Sorry for the wait.. I'll try to update quicker! Damn RL keeps getting in the way.

Thanks for reading, for any comments I'm immensly grateful.

ML

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"What do you mean you have no idea?"

The question in John's tone was overridden by the anger that had started to boil inside him. He had expected to find Sherlock - no, more than that, he had trusted to find Sherlock - and now that he had been denied this, the adrenaline circulating in his veins started to get the better of him. The build-up had started on that very moment not so long ago - but what now seemed like a lifetime - when he had seen the x-rays and realized that Sherlock was not dead. It was then that something had shifted inside John; the numb, desolate void that had been filling him ever since he had learnt about Sherlock's death had cracked, and John had felt hope - a pure, genuine hope that had allowed him to believe he could have Sherlock back. It had been a magnificent, intoxicating surge of gratitude and happiness - and now that it - now that Sherlock - was taken from him, again, it was almost too much for him to take. The hope and the disappointment that now followed melted together and mutated into a white-glowing fury, sheer rage, almost; had John had the capability to step outside of himself for a second he could have easily noted that he had never, in fact, in his life been that angry, so blinded by his emotions.

But of course he couldn't do that. The anger and pain consumed him and blurred his vision; there was little left of rational thoughts in his head.

John had grabbed Molly by the wrist, twisting it in a way making it impossible for her to move without a considerable amount of pain. Yet she seemed relatively unmoved by this or by his anger in general; it was as if there had been a mask over her features to hide whatever she was thinking or feeling. It didn't occur to John that it was quite possible she felt nothing.

"I mean I don't know, what do you think I mean?" Her voice was a bit muffled; it could have been because of the physical discomfort John was causing her.

"Who took them? Who took Sherlock and Moriarty?" John's words were forced through his lips pressed together in a tight line; it took him all the restraint he had not to bash her head in.

Molly's eyes had a malicious gloat in them. "Why would I tell you? Even if I knew?" There was contempt in her voice as she spat them out; even as she had the shorter end of the stick in terms of physical strength she still seemed to think she had the upper hand when it came to the mental.

John's jaw clenched and the grip of his hand tightened. "Because I swear to God, I will hurt you if don't." And he meant it; never in his life before had John wanted to deliberately hurt someone. His experiences in the war and as a doctor had taught him to appreciate life, and if he ever had hurt someone it had been because of self-protection or other situation which hadn't left him with any other choice. But now, as he glared at the woman standing between him and Sherlock John suddenly realized that he would hurt her, he would break his principles; and the thought made him stagger.

Molly stared into his eyes and John saw she realised that he wasn't merely threatening. A hint of interest wavered in the corner of her eyes and was then gone; like she would have not only seen what John was capable of doing because of Sherlock, but also understood what it meant. When she spoke there was a tone in her voice which could have been categorized as compassion - had it not been so out of place in that situation.

"You really love him, don't you, John.." Her voice trailed off.

She wasn't asking; she was recognising. Possibly the same feeling she thought she recognised in herself; the same need, the same ache that burnt her own chest, Molly now saw in John. For a fleeting second she shared his pain, his longing to be with Sherlock; she knew how it felt after yearning for him for so long. The difference was that in the twists of her mind her emotion had became contaminated and turned into something destructive and ugly; but for a second she was able to see in John the pure, honest emotion she herself had possessed a long time ago, before the downfall of her sanity had started, and the memory of that emotion made something inside her damaged mind shift.

Molly closed her eyes. Seconds passed; blood was humming in John's ears.

When Molly opened her eyes after a while and looked at John again, she was blinking as if waking up from a dream. There was a glimmer in her eyes and it almost looked like she would have been on the verge of tears. Suddenly the silence of the room was close to a tactile; like a thick cloth that wrapped around both of them as they stared at each other in watchful, motionless stillness. She in her madness, he in his anger; both in love with the same man.

Then John, having calmed down just enough to get a rational thought in his head again, saw the change in her demeanor and grasped it with the accuracy of a desperate man looking for the last life saving straw.

"You love him too, Molly, don't you?" John's voice was quiet and he didn't know even himself if the empathy in it was fake or genuine.

Molly stared at him, blankly, and for a while John was afraid she didn't buy it; that she either wasn't that crazy or not crazy enough.

To his luck, she was.

"I do.. I do love him." Her voice was just a whisper and in her eyes was a look of total helplessness; she was frantically searching John's face, looking for something John had no idea about.

