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Summary: Sherlock faces the truth about his feelings for Molly and makes a desperate escape.

S&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&MS&M

On the way to see Molly, Sherlock filled John in on everything else. Irene went to see what more she could try and discover about the warehouse. John shook his head. "Bloody hell, Sherlock. I don't even know where to start."

"Never mind that," Sherlock said sharply. "We have to figure out what he's done to Molly. Her life and the game depend on it."

Sherlock all but ran to Molly's room. She lay unconscious, her vital signs stable but weak. Lestrade was there talking with a nurse. It was the same nurse that been helping Molly the day Sherlock had questioned her: the first time he'd held her hand and told her he was sorry. Mary's sister, Michelle. The nurse looked at them, face grave. "John," she said. "Mr. Holmes."

"Michelle," John said. "What's going on?"

"They can't figure out what's wrong with her," Lestrade said.

"Have they run a toxicology report?" Sherlock asked.

"Of course we have," Michelle said tartly. "We've drawn blood, taken X-rays, and administered a broad-spectrum antibiotic. Nothing is helping."

Sherlock looked at Molly. Her skin was pale and she looked… weak, somehow. The sight of her like that made his stomach sink.

Her machine beeped at that moment. Michelle looked at it and frowned. "Her vitals are weakening. If this keeps up she'll need life support within a few hours." She sighed. "I have to make rounds. I'll be back as soon as I can to check on her."

Lestrade cleared his throat. "I, ah, I'll just be downstairs getting a coffee. John, do you want to join me?"

"What? Oh, right," John said. "We'll be back soon, Sherlock. Call me if anything changes."

Sherlock nodded his eyes still on Molly. He barely registered John and Lestrade going out the door. He pulled a chair up to sit beside Molly, his eyes never leaving her face.

Molly was in danger of being seriously ill. And it was Moriarty's doing. But he'd promised he wouldn't kill Molly. That did not preclude putting her in a coma, however. Not death but close enough.

Sherlock slowly reached over and