A/N - Again, a abig thankyou to all who reviewed last chapter! - mycatsaninja47, Myseybee, magicstrikes, MadAsAHatterJayy, xvxv, daisherz365, lililoop, foreversherlock, patemalah21, FrancisLovey, TheDayItRayne's, Stellagale, almightswot (X2) and louisethelibrarian. Thankyou all you wondeful people!

Special thanks to my beta, TruffleHead, for her fantastic work for this story!

Enjoy this one, The next one is all action I promise you and will take me longer to write sorry!

Disclaimer - I still don't own Sherlock, but I can dream...

The minute Sherlock got back to 221b Baker Street, he stormed to his room and shut the door with a lot more force than was necessary. He was going to need some time to organise his thoughts, and the sooner he did it, the easier they would be to delete.

He walked over to his bed and lay down in the middle of it, his hands clasped together under his chin and his face retorted into the familiar setting of concentration as he entered his mind palace. Sorting through his mind palace had always been a calming past time for Sherlock. Sifting through the delicate layers of information that he held in his head had always been able to help him relax.

But not now.

His mind palace had been broken into, so to speak, by Molly Hooper. She was everywhere. There was a trace of her in every room. Take, for instance, his room dedicated to tropical diseases; Molly had no right being there-she had absolutely nothing to do with his research on the topic - but there she was, sitting in a chair in the corner of the room reading a heavy book on tropical ailments and how to cure them. As he entered the room, she looked up and smiled at him-one of those smiles that seemed to literaly brighten the area.

Sherlock quickly backed out and shut the door firmly behind him. She shouldn't be here; she... she couldn't be here! He was the only person that ever entered his mind palace; all the others were simply imaginings, a fictional presence of the real person that he had stored for some reason or another...so what was the reason behind imagining Molly?

Sherlock quickly walked down the hall of his mind palace, ignoring the pictures on the walls. Why?

They were all of Molly.

All of them pictures that he had stored to memory at some point, although he couldn't remember when. There was one of Molly in the morgue looking over a cadaver with a keen eye, one of her sitting at her desk completely immersed in paperwork, one of her smiling up at him after he had delivered a lengthy deduction about a man's cause of death, and finally, one of her face on the night he needed her help.

She had been so scared that night ,and yet she hadn't even hesitated; she had helped him when no-one else would, and for that, Sherlock was eternally thankful. She had shown trust when others doubted him, and most of all, she had always believed in him-not once questioning his plan.

Abruptly, he stopped walking and looked at the photo a while longer. He looked, really looked, and remembered that night. He felt his chest tighten as he thought about the look in her eyes. He shook his head quickly and walked straight on to his favourite room, the study.

He opened the door with a flourish, and upon seeing it unoccupied, locked it shut behind him. This was his favourite room for thinking, and he didn't want to be disturbed by...her. He strode over to the plush armchair that dominated the room and quickly took to thinking upon his current situation.

The facts were obvious. He did care for Molly Hooper...but was it more than that? Was he even capable of more than that?

He had never ventured into the world of relationships before; he had deemed it an unnecessary distraction. After all, he lived for the thrill of adventure and the joy of figuring out puzzles others thought unsolvable; relationships were not his area. Still, he found himself thinking that, hypothetically, if he were to enter a relationship...it would most likely be with Molly. But why?

She is a smart woman who, even in the direst of situations, can find something to be happy about. She has a sort of quiet courage that is clear to see when she is determined to accomplish something. She is also a noted academic- the youngest female pathologist in London- and she is a beautiful woman, but nobody appreciates that. Especially not him... right?

Sherlock groaned. When did I get so sentimental? He thought, exiting his mind palace having achieved absolutely nothing. He had thought going through his thoughts would get rid of that peculiar feeling in his chest, the one that had manifested itself ever since he had seen Molly in Edinburgh, but it hadn't helped at all; if anything, it had made it worse.

The feeling was now more prominent as Sherlock admitted he did care for the small pathologist, but it didn't make it any easier to swallow. He finally made a move and exited his bedroom. He would work on the case; that would distract him from this whole mess. He scoffed at the irony of the situation; he was now using a case to distract him from his feelings, how peculiar.

Upon entering the living room, he really wished he hadn't bothered. Mycroft was sitting sipping tea and eyeing up a tray of scones, obviously left by Mrs Hudson, with John standing nervously by the window.

"Ah hello dear brother, it's nice to see you." Mycroft said with the faintest hint of sarcasm edging into his carefully controlled tone.

"Cut to the chase, Mycroft, what are you here for?" Sherlock said sharply. He was already in a mood, and his brother would not make things better.

