A/N: Almost finished with this little tale of kidnapping and mayhem. Warnings for gun violence in this chapter but nothing graphic. And for threats made against a pregnant woman and a baby. Again, Jim Moriarty is not a nice man.

"The car's been spotted," Sherlock reported tersely as John drove them through the streets of London.

"That's good news, then," Mary replied as John remained silent, hunched over the wheel as if it physically pained him to be driving. His silence and utter focus on what he was doing was his way of coping as Moriarty tried to make them jump through his hoops yet again. Mary had immediately informed Sherlock and John of the text she'd received, and shown the picture the madman had sent her. Sherlock had then requested – demanded – the keys to the vehicle Mycroft had sent for their use from the startled driver, and they'd begun a chase that each and every one of them feared would end in disaster.

As she took in Sherlock's tense expression, not quite a scowl but damned close, she felt her heart sink. Spotting the car should have been good news, so why was Sherlock frowning?

"They're headed for St. Bart's," he said. "Changed direction from their original destination quite abruptly, according to Mycroft's PA."

"Anthea," John said apropos of nothing, or so Mary thought until she remembered that was the name Mycroft's PA had used when John first met her. Only her lovely John Watson would even consider chatting up a pretty woman while in the midst of a kidnapping, Mary remembered fondly. "So they're going to St. Bart's. Roof?"

Sherlock nodded grimly. "Where else? Obviously he's been cut off from his original plan, a pity he was tipped off about that but nothing to be done for it now but meet him there. If you cut through that alley…there!" Sherlock exclaimed, pointing to the left.

Mary clutched her seat as the car swerved obediently, John's expert hand on the wheel keeping them from burning any unnecessary rubber. "We'll get there ahead of them," Sherlock continued, as if he hadn't been interrupted by the screech of the tires as John made the turn. "Be on the roof before they get there." He glanced over at Mary with a small, grim smile playing about his lips. "Mary, if you look under your seat, I believe you'll find Mycroft has sent along a little gift for you."

Brow crinkling in puzzlement, Mary reached down and pulled out a square, metal suitcase. A very familiar looking one. "Well, at least that answers the question of what happened to my weapons cache," she said dryly as she entered the combination and opened the holder.

John glanced over at her, then returned his eyes to the road. "You're a damned good shot, better than I am," he said as they rounded another corner, cutting off several cars that technically had the right of way and whose drivers weren't afraid to use their horns to express their discontent. "Don't miss, yeah?"

"Yeah," Mary agreed, pausing in her preparation of the weapon to squeeze his shoulder reassuringly. "We'll get her back, John." She glanced over her shoulder, caught Sherlock's eye. "We'll get them both back."

oOo

"Why are we here, Jim?"

Molly wasn't sure how she managed to keep her voice so calm, but she suspected the sleeping Lucy Watson nestled in her arms had something to do with it. Said arms were beginning to ache from holding the little girl for so long, but she had an irrational fear that if she let her go for even a moment, that Moriarty or one of his goons would snatch her away from her godmother.

"Because here is where it was supposed to end the first time your darling husband and I did this dance," he spat out without bothering to look at her. They were on the roof at St. Bart's, standing near the parapet that ran along the outside of the roof. Jim was leaning on it and gazing groundward. He didn't need to watch his hostages, as he had three men strategically placed near the stairs they'd used to make their way up here, and there was no other way down. Except, of course, the way Sherlock had so desperately taken more than three years ago. But with no safety net in place, no secret plans with Mycroft, it wasn't an option Molly would even consider taking. Unless it was to save another's life…

As if he could hear her thoughts, Moriarty spoke again. "It's an idea, not a bad one, Molls, but not sure if I'll use it. Make you either jump, thus killing yourself and your unborn child, or else let you stay safe while I hurl the Watson brat over the side…it's something to think about."

Then he turned and gave her the coldest, cruelest smile Molly had ever seen, and she shivered and gasped, stumbling back a single step before forcing herself to stop. He would do it, too; offer her Sophie's choice and laugh at her the entire time.

"There's always a third option."

Molly gasped and Moriarty snarled at the sound of that cool, bored voice; how had Sherlock gotten up here without using the staircase, without being seen by any of them?

It didn't matter; Molly felt a surge of purest joy go through her body although she bit down on the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. Sherlock was here, he was alive, his head bandaged, looking utterly cool and calm as he stood there with three guns now pointing at his head.

The fourth, as Molly quickly discovered, was pointed at her own. She felt the cold steel of the barrel of Jim's Beretta against her temple and froze, joy once again turning to terror. As she gazed helplessly into her new husband's eyes, she saw him give a slight nod. Praying that she was reading it correctly, she cuddled Lucy Watson closer, closed her eyes, and collapsed to the asphalt paving of the roof.

Curling herself into as tight a ball as she could manage, huddling as closely around the now wailing Lucy as she could, eyes shut, Molly could only pray that she'd understood Sherlock's unspoken command. She could hear Moriarty cursing, felt a tug on her arm, then the sound of shots ringing out filled the air and she sobbed right along with Lucy. She heard Moriarty scream, a high, thin scream of pain, and his hands were gone. She heard and felt a thud as of a body hitting the ground, very close by her. Was he dead? Please God let him be dead, for real this time. Forever.

More shots, more shouting, and then…nothing. Only the sound of her own breathing and Lucy's wails. Taking a chance that it was truly over, Molly opened her eyes and slowly raised her head to see what the outcome of the fusillade of bullets had been.