John eased his grip on her a bit, causing a sigh to escape Molly's lips. Obviously his hold on her wrist had been stronger than he had realized.

"Then help me find him. Help me. Where did they take him?" John's voice was firm and his eyes didn't leave Molly's for a second. He was almost too tense to breathe; he was afraid that any second she would flip out again and he would loose any connection he had to her.

Molly opened her mouth and then closed it again; she looked bewildered. "They are going to kill him. They will kill him." Her voice was more audible now, and there was a hint of panic creeping in it.

John shook his head. "No, we won't let them. We will save Sherlock. Where did they take him?" John kept his tone as solid as he was able to, but he couldn't help the nervousness raising its head inside him. Kill Sherlock? Who? Why? There were too many questions, too little time to get answers to them and the only one with the capability to do so was the deteriorated human being in front of him.

"Save him.." Molly's eyes wandered away from John's. Then she nodded vigorously. "Yes, I will save Sherlock. I will save him."

John stared at Molly, still worried that the last of whatever reason she may had had in her would disembark at any moment. "Take me to them, Molly." His heart was throbbing in his ears; it was like dismantling a bomb - one wrong movement, wrong word, and she might just blow up.

Molly turned her eyes back to him, and they had a piercing clarity in them. "OK."

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It had to be said that all in all the whole situation was quite uncomfortable - every muscle, bone and joint in Sherlock's body felt stiff and unused after being bedridden for so long and had protested strongly against the sudden movements forced on them while being dragged out from Molly's house; judging by the grunts Sherlock had heard coming from Moriarty's general direction he had undoubtedly shared his discomfort. To top that, they still wore nothing but the thin hospital gowns that Molly for some god-forsaken reason had dressed them into; it made the crisp winter weather feel almost violently cold. Now, sitting in the back of the van together with Moriarty and two of the men, with the third one driving, Sherlock had time to think about the situation.

It was hard to estimate how long they had been in the van. The concept of time had, after all, evaded Sherlock for quite a while now - thanks to being drugged - but he assumed it to be something around a half of an hour, perhaps forty minutes. He didn't know where they were, either; a bag over your head makes it significantly more difficult to make notes of your surroundings, especially if you don't have a clue of the starting point, either. What Sherlock could tell by the evenness and speed of the ride was that they were driving on relatively empty, well-maintained roads; by the mild turns and lack of stops it was easy make out that they were not in any city center. Somewhere outside the urban areas, then, but not in a complete countryside, either. The van didn't have any particular smells besides a faint odor of some cleaning agent - a rental car, perhaps. The two men didn't talk and had forbade Sherlock and Moriarty from doing so either; an order Moriarty had broken by commenting the smell of the other man's breath and been awarded with a what had sounded like a relatively strong hit in his guts.

So they drove in silence. Sherlock stretched his ears to get any kind of clue from the outside world but it was in vain; any possible sound was drained by the roar of the car engine. He was sitting in the corner, right next to the wall dividing him from the driver; the other man sat on his left side, and he assumed Moriarty and the other man to sit opposite to them. He could tell that the benches they were sitting on were made of timber - temporary solution, then, and the back of the van not meant for people transport.

Out of the blue Moriarty broke the silence.

"Are we there yet?" His voice came directly opposite from Sherlock, muted a bit by the bag over his head.

"Shut up." The man sitting next to Moriarty didn't sound like he would ask again.

"But I need to pee, daddy!" Moriarty shrieked, sounding unmistakably like a five-year old brat who refused to go to the loo before leaving the house.

"Shut up." The man didn't even raise his voice as he slammed Moriarty's head to the wall. It made a dull thumb, and Sherlock felt it on his temple resting on the same wall.

Suddenly Sherlock hear muffled words coming from the driver's side of the vehicle; he was apparently talking with someone in a phone. Thanks to Moriarty's little act, the attention of both of the gangsters was focused on him, just enough for Sherlock to shift his position so that he got his ear to the wall and was able to make out some words. For a fleeting second he wondered if Jim had done his play on purpose.

Then the thought escaped him as he strained his ears to hear what the driver was saying.

"...our way, but there's a bit of an issue... ...two of them..."

"..sorry boss... know what he looks like.."

"holmes"

"...am sure.. yeah"

"alright miss adler"

Adler.

Irene.

Sherlock's breath got stuck in his throat.

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*nervous twitch* that was a bit of a surprise for me as well. what do you think? am i going off with this?