Finally, and to Sherlock's delight, they were on their way to Austria where Sherlock had some record of a small but influential group of Moriarty's organization that operated from an obscure village in the northern part of the country. Unfortunately the village was so small that they had to find lodgings in a neighboring town. They stayed at a cramped little bed and breakfast where they were able to each have their own rooms. That was especially good news to Molly since Sherlock talked in his sleep rather loudly and it had awoken her a few times before. And really she wouldn't have minded much if any of it had made sense. Instead what she heard were strings of incoherent words and phrases that she had no context for. She supposed Sherlock's mind was just as active when he was asleep. He must never really rest, she thought with concern, I couldn't imagine.

It took them a week to pinpoint the exact location of Moriarty's men. They operated, as it seemed, mainly from an old Victorian style house in the center of the neighboring village. The house itself was owned by an old, but shrewd man named Eugene Hütz. And it was a tedious week Sherlock spent collecting all this information. He'd followed people, sneaked into public record houses in all the surrounding towns, and even watched the house in question on multiple occasions. From what Sherlock had observed it seemed that the place was essentially an information center. Most records of the organization were either stored there, or at least passed through there. The men that ran the place were mostly old business men with a head for organization. However, the place was strongly guarded and Sherlock suspected Moriarty had bought every house in the village to house the people protecting the place. The group hired to guard was obviously a formidable bunch, he noted. Their leader was by far the most dangerous of the lot though. He had come to discover that her name was Isadora Klein. She was tan, thin, and beautiful with sharp, cat-like features. Her eyes were a dark green and her hair was pure black, kept in short finger waves most of the time. Sherlock had learned that before working for Moriarty she lived in New Orleans and was a champion female boxer shortly before becoming a gun for hire with her brother in the States. It was this way Moriarty heard of her talents and hired her permanently. Sherlock's usual method would have been to confront the woman himself but even with his new appearance it was too risky. And Molly was certainly not suitable to do so. She was invaluable as a listening ear, however. Her innocent demeanor made it easy for her to mingle in the shops, completely invisible, and her friendly nature made it simple to extract information from chatty locals as well. She learned the hours the old house operated, the names of the men in charge (as well as their aliases), and even that the old place was appropriately named Beehive Manor.

One the tenth evening of their stay Sherlock and Molly posed as a married couple touring through the countryside and watched the Manor from a picnic blanket in a nearby field until well after dark. Naturally, even after operating hours the place was still just as heavily guarded, but it was better to have the cover of darkness at least. Sherlock had initially planned to have Molly stay back and keep watch but she insisted so vehemently that she was capable of helping that he gave in, lest she follow him anyway and get herself caught.

The journey up to the house was slow and nerve-wracking. Molly twisted her hands nervously as they trekked through the brakes of trees, sometimes breathing too loudly for Sherlock's liking, but his face was impassive and calm as ever. Once they reached the house the only way in was through an old padlocked cellar door, since Molly couldn't climb the drain pipe to the open window on the second floor. Luckily it took Sherlock only a few minutes to pick the multiple locks and they crept onward. The cellar was damp and pitch-black but they dared not attempted to look for a light. Eventually they found a staircase and made their way up into a quiet hallway. Now that they were inside they found it was oddly peaceful, as any other old country manor might be. As they passed silently down the hallway Sherlock spun around sharply at a noise behind him. Molly blushed, having knocked into a side table and almost disrupted a small vase with an iris sticking out of it. Sherlock shot her a disapproving glare that caused her to blush deeper, but besides that continued as if nothing had happened. He was too focused on the task ahead to take time reprimanding Molly. At the end of the cramped hallway were two doors and to their right a tiny staircase covered with tattered red carpet, which smelled faintly of mold. They cautiously opened the door to their left and stepped into what was likely a comfortable sitting room once. However, it was now scattered with filing cabinets and desks, as well as several fold-up chairs. The place smelled strongly of dust, though it was obviously frequently used. Molly found herself wondering if it was due to the somewhat moth-eaten curtains that hung over the long windows, but Sherlock was already busy picking the lock on one of the filing cabinets. Once he'd done so he promptly moved to the next while Molly searched through the files for anything incriminating, or at least useful. In the first cabinet however there seemed to be nothing but records of how the house itself was kept: electric bills, grocery bills, receipts, etc. She sighed and started on another cabinet. By this time Sherlock had unlocked all the cabinets and helped Molly search. The majority of them were filled with nothing of use, though Sherlock hadn't expected to find the information they needed lying about so haphazardly.

