darting between the pathologist and the detective while simultaneously attempting to convey looks of irritation, curiosity, and proud approval to Sherlock with emphatic expression of the eyebrows.

Molly's eyes darted to John's face for a moment, and she bit back a smile, and then moved back to inspecting his neck and face with a clinical eye. "You'll definitely live," she said, a smile still on her face. "Very little bruising; I don't think it'll reach your larynx. You should still be able to sing Madeline to sleep." Her voice was bright with relief.

"Ha. Right." He said flatly, albeit with a smile - and his eyebrows raised, and he looked as though he might ask a question completely unrelated to his injuries. But then, noticing his nose was still bleeding, he touched it and winced.

"John," Molly scolded lightly. "You - don't poke at it. Here -" and she pulled out some tissues from her handbag and held them out to him.

John gratefully took them and held them carefully to his nose, wrinkling it a bit and cringing again. "Thanks. Don't think it's broken, do you?"

But Molly was already leaning over the bearded man, concern etched on her face.

Sherlock, who'd begun inspecting the bearded man's shoes when he saw that John was in capable hands, looked up with a scowl on his face. "Don't – what are you doing?" He asked her sharply.

She paused, confused. "I – was…going to-"

"You were going to give medical aid to the man you just cracked over the head? A man who, judging by the condition of his soles and the frays on his laces has a history of…over-connecting with women and then stalking them? Given, he does a remarkably poor job of it, and he's relatively harmless – he's never laid a hand on any of the women - but still."

"Harmless?!" John protested.

Sherlock shook his head in distaste, ignoring the rant John was working up to behind him. "Imagine what he would do if he regained consciousness and you were standing over him, dressing his wounds. You'd never be rid of him. John," he said tersely, giving a sharp jerk of his head to indicate the man lying out cold on the ground, "why aren't you charging in to do what it is you do? Save lives."

John glared irritably around the tissues he was still holding to his nose. His voice was muddled because of it. "Me? Sherlock - Molly is more than capable, and his life is not in danger. If he regains consciousness and sees me standing over him, he'll -"

"He won't," Sherlock said.

"Won't break my nose for good this time, or won't regain consciousness? Because less than a minute ago you said quite clearly that if he regained consciousness when Molly was standing over him…"

And while the two of them were bickering over who should inspect the man's head injury, and whether or not the man was harmless, and whether or not that same man was responsible for the disappearance of Ms. Felicity Carlson (he wasn't, Sherlock intoned sharply – not even close) - Molly bent down and gently began removing pieces of clay and ceramic from the man's hair to inspect his skull. His hair was so thick, the shards from the pot hadn't done much damage.

"No lacerations – that's good," she said quietly to herself, relief visible on her face. She'd acted on instinct when the man had wrapped his hands around Sherlock – but though she knew it was necessary at the time, she felt guilty now. Looking him over clinically and noticing his regular breathing and the small bump forming on his cranium, she bit her lip. He'd most likely be fine, but he should still probably get some sort of scan for that.

The sound of approaching sirens and an angry exclamation distracted her from her ministrations.

Greg Lestrade's mobile rang exactly as he was about to bite into his very, very late lunch. Could probably call it supper, now. If a handful of lukewarm chips and a cup of stale coffee at the Yard counted as a meal.

He was very tempted to ignore it, but thought better of it when he noticed it was Molly Hooper. With a resigned sigh, he flipped the phone up and placed it at his ear. "Hello?"

The muffled sounds of men talking loudly and movement in the background broadcast for a moment, and then she laughed nervously. "Um, Greg, hello. We…um…need your help…" and then there was the sound of John Watson protesting loudly, and Sherlock answering, though Greg could not make out the words - and Molly turning away from the speaker on her mobile, to answer an unfamiliar voice… 'Molly Hooper. Yes. Um…I…the flowerpot? That …that was me. He was strangling John! Who? Him, there – oh. On the line? It's…Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade, of the New Scotland Yard. Yes, the one who works wi…'

And Sherlock had obviously moved closer to Molly, because his voice was much clearer, and much angrier, now. 'I AM that detective bloke he works with. If you'd take a moment to stop ogling the young women on holiday in your town and spent more time focusing on your 'job', perhaps we wouldn't have had to apprehend this stalker ourselves. Judging from the vein pulsing in your forehead from the simple task of questioning us, however, I doubt you'd have been able to lift the flowerpot Dr. Hooper used to incapacitate him.'

