The chapters just keep getting bigger, don't they? (rolls eyes) More and more for each of them to accomplish, I'm afraid.

My usual litany applies: don't panic. Trust me. No matter what you think of where the chapter starts, it ends elsewhere. Ride that bronco, people. It may buck hard, but it ends up in places I really do think you'll like.

.

.

Molly's life was on fire. That was the clearest she could put it to herself: her life was being taken over by one of those fast-moving conflagrations that start as a hot ember in the cellar at five and end up with an inferno dancing on the rooftree by half-six. The kind where no one gets out alive and the fire-fighters give helpless quotes about not keeping fireworks, old paint, petrol cans, and incendiary devices in your spare closet.

Greg had taken her to her flat the previous night, after they'd all worked out a plan to deal with Nigel—a consolation for having had their intended date steamrollered by the search for Nigel. He had very nearly stayed straight through. She was pretty sure only her own screaming nerves had stopped it happening—and her nerves had nearly lain down and surrendered, too. The hours preceding Greg giving her a final good-night kiss and toddling on back to his own place had been a revelation of sorts. Her previously chaste IKEA sofa, at least, was considerably better educated in just what two occupants could get up to than it had been the night previous.

After a lifetime of resounding romantic and erotic no-shows, Greg was the real thing, and to Molly's surprise, that was terrifying. She had thought being humiliated by Sherlock was the scariest thing she could imagine, but in retrospect it had been quite easy, demanding nothing of her but passive endurance or, occasionally, anguished protest. When Sherlock ripped into you it wasn't like you had to do anything about it, or respond, or even take any of his blather all that seriously.

Every instant with Greg seemed to open up a new negotiation, and for the first time she really understood how little she knew or had experienced. She had not, for example, really known that making out...making love...could be a long string of largely silent questions and silent answers.

If my hand is here, may it move there? If I do this, what do you respond with? I like that—why don't you see what else I like?

She'd even learned that "This is the condom I have brought along in my wallet. Are you interested in me using it?" could be a wordless, graceful, reassuring ritual, rather than a fumbling, blushing disaster between two mutually inarticulate gawks. Greg was good enough at the entire negotiation process that she had truly felt she was free to say "no," with no fearful repercussions.

Instead she'd said "yes," and for the first time ever she was left with an entirely new question. She wasn't thinking "Please, God, how do I forget this night?" or "Well, that wasn't very interesting—is that what all the fuss is about?" or "Please, Lord, may I never see him again, ever, and can I have some brain bleach?" Instead she was thinking, "Oh, Lord—I'm not playing the same sport, much less in the same league he's in. Do I want to let him teach me, though?"

It would be lovely if she did. She was sure of it. He'd made her look better than she was, and she was pretty sure she'd levelled up in just one evening as a result. But—

Maybe it was just that she wasn't a kid any more, but it was a bit unnerving being so much younger, and so much in the student role. Yes, all right, she had earned her ignorance fair and square, and it wasn't right to blame Greg for simply being a bloody good lover. But the same stubborn shift that was pushing her into med school, and into challenging Sherlock, and into taking care of herself was suggesting that maybe she'd be better off with someone closer to her skill level, but who wanted to level up a few ranks himself. She felt a bit twitchy at the thought of being sweet Molly Hooper, learning from her older, more experienced lover. It felt just a bit Victorian. Old Normal Molly would have liked it, she thought. New Normal Molly wasn't quite sure.

She was, however, sure she was grateful he'd gone home, in the end, rather than staying over. It gave her time on waking to clear her head and chase away some of the more disruptive thoughts before she got dressed to take up her position for the planned eleven o'clock Nigel-retrieval. She showered, sucked down a fast cup of coffee, ate a container of strawberry yogurt, and dressed in her weekend clothes: jeans, a jumper with printed goldfinches on the front, trainers, and an old paddock jacket that dated back to her first years in college. After consideration she plaited her hair tightly, tying it off with a green elastic. In spite of Greg, Not-Anthea, John, and Sherlock's assurances, she suspected recovering Nigel might prove active.

She had mixed feelings about that. She'd loved being "the one who counted" for Sherlock—but she wasn't naturally all that inclined to battle, and she'd honestly hated being shot at. But looking at the men in her life, what role was there for her if she couldn't match their BAMF! with some of her own? Sherlock, Greg, John—even Nigel was turning out to have the adventure bug...dammit. She didn't want to be stuck in the morgue, forgotten until someone wanted to use the lab or learn about a toxin.

But it scared her. It really scared her. She did post mortems. She knew what people died of, and she knew she didn't have the size, speed, or skills for the games Sherlock and his friends played. She didn't. She just wasn't a fighter. She wasn't. And if it weren't the only game in town she wouldn't want to be, either.

