A/N - Hello you wonderful people who make writing this fic such a pleasure :] I just want to say thank you all so much for the reviews, they keep me going and make me smile :]

This chapter is a little uhm distressing for Molly, and now there is only one chapter to go before its finished, but not to worry, the sequel is ready to go :] I know the fic is short but I wanted it short and sweet so it wasn't too daunting to read :] but it will be carried on and Sherlock and Molly will have a chance to explore their relationship :]

Enjoy!

Echo

Chapter Nine

Saviour

Molly stood motionless for several seconds as her brain tried to catch up with the scene before her; Jim was back, standing at her door. He didn't look anything like before, his hair was now combed perfectly to the side, a fitted suit complimenting the contours of his body and his once gentle eyes were now a mixture of insanity and amusement. Molly made an involuntary squeak in the back of her throat as the danger of the situation dawned on her.

"I missed you, Molly." He whispered as his hand slid toward her folded arms.

Recoiling in disgust, Molly's eyes flew open as she fell backwards. She tried to twist her body in order to catch herself before she hit the ground, however she was too late, and the side of her head collided painfully into the coffee table. Her fragile body crumpling as it slammed into the ground. Blinking several times, Molly tried to clear her blurred vision, but it didn't help, she was still seeing double.

With a frown, Molly reached a tentative hand toward the side of her head, wincing as her fingers came in contact with the tender flesh. Pulling her hand away slowly, she almost gagged when she saw the crimson fluid trailing down her fingers. Swallowing the bile and trying to push back the dark haze, Molly shivered as she heard the mocking laughter from the doorway and his ominous footsteps approaching.

Scrambling onto all fours, Molly shuffled gracelessly to the kitchen. Her blood soaked hand slipping on the tile floor as she made her way to the sink, eyes targeting the knives in the wooden block. Digging deep for energy, Molly grasped the handle of the cupboard below the sink and pulled herself upright, grabbing the largest knife and tugging. Molly cringed at her clumsiness, watching the knifes scatter around her prone form. Her grip tightened on the largest knife as Jim approached, his eyes set intently on her; he seemed undeterred by her choice of weapon.

The blood from her wound was now trailing down her face, the thick fluid making her feel sick to the stomach. The pain from her head was distracting Molly from the dangerous man before her. Of its own accord the hand holding the knife began to loosen, the shiny metal object slipping from her grasp.

Jim began to tut slowly, crouching down to meet her eyes. "Oh Molly, What a mess you've made. Unfortunately head wounds will do that to you; make you weak and pathetic." He spat the last word, causing Molly to visibly flinch. "Now, we need to have a little chat." With that said, Jim roughly gripped the back of Molly's hair, tugging her across the tiled floor, through the living room toward the bedroom. Molly began to feel real fear as he kicked the door open and threw her to the floor.

"So, I was that bad huh?" Jim whispered dangerously, his eyes roaming around the room as he stroked his chin. "You threw out the bed sheets? Got a new bed? Why? Because you didn't enjoy it? No that's not it; you loved it. I know you did, because I've been with whores before Molly and I know when they fake it. You didn't. So what, you threw them out because you were ashamed? That hurts my feelings. I was nice to you, Molly Hooper. Not many people can brag about that, but you could."

Molly gasped as Jim lunged, his hand wrapping around her throat as he stared into her eyes. "He was never nice to you. But I don't see you ashamed that you fucked him." His voice was still eerily calm as he tugged the bed covers off the bed and pushing them into her face. "If you love him so much, you shouldn't have brought him here. I've been watching you, Molly. And now I know where his heart lies."

With those words Jim pushed the bed sheets aside, his hand still encircling Molly's throat as he pulled her to her feet. Molly saw her opportunity as his back was turned, pushing against his back roughly; she almost smiled as she watched him fall to his knees. Releasing a sigh, Molly dashed past him, running for the door. With one glance back to make sure he was still on his knees, Molly made it to the door only to slam into a tall man's chest. Molly tried to scream as he placed a piece of thick black fabric over her mouth and tied it behind her head, effectively silencing her panic.

