Hi everyone!

So this has been a crazy week (we packed up an entire school library because we're getting all new shelves this summer!), but I am officially off for the summer! Yay! Sorry it's been a while. Thanks for your patience.

Thank you very much for all of your follows, favorites, and reviews! You make me happy. :)

Arcoiris - thanks for the review. :) I'm glad you're still with me and enjoying it!

Black Night - Thank you! I was having a little bit of trouble with the sniper in this chapter...but I think I worked it out. I'm looking forward to hearing your thoughts. And thank you for recommending "The Incredible Story of Molly Eyre". It is fantastic! :)

Einvine - thanks! I'm really glad you liked it. I thought Molly would catch on fast...she was a good actress for two years, right? :)

This chapter will tie up the sniper and Lissie cases. I had a little trouble with this chapter, so hopefully it still makes sense, and doesn't seem too ridiculous. I'm looking forward to hearing your thoughts!

Chapter 31

In Which Love Don't Come Easy

Daniel Harding was trapped between a rock and a hard place.

After the shock of Lissie Carlson's dilemma had worn off, he'd shifted into a more detached, dispassionate, soldier-mode, and had reached the conclusion that to keep his self-respect and clean conscience, he had two choices.

He could turn himself in – accept the consequences for his actions, and attempt to make amends for that Carlson girl – or he could attempt to leave the country, and continue his…work, in another location. He didn't really...want to do that, though.

He couldn't just leave and stop doing what he was doing; live out the rest of his life in a cushy country cottage. That would feel…empty, somehow. Like he'd sacrificed Lissie Carlson for nothing. So – make reparations by turning himself into the law, or by evading the law and continuing his vigilante work.

He was torn.

So he decided to go to the one person who he believed to feel as torn as he did about the whole situation, and who also had a reputation for working outside the law.

Sherlock was at Baker Street, later that afternoon, after an eventful morning – it had taken himself and Molly (mainly Molly – honestly) a few hours to convince Lestrade of the validity of Molly's idea and to pull it off with the news crews.

And though he wouldn't have minded if she'd come home with him, Molly had had to finish up her hours at the morgue, and then would need to go home, citing Toby's need for food and her own need for shower and sleep. She'd encouraged him to do the same.

Surprisingly, he took her up on her advice. A shower and a sandwich later, and he felt quite a bit better. Lull in the case, anyway. He was sitting in his chair, working out the case and Lissie's location in his mind palace, when he became aware of a noise that didn't quite belong.

It took him a few moments to shift focus – from the case to the mysterious noise at his door – and he quickly realized that someone was picking his lock.

He could think of only one person who would need to pick his lock in the middle of the day.

He was briefly thankful that Mrs. Hudson was out…running errands, or whatever it was she did outside of Baker Street.

He calmly retrieved his revolver and returned to his seat, setting it beside him on the armrest. (Though probability dictated that he would be completely safe, he was still keenly aware of how long it took to recover from a gunshot wound, and he had no desire to repeat it. What an unnecessary setback that would be.)

When Daniel Harding entered a few moments later, locking the door behind him, Sherlock greeted him with a raised eyebrow and cool deductions.

"Lance Corporal Harding. I have to say the probability was leaning in your favor over Mathers."

Harding frowned, and took a seat across from Sherlock, unfazed by the revolver sitting casually on the armrest of Sherlock's chair. He rubbed his hand once over his face, and then ran it through his hair, before straightening and returning to his excellent posture and equally detached composure. "Mathers is a joke – a sorry excuse for a soldier, let alone a Marine. Last I heard, he's wasting his talents winning bets at bars in Eastern Europe. And I'm no longer a Lance Corporal."

Sherlock leaned forward. The man had not come to confront him, in any connotation of the word. Apparently – based on his stance and the open way he was looking at Sherlock…he was looking for…help? This was…unexpected. He'd expected the man to either attempt to flee the country and be caught at the border or to turn himself in to the Yard. Turning himself into Sherlock? Interesting. He offered the man a quick quirk of the lips. "And you, Mr. Harding? You are not wasting your… talents?"

If Daniel Harding was offended, he did not let on. He was determined, now. He'd made his decision on the way over. Leaving his fate up to…a higher power. He just needed to work with the detective, and he was fairly confident that this detective man would agree to his terms. (He didn't really know Sherlock, after all.)