She took a taxi to King's Cross station, and took up her position in Waterman Books, just down the way from the Harry Potter commemorative platform. She leaned against a table and appeared to browse her way through the assembled books.

She hadn't seen any of her associates...and her associates, at the moment, meant almost everyone who'd been at Baker Street the night before, and a large assembly more. Not-Anthea was providing people, as were those of Sherlock's street-person network...or those remaining after so many years since the fall. Mrs. Hudson alone was not part of the rescue party, and she was back at Baker Street with two armed guards supplied by Not-Anthea, as Sherlock was not about to risk her being attacked while he and his team were otherwise occupied.

Sherlock had been so gleeful that all this was coming to a head on a Saturday. She did understand, at least a bit: for the first time since his return, his entire little fief of friends was available to orbit around him as he played Great Detective in the old, grand style he'd always enjoyed so much. She and John and Greg were all free from work, Not-Anthea was putting herself and some unknown set of her associates at his disposal, the street people were here. Sherlock could be the ring leader—Peter Pan, crowing "Oh, the cleverness of me!" and leading them all out to defeat unknown evil and retrieve their Lost Boy. He'd been vibrating with contained excitement last night, energy seeming to leap off his very skin, like St. Elmo's fire.

He'd lost it all, given up everything, "died," risen again only to find still more loss and pain—everything he'd thought he was saving all set at odds and suffering some profound sea-change. Now though, he was back, and for at least one glorious Saturday Sherlock Holmes was King.

Not that she could find him anywhere in sight. She'd peered about the new concourse coming into King's Cross, but while the brilliant, light-filled gallery had been bustling, she couldn't find anyone. She couldn't even now, loitering in place, serving as a signpost to Nigel if he were able to spot her—which she was about to make very sure he could.

She cut back to the children's section of the store and purchased a new copy of Peter Pan. She tucked the receipt into the book, put the book, clutched the book to her chest, where it glowed against the dark navy-blue of her jacket, and she proceeded out to the main area, glancing to her right, toward the permanently marked out "Platform 9 ¾", with its defining arch and the luggage trolley embedded in the wall.

For a moment her heart dropped, as no one seemed to be there. Then, down the way, she spotted him, moving in a slow, easy glide. Not that she'd have known it was Nigel, if she hadn't already been prepared for his mind-boggling chameleon changes by both her knowledge of his cosplay and by the review of his improvisations the night before.

Today he'd once more shifted his hair, having added what had to be a brown wig of a singularly drab style. His glasses were missing, as they had been for much of the adventure, judging by the photos, but he was navigating well. His clothing shouted that he was a low level labourer at a Tescos: slightly worn navy blue pants and top shirt, red t-shirt under the topper, battered trainers. She could see no sign of the umbrella, but at this point she didn't find that surprising. Nigel had proven to be a sly red fox, and had no doubt come up with a way to either hide or deliver the umbrella separately, increasing the odds of at least one of them making it through.

Molly was careful not to catch his eye, but she did drift more conspicuously toward the 9¾ platform. While everyone else was hidden, she was Nigel's signpost—the indication he'd been heard, that his message had gotten through.

The group had argued about it fiercely the night before. John and Greg had been adamant that Molly not be put at risk, pointing out she was a civilian, and already put in harm's way before, during the shooting. Not-Anthea and Sherlock, though, felt that her status as Nigel's co-worker made her the best choice to rendezvous with their little dodger: her presence did not immediately imply Nigel had contacted anyone within the undercover community circling around Mycroft. He could have, and would have contacted Molly because she was an old friend. They hoped that by making Molly the overt contact, they might avoid giving away the depth of Nigel's current support.

Nigel was approaching fast. Molly now risked catching his eye, and stepped forward, looking intentionally confused.

"Excuse me," she said, "Can you help me?"

Nigel's eyes laughed. In a blindingly false Scots accent he said, "Oh, och, aye, glad to help a wee lass like ye!"

She could barely resist his laughter. She glared, and fell in beside him. "Oh, thank you. I'm new in town, and was wondering how to get to St. Pancras to make a connection. I'm all turned about, I'm afraid."

"'Tisn't so hard," Nigel said. "Right close by. I can show you."

She smiled, and the two cut toward the concourse. Out of the corner of her eye Molly could see motion approaching, but without turning she wasn't sure who. The station was busy—at peak hour on the weekend, and the place seemed to awhirl with people. Where they being followed? Tailed by someone other than Sherlock's team? She knew that was what Sherlock and Not-Anthea were hoping—that there would be someone they could follow, capture, or question: anyone who could provide more information than they'd been able to collect so far. That was why they were taking any risks at all in picking Nigel up in the first place.