"I came to see you, of course. How is the case; I believe you were in Edinburgh, yes?"

"You know we were in Edinburgh. Are you here just to aggravate me, or is there a reason for your visit?"

Mycroft shifted in his chair and placed his teacup neatly on its saucer; he brought out a large file from his side and held it out to Sherlock, "Here. It is a file on Sebastian Moran's aliases. We have reason to believe he might be using one of them to hide. You did say to give you any leads I might obtain on him." Mycroft finished with a self satisfied smirk and gracefully crossed the room to the door, "I hope they will be of use to you. Until next time, little brother." With that, Mycroft flounced dramatically out of the door with a swing of his trusty umbrella.

"He is always one for theatrics, huh?" John asked, still standing by the window, subconsciously touching the crumpled piece of paper that he had hurriedly stuck in his pocket when Mycroft had showed up.

"Yes." Sherlock replied, quickly flipping open the file to scan through the pages.

John was still wondering whether or not to tell Sherlock he knew about the note.

Best leave until after the case, he decided.

"So, what's that, then?" John asked, gesturing to the file in Sherlock's hand.

"It is a list of Moran's known aliases. The drugs ring case will have to be put on hold; Moran is a top priority, and if I can get anything form this, then we might have a chance of finding him." Sherlock explained, tossing the file casually onto the coffee table. "But it's just a list of fake people; until we can trace where he got them from, then we are still at square one." Sherlock huffed, turning to face the back of the couch. Today had to be one of the worst days of his life. First, Molly, and now this information that provided no information; what had his brother been thinking?

John walked over to the coffee table and picked up the file. "Wow, this guy takes the prize for most aliases," He commented as he read the pages upon pages of names and identities that Moran had used, "Clark Duncan, Michael Pages, Dominic Griever, Steve Hunter... it's like a phonebook, this thing."

Sherlock whipped around and stood up lightning fast, "What did you say?"

"Oh, it's like a phonebook- you know, there are so many names that it kind of resembles-" John started to reply, uncertain of what had brought on his friend's change of mood.

"No, the last name you read, what was it?" Sherlock snapped impatiently at John.

"Emm, Steve… Hunter." John read aloud.

Realisation dawned on Sherlock, making his stomach drop, "Molly…" he whispered feebly.

"What?" John inquired, standing up to meet Sherlock's gaze.

"Molly, her new boyfriend- his name was Steve Hunter. John, she's in danger!" Sherlock shouted ,stumbling over to grab his coat and quickly wound his scarf around his neck.

"Surely it's just a coincidence, Sherlock. He can't possibly be with Molly."

"There is no such thing as a coincidence, John." Sherlock bellowed as he ran out of 221b.

John followed Sherlock, hurrying to keep up, and for once hoped that Sherlock was wrong.

Moran slammed the laptop shut, where he had been watching the footage from 221b, and walked over to the chair that held a bound, yet struggling, Molly Hooper.

"Looks like your fancy man is going to come and get you." He stated.

Molly didn't respond- she couldn't. Her hands were numb behind her back, and her feet were bound to the chair. Her head felt heavy to lift, and she was acutely aware of the dull ache in her arm where Moran had broken it. A sharp slap to her left cheek caused Molly to gasp in pain.

"I said, Sherlock is on his way, so we better get you ready for his arrival. Don't want him to see you looking all unharmed, now do we?" He grabbed a fistful her hair and made her look into his eyes, "Don't worry Molls, it'll all be over soon." He mocked before letting her head drop like a rag doll.

He walked over to a small table to Molly's right and picked up an ornate Swiss army knife. Molly watched out of the corner of her eye as he cleaned it, almost lovingly, and admired it in his hands. Her breathing was shallow as she realised what it was for. Her mouth was dry, her head ached, and she could only hope Sherlock would find her sooner rather than later.

"It was a gift from Jim; it's my favourite, you know. Only the best for my little Molly," He explained with mock compassion as he slowly crept towards her, "Now, you might want to scream. It makes it more enjoyable on my part."

A mere two hours later, and Molly lay battered and bruised on the cold concrete floor. A seemingly deadly amount of blood was pooling around her, but no, she was not dead yet- just unconscious; Moran still had to make full use of her. He would ruin Sherlock Holmes if it was the last thing he ever did.

He cleaned off his hands on a rag and fetched his phone.

MOLLY IS WAITING FOR YOU. ABANDONED BARNTON HOTEL, COME QUICK, SHE DOESN'T HAVE LONG LEFT - MORAN

He typed out the message and clicked send.

Now the real fun begins.

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