"Not yet. But I would be wasting them if I didn't offer to help locate Lissie Carlson."

Sherlock snorted lightly at the idea that his man could do a better job of finding the missing girl.

"Hear me out," Harding said evenly, with all the calm composure of a man used to talking himself out of trouble.

He took five minutes to explain his dilemma, and the solution he'd found on his way to speak with Sherlock. He would help Sherlock find Lissie Carlson. If she was alive, he would then make a quiet escape, and Sherlock would receive full credit for finding her. If she was…not…he would turn himself in to the police after they located her body. It was a sort of self-appropriated penance for his misjudgment of the situation.

Sherlock leaned back in his chair, thoughtful, at the conclusion of Daniel Harding's explanation. "Interesting proposal, though your reasons for it matter nothing to me. I do not take cases because I need the credit. I do it because I like the challenge. And I'm quite certain I could find her on my own. What makes you think I need your assistance, Mr. Harding?"

"You haven't found her yet," he stated simply. "And finding people – live people, extremely skilled in hiding, and taking them out – that is my area of expertise. I should think I could apply those skills to finding Ms. Carlson, but you've already gathered information from the Singers' and the hotels, and I can't…exactly…do the same, at the moment. And besides, based on my intel earlier – your usual assistants are out of commission for the rest of the day. The doctor has a baby to look after and your girlfriend is at work."

Sherlock frowned at that. The man had a point. An unpleasant point, but a point nonetheless. He thought it over. The man wasn't a complete idiot. He wasn't…polluting the whole block with stupidity. And he was interested to see the man's methods. He'd learned to appreciate nuances in other's tracking skills in his two years abroad, if only to pick out their flaws and guard against succumbing to them himself. Still…best to give him fair warning. "I have only ever worked…well…with John and Molly. I will be dismissive of most of your observations. It will not be a pleasant experience -"

"It doesn't have to be pleasant. We just have to find the girl," the ex-Marine stated tersely.

"I wasn't referring to myself. I will enjoy the chase no matter what lies at the end of it. You, on the other hand, are the one obviously emotionally attached to her well-being." Which was…something of a lie, but luckily – only one that Molly had the capacity to see through.

The man blinked and clenched his jaw. He may have been an emotional wreck earlier in the day, but he'd done an admirable job of pulling himself together and coming up with his plan for restitution. It was a good one, in his opinion, if only the stubborn detective across from him would agree to it.

After a few tense moments, Sherlock sighed, seemingly bored, but in reality highly interested in discerning how the man worked. "Fine. I'll allow you to…assist. Today only. If we don't find her by the end of the day, I make no promises as to whom I will or will not tell of our encounter."

"Deal."

Sherlock shared the two primary clues that he had as to Lissie Carlson's whereabouts – a post receipt found in the Singer's rubbish bin dated a few hours after the date printed on Lissie's last bank withdrawal.

Much to Daniel Harding's frustration, Sherlock refused to return to the Singer's house, or the Hotel International, or Baden Towers, since he'd already been to all three locations and claimed rather haughtily that he had gotten all possible clues during his previous visits.

And so that left –

"The vehicle – or, how they transported her, and the bank, and the post office," interrupted Daniel. "And we've just ruled out the bank."

The two men were walking, Sherlock speaking rapid-fire to himself on the sequence of events that had led to the bank - having soundly eliminated the bank as the exact site of the kidnapping – and extrapolating various scenarios that may have occurred afterward. Apparently, Lissie had still trusted the Singers when she'd made her withdrawal. The bank manager and tellers on duty were honest, if a bit below Sherlock's standards in brilliance, and the two men agreed, albeit through different paths, that they could glean no further clues from the bank itself. Sherlock had to admit roughly that the man was as talented at blending in inconspicuously as he was at shooting, though he was not as good at reading physiological cues as Sherlock would have thought.

"Obviously," Sherlock muttered, dismissive, having already filed away the sniper's strengths and weaknesses on the case. A postal delivery truck dawdled by, and he frowned. He was beginning to piece something together.

"It's highly likely she's still in the car," Daniel mused. "There wasn't a car at the Singer's house, and we know they had one, based on the oil and petrol in the garage. Though it's cliché, the best way to transport someone you've kidnapped without attracting attention is to stuff them in the trunk-"

"Shh," Sherlock said harshly, and Daniel frowned, and the continued.