Molly wasn't sure she approved. She and Mrs. Hudson had been all in favour of bringing out the cavalry and walking Nigel to safety accompanied by the biggest, baddest, most remarkable bodyguard ever collected to cover the scrawny butt of a renegade fanboy. They'd been overruled. Apparently the state of the free world rested on letting Not-Anthea and Sherlock play Secret Agent Man...at least, according to them.

She was supposed to put her faith in a woman who looked and acted like Emma Peel—or, worse, like River Song—and a man willing to throw himself off tall buildings to trick assassins? Just how had she gotten herself into all this, anyway?

Now that she was with Nigel, she risked flashing the cover of the book at him. "Backup rendezvous if we get separated," she murmured.

He glanced, and looked away again. "Statue?"

"Yeah."

He nodded, and angled them toward the main entrance of the concourse. "Now, lass, St. Pancras is just out this way and a block over. I'll show ye." He opened up his stride, targeting the rotating doors out onto the street.

Molly was sure they were being approached, now. Two people had sorted themselves out of a mob moving toward the platforms, heading back toward the exit. Two more seemed to be approaching from the left, darting toward them. "Incoming," she murmured. "Outside—we want to avoid trouble inside the station."

Nigel was grinning like a loony, eyes wild, caught up between fear and glee. Molly wasn't having half so much fun. A terrified side glance assured her that the people racing toward her on her side weren't friends: they didn't have a warm, fuzzy look at all. She pushed harder, just short of a run, determined to make the sliding plate glass doors before they were attacked.

What happened next was never completely clear to Molly. The people on her side seemed to pick up speed, just as someone cruised behind Nigel, grabbing his arm and spinning him outward, away from her. Nigel dropped, rolled, and used his own motion to wrench free, then kicked toward the sliding doors, fast as a sprinter kicking off from his starting position. Molly's attackers veered, accidentally side-swiping her as they reoriented on Nigel.

Somewhere someone was screaming. It might have been her, but she didn't think so—she was too busy falling. Just as it looked inevitable that she'd smack down on polished decorative flooring, someone caught her elbow. This time she did scream, twisting to get away, only to hear Sherlock snarl, "Get up, moron..." and jerk her upright before racing away after Nigel.

Forms she only belatedly recognized were Greg and John poured past her, following Sherlock. Nigel managed to slip through a door as it slid open, then veered sharply left, heading for St. Pancras Station, just across St. Pancras Road. Behind him came the unknown attackers, dodging in and out between travellers. The doors slipped shut just as they came near—but the attackers were apparently desperate enough to ignore "low key" and go straight to "over the top." There was the sound of a shot, and plate glass fell in a cascade. The attackers leapt through the gaping hole, pounding fast after their prey.

Sherlock was a lean deerhound in pursuit, his coat billowing with the wind of his passage. (And just how had that rat managed to stay invisible with that coat, right up till he chose to be noticed, anyway?) Greg and John ran behind, a sturdy fox hound and a determined little beagle unwilling to fall back from the chase.

Molly was torn. Part of her wanted to just stop, find a bench, and pant and cry until her friends came back for her. The rest, though, burned to keep on, to keep up, to hold fast. Damn it, New Normal Molly wanted to run with the pack. She rushed along behind, cramming Peter Pan into her jacket pocket and trying to treat it all like a long run on the running machine in the gym.

As she hit the street another shot was fired. She had no idea who shot, or why, or whether it mattered. It terrified her. She was Molly Hooper, not Emma Peel. She'd never wanted to be Emma Peel—or not more than middling-so. Even her dreams of becoming one of the Doctor's companions had been based on a fantasy in which she was allowed a sub-section in the contract that specified "not so much running."

Ahead, just reaching the entry plaza to St. Pancras, someone managed to tackle Nigel—which would have been bad except them Sherlock managed to tackle the tackler. Which might have been a great advantage except as she approached Molly could see the metallic flash of a gun barrel. Sherlock's hands were locked around the attacker's wrist, trying to force the gun away.

Strangers screamed and ran. Guards shouted, racing in toward the conflict. Greg reached the fight and clutched Nigel's uniform top, ripping him away from the melee. John dived low, catching Sherlock around the waist and doing something complicated that set the entire conflict spinning. Out of the corner of her eye Molly saw a solid female figure in aqua take a stance, brace, and fire. An attacker just reaching Sherlock's pile-up fell. Before he'd hit concrete the shooter was in motion again, and Molly screamed warning, not sure if it was one of her team, or one of Team Bad Guy.