And Greg's brow furrowed in amusement and mild concern at the next sound to cross the line. He was well acquainted with that sound. It was the sound of someone being pushed roughly against the side of a patrol car. Judging by Molly's continued presence on the line and soft exclamation of protest, and the swift departure of Sherlock's voice, he assumed it was the consulting detective.

And Molly's attention returned to her mobile. "Um, Greg," she said, her voice sounding a bit faint, "if – if it's not terribly inconvenient…could you please come to Brighton as soon as possible? It seems…it seems we're being arrested."

For Molly's sake, Greg got to Brighton as quickly as possible. As he came into view of the room where his three friends were being held and he closed the door behind him, his expression vacillated between stern exasperation for Sherlock and John and sympathetic concern for Molly.

The three of them were sitting together on the only bench in the small room, and only Molly had the decency to look guilty. She was sitting between Sherlock, who was leaning back against the wall, fingers pressed to his lips, thinking, a neutral expression on his face – and John, who was alternating between shooting glaring looks at the detective and than catching a glimpse of Molly and shaking his head and smirking.

When Molly saw him, her face lit up with relief and she waved sheepishly at him. "Greg! Sorry! Sorry…thank you for coming…we're terribly sorry."

And Greg couldn't help the lopsided smile that appeared on his face. "For you, Molly – not a problem. For these two-" he said, and his face fell into angry irritation again. "John – aggravated assault? Disturbance of the peace? -"

"-it was self defense!" John protested, then hesitated – "…mostly."

"- and Sherlock Bloody Holmes. Get out of that fat head of yours right now and look at me." Greg's voice was an exasperated growl.

Rolling his eyes, Sherlock acquiesced to his request. "I was simply thinking, Lestrade – if John had taken a few moments to simply think, then perhaps we wouldn't be -"

"Baden Towers!" John interrupted angrily, gesturing for emphasis. "Baden Towers! You have a brother who-" and eyeing the CCTV camera in the corner of the room, he lowered his voice – "does what he does and you used all of our phone call to ring the reservation desk, and room service, and the maid's quarters at Baden Towers!"

"And you chose to ignore my one piece of advice in this case. You didn't ask about Dr. Singer's left ear, and instead chose to chase a mediocre love-crazed stalker to Brighton! I should think it painfully clear who's to blame for-" Sherlock rebutted, mildly amused.

"Shut up!" Lestrade shouted, then composed himself with a frustrated huff. "Just...stop. Do you have any idea how difficult it was to convince the chief officer here not to press charges? Luckily, he seems to be a fan of…of Sherlock. And myself, for some reason." Greg paused, running his hand through his hair. "I told him you were here on a case. You are here on a case." He raised his eyebrow expectantly, daring them to contradict him.

They didn't.

"Good. Good. The sniper case?"

John shook his head, sending a scathing look at Sherlock.

Greg closed his eyes, composing himself. "What case, then?"

"Felicity Carlson," John grumbled.

Greg sighed. "Right. Right. You would be. Probably had something to do with the bull the Yard is getting for 'ignoring' it, too, didn't you?…Never mind - don't answer that."

Sherlock adjusted the cuffs on his button-up and brushed invisible lint off his sleeve, straightening himself on the bench. It was then that Greg noticed that Sherlock had been sitting awfully close to Molly, and that his thigh had been pressed casually against hers, but before he had the chance to make a comment or ask for an explanation, Sherlock was running his mouth again.

"Well, it's been lovely -" fake smile and sarcasm, all of it –"but although the relative peace and quiet of this holding cell isn't entirely ill-suited for crafting a plan, it's not very conducive to implementing it, and we have a woman to save and – two fairly slippery con artists to bring to justice, this evening. We may even wrap up the sniper case by the end of the week. If you'd kindly stop interrogating us and let us out, you'd save me the trouble of pick-"

"Don't finish that sentence," Lestrade pleaded, holding up his hands and closing his eyes in frustration. "Just – don't." Turning to John, he asked – "I just need to get my facts straight, now – you and Sherlock were on this Carlson case? But Sherlock wasn't with you until you tackled an unarmed man to the ground in the middle of a relatively busy street? How did-" he turned to Molly – "how did you get involved in this?"

And the three on the bench looked decidedly to three separate corners of the room, and a slight blush rose in Molly's face, and Greg stood blinking at the three of them, looking between Molly and Sherlock and John. "You…" he said suspiciously, eyeing Sherlock – taking in his body language, and remembering his physical proximity to the woman, and noting the poker face Molly was doing a horrible job of maintaining – "you were snogging Molly Hooper?!"

