A/N - Hey honey's! Well here is another chapter :] I kinda couldn't stop writing and really wanted to give you this for being so incredibly amazing :] I love you and stay strong! I promise this will have a happy ending :]

Enjoy! and thanks again for being amazing, I love you all!

Echo

Chapter Eight

Forced Reunions

After much deliberation Sherlock caved and rounded on himself, heading back to Molly's flat with haste. He had been walking the back alleys of London for at least thirty minutes, his mind betraying him with images of Molly, the way she smiled, the way she smelt, her shy mannerisms, the way she seemed to blossom beneath him. He had tried to fight his emotions, crush his heart and ignore the irritating tug that he felt the moment his foot hit the hard pavement outside her building.

Sherlock was not a love struck man. He simply could not rid himself of the curiosity – why did he feel this way? What would happen if he sought out the answers? Would he find an acceptable conclusion? Sherlock was a man of science and this was a new discovery for him.

With a slight chuckle Sherlock grasped the handle to Molly's apartment building, giving a sharp twist while bumping his shoulder into the wooden door; he smirked as the door opened with a dull click – the door was old and fairly easy to manipulate into opening. If only more burglars used their brains, they could avoid so much hassle and mess. He didn't make a habit of breaking and entering, but he wasn't about to give himself in and allow Molly to think he had gone soft. He needed to think up a good enough reason as to why he would return. Closing the door silently behind him, he turned ready to take the stairs and plan a little speech.

As he turned however, Sherlock's eyes drank in the red smudges on the wallpaper leading down the stairs, the scuff marks of shoes on the wooden steps. Blood running cold, Sherlock moved in closer, stepping over the obvious evidence to inspect the smudges – they were most certainly blood, and from the small rises at the top of the staircase, he would have to assume that they were hand prints. But from who's hand, he could not decipher – or perhaps, to be more accurate, didn't want to decipher. The logical side of Sherlock's mind reminded him that the size of the hand indicated that it was female, and by the amount of blood and the fact that it was clearly done to leave a mark and evidence, indicated that it could only be one person in this building; Molly Hooper.

Gritting his teeth and closing his eyes, Sherlock released a sigh of frustration and turned quickly, bolting through the entrance and scanning the street – not a thing out of place; which meant that she wasn't dragged away, they had transport. Walking to the curb, Sherlock crouched down, seeing the tire marks on the asphalt; the driver had sped off quickly. Judging by the size of the marks, it was a four by four, possibly a jeep or land rover. Lowering his head, Sherlock pinched the bridge of his nose before pulling himself to his feet, wandering over to a phone box and dialling the number of the D.I. which he had hoped never to bother again.

He answered after two rings, "Detective Inspector Lestrade, how can I help?" His voice was music to Sherlock's ears, he needed help. He knew that he could find the attacker on his own but it would take too long, he needed Lestrade's team and he needed to find Molly before it was too late.

"Lestrade, it's me." Sherlock was cut off by a gasp from the other end of the phone, but he quickly cut in before the inspector could berate him. "It's Molly, she's missing. I need you and your forensics team to come to her flat immediately. I will explain everything in due time, but right now you need to do as I say." Sherlock held his breath, listening as the man sighed in frustration. He had hoped it wouldn't come to this, but Sherlock was desperate as he uttered a word which was rather foreign to his vocabulary, "Please."

Sherlock sat waiting on the door step, his mind telling him to go into the flat and check everything over, find evidence which nobody else would see. However, another part of him was afraid of what he would find in there, the place that he had only an hour ago vacated. When he had been there, everything was in place, Molly was safe and Sherlock was blissfully unaware that it may be the last time he saw her. Clenching his fists, Sherlock tried to ignore the images of her lifeless body in some sort of basement, lights flickering, cold floors and a brutal killer looming over the corpse.

Sherlock was pulled from his agonising mind when the blue flashing lights reached his eyes. Releasing a long sigh, he pushed off the door step and stood to his full height, waiting for the inevitable wearing down from the often hot headed Inspector.

Lestrade jumped out of the car as it pulled up to the curb, nodding his head toward the tall man standing before the front door, before turning to order his men to remain in the vehicles until he had seen the crime scene. Sherlock watched, rather befuddled as the Inspector walked past him and through the door, asking questions and looking over his shoulder, as though nothing had transpired over the months of his 'death'.