Things seemed to be sorting themselves. John had pulled Sherlock out of the fight. Greg had Nigel and was standing guard over him defensively, a grown dog with a pup in his charge. Aqua turned out to be one of Not-Anthea's team, apparently—or at least, Sherlock, Greg. and John all seemed to think the right person was pointing the weapon at the right targets, which was good enough for Molly. She looked over the four men, feeling shivery. She'd never gotten to see any of them in battle mode before—well, unless you counted Sherlock preparing for the Fall, and managing the aftermath. It wasn't the same thing, though, was it? Not this thing of speed and sinew and sudden death decisions? They were fighters, when they had to be—and on some level they loved it. It was a thing for them: running through London, the hunt racing together, covering the ground, tracking the prey.

She, however, wasn't. The hunt wasn't hers.

She ducked her head, and sighed, gathering herself to join them.

An arm slipped around her neck, jerking her backward. She screamed—screamed again, thrashing, dropping her weight, pulling loose.

Until she felt the gun at her temple.

Until she felt the hand cup around her chin, ready to jerk her neck around.

Until she saw Greg and Sherlock and John and Aqua spin, looking at her, suddenly alert. Nigel, behind them, went pale.

She crouched where she was, squatting half-way to the floor, her captor's hand at her chin, a gun at her head.

"Get up," her captor growled.

She tried to think like Sherlock—notice details, solve puzzles, find a way to escape. Or at least make her capture worth something. All she came up with was "male," and "gun," and "please, don't let me pee myself." Stupid to think of that, but she didn't want her last act to be losing bladder control out of terror in front of the people she loved best in all the world. She forced herself to rise from her awkward squat, thighs and calves protesting the lack of leverage and her poor balance. It wasn't the best time to ask for a bit of help up, though, was it?

Her hunting pack was slowly, unnervingly shifting, realigning their positions, even Nigel somehow sensing the flow as they prepared to attack.

"Don't do it," her captor growled. "Where's the information?"

"Don't know what you're talking about," Greg said, stepping to the forefront. His voice was steady and reasonable, almost relaxed...a negotiator's voice. "We're just here to pick up our friend. He got caught in a situation the other night and panicked. We're bringing him in. That's all."

Her captor swore. "No. The information: we know you've got it. We know you found it. Where? Where is it?"

Greg continued to talk, hands partially raised, empty—a man proving he's unarmed and not dangerous. As he moved forward he drifted slightly off the centre line of view, drawing her captor's attention from the remainder of the pack. John, Sherlock, and Nigel all dropped back and counter to Greg's sideways drift, countered by Aqua moving forward, her bright clothing and assertive movements begging for notice.

She could feel her captor's head jerk as he tried to follow the slow, subtle shifts. "Stay where you are! Stay still!" His arm tightened around her throat, and his fingers dug into her shoulder as he clutched her tight. "I'll kill her. I will..."

"Who the hell sent you?" Aqua said, her voice biting sharp, her attitude pure disgust. "Good lord, man, it's lost already. You're wasting our time. Even if we did have your information, we'd hardly give it to you now." She flicked glances sidewise, examining the wide plaza, the streets, the sidewalk. "It's done. Nothing left to win. All you can do is go out hard or go out easy."

Greg continued his slow approach, voice soft, level—even sympathetic. "Don't blame him," he responded to Aqua's comments. "It's not his fault his people left him hanging in the wind. My guess is he's just a hired gun—no more."

"I'm not," her captor shouted, angry and shaking. God, she wished he weren't shaking—not with a gun at her temple. "They trust me."

Greg shrugged, apologetically. "Maybe...but they're not here, now, are they?"

John had disappeared. She didn't know how, but the little man was gone, vanished as though he'd put on Harry Potter's invisibility cloak. Molly licked her lips and studied the pack as it was now arrayed.

Greg was at point, playing Good Cop, Reasonable Cop, Negotiating Cop—and holding her captor's primary attention. Aqua had apparently volunteered herself as his side-gunner—Bad Cop, Testy Cop, Armed Cop looking for an excuse to shoot someone. She was playing at the edge of Molly and her captor's visual range, almost in peripheral vision, hard to predict, but using her bright clothing and assertive motion to force the man to balance his attention between a central threat and a secondary one.

Nigel had walked quietly over to a security guard, and stationed close and in sight. Molly thought he'd decided the most constructive thing he could do was remove himself from play.

John, again, was missing from view...which meant only that she had no idea what he was up to: calling Mycroft's people? Bringing in a swat team? Lining up a shot?

Not-Anthea, too, was out of sight, as were any more of her teammates.

Sherlock, though, was almost perfectly placed, halfway between Greg and Aqua. His face was white stone, eyes blue fire. The wind coming up St. Pancras road fluttered his scarf and whipped at the skirt of his coat. He was in a fury. Molly knew him in a fury—too often he'd roused himself to rage over a case only to turn his anger on her if she misspoke, or derailed a chain of thought. She knew Sherlock furious—and had never seen him quite so enraged. His arms rose, slightly, his hands arching away from his body so that he looked like a gunfighter in an old American Western movie, preparing for a showdown in the main street of some little pioneer town. One hand fluttered. His fingers gestured.