"Sherlock, look at this," Molly said finally in barely a whisper.

She was indicating to a collection of unlabeled files at the bottom of a cabinet that almost seemed to be there by accident. Sherlock leaned over her shoulder to examine one that she had spread open across one of the desks. Unlike the papers in the other folders, these were not neatly typed, but scrawled in pen and occasionally pencil. Besides that, they weren't in any recognizable language, but instead appeared to be the drawings of a child. Clearly a cipher of some sort.

"It looks like, dancing men," Molly whispered in a confused tone. "I wonder what-" but Sherlock held up a hand sharply to cut her off.

He seemed to be straining to listen to something and then Molly heard a faint clinking vaguely to her left towards the back of the house. She looked over at Sherlock questioningly, who had straightened up and was acutely tense and alert. Molly opened her mouth to speak but Sherlock seized her wrist tightly. They both stood stock still for a moment, then Sherlock grabbed the pile of ciphered files, and still holding onto Molly dragged her over to the curtains on the far wall. No sooner had they hidden behind them than the door opened and the light was turned on. Sherlock pushed back the curtain just slightly to see a lean, austere older gentleman pouring over a folder at a desk in the far corner, sipping a cup of tea. The man was there for what seemed like hours but in reality was about twenty minutes before walking over to one of the cabinets with the folder. He pulled out a small key to unlock it but gave a startled look when he pulled on the handle and it slid open. He hurried out of the room through the door from which he'd entered earlier and they heard him speaking to someone in a low tone.

"You're sure you locked them all?'

"I am certain of it. I checked them myself before I retired."

"Has Bernard been in since then? He came in rather late this evening."

"Haven't the faintest. Why don't you go ask him yourself?"

"No need to get annoyed, you know how cautious we must be, especially with M gone," he gave a long-suffering sigh. "I'll go ask him then."

They heard the door open again and a younger man walked into the room and looked around. Molly nearly emitted a gasp as the man strode in their direction. Sherlock had to put a hand to her mouth to prevent her screaming when the curtain was pulled back.

"You must be gone at once Mister Barker. They'll soon be in a panic and I can no longer afford to assist you. They trust me more than their own men as it currently stands and it will be my neck and yours if you delay. I got you in, it is up to you to find your way out," the man muttered purposefully, then turned on his heel and walked out.

Sherlock motioned wordlessly for Molly to follow him as he stepped around the curtain and walked to the door leading to the hallway they had entered through. He stuck his head cautiously through the door and looked about. It seemed as empty as before, except now he heard soft voices floating down the dingy staircase. He paused there for a few moments, trying to assess the closeness of the voices. Then he took a careful step into the hallway, pulling Molly behind him. Sherlock gave her a look telling her to be careful not to bump into anything this time as they passed silently down the hall. However they had barely taken a few steps when they heard the voices upstairs grow louder. Sherlock felt Molly lightly shaking as he grasped her wrist. But before he could hurry them both down the hallway the front door suddenly burst open and Isadora Klein bounded through it, wild-eyed and wielding two automatic handguns.

"Ha! Don't think I don't know you, Mister Barker! What are you snooping around here for? Well, we'll soon find out, won't we?" she sneered, then fired a shot that would have hit Molly in the shoulder had Sherlock not pulled her back towards the door they had just come through.

