Hello, this is the Queen speaking.

I'm sorry that I've been away for so long. My Grandma passed away recently and it's been...tough for my family and I. I know what your thinking 'excuses excuses' but I just needed a bit of time to come to terms with it and say goodbye.

On a different note, I have found that Sherlock needs a John like figure, a voice of reason, so Marc gets to stay! If he didn't Shezza would be running around in his mind palace for hours on end with no one to drag him out and actually do things.

Disclaimer: I own nothing ... except Marc.

...

Sebastian Moran. Ex-American Military turned hired gun. Seemingly unlinked to Moriarty, but if you really look, most of his previous kills have all been tied other criminals, who's crimes did work for the consulting criminal. Ruthless. Murderer. Criminal. Mentally unstable ... And dating Molly Hooper.

Sherlock sat quietly in his seat on the flight from Brussels to London, hardly talking to anyone. His Mind Palace felt like it was constantly crumbling at the walls, so he spent a little less then half the fight patching up all the walls with reassurance, things that told him Molly would be okay. The rest of the time he spent thinking about Moran, and more precisely, thinking about ways to painfully kill Moran (So far, he was down to his top 8.)

"Mr. Holmes?" A voice spoke at his shoulder. "We will be landing soon."

Sherlock turned his head to see one of the flight attendants. He glanced down and read the stewards name tag. "Thank you Robert."

He nodded his head and left, leaving Sherlock, yet again, to be tormented by his own thoughts.

Marc was sitting next to him, every now and then trying to drag him into pointless conversation. Sherlock couldn't afford to be distracted. He had been concentrated for so long, not worrying about his friends, knowing that they would be safe with him far away from them (at least till the network was destroyed), but now Molly was in danger. And the danger didn't end at her, everyone she knew would be involved, and in turn, everyone he had tryed to protect in the first place. Why does she never listen to me? Didn't I tell her to give up dating? For the sake of law and order?

As Marc was trying in vain to draw him into conversation on terrible airplane food, I have to agree with you there, Sherlock lent back in his chair, hands pressed together under his chin, and started to regulate his breathing. In his mind he concentrated on the 'Palace' he had constructed for him memories and information, picturing it with difficulty. He tryed and tryed again but the noise of nervous chatter and nonsensical conversation cut at his ears.

"EVERYBODY SHUT UP!" Sherlock yelled. The sound of voices and digital beeping stopped, reduced to heavy breathing and tapping thumbs. All eyes landed on him. Silence. Uncomfortable silence, but near not quite silence none the less.

Again Sherlock focused on his palace, ignoring the rustling of people in seats and shaky breath. This time he made it in.

...

He wasn't sure what he was looking for, or if he was looking for anything at all. Maybe he had just wanted the solitude his own mind provided him. As he navigated his own halls he found he himself walking in circles. He could turn left, right, head straight, or just plain turn around but he always ended up at one door. Molly's door. He remembered an old saying, 'Mīlle viae dūcunt hominēs per saecula Rōmam ' A thousand roads lead men forever to Rome. It seemed in this case, Molly Hooper was his Rome.

He avoided going in for a few rounds but eventually gave in. He needed the comfort her room provided.

Over time he had found that Molly's room in his mind palace had grown to be the most warm and comforting. Her room more closely resembled her flat, so really, room was a relative term in her case. It was always warm and well lit. But the odd thing was that her 'room' didn't end at her flat. Next to her bathroom, on the other side of the hall to her kitchen, was an elevator that led down first to the Path Lab at Barts and then down to Molly's Morgue.

In quiet a lot of his down time he would retreat to her room. He would sit on her settee and watch old memories of her, outside of the hospital, on her small TV. He would go down to the lab and read through experiments he had done there with her. He would go down to the Morgue where he would watch his Mind Molly cut open past cadavers that had fascinated him when they had arrived in real life.

Now, he walked into the room and was taken aback by what he saw. The living room was turned over and in chaos. The bedrooms, bathroom, and kitchen were in similar states. Chairs where thrown across room, photo albums and books strewn across the floor. The biggest thing that struck him was that his Mind Molly hadn't greeted him at the door. He flew through the flat, looking under rubble and broken furniture for her. After the search in the flat proved fruitless he raced to the elevator. His heart was racing rapidly. That never happened in Molly's room. It was possibly the calmest and safest place in his mind palace (that is if you're not counting Mummy's armchair in the throne room).

The lab was empty but in the same state of chaos as the flat. Broken glass scattered around the floor. Upturned stools. The computer screen had been smashed. There was a strange smell coming from the corner. Sherlock turned his head and saw what it was. All of Molly's carefully organised chemicals had been thrown together, odd combinations where reacting all over the cabinets and in large puddles on the floor. Molly was nowhere in sight.

Then he stepped into the morgue.

And the room was practically on fire.

The blurry face of Sebastian Moran stood over a blood covered and screaming Molly. Moran's figure was distorted and rough, due to the bad quality pictures Sherlock had seen of the ex military, who was currently looming over the crying women Sherlock had found comfort in countless times, even if it was just in his head.

Molly looked up at him through tears and blood. He couldn't hear anything but what she was mouthing was unmistakable. 'Save Me, Sherlock! Please! '

Moran's hands were tangled in Molly's ponytail, pulling her head up. Sherlock ran towards them, but the room stretched every step he took. The ground moved under his feet but Molly and Moran always stayed just put of his reach, no matter how fast he ran.

Molly kept on mouthing his name, over and over. He could almost hear her sweet voice.

"Sherlock! Sherlock! Sherlock?"

...

"Sherlock? Sherlock! Sheeeerrlooock! Mr Holmes? Wake up!"

Marc was shaking him. Violently.

"Sherlock? Are you okay? SHERLOCK!"

"YES!" Sherlock yelled. "I'm fine, you moron. Have we landed?" He was a little pissed about the rude awakening, but mostly unsettled of what he had seen in his mind palace. He rubbed a hand over his face, trying to convince himself that it was all in his head, that there was still time to save and protect her. Still time to save Molly.

"Yes, five minutes ago."

Sherlock's head snapped towards Marc. "Five minutes ago? Why didn't you wake me sooner?"

"Trust me, we tryed, but you were really in deep. It took a bit of ... gentle persuasion to not have the soldiers drag you off the plane themselves." Marc mumbled gesturing towards the two men standing, looking inpatient, next to the door.

"Gentle persuasion huh?" Sherlock said, poking the bruise that was forming on Marc's jaw.

"Stop that!" Marc slapped his hand away. "Now get your things. It is in my knowledge that you have a lady to get to."

...

Thought it'd be fun to go with Sherlock into his head and explore a bit.

We'll get back to Molly in the next chapter, don't panic. Sherlock Holmes is back in England and ready to do some damage. Who's nose should we break first?

Thanks for reading and reviewing.