At the far side of the crowd, someone began to mutter.

"No, no, no, not, not gonna, no, not gonna happen, no, no, no. I can't, not gonna..."

The voice was loose and uncertain—confused. Molly tried to see what was happening, but couldn't. Her captor tried to see, too: she could feel his chin press into her head as he tried to maintain view of all the active elements of the situation.

"No, no, not gonna happen, not that again, I can't, can't, I don't want to..." The new voice murmured and muttered, half-mad, stressed, mournful. "Don't want it. Don't. No, no, no..."

Her captor was shaking. Afraid. As afraid as she was? Maybe more afraid?

What would happen if she could change the balance of power for just a moment? Could she risk anything?

From her right the moaning man came into sight, shuffling from the edges of the crowd. One of the homeless, and dressed like it, too. Clothes dirty to the point of being greasy and caked with soot and smudge and filth. Nails black and ragged. Hair a nest for pests and pestilence. He gestured imploringly, hands going out to Molly and her captor. "No, no, no? Not gonna happen?" It wasn't just a statement any more, but a plea. "Not gonna happen?"

Aqua drifted further left, no longer really in sight. Greg moved forward again.

Molly licked her lips. They were doing something; planning something; putting something together on the wing. She had no idea what, and no idea what choices she could make to help—or that might hinder. But...

Wouldn't it be better if, for even a moment, she wasn't in centre-stage with a gun at her temple? Even one second when they didn't have to factor her physical presence into everything?

Without warning she dropped, letting her entire weight carry her down, snapping herself instantly out of her captor's hold. She shoved backward, thighs and back pounding against her captor's shins and knees. As he toppled, she rolled right, then struggled to rise—only to have John hurtle in from somewhere behind her, covering her with his body.

Above there was a multiplicity of gunshot...and then silence.

She felt John crane his neck, check out the plaza. "It's all right, now," he said, rising. He reached down to help her up. "Not bad, Molly. That last move was good."

"No. It. Was. Not." Sherlock's voice was a bronze trumpet-call, cutting through the slowly rising murmur as the crowd came alive again and police and guards rushed in to hunch over the dead criminal's corpse. "It was a bit not good. A lot not good. It was bad." He paced toward Molly, burning with anger. Greg turned to try to slow him, only to get shoved aside as Sherlock bore down on Molly and John. "You should not have even been there, you stupid, stupid girl. You shouldn't have been part of this. When the hunt started, any role you had was over. You put us all in danger, playing with fire."

Greg crossed his arms over his chest and glowered at Sherlock's back. "Pot—kettle. Kettle—pot. You're not the one to talk, Sherlock."

Sherlock whirled a half turn, skirts of his coat flying with the speed of the swirl. "I get it right," he snarled.

"Except when you bugger it up right and proper," Greg rasped back. Molly might know Sherlock's anger well. She'd never seen Greg's, though: he'd always struck her as a remarkably gentle man, slow to anger, quick to forgive. He was angry now, though.

"She could have gotten everyone killed."

"Do you have any damned idea how often you've put me and my people on the line for you, you stupid tosser? And not just when we've asked you to play in our playground? You asked Molly, you moron. John and I said it was a bad idea. We told you it was putting a civilian at risk—but did you listen to us?"

"Fat bloody chance," John drawled, seeming to hover somewhere between real annoyance and amusement.

"She should never have tried to keep up," Sherlock snapped, suddenly aware his own allies were turning on him. "She put us all in danger—and this entire project on the line."

"Oh, bugger it," John grumbled. "All she did was try to keep up. Give her a break. It wasn't her fault. She was smart and kept her head. What more do you want?"

Before Sherlock could answer, Molly snapped, "Want? Want? What does he want? Make-believe playmates who run after him and tell him how clever he is and go where he tells them and guess what he wants and put up with his insults when they get it wrong."

Oh. She hadn't known Greg could get so angry? Greg's anger was nothing to her own—and not nearly as surprising. Her rage had boiled up so high it felt like she was going to explode. She looked around the plaza, then back at Sherlock.

She gestured wide, taking in the entire space. "This is not bloody Never-Never Land." She pointed at John, then at Greg and Nigel. "They are not the Lost Boys." She pointed at Aqua. "She's not Tiger Lily." She jabbed her finger at her dead captor. "He was not Captain Hook. And me? I'm not Wendy—I am bloody not ever going to be bloody damned Wendy Darling. But you?" She paced toward him. "You are bloody, bloody, bloody Peter-Bloody-Pan...and you will never grow up, you will never stop building forts so you can play with the boys, you will never stop playing pirate king, you will never stop blaming anyone who mucks around with your games. And I have had it up to here!" She gestured with her hand to just under her chin, then jerked the copy of Peter Pan out of her pocket. "Here. Take it—go play in Kensington Gardens with Tinker Bell. I'm done." When he didn't take it, she hurled it at him.