And Molly's eyebrows rose and her face turned crimson as her eyes stared intently at the floor, and John failed to suppress a grin, momentarily forgetting the grudge he was holding against Sherlock.

Sherlock, for his part, was giving Lestrade a smoldering glare. "Of course, you would choose now to finally apply the science of deduction. To be accurate, using your distasteful vernacular – I was not snogging her. We were snogging each other." And even Greg couldn't mistake the hint of…something like smug self-satisfaction - in Sherlock's voice as he added – "She returned the kiss." As if he was at one point doubtful that she would kiss him back. He smirked at her, and she smiled shyly at him before returning her happy gaze to a spot on the wall opposite them, darting a quick glance at Greg's reaction.

Greg peered between the three of them and shook his head. "So you're sending John to do your footwork, now, while you're out making a pass at-"

"No - that's not how it was at all, Greg" Molly said, her pleased little expression suddenly serious and almost stormy. Even John let his eyes slide meaningfully towards the pair, head inclined slightly, as if to say C'mon, Greg, put it together.

And Greg looked abashed, realizing what he'd implied. "I'm sorry, Molly. You know I don't think - "

"Understatement of the century-" Sherlock muttered under his breath –

Greg ignored him. "I mean – congratulations? Congratulations – you're – uh, toge-"

"As 'together' as we can be, yes, for heaven's sake, keep up Lestrade," Sherlock snapped, very obviously moving on from his relationship status. "You can gape and congratulate and throw us a party later. We're wasting valuable time, as the sniper has probably already deduced, as I have, that Dr. and Mrs. Singer are actually-"

"Wait – Dr. and Mrs. Singer? You're telling me that Phillip Green - that bloke with the beard Molly hit over the head with a flowerpot - he isn't the kidnapper?" Greg closed his eyes, tracking the facts in his mind.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, but Molly interrupted with a quiet urgency. "No – apparently he and Ms. Carlson were childhood friends, but when her family became rich, they grew apart, and he'd spent years attempting to win her over, but she kept rejecting him as a – as a romantic partner. It's been several years since they were in touch and since then he's made something of himself in – in textiles, wasn't it? And he's followed her for the past few weeks attempting to work up the courage to talk to her again. He's not a stalker-"

"Debatable," Sherlock interjected grumpily – but there was no real malice, there –

"No, you were wrong on that count – it's always something, right?" John interjected smugly.

"-he's just…a bit…off," Molly continued. "He was worried because he hadn't seen Lissie in a few days, and followed Marie, mistakenly believing that Lissie would turn up with her. He's been watching for her, and apparently the news broadcasts today scared him – thought he'd be a suspect, what with all his sending her notes and flowers and such all the time – and when he saw John questioning Marie and her husband, he just…ran."

"And then he punched me and nearly strangled me!" John said, obviously not convinced of the man's complete innocence.

"After you tackled him to the ground. You're not even with the Yard," Molly pointed out gently. Hesitating, she added – "But I have to agree that he may have some…anger management issues. I did have to…um…you know." She seemed reluctant to admit she'd bashed him over the head.

And John raised his eyebrows approvingly at Lestrade. "See, she's an improvement already. Be glad you didn't get Sherlock's version involving a full five-minute dissection of Mr. Green's flawed perceptions of love versus money, while leaving out the very important fact that he, you know, didn't really have a proper motive to kidnap her. If he'd done it, he'd be with her right now. Plus something about how his shoes proved he had an alibi for the time frame she'd gone missing. We had to pry that out of him. And we'd probably be in an actual cell if it weren't for her nice little apology and explanation to Sergeant McMann and the chief officer on duty."

"I don't know what you're so happy about – she's just confirmed that you wasted an entire day chasing after an innocent man," Sherlock retorted.

"I am right here, you know," Molly said, shaking her head at the two men's propensity for talking about her instead of to her – but still obviously pleased with their strange show of affection.

Greg shook his head, and spread his arm out, searching for answers. "And how do you know all this? It's not like the man…oh." He closed his eyes for a brief moment, doing the math. Four people. Four suspects to transport would require two patrol cars… "They put him in the patrol car with you, didn't they?" He asked Sherlock accusingly.

"You're improving. That little spark of brilliance only took you…" Sherlock glanced at the clock on the wall – "five minutes. Well done." And his smile was the special sort reserved only for those who were really testing the limits of his patience.