Another bullet went through the wall just as Sherlock and Molly hurried back into the room with the files. He let go of Molly's wrist as they ran towards the nearest window, winding their way through the various desks and chairs. He thrust the folders into her arms, then tore open the curtain. Before he could undo the heavy latch Isadora and two of her security, a man and a woman, had followed them into the room and a shot rang out, shattering the window pane just next to Sherlock's head.

"Idiot!" Isadora shouted to the man. "Don't kill them, we want information!"

But before she could finish lecturing them, Sherlock had undone the latch and pulled a terrified looking Molly through the window with him out onto the long front porch of the Manor. They heard a barrage of gunshots behind them as they jumped over the railing and landed on the scraggly grass. They bolted across the sweeping lawn but it wasn't long before Isadora was sprinting through the front door after them. They heard two more shots ring out into the cold night air and on the third Sherlock gave a yelp of pain; she'd shot him in his right hand, just below the wrist. Seeing that hadn't slowed them down she aimed another shot, this time hitting Molly above the back of her knee. Had it not been so dark, Isadora would have aimed for their Achilles tendons. The bullet that hit Molly served its purpose to slow them down however. She gave a shriek and would have collapsed to the ground had Sherlock not caught her arm and practically dragged her along. Finally they reached a little stream that Sherlock had taken note of the day before and dragged Molly along through a section he knew to be shallow. They realized shortly after that Isadora must have gone the wrong way and lost them. Molly tried to suggest they find a hospital but Sherlock reminded her that Moriarty's influence was too strong in this area and they'd be sure to check the hospitals since Isadora knew they were injured. Their best option was to get out of the area as quickly and as inconspicuously as possible.

"Is your hand alright?" Molly asked in between gasping breaths when they reached the hotel finally.

Sherlock glanced at the wound on his hand and at the half dry blood now caked around it and down his arm with an air of disinterest before pulling out his laptop.

"Hmm? Oh yes, it barely grazed me. I dare say your knee is in far worse condition. Give me a moment and I'll help you tend to it," he replied, not looking up from his laptop as he typed furiously, wincing occasionally from the pain in his hand.

Molly hobbled slowly into the bathroom, realizing she was fighting back tears, and Sherlock heard her turn on the sink. Within a few minutes Sherlock snapped his laptop shut and joined her. She was sitting on the edge of the bathtub, wiping away the blood that had flowed down her leg with a wet rag and her skirt had been pushed up to her mid-thigh. Sherlock knelt beside her and took the rag. She looked surprised but didn't protest as he started cleaning the blood for her.

"I would have carried you when I say you were hurt, but with my hand I couldn't risk dropping you. Miss Klein certainly knew what she was doing," Sherlock said in a subdued tone.

Molly said nothing except for a few winces and whimpers as the rag passed over the wound; she seemed almost in a state of shock.

After the blood was as much cleaned away as possible Sherlock sighed and tossed the rag in the sink. "Come on, there's a first aid kit in the other room," he said, pulling her to her feet and leading her into the main room.

He sat her down on the table, rather than a chair and pulled out one of the drawers that held a heavy first aid kit. He opened the lid and dug around before pulling out a rather large pair of tweezers and some gauze. He set them on the table, then sprinted to the bathroom and grabbed a couple of towels. When he returned he laid the towels down on the floor next to her.

"Do you want anything for the pain?" he asked, looking at her concernedly.

She nodded and he pulled a bottle of pain killers out of the kit.

"Take two," he said, handing her the bottle and going to get her some water.

When he handed her the water she downed the pills with a shake of her head, a habit she'd developed as a child. He looked at the still bleeding wound and touched the skin just underneath it lightly with the tips of his fingers.

"How badly does it hurt?" he asked suddenly, looking up at her.

"Um, well, not as much as before when we were running, but quite a bit yeah. I didn't really feel it when she first shot me though, I guess I was too surprised, or busy running," she said quietly.