He ignored it when it bounced off the double-breasted front of his coat and dropped to the concrete paving. "Oh, you found a new playmate, then, and think it's all over?" He was so angry he was quite literally showing fang—flashes of eye teeth, baring of incisors. "Is that all it took, by the way? Someone to finally court you, so you could let go of that stranglehold on me? At least I'm not playing at cops and robbers just to impress the boys. Was it really that simple? Are you really that obvious? No wonder Moriarty was able to play you so easily: a hint of admiration, a gentle bit of flirtation, a hand touching your wrist..."

Before she knew what she was thinking, she was swinging on him, hand open to slap. He caught her wrist in mid-swing, and they stood, frozen, both so far past the snapping point that it was an open question what, short of beating each other to death, was left.

The silence grew, stretched, seemed to develop a loathsome life of its own. In the end she could never say which of them ended it first—whether he dropped her wrist or she snatched it away, whether he spun and paced toward the corpse or she turned to John.

"God," she said under her breath as the tension dropped back from nuclear levels. "Oh, my God."

John was wearing his worried-beagle face. He stepped up cautiously, and just as cautiously offered her a hug with a small opening of his arms. Relieved, she leaned into him, burying her face against his woolly jumper.

"I can't believe I said that."

"You'd been scared. It does things to you," he said, soothingly.

"I can't believe he said that. I mean, he's Sherlock, but..." she shivered.

She felt his shoulders shrug under her palms. "He'd been scared, too. You could have died. He was scared."

"Scared his stupid game would blow up in his face."

"You know that's not true."

"Not scared for me," she amended.

"That's not true, either."

She leaned back and met his eyes. "You're sure of that?" she asked, dryly.

After a moment he looked away, and said with a tiny scoff. "He's Sherlock. Who can ever be sure with Sherlock?" He turned back and smoothed tendrils of hair away from her face, where they'd escaped. "Are you staying with us? To see how it all comes out? I know it's rough after blowing up at him—after him blowing up at you. But—I've always ended up glad to have stayed for the whole ride."

She nodded, fighting back a sniffle. "Mmm. I guess." After a moment, she asked, softly, "Was it really my fault?"

John frowned, and put an arm over her shoulder, leading her toward Greg and Nigel, who were standing together beaming identical glowers toward Sherlock, who was in the midst of some energetic discussion with the members of a specia forces team from the Met.

"No one person to blame," he said, after consideration. "Greg and I were right—you shouldn't have been in the centre of this anyway. But you shouldn't have tried to keep up with us. Me, Greg, even Sherlock—we're trained, one way or another. You don't have to pretend you're a fighter, Molly."

She snorted. "You didn't see yourselves—didn't see Sherlock. It's what you all live for, and anyone who can't keep up has no real place in your world."

"That particular part of our world? No. You're right. But that's not all our world...if it were, Mary wouldn't have a place, either."

She slipped him a sidewise glance. "Mmmm. And if you had to choose between the safe bit of the world she's in and running fast through danger to keep up with Sherlock while the bullets fly?" He blushed, and didn't answer. "Thought so," she said, softly.

"It's not that simple."

She shrugged.

John studied the special forces team with Sherlock. As he approached Greg, he said, "SO9?"

Greg nodded. "Yeah. Flying Squad."

"Not-Anthea's people dealing with it?"

"She's talking to their captain. I think the rest have scarpered."

John eased into place, putting Molly between him and Greg. Greg's arm slipped around her, leaving her with two strong men quietly providing comfort and protection while pointedly pretending they were doing nothing of the sort.

It was, she thought, both lovely and adorably cute.

She nearly leaped out of her skin, though, when arms slipped around her shoulders and neck. She squealed and spun, only to find Nigel scrambling frantically away from her.

"You idiot," she grumbled, laughing. "You scared me. I thought it was another nutter."

He grinned apologetically. "It is. Sorry. Didn't mean to toss you a trigger."

She grimaced, but nodded, slipping back into her spot between Greg and John. She twisted her head, saying, "Eh. I figure you're not entirely deadly. But—hey! You did great—you know that, don't you?"

He moved back, and again slipped his arms around her shoulders, resting his pointy chin on the crown of her head. "Yeah. I kind of did, didn't I?"

"Not bad for a rookie," Greg said, never turning to look at Nigel. "But where's the umbrella?"

"Spent the night with my gamer mate, Flynn. We boxed it in an old guitar case, crated the case. He drove his van over to the post and sent the box to Sherlock's place. Don't think we were even spotted. If it's not there by Monday, blame the Royal Mail."