"How long has she been missing?" Lestrade's voice was controlled and full of authority; he was in full Detective mode.

"At the very least it's been thirty five minutes, an hour at max." Sherlock spoke clinically; his eyes however remained trained on the hand smear as they walked up the stairs.

Lestrade turned as he approached her open door, noticing the worry in Sherlock's eyes. "They won't kill her Sherlock, they must have taken her alive for something, and it would defeat the object if they murdered her now. They want something." He had never before felt the need to comfort the emotionally stunted man, but even behind the impassive expression he could tell that Sherlock was concerned. It wasn't just in his eyes, but in the way he walked, not with purpose as he usually did, but as a man condemned, a man afraid to take another step.

Sherlock stiffened as Lestrade mentioned murder. Molly didn't deserve this. Even if they didn't kill her, she would be afraid and alone and that just didn't seem to be sinking in. He needed to find her and quickly. Squaring his shoulders, Sherlock strode through the door, seeing the coffee table knocked out of place and the small pool of blood below it; Molly had pulled away from her attacker, possibly losing her balance and hitting her head against the corner of the table – which explained the small amount of blood. She must have known to fear them, to try to get away from them abruptly.

Ignoring the Inspector, Sherlock followed more red hand prints toward the kitchen, his heart sinking as he saw the scattered knives on the tiled floor. None were dripping with blood and only one had red fingerprints on them; Molly had tried to fend off her attacker with a weapon. Good girl.

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he once again cursed himself for leaving her. Why hadn't he stayed? Why? What was so fantastic about wandering the country alone? Growling in anger Sherlock turned on his heel, following the small splashes of blood leading to the bedroom. His heart sank in dreaded anticipation of what he might find.

Lestrade followed Sherlock, he too afraid of what they may discover and what the Consulting Detective would do next. Looking over Sherlock's shoulder he saw that the bed sheets had been pulled from the bed, strewn on the floor with a slight smear of blood. Lestrade did not notice as Sherlock picked up the vial from the dresser top and slid it into his pocket. Sherlock had a feeling that he may need it, the chemical compound which had never been used.

"Tell your men they can come in, I need to go home." Sherlock's voice was void, his eyes glazing over as he pushed past Lestrade, in an obvious rush to get out of the place.

Lestrade followed quickly, hand grasping the taller man's shoulder, forcing him to halt and turn. "Look Sherlock, John didn't take it all too well, he has been distant. Please don't be – you know – yourself." He spoke tentatively, watching the frustration roll through the clearly worried man before him.

Sherlock shrugged off his hand absently, "I don't have time to be gentle Lestrade, Molly is missing and I need John. I will do my apologies and explanations after she is back and safe. Now do your job and leave me to do mine." His voice was deadly as he scowled down at the Inspector, his eyes piercing before he stormed from the flat, his eyes trained on the floor as he rushed down the stairs, narrowly avoiding the sight of her blood.

After the long cab drive, Sherlock wasted no time as he slipped the all too familiar key into the lock and pushed the heavy black door open. He relished in the comfortable scents and atmosphere of his home. Striding into the entrance and closing the door, he took the steps two at a time, eager to both see his friend and try to solve the mystery.

Sherlock steeled himself as he opened the door; he was ready for the onslaught of emotions. However he was surprised as he pushed the door open and found John and Mrs Hudson sat on the couch, three cups of tea on the table. "Lestrade rang, what can we do to help? Are there any suspects?" John's voice was steady and strong but Sherlock could detect the waver, and judging by the clenched fists at his sides, John was holding back his anger.

Sherlock gave a slight nod before picking up the cup closest to him. "I need to bounce ideas off you. I don't know who it could be, but they are keeping her alive for a reason. We need to figure that out. I need to find her, John. Molly helped me, she saved my life." Sherlock's jaw clenched yet again, his muscles clenching tightly before he finally let go, spinning around, his arm pulled back before he threw the china cup against the wall behind him. "I should have stayed with her! I could have protected her!"