"The only problem is-"

And Sherlock realized with mild horror that Daniel was using him as a…as a…sort of…skull. He was talking at him to better understand the case.

Sherlock looked incredulously at the man. "Shut up," he said, accentuating the final consonant. "I'm thinking."

And Daniel raised his eyebrow, unconcerned, and finished his thought "-we don't know where the car is."

And Sherlock soundly decided that he wouldn't work with anyone other than John or Molly, ever again – not even an interesting vigilante sniper with tracking experience. It was them or alone, from now on.

Sherlock did not deign to reply to the man walking beside him, and stopped suddenly, working through the locations of various post offices in his mind palace, and their locations relative to the hotels, bank, and the Singer's home.

He fired off a quick text to Sarah Jane with details and a request for a quick triangulation of the data he'd worked out in his head – luckily, she'd be out of school, now, and should reply soon.

"We should go back to the Singer's house – ask around, find out when they last used their-" Harding interrupted him impatiently. He did not like to stand still for long.

"I know where she is," Sherlock interrupted him, equally impatient. "Or, the general area she will be in. We have a stop to make first. I'll be receiving a closer approximation of her location shortly."

Sarah was helping Jo roll balls of peanut-butter dough in her hands. She was feeling right pleased, having had an excellent day at school, a problem from Sherlock to solve when she got home (she sent him her reply in under twenty minutes), and peanut butter biscuits in the work for dessert.

So she and Jo looked at each other with mild confusion and concern when a frantic knocking sounded on their door.

Wiping her floury, dough-y hands carefully on the dishcloth, Jo answered it after looking through the peephole.

"Molly?" Asked Jo. "What's wrong?"

Molly came in, nodding briefly to Jo. "Hello. I'm sorry - Sarah? Sarah?" She called, brushing nervously into the flat.

"What's wrong, Molly?" Sarah Jane asked, wiping her own hands off as well.

"Has Sherlock texted you at all? About anything? Today?" Molly had her own mobile in her hand, wielding it like some sort of weapon of mass importance.

"Well…yes," Sarah answered honestly. "He asked me to triangulate a location using taxi cab math. It was fun."

Molly's face seemed to relax at the news. "Oh – that's…good. What location?"

Sarah quickly revealed the location to Molly – a parking garage in Stratford.

Molly made a strange sort of half-sigh, half cough, and thanked Sarah, and made her way to the door. "Thank you again. Sorry about – this. I'll…well…you'll find out…everything…later."

And she'd already dialed a number on her mobile, and Jo and Sarah heard the beginning of her conversation trail away as she retreated from their flat. "John! I've just talked with Sarah Jane. He's at a parking garage in Stratford…"

It was simple, really, Sherlock explained. The Singers had marked Felicity Carlson, had won her over and convinced her to go with them to Ipswich. Felicity had agreed, and they had made a stop at Felicity's bank – closer to London – to withdrawal some jewels for the trip. Obviously, Felicity never made it Ipswich, as she was never seen with the Singers there.

And Sherlock remembered, as he had cataloged every fact relayed to him by the hotel staff, that the Singers had arrived and departed Baden Towers by cab.

Therefore, something had gone wrong – Lissie had come on to their ploy; had confronted them somehow – between the bank and the Singer's arrival in Ipswich. The Singers had somehow managed to subdue her and force her into – probably, the boot of the vehicle – someone would have noticed her by now, if she'd been visible - and had parked their vehicle and taken a cab to the hotel.

Based on the time stamp on the receipt from the post office and their arrival in Ipswich, they had visited the post office after parking their vehicle in an undisclosed location. Sherlock and Daniel had paid a visit to that particular post office in Stratford, and had quickly determined, per the receipt, that the package mailed was precisely the proper size and weight to be the remainder of the jewels that had been withdrawn by Lissie Carlson. The Singers had pawned what they believed to be the least noticeable of her cache, and had mailed the remainder to themselves in Germany.

And the receipt, the bank withdrawal, and the time they'd checked in at the Baden Towers, left a solid timeframe in which the Singers had to have kidnapped Lissie and hid their automobile, and that timeframe limited the distance they could have traveled.