"Shite, you're a sneaky bugger," Greg said admiringly. "Mind like that could think rings around a pretzel."

"What next?" asked Nigel.

"We're going to stow you in the basement apartment of 221B," John said. "Do a debrief this afternoon. Dinner. After that I don't know what. Sleep, maybe. Sleep sounds good."

It wasn't sleep, though. It was a party. Over the afternoon more and more people arrived at 221B. Not-Anthea's people arrived; Donovan and Anderson from Greg's investigative team heard word he'd been in the shooting at St. Pancras and popped over to scold him for getting himself embroiled in one of Sherlock's crazy cases again. A few of the SO9 team came by, having dealt with Greg before and hoping to get the unofficial word on what had really been happening. Nigel, spinning with energy, rattled from John's old attic room to his own temporary basement quarters, in love with his own success. Mrs. Hudson practically exploded with glee—her boys were home, they'd succeeded at dealing with a difficult problem, and now? Now there was a real party—a miracle. She sent people running to fetch supplies, buy beers, she ordered pizzas, she pulled out her CD player and all her music—music dating back decades, lovingly maintained and moved to new media or repurchased.

That alone drew a little crowd. Mrs. Hudson was exactly the age to have a box full of classics—oldies but goodies or artists who'd weathered time and proven themselves over a life-time. Most of it could be sung. Whether it could be sung well was another question, and not one people always answered well with four or five pints installed.

"Oh, God," Sherlock snarled, pacing down the stairs to collect a new beer from Mrs. Hudson's kitchen. "They've reached the point of 'Bridge Over Troubled Water.' Why don't they just go out to a karaoke bar and spare us the agony?"

"Oh, Sherlock," Mrs. Hudson scolded, cheerfully. "That just means it's a good party! It would be another thing if they were singing 'McArthur Park.'"

"Someone left the cake out in the rain, all the sweet green icing melting down," Greg sang softly behind her, grinning.

She jumped, turned, laughed, and smacked his chest playfully. "Oh, Greg! I didn't think anyone would get that. It's an old lady's song, these days."

"Leonard Cohen? Bite your tongue," Greg said, laughing right back.

Nigel popped his head up. "Cohen? You have Cohen?"

Sherlock growled—not under his breath, either. "Don't encourage her." He stalked away, heading for the fridge.

"He's in a pet, isn't he?" Mrs Hudson said, following his progress through the crowd with worried eyes. "I thought he'd be full of it tonight! He won!"

"He's mad at me," Molly said, grimly, settling herself on a stair halfway up the stairway to 221B. She took a pull on her beer, and shrugged. "'Sokay. I'm mad at him, too."

Greg leaned over and dropped a kiss on her head. "Don't let him get to you. You came through great, and that last drop was perfect timing."

"Who shot him?" Molly asked, thinking back. "Was that Aqua? It wasn't John—he was tackling me. And it wasn't you—you were front and centre playing hostage negotiation."

"If by 'Aqua' you mean the young woman from Mycroft's division, it wasn't her, either," Sherlock said. He refused to meet her eyes as he squeezed past her heading for his own living room. "She was carrying a Glock and shooting from in front. He was taken down with a Browning service revolver."

Greg made a small, wary noise, frowning. "Um..."

"No," Sherlock said, dryly. "As indicated, that agent was out of play at the moment. You may continue not knowing about the handgun you don't know about. No—someone else entirely was involved. My hypothesis is that whoever attempted to retrieve Nigel and any information chose to remove all potential leaks when it became evident the situation had deteriorated beyond recovery."

"In other words it wasn't one of us who shot him?" Greg said, slipping his hand into Molly's over the stair banister.

"I believe that's what I said, Detective Inspector," Sherlock grumbled, and continued on his way up the stair, stomping a bit more than seemed entirely necessary.

The party purred quietly on. Molly drowsed on her perch on the stairway, leaning against the spindles. When she was awake she peered between, watching the strange, entirely un-common mob move through the house. At one point she overheard a conversation between Nigel, Mrs. Hudson, and Greg, discussing Leonard Cohen.

"That's the one that got me through the divorce," Greg said, softly, as a pure, sweet woman's voice poured like golden syrup into the hallway. He joined his voice to hers toward the end, his baritone steady, if not professional.

.

As someone long prepared for this to happen.
Go firmly to the window; drink it in.
Exquisite music, Alexandra laughing;
Your first commitments tangible again.

Mrs. Hudson's creaky but true alto joined the song, wistful and patient.

And you, who had the honour of her evening,
And by that honour had your own restored—
Say goodbye to Alexandra leaving;
Alexandra, leaving with her lord.

.