Tears began to stream down her face as the blond man threw her over his shoulder, making his way to the stairs. Sobbing openly, all Molly could think about was Sherlock. She wished that she had made him stay. Perhaps he could have saved her – of course he could have. As they began to descend the stairs, Molly had a brainwave, swiping the remaining blood from her face; she pressed her hand against the wallpaper, smiling at the crimson smear of obvious evidence. If she couldn't scream then she would leave a mark, a clear mark.

Molly's eyes widened as Jim appeared before her, a scowl on his face as he observed her marking. The last thing she saw was his fist approaching her face before the pain shot up through her skull and everything went black.

Molly awoke slowly, however she felt it best to keep her eyes closed. Her mouth wasn't very dry so she couldn't have been unconscious for too long. She remained as still as possible, listening to her surroundings. Molly knew that she was tied up - probably to a chair – because she could feel the rope against her skin, rubbing painfully and forcing her upright against the hard back of the chair. She slowly tensed the muscles of her face, inwardly wincing when she felt both the pain in her jaw and a new throb above her eye simultaneously. One of them must have hit her again for good measure. Molly could feel the dried blood on her face – she must have looked a state.

Forcing herself to concentrate, Molly tried to remember the other man's face and any details in case she did make it out of this. He was tall, muscular and blonde. He was wearing a dark t-shirt and trousers to match. She couldn't remember anything else, no marking or the colour of his eyes.

Molly's ears pricked as she heard a small beeping sound, then the sound of Jim's cruel voice as it filled the air. "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." Molly opened her eyes to see the camera now turned to her; so he was going to taunt Sherlock – how mature.

After the humiliation of being recorded while Jim slapped her, Molly sat quietly, eyes trained on the ground as Jim fiddled with a laptop, informing her that he was sending the footage to her 'dear old Sherlock Holmes'. Even though she was terrified and alone with a complete psychopath, Molly did not regret her decision to help Sherlock; because of him people were alive, he was a hero. Molly was willing to be a sacrificial part of his tale if it meant that he could carry on, solving crimes and helping people. He may not have done it conventionally, but he still got the job done.

She wasn't used to being in the dark, knowing someone was out there – but then again, who was? She could feel him moving; he would occasionally tap or move things, as though trying to scare her. Deciding that she was done playing the victim, Molly's head rose, jaw set stubbornly even with the pain of the obvious fracture. "If you're going to do it, then just get it over with. You can't possibly need me for anything further."

Molly's brave words were met with condescending laughter. "Oh Molly, dear sweet Molly, you my dear are going to perform the masterpiece of my play; you're going to die." Molly's face fell as a bright light lit the room, unveiling Jim as he approached her slowly with a small syringe.

Sherlock sat with his back to John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade, he was still staring at the blank computer screen. He did not have to replay the clip; it was playing in his mind, the marks on her face clearer each time, the sadness in her voice and terror in her eyes. He was searching for clues, he had to stop focusing on Molly – she was not the clue, she was the victim, the distraction.

John had to keep holding his hand up to silence Lestrade; John knew that when Sherlock was concentrating, it was rather foolish to interrupt. He was probably rooting through his mind palace. Lestrade turned his angry gaze to john. "We don't have time for this; can I at least see the footage?"

John opened his mouth to respond, but was cut off quickly by Sherlock. "I'm not deaf, Lestrade. Take the laptop, I don't need it. But I can assure you that you won't see anything that I haven't." With a sneer, Sherlock picked up the laptop and almost threw it at the Inspector, causing John to gasp slightly before biting his tongue. "When he wants us to find them he will tell us. Until then it's just a waste of time. It will be somewhere obvious and probably a place I visit frequently but never really-" Sherlock stopped mid-sentence, standing abruptly and grabbing his jacket. "Somewhere that I would never think of, somewhere meaningless." He spoke with enthusiasm as he walked toward the door, both John and Lestrade following with puzzled expressions. "St Barts. Christ you two are slow; how do you manage to get dressed in the morning?" With that last insult he bounded down the stairs, hearing John behind him, phone bleeping incessantly in the background.