To his credit, Daniel followed Sherlock's explanation with little trouble.

And he was able to extrapolate, without a problem, that the best place to hide an automobile was in plain sight – in other words, in a place where everyone would expect cars to be left alone for long periods of time. A parking garage.

When they received the text from Sarah Jane giving the most likely garage in the area, Daniel gave Sherlock a grim nod, his heart rate accelerating – this was it – alive or dead – prison or freedom – having the chance to save a kidnapping victim, somehow.

They found her. Sherlock already knew the make and model of the vehicle they were looking for, but the sniper knew the license plate, from his own previous research. He just hadn't know where to look for it, before.

They stared at each other for half a second, in grim expectation, and Sherlock allowed Daniel Harding to pick the lock.

When the boot swung open, there was Lissie – in the flesh – not bound or gagged, but smelling strongly of her own urine – and obviously drugged, but alive.

"Interesting," Sherlock muttered, as he and Harding took her pulse and gently removed her from her own personal prison. "They used a mixture of chloroform and a sedative distributed through vapors here," he said, turning back to the vehicle and gesturing to the open container that had been in the boot with her. "It allowed her to be continually drugged – her own breathing would draw them into her system – without the need for the Singers to return to the vehicle to reissue the sedative. It looks like it is almost out. They may have never even intended to kill her – just subdue her long enough for them to escape. They probably expected the sedative to run out more quickly, and that she would wake up, and call for help, and survive. However, they overestimated the amount needed. She may have died of dehydration before she woke up, if we hadn't come along. Congratulations, Mr. Harding." Sherlock said, turning to the man, and stopping at the expression on the man's face.

The expression was remorse, and sorrow, concentration, and all of those unpleasant feelings that Sherlock had always tried so hard to avoid. But…they'd saved her life. Why would the man…?

Felicity Carlson, now removed from the constant vapors, was slowly, slowly stirring.

"Call an ambulance," Daniel said coarsely. "Call an ambulance now."

Sherlock blinked. "Right," he said, and he felt…just a bit…guilty? irritated? at not having done that immediately, himself. Again, it was John and Molly who saved the lives. He solved the cases.

The call was made, and an ambulance was on the way – Sherlock estimated it would take fifteen minutes for one to arrive.

By now, Felicity Carlson was stirring fitfully – not quite awake, not quite asleep.

"She's going to panic when she wakes up," Sherlock warned softly. He had learned a few things about kidnapping, in the two years he was dead. And one of those things was that – like it or not – panic was the body's response to waking from the drug-induced stupor of a kidnapping.

"I…I know," Daniel whispered, frowning and clenching his jaw. "I know."

And panic she did.

She was too weak to cause much physical damage to either of the men, and far too weak to run.

But her tears and screams and the continuous shaking of her head, back and forth, accompanied by – nonononononono NO! – were their own kind of keenly felt emotional punch to the gut.

For Daniel.

More like an emotional…poke, for Sherlock.

Still – he felt it.

But comfort was something he was certainly not adept at. So he stood awkwardly by, having deduced all he could from the girl and the vehicle, frowning and observing as Daniel Harding attempted to comfort the girl as best he could.

"You are safe," he murmured, over and over. "You are safe. The people who…took you, are gone. You are safe. We won't hurt you."

Still, she flinched away from his touch, and held herself together, lying on the ground, scrambling away from them - and after a few moments more of screaming, her voice already raw and sore from having very little water the past few days – she resigned herself to silence, and watched the men warily, angrily from her little spot on the parking garage floor.

Still, Daniel Harding did not give up his reassurances. "An ambulance is on its way. You are safe."

And Sherlock's ears perked, because the sirens he heard approaching were not the sirens of an ambulance. They…yes – they were the sirens of a police car.

He frowned. He had not contacted the Yard. Who…?

And belatedly, he recalled several text notifications and one or two missed calls from John and Molly.

Had they…? How – how had they…?

But he shook his head, and eyed the man, now sitting cross-legged on the ground, facing the girl, repeating his mantra that she was safe - somehow extremely gentle, despite his physique and the crimes he'd committed the past few weeks – and voiced a warning.