It was a patient, courageous song, Molly thought, nursing another beer. But it wasn't a young man's song. It wasn't a song for first mistakes or even third mistakes. It reminded her too strongly that Greg was older than she was...that he'd already lived a life she'd barely gotten around to hoping for.

She dozed again. When she woke next people were singing, but it had devolved during her nap, and someone—not Greg, thank God—was caterwauling "I can't liiiive, if livin' is without yoooooou, I can't give, I can't give anymore!"

She hurled herself back into sleep, hoping the storm of sentiment passed soon or Sherlock would surely perish of insulin overload.

It was late when she woke up next. The party, it seemed, had finally ended...or at least converted to the state of weary, tipsy partiers crashed out on chairs. The hall was lit by a faint flickering light from Mrs. Hudson's living room fireplace. She stood and stretched, trying to decide where she was going to sleep. Going home didn't seem an option—but if she kept falling asleep on the stairwell she was going to end up with the worst backache. Maybe Mrs. Hudson's tub was unoccupied?

She heard footsteps pacing toward her from Mrs. Hudson's kitchen. A glance was enough to identify Sherlock's silhouette. Molly shifted, preparing to let him past.

"You're awake," he said, standing at the foot of the stairway, holding a chocolate digestive, looking up at her. His face was cool and unreadable.

"Mmmm," she agreed, muzzily.

"Mmm. Yes." He stepped up one step, and was about to step up another, when he stopped.

She looked down at him, bemused to see the crown of his head, the tousled mop of curls. She was almost a foot shorter than he was—she never saw the top of his head, even when he was sitting in the lab. "Am I in the way?"

He glanced up, then. In the dark of the hall there was no colour to his eyes, only the dark shadows of their sculpting and the fringe of lashes. "No." He took a breath, and said, with great control, "I am afraid I owe you an apology. Again. John's rather gone the limit pointing out that your decision to drop and roll was critical in the resolution of the crisis."

She shrugged. "I owe you an apology, too. You're right. There was nothing I could have added to the situation once those people attacked. I should have stayed where I was, or gone for guards. Racing after you was just stupid."

"Not racing after us would have left you alone and unprotected—still a likely target for attack."

"Mmm." She shrugged. "No good answers, then."

He nodded, a little, jerky motion. "I'm still sorry. I...lost my temper."

"I did, too."

"I baited you. I do that. I'm sorry. I wish you luck with Lestrade. He's a good man."

"A bit early for sending me congratulations letters," Molly said, softly. "We're not a couple. We're...I don't know."

"More than nothing, though."

She didn't waste time trying to deny it. He was Sherlock. She wasn't sure he couldn't tell her personal details of her past days even she didn't know—or at least, didn't understand fully.

"He's a good man, Molly Hooper. He's worthy of you." He climbed another stair, then leaned in and kissed her lightly, high on the cheek, his face at a level with her own. "Good luck, Molly Hooper." Then, suddenly, clumsily, he leaned in again, and kissed her mouth—then shot back in panic. "I'm sorry. I..."

She looked at him, and sighed. It was too late, and she was too tired, and really, if there was one thing Greg seemed to have right, it was that all the histrionics weren't worth it. She said, "Sherlock, shut up and stand still."

"What?"

"Just shut up and stand still. I mean it." She slipped one hand out, allowed it to curl around his shoulder and around the back of his neck. She pulled him close, and kissed him, taking her time, letting her tongue slide along his lips, then in when he gasped.

It was a good kiss. When it was done, she leaned back. "Good night, Sherlock. Sleep well."

"I..." His eyes were huge, the white showing wildly.

"No. Don't. Just don't even try," she said, wanting to laugh. "Just think about it. Now, I'm going to see if Mrs. Hudson's tub is available."

"It's not, but there's a spare chaise down with Nigel," he said, still staring.

"Good," she said, and walked down the stairs past him.

It had been one heck of a day.

.

.

+The song referenced in the post-rescue party is Alexandra Leaving, by Leonard Cohen and Sharon Robinson, sung by Sharon Robinson. It's amazing, beautiful, heart-stoppingly sad, and you should go look it up on YouTube or similar. Look up the lyrics, while you're at it. For a whole lot of reasons I picked it as Greg's "survive the divorce" song, and invoked it in this chapter...not least of all to focus on the fact that he's survived the loss of something much larger and more developed than a tentative, new, if tender courtship with Molly Hooper. I promise, I am not planning on breaking him. I may be setting things up for Sherlock, but I'm not just throwing Greg Lestrade to the wolves to make it happen: I truly think the character as implied, and as played, has more grounding than that—and more opportunities waiting for him. And, heck, even if you don't agree with me, I've just given you a pointer to a really gorgeous song to add to your life-list. (smile)