Sherlock flinched slightly as he felt John's hand gently touch his shoulder. "We will find her Sherlock. But you need to calm down and think clearly. You can't help her by destroying the flat." John gave his friend a slight pat on the shoulder before moving to the kitchen to find the dustpan and brush. He would forget about the months past – for now. John had never seen Sherlock strung to tightly before, he was obviously harbouring a lot of feelings for the pathologist. He only hoped that they could bring her back to him; it would be nice to see Sherlock happy for once.

Sherlock turned to see Mrs Hudson; shoulders hunched slightly, head down cast as she sobbed quietly. Without saying a word, Sherlock moved to sit by the elderly lady, draping his arm gently around her shoulders and giving her a slightly awkward hug. She didn't respond right away, her fingers locking and unlocking in her lap. "Oh Sherlock, I thought you were dead - we all did and now this - Molly the poor girl. She was lovely at the funeral; looking after me and John. Please find her Sherlock." She finished with a shuddering breath, her small body rocking with the force of her silent sobs. Sherlock didn't reply, simply held her in silence, praying that he could find her.

John re-entered the room, observing the scene before him. They didn't have time for this, John knew that in most cases they had twenty four hours, they needed to get a move on if they hoped to find her relatively unscathed. Dropping the dustpan and brush, John walked over to the table, arms crossed as he observed Sherlock. "Right, so you've been with her this whole time?"

Sherlock glared at the man before him, ready to defend himself, however John carried on. "I'm not starting an argument Sherlock. But if you have been there this whole time, then you must have noticed things. Did she get any odd calls? Did anything bizarre happen? Is she being harassed in some way?" John had begun pacing, finger pressed to his bottom lip in concentration.

Sherlock furrowed his brow, untangling himself from a now alert Mrs Hudson, he stood and joined the pacing. Anything strange? Oh – "Her cat is missing. She was worried but then with all the stress, she must have forgotten. But that could mean that somebody took her cat, perhaps as a warning. But who would take her cat? It would have to be somebody that knew her well enough to know her adoration of the creature."

John began nodding his head, "yes that could be a clue. But who the he-" he stopped quickly as the sound of his laptop bleeping rang through the flat. Sherlock and John both turned to the offending object, eyebrows drawn together as they saw the screen spring to life, a small envelope dancing in the centre. John shook his head, thinking that it was probably just junk mail and turned back to Sherlock, opening his mouth to speak when another beep rang from the laptop, the envelope developing a number two in the corner.

Sherlock was faster than John as he simply wanted to shut the retched thing up. Quickly clicking on the message, his heart faltered slightly as he saw the messages. The first of which read, 'I think I have something of yours' and the second 'Don't ignore me, it's dreadfully rude.' Sherlock could feel John behind him, "Sherlock, the first message has a file attached to it." His voice was slightly panicked as his mind ran through the possibilities.

Sherlock set his jaw stubbornly and clicked on the file, waiting impatiently for it to download, growing slightly fearful as a video popped up onto the screen and began to play. Both John and Sherlock held their breath as the video began, at first it was slightly out of focus, only smudges of white and black. When the image finally cleared Sherlock's fists clenched in indignation while John blushed profusely, eyes diverting from the screen. It was a video of him and Molly, wrapped up in her bed sheets, Molly's head rolling back as she moaned his name. Before he could switch it off however, the clip changed. John spluttered when the image of Moriarty sprang to the screen, a cruel smile set in place as he spoke to the camera. "Did I fool you? Oh Sherlock, you disappoint me! Did you really think that you were the only one who could fake your own death? I think I did a more convincing performance, but hey, you did your best. And all with a little help from our little Molls." His smile turned sadistic as he turned the camera, setting it onto the blood stained face of Molly Hooper.

Sherlock sat back in the chair, his fingers drawing up and pressing to his lips, his eyes never leaving hers as the tears fell down her face. "Go on Molly. Say hi!" Sherlock analysed her face slowly, making a mental note of each and every mark, the bruise under her eye, the blood trickling down her nose, bust lip and by the off set of her jaw, he'd say that was fractured as well.

The tears were falling rapidly down her puffy cheeks, her hair sticking to the blood and sweat on her forehead. "I'm sorry, Sherlock." Her whispered words were barely audible as her swollen lips moved sluggishly. Sherlock's eyes grew wide as he saw the hand fly across her cheek with a resounding crack before the picture went black.