"Sherlock it's him – he says 'well done' and that we 'had better hurry if we want to catch the show'. He's one step ahead each time, I don't like this." John's voice held a slight waver as he followed Sherlock out into the street, Lestrade behind him calling in reinforcement to the hospital. Sherlock hailed a cab and ignored both men as they hopped into the closest one, all barking out the destination and telling the man to be quick about it.

John watched as Lestrade rang number after number on one side of him, while Sherlock sat on the other twitching furiously in his seat. "We're too late John. I can feel it." Sherlock continued to stare out the window as he confessed his fears. This would be the longest cab ride of his life and in all reality he didn't want it to end; he had dragged Molly into this and practically signed her death warrant. Jim would not give in easily; allow her to live – what would he gain from that. He had mentioned a performance, obviously he was hoping to make a big scene, and with criminals they usually involved blood and death.

John threw some money at the cabbie as he pulled over. Sherlock silently thanked the man for taking charge. Stepping out of the black cab, all three men stood rather dumb founded for a moment as they drank in the scene. There was a large crowd of people, an ambulance with paramedics rushing toward the crowd and police sirens blaring. Sherlock's feet began to move, his mind drifting slightly as the pieces began to fit properly together. The crowd of people parted slightly to reveal a body covered with a large black coat and blood. Adrenaline flowed through his veins as Sherlock dashed forwards, shoving the people out of the way in time to see the paramedics preparing the defibrillators.

Sherlock glanced from the paramedic to the body, his eyes catching sight of her dark brown eyes as they stared blankly, her brown hair matted with blood and face pale. Dropping down onto his knees, the noise from the crowd ebbed into nothingness as he reached out to take her limp hand, feeling for a pulse – nothing.

Closing his eyes tightly, he briefly wondered why she was dressed in a large black coat. Molly was in the exact same spot as Sherlock had been when he faked his death, the same blood pattern and position. He remembered preparing for the fall with Molly's help and how scared she had been that he was using their chemical compound. Sherlock's eyes snapped open in horror as the paramedic moved to place the defibrillators onto her chest. Gasping he shoved the paramedic out of the way, forcing the man onto his back. "John, I need a syringe. Now!" Glancing back, he saw a spluttering John as he rushed for the ambulance.

Lowering his head gently, Sherlock pressed his ear against her chest. After a few seconds of dreaded silence, he heard the sluggish sound of her heart trying to beat. He had experienced this; being trapped inside his own body while the chemicals flowed freely through his system. "It's going to be okay Molly. I have the antidote." Reaching into his coat pocket, he pulled out the ampule of clear fluid, giving it a slight shake and then looking to find John who was now making his way over to them, syringe in hand.

Panting slightly, John handed over the syringe and watched with curiosity as Sherlock cracked open the ampule and pulled the fluid into the syringe – a year ago he would have voiced his concern, however now he just trusted that Sherlock knew what he was doing. John flinched as he plunged the needle into Molly's chest after checking for the right spot. Sherlock sat back on his heels as he waited, hoping that too much time had not passed and hating the fact that he had never actually tested the god-for-saken chemical compound on himself.

Molly could feel her lungs burn as she dragged in air, her eyes watering as they finally fluttered closed. Her body ached all over as she tried – and failed – to move. The mist drifted slowly from her mind as she tried to collect herself. She had to remember what had happened – but she couldn't, everything was hazy. All she could feel was fear as it gripped her heart, clenching around her until she couldn't breathe.

With stuttering recollection she saw his face blink before her eyes, that smug smile, the syringe, the searing pain and then darkness. Gasping, she threw herself upright, eyes blinking furiously as she looked around. There were so many faces, faces that she did not recognise. Then Molly saw him, she knew he'd find her. Sherlock's face was contorted in a mixture of pain and relief; Molly was alive, but it had been a close call. Renching a sob from her throat Molly collapsed into him, her hands clutching at his coat as she tried to stay conscious.