"Mr. Harding. Since we have found Ms. Carlson alive…" he let his voice trail off, then continued. "If you are still interested in fleeing the country to continue utilizing your…particular talents, I would leave now. I expect the Yard to arrive in less than five minutes."

Daniel continued his soft reassurances to the young woman before him, ignoring the detective beside him.

And the sirens grew louder, as the police car made its way up the ramps in the parking garage.

Sherlock blinked, and narrowed his gaze at the man. "Mr. Harding…"

Not that Sherlock cared either way what happened to the sniper - but...it was interesting, the man's motives.

And without looking at the detective, Daniel Harding's mouth turned up into a resigned sort of smile. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes, for…allowing me to help find her. But…I'm done with this, now. I'm…done."

And Daniel Harding stayed beside Lissie Carlson until Detective Inspector Lestrade arrested him and escorted him to the police car.

"Where is she? And don't give me that family crap – I'm the closest thing that girl has to family. So where is she?"

Sherlock could make out the clipped, no-nonsense, tense voice of Mrs. Leslie Vaughn from all the way down the hall.

Sherlock pressed his lips together, watching through observation window as nurses continued to attempt to sedate and calm Lissie Carlson.

John stood beside him, face clouded with anger softened by sympathy, and Molly stood on his other side, obviously miffed, arms crossed in front of her chest and keeping herself carefully out of contact with Sherlock. She, too, was watching the scene in the hospital room unfold.

Mrs. Vaughn quickly approached them in the hall, and nodded to them once before entering the room.

John had called Mrs. Vaughn, and Sherlock was hoping that her presence would calm Lissie enough to be questioned – although he'd solved the crime in the legal sense of the word, there was still one piece missing. How did Lissie know the Singers were fake?

But she was in no state to answer questions, now. And it was extremely frustrating to Sherlock, who was exhausted himself, now – he still hadn't slept in nearly three days, and he was beginning to feel it, standing idle in a hospital hallway. So he stood and observed, attempting to glean what knowledge he could from the scenes before him.

Still, he wisely kept his mouth shut and allowed everyone to think it was out of concern for the girl.

"Call Phillip Green," Molly stated quietly, after several moments of observation. Mrs. Vaughn's presence had managed to calm Lissie somewhat, but she still appeared distrusting even of her long-time friend and mother-figure.

"Who?" Sherlock said, looking at her, confused.

"The…the 'stalker'. Her childhood friend. Call him." Molly said quietly, still not looking Sherlock in the eye.

"How will that help?" Sherlock said, peering at her.

"I…I can't explain it, but I know it will. Call it…subconscious physical cues, or…subliminal messages through physiological responses, or…whatever makes it more understandable for you, Sherlock. But she needs someone…someone…well, she needs him. Because she knows him, from before all – of everything – not just this case, but before everything – and…he loves her."

After making sure that Sherlock had relayed that information to Lestrade, Molly nodded primly at him. "I'll see you at Baker Street," she said pointedly, and then turned and left.

Molly was correct, of course. Sherlock was once again amazed by how useful insights into sentiment could be sometimes. Phillip Green had arrived less than twenty minutes after being called – he was still in the city, hoping that Lissie would be found – and he arrived at the hospital with a tense expression and an old quilt that had seen much better days. He had shaved, however, and it suited him – he looked much better without a beard.

The quilt he brought was a multicolored atrocity, thread-bare and patched in several places.

When he walked in with it, Lissie neither screamed nor writhed in protest. She simply watched him, with narrow, wary eyes, from the hospital bed. Leslie Vaughn sat in a chair a few feet from Lissie's bed, giving her space, and said softly, "Felicity, dear, you remember Phillip."

She blinked.

Phillip smiled half-heartedly at her. "Hi, 'City. You look a little rough. Thought you might…like…our old quilt. The one…my mum made. When we were…"

"Seven," Lissie said suddenly, and it was slightly harsh. She blinked again, frowning, considering the offer. After a moment, she hesitantly, jerkily, held out her hand. He crossed the room, and handed it to her, careful not to touch her in the process. She tentatively drew the cloth towards herself.

She stared at it, fingering the stitch work, working through something in her head. She suddenly looked extremely tired.

And so she leaned back, clenching the worn fabric in her hands, and after several moments listening to the murmur of distant conversation between Phillip and Mrs. Vaughn, she drifted off into an uneasy sleep.

Lissie is dreaming again, and she gets a sick feeling in the pit of her stomach, because it's the same dream.

Country house, six years old, sundress, windy day - but this time – not even her parents are there to try to hold her down.

For some reason, even though it scares her, because she knows what will happen further into the dream – she still can't resist running and jumping up into the wind. She still rises higher and higher with each gust, with each jump.

And there are tears in her eyes, because she knows what's going to happen next – she just knows the next gust will take her away from here, from this calm and happy place – but she can't stop herself from running and jumping, and she feels the wind puff her dress out beneath her, and then –

A solid tug, straight down, on her ankle, and she comes crashing down on top of someone.

A gap-toothed, grinning, freckle-faced, six-year-old someone.

"You pulled me down," she says childishly – accusingly – to six-year-old Phillip.

"'Course I did. You were going too high. And I could see your underwear," and he makes a face, and sticks his tongue out, and she pushes herself off of him and sniffs indignantly as she rearranges her dress.

"You're…you're…gross, Phillip Green. Were you born in a barn?"

"Course I was. All cowboys are born in barns. Yippee-ki-ay!" He shouts, and he's off, running back to the house.

He looks back at her after a moment, and sticks his tongue out at her again. "Well, you coming, dumb-dumb? Or am I going to eat all the snacks myself?"

"What snacks?" Lissie asks curiously, and then, because it is a dream, she blinks, and she's suddenly at a table – in someone else's house – Mrs. Vaughn's house, actually, though the view outside is still the view from her parent's – and there is a plate of treats in front of her, and Phillip is across from her, eating like the little boy he is. He's getting crumbs everywhere, almost like some sort of a cartoon character.

And Mrs. Vaughn makes a comment about manners, and winks at Lissie, and though she's confused, Lissie finds herself very much enjoying the rest of her dream, which goes on to contain a marshmallow-pillow fort, dancing ducks, a quilt - and not even one hint of a Dalek.

When she woke up a few hours later, the first thing she noticed was a slight warmth covering her left hand. When she opened her eyes – she saw Phillip, sitting beside her, playing some sort of game on his mobile single-handedly, covering her hand with his free one - and Mrs. Vaughn, sitting in the chair across from her bed. Mrs. Vaughn was sleeping, snoring softly.

When he looked up at her, she smiled hesitantly at him, and was surprised to find that when he smiled back, the awful bitter feeling in her stomach eased, somewhat.

It would take Lissie several months of therapy and love to make…not a full recovery, exactly, but to recover as much as anyone could possibly expect to, from such an ordeal. Though memories of the experience would never quite leave her – she would heal, and recover.

A few years later, she would invite Sherlock (and Molly, and John, and Mary) to her wedding (Sherlock would refuse to attend – What's the point? - though Molly knew he was still just frustrated that he never figured out how Lissie had caught on to the Singers, and Lissie refused to tell him) – and she would send everyone – even Daniel Harding, who would be serving out the remainder of his prison sentence working behind bars and behind the scenes to champion the cause for justice for kidnapping victims – a Christmas card, every year. The latest card would have three children in it – and all of them would have their father Phillip's wild and unruly hair.

Of course, that would be far down the road, and Sherlock was currently preoccupied with a pathologist who was waiting for him at his flat. So after seeing to it that the sniper got credit for his part in finding her, and after Lissie fell asleep (he'd deduced all he could, at the moment) - he left.

He had to admit, he was…a bit…on edge, about seeing Molly. He was both anticipating and dreading the apology he knew he'd have to make.

Because apparently, you're supposed to let your…significant other know when you're out spending the day with a wanted felon.

She arrives with John just after Lestrade and the ambulance – just after Daniel Harding has given himself up and has been lead to the police car.

She's terrified, for some reason, though he can't fathom why.

As soon as she sees him, relief, and something like…anger?...washes across her face, and she runs to him.

Though he still doesn't understand the emotions she's apparently experiencing at the moment, his lips still break into a smirk at seeing her, and his heart rate, still recovering from the excitement of the chase and the conclusion of the case, begins accelerating again. He walks briskly to meet her, timing it so that he will meet her behind a rather large van, out of view of most of the idiots on the scene.

She runs to him, wraps her arms around his neck, and presses her mouth hard against his. He is flooded with data again, and giddy and nearly…playful, with the success of two cases wrapped up in one - he responds, deciding to try something new. He wraps one arm firmly around her waist, holding her flush against him, and the other arm meanders up between her shoulder blades, his fingers exploring the ends of her hair. After just a moment – he cradles the back of her head in his hand and takes one small step up and to the side, into her, throwing her just a bit off balance - and causing her to simultaneously grip him harder and fall just a tiny bit backwards, fully into his arms.

He finds he enjoys it, and he can tell she enjoys it.

But someone on the force lets out a low whistle – was that Anderson? He shouldn't be back on the force yet…and he looks up to glare in the general direction of its origin.

He is surprised to find that as soon as their lips break contact, Molly is squirming away, pushing firmly against his chest – stern and angry, for sure, this time – and stepping away from him.

He looks at her, brows concerned.

She covers her mouth with one hand because hard as she tries, she can't seem to stop smiling at his more than enthusiastic response to her kiss.

Still, trying hard to glare at him from behind her hand, she is obviously proud when her voice is steady and stern. "That was supposed to be an "I'm-glad-you're-alive kiss, not an "I'm-so-proud-of-you-you-brilliant-man kiss".

And Sherlock is puzzled. "You're angry."

"Yes, I'm angry! And…relieved…and…Sherlock! I went to Baker Street to bring you the DNA results from the fingerprints – it was Daniel Harding, and - and I had a picture, with his file – and Mrs. Hudson was there, and you weren't, and I mentioned I'd just leave them, but she saw the picture, and said 'Oh, are you helping Sherlock with that man?' and it was just odd, the way she said it, and I asked her what she meant, and she said 'Oh, that man,' and she pointed to the picture, and said 'Sherlock left with him about the time I was coming home from my grocery run.' And I nearly…" she sighs loudly, and it is an indignant little huff.

"Molly," he says slowly, thinking through this revelation. "You believed me to be in danger?"

"Yes."

"And that…concerned you?"

"Of course it concerned me! Weren't you concerned when you thought…I…I mean… I've…" and her voice lowers, and he has to strain to hear her voice. "I've only just got you. I can't lose you so soon."

And Sherlock remembers full force the particular way he felt when he thought that Molly was no longer safe, and no longer among the living, and guilt pricks him again. "I was safe. I would not have allowed Mr. Harding to accompany me if I wasn't sure I safe."

And Molly shakes her head. "But I didn't know, Sherlock. I didn't know…you didn't respond to any of my texts…or John's…or our phone calls. We didn't know."

And Sherlock pauses for a moment, because a previous thought returns to him. "How…how did you come to know? How did you find us, exactly?"

And now Molly is no longer suppressing her smile – but it's a self-satisfied, proud, grim sort. She is still a bit angry. "I asked Sarah Jane."

"Ah," Sherlock nods, and it makes sense. And he is about to offer more of an explanation, when an officer interrupts, and requests for Sherlock to make his statement.

Sherlock is about to tell him off, when Molly sighs, and speaks.

"I'll meet you at the hospital, then. We can finish this discussion later."

And she leaves him to ride with John to the hospital (who had been talking with Lestrade, and who now gives him a glare and a gesture that Sherlock takes to mean 'we'll discuss this newest addition to the Crap-Sherlock's-Friends-Deal-With saga later') and the both of them are still simmering just a bit when they meet up with him there.

And so now, since 'later' did not happen at the hospital (which he was grateful for, certainly) – Sherlock found himself feeling just a bit unsure as to what to expect as he opened the door to 221B Baker Street.

Hi!

Haha, so now Sherlock's the one feeling a bit uneasy about Molly's reaction. At least he's still going to her. I think he likes the whole kissing thing. ;)

I was just unsure about writing Sherlock sort of kind of working with Daniel. Bleh. Hopefully it didn't seem too terribly far-fetched.

I've already outlined and gotten half of the next chapter written, which will include some cute Sherlolly relationship negotiations, a date, and fun fluff.

*sniff* It will also be the last chapter. But it will be a good one!

My goal is to post it and finish this story by Saturday evening, because Sunday - I'm going on vacation! Woo-hoo!

Happy summer everyone! Don't forget to review, if you have the time. :)