"You cried out," Sherlock pointed out.

"I did? I don't remember doing that. The whole thing seems a little blurry really after you pulled me out of that window," she replied confusedly.

Sherlock suddenly looked up at her and grasped her hand. "I'm sorry Molly. I shouldn't have let you come," he said, his eyes full of concern.

She shook her head resolutely. "No, don't, don't say that. I asked to go, I just wanted to help. All I did was slow you down though," she bit her lip.

"Nonsense, Molly. I wouldn't have found those files without you," he said with a smile, indicating to the pile of folders on his bed.

She smiled back and let out a nervous laugh.

"Well," he said, patting her other leg. "I think I may need you to lie down to remove the bullet."

"Is it deep then?" she asked worriedly.

"No, luckily it's quite shallow, it's just at somewhat of an odd angle," Sherlock replied.

"Have you ever done this?" Molly asked as she got up and with some effort lay down on her bed.

"Once, for John. Of course, it was done more quickly and haphazardly with him because we were on the run. He could stand the pain anyway," Sherlock said, bringing the supplies over to the bed.

After setting them down he took off his belt and fastened it tightly around her leg above the wound. Molly let out a whimper as the pain pills hadn't fully kicked in yet. Then he took the pair of tweezers and pulled his lighter out of his pocket. He held the tweezers over the lighter flame for a few moments then took out a pocket knife and did the same.

"If you feel any more pain just bite down on your blanket," he reminded her solemnly.

Then he knelt carefully with one knee on the bed and in his left hand he took the large tweezers. With scientific precision he used the tweezers to pry open the wound, causing a sharp intake of breath from Molly. In his right hand he still held the knife with slender, steady fingers. He took a deep breath before plunging the knife with as much delicacy as he could into the wound. It didn't take him long to locate the bullet and found it was even less deep than he thought. He heard Molly start to sob as he began to dig the bullet out. He was glad at least that the bleeding wasn't as profuse as before and he could somewhat see what he was doing. After ten minutes the bullet finally surfaced, it had taken longer than he'd expected since he had been trying to be careful not to hurt her, and he plucked it out with the tweezers and set it on the nearby towel. Then he retrieved an alcohol wipe from the first aid kit and cleaned the wound and surrounding blood as best he could. When he glanced at Molly her face was wet and red from crying and screwed up in pain. She was biting the blanket as he had suggested and other parts of it were balled up tightly in her fists. Although once the bullet was out she started to relax slowly and eventually removed the blanket from her mouth, she was breathing heavily.

"Don't get up just yet," Sherlock said, placing a hand on the back of her leg.

He reached over and grabbed the gauze and started to slowly wrap the wound. When he was finished he removed the belt and put it back on. Molly twisted around to look at him and he nodded to affirm that she could get up now. She tried to hop up but found the pain killers combined with the dull pain still throbbing in her leg made her feel very slow and just a little woozy. Sherlock couldn't help but smile in amusement and laughed when she pouted indignantly as she finally managed to pull herself to her feet.

"Was that the hotel's?" Molly asked, indicating to the first aid kit Sherlock was putting the remainder of the supplies back into. "It looks familiar."

"No," Sherlock replied absently.

"Then where-?"

"Saint Bart's," Sherlock cut her off as he snapped the lid to the kit shut.

"Oh," she said, nodding slowly. "So um, where are we off to next then?"

Sherlock sighed as he packed his kit away in his bag, then started on packing his clothes. "Amsterdam. I have a, friend, there who has agreed to let us stay with him for as long as we need," he said wearily. "Now hurry up, we haven't a moment to lose."

"We're not flying are we?" Molly asked as she walked over to the dresser holding her clothes and began stuffing them into the purple travel bag next to it.

"We'll be taking the bus, less noticeable," Sherlock said.

They pack the rest of their things in silence and within fifteen minutes they were making their way to the bus station.