John snorted. "Ah, but we're glossing over the bit where the two of you got all chummy once he came to because you single-handedly proved during the ride to the station that he was both unable and incapable of kidnapping Felicity Carlson. So all Phillip Green got was a slap on the wrist and a ride to the hospital for his head, while we all get thrown in here because Mr. I'm-Still-A-Child can't apologize for the cracks he made about Sergeant McMann's mental and physical capabilities. And then you used up all of our phone calls tracking down a description of Dr. Singer's left ear. Thank goodness Molly had thought to call you, Greg - "

"At least someone else was thinking," Sherlock couldn't help cut in. "Molly assured our speedy release - and I use that term loosely - and I assured that we could catch the real criminals once we were freed. Although," he paused, giving a meaningful glance at Greg – "if it had taken you any longer, I may have resorted to-"

"Enough, you. We're nearly done here. Before I release you, though…how on earth does a description of Dr. Singer's left ear prove that he and Mrs. Singer are Lissie Carlson's kidnappers?" Greg rubbed the stubble on his chin thoughtfully, tired.

Sherlock sighed. "Simple. Once I'd heard that Ms. Felicity Carlson – young heiress with little experience rubbing elbows with the upper class after her family's disgrace; very vulnerable and an easy target - left the Hotel International in the company of a man and woman known as Dr. and Mrs. Singer, purported investors abroad with expensive tastes, I quickly recalled the very few husband/wife teams of con artists in my repertoire. After narrowing down the suspects to two couples based on general descriptions, I simply needed confirmation of their identity. The easiest way to do that was to get a description of 'Dr. Singer's' left ear. Luckily I managed to get a hold of an attentive maid using John's phone call – they're surprisingly reliable and observant – and though the cut of his hair attempts to draw attention away from it, she did notice that it was jagged, or torn at the lobe. Which means that Dr. and Mrs. Singer are really Henry Peters and Miranda Fraser, Australian con-artists with a knack for scamming single wealthy women out of jewels and money. Even managed to scam an entire manufacturing plant away from an older heiress in Latvia, once." He sounded mildly impressed.

John rolled his eyes. "Of course, he'd have that catalogued. Common knowledge about the solar system? Deleted. The face of a top performer in Britain's entertainment industry? Deleted."

Molly jumped in, a smile in her voice. "Well-known children's fairytale - Cinderella?"

And Sherlock's voice joined with John and Molly's as they pronounced "Deleted."

And now Sherlock was standing, determined now to leave that blasted holding cell, and his lips twitched before he stated crisply - "Laugh all you want, but luckily for Ms. Carlson, my memory has been filled with more useful things, such as key descriptions and heists of the top fifty con-artist teams in the world and their weaknesses. My sources told me, before I was so rudely accused of impeding an investigation – imagine! - and arrested, that Mrs. Singer has a weakness for Banoffee pie, and that we shall find her residence in the Billings district of southwest London. Find her, and we find Ms. Carlson. Find the Singers and bring them to justice in view of the public eye – the media may actually be useful, for once - and we just may lure this mysterious sniper out of hiding and bring him to justice as well. Of course, the extra fifteen minutes you took in getting here were unexpected," Sherlock gave Greg a pointed look over his nose, and stepped closer to the door he was blocking – "and so Ms. Conners will have already texted me the predicted outcomes of our vigilante's next appearance, so if you're done interrogating us about our unorthodox but incredibly effective crime-solving strategies, I suggest you release us immediately."

Greg stepped out of his way, after coercing a promise from the three in the room to inform him of any new information they might receive (not that he was worried, with Molly there), and making a mental note to alert every patrol car in the Billings area. John was quick to follow, muttering a hasty 'thanks-I-owe-you-what's-this-now-eleven'? before leaving.

Molly took just a few seconds longer, collecting her things and giving Greg a light squeeze on the arm before she walked out the door. "Thank you, Greg. He appreciates it, too. He's just not…really…verbal, about it." She smiled apologetically.

"It's not a problem. Well," he clarified, "It is. But I do it anyway. And for some reason, I don't mind nearly as much as I should." He returned her smile with one of his own. "And you're sure about this, then?" He asked quietly. She knew he wasn't referring to the case.

"I always have been."

"Well…good then. I really do mean it. You're good for him, Molly."

"As long as I avoid making flowerpot-bashing a regular occurrence, I think I might be."

And she seemed to sense that Sherlock would call for her, because she was already out the door before her name echoed down the hallway. "Thank you again!" She called earnestly as she made her way out of the small police station in Brighton and into the setting sun.

Please review! I'm all bleary-eyed and can't seem to focus on this chapter for more than half an hour at a time, so I'd appreciate any insight you have on all of the interactions between the characters here, and on the beginnings of the resolution to the Lissie Carlson case.

Thanks for all of your support! :)