Present—Molly

"So there's this clone, yeah? One of us is the one killing us." Molly spoke without preamble, putting her head in her hands as she spoke to Alison.

"…What can I do?" Alison asked simply.

Molly liked that about her. Despite her suburban nature and her strange tendencies and particularities, Alison was hyper focused and hyper aware. She would be helpful. It seemed that all of the clones were of her intelligence, it was simply developed differently based on lifestyle. If Molly had been one of the scientists working on the project, she would have been fascinated. But it wasn't so nice to be one of the lab rats, especially with the complications involving being knocked off like mobsters.

"Just be prepared." Molly nodded to her, rubbing her temples, "This is just too much. Faking dead, basically to avoid an ex boyfriend, figuring out I'm a clone—in hindsight things make a lot more sense—getting reunited with my daughter—"

"You mentioned her before." Alison nodded thoughtfully, "Where does she come in?"

"What?"

"She's not your biological daughter, is she?"

"She's mine." Molly shook her head, "I'm an awful mother…."

"Why didn't you mention that before?"

"Wh—"

"I thought we were all sterile. It's part of the clone thing—"

"Some subjects of cloning can have offspring." Molly shrugged, "I suppose I'm the exception to our batch. There might be one other." She shook her head, as Alison's head looked like it was about to explode, "We'll talk about this later, yeah?"

Present—Sherlock

It took precisely two days, four hours, and fifteen minutes to convince John that they would go to Toronto. Without any word from Moriarty, they had to assume he was planning something, and frankly Sherlock thought it might throw the Consulting Criminal off if he randomly left the comforts of London. He had to find Molly. He had to be right, no matter how much John and Mycroft thought that he was trying too hard and finding evidence that wasn't there, he knew Molly. She was far more clever than anyone would ever give her credit for and he wasn't going to leave her alone. He wanted her home where she belonged, in the morgue where she belonged. He would take her to Baker Street for her safety and increase her security detail so that such a close call couldn't happen ever again.

She couldn't be lost to him.

So he boarded an airplane for a red eye flight with a grumpy doctor/blogger tailing behind him. Sherlock was already formulating a number of plans, excitement coursing through him at the prospect of being right of winning of—of Molly being alive. He didn't know what he would say to her. Would he mention her cleverness in faking her death? Would he berate her for not telling him? Was he at all resentful that it took this long for him to figure it out? She was probably going to be scared and reluctant to come back to London.

"Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock? Sherlock!" John finally made it through, drawing Sherlock out of his mind palace.

"Yes, John?" Sherlock was irritated. There were still so many possibilities to go over so many scenarios that were developing in his mind and he didn't have time for idle chatter.

"What is Molly to you?"

"She's my pathologist, John, a very important—"

"No. I've never seen you act this way before—Hell, I thought you were going to go on drugs again." John shook his head, "You were sad."

"I was inconvi—"

"You were devastated! And now you think she's alive and—this is the happiest I've ever seen you, it even beats a nine on a case, Sherlock."

Sherlock slumped back into his seat, "I realized how—how it would be if I were never to see her again…in truth it wrecked my mind palace. It tore it to pieces and everything was in disorder and I couldn't think…even when I was thinking—it wasn't up to full capacity. It was like morphine, slowing me, but without the pleasant feeling, it was utterly sickening."

"That's grief, Sherlock."

Sherlock nodded. Yes, it was grief. "She's alive though. So everything's back in order."

"Sherlock you don't know—"

"I do know. All the evidence is there."

"But what if something's happened and she's not alive or—"

Sherlock held up his hand, shaking his head, "Just go back to that book your wife wants you to read."

Present—Molly

"So this knife." Molly held it up to the screen for Cosima to see, "is the mark of some Christian group."

"Yeah they're like crazy, that mark on the handle is like the fish of creation. They likely think we are abominations—unnatural things that must be destroyed and—"

"You're a bit of a rambler, you know that?" Felix asked.

"Sorry—sorry. Anyway, I'll get to you with more when I have it." Cosima turned off her camera.

"So." Felix wrapped an arm around his foster sister, "So far we have the suicidal one, the eccentric, the soccer mom, and the psycho killer. My crazy step sister is almost sane in comparison."

"Makes sense." Molly shrugged, leaning forward, "I'm going to try to find her—why do you think they'd use one of us to kill us if they hate us so much?"

"I'm not sure."

Present—John

John was still worried about Sherlock when they landed but the man seemed like he was on a mission and couldn't be swayed. It was like a case for him, with an added level of sentiment that was almost the equivalent to cocaine. Sherlock likely literally wouldn't sleep until he found Molly. John, however, was not built of the same stuff as Sherlock.

"We need to get a hotel room, Sherlock." John finally snapped, "And food. NOW."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at him, "Fine."

That was how he ended up waking to a sight he probably shouldn't have been privy too. He felt as if he was violating privacy watching as Sherlock hunched over a picture. John could barely see it, but he knew what it was and where it was from. It was Sherlock and Molly, standing next to each other and discussing decomposition in depth when Mary decided to snap a picture. They were standing so close to each other that Molly had to look almost straight up and Sherlock almost straight down. John didn't know how he obtained the picture but it was obviously a cherished belonging.

"Please, Molly. Please be alive."

John was definitely not supposed to be awake at that moment.

Present—Molly

Molly walked slowly, following the trail of blood without any reservation. The splatter patterns were obvious, pointing out where someone snuck into the house, performed self surgery, and left once she assured the child that she was not a threat. Molly stiffened when the boy pointed at Molly for a reference as to how the perpetrator looked. It was strange, all very strange, and Molly was frightened that Art would start trying to put the pieces together.

Molly followed the coordinates on the childish fortune teller that Helena gave the child (she hid it before Art could see, but just barely) to a bare apartment. It was there that Helena sat, her arms aloft towards the lights as Molly approached from behind.

"Why did you bring me here?" Molly asked.

"Maggie Chen was my friend." Her look alike replied, "All the sheep must go to slaughter but before they gather—God will watch over them—we have a connection—tell me we do—I'm dying—I think I'm dying." She babbled only to be cut short by Molly.

"What's your name?"

"Helena—"

"Beth? Beth?" Shit. It was Art.

Molly aimed her gun at Helena once before shaking her head and lowering it "Go! Go now!"

"Thank you, sister." Helena replied climbing out the window.

Molly let Art in, waiting for the attack that was most definitely coming, "Beth what the hell are you thinking? This is Maggie Chen's old apartment—why are you? Beth you have to get over this."

Molly nodded, "I'm sorry…we should go shouldn't we?"

"Definitely." I don't know what the hell is going on with you but it needs to stop."

She nodded again, not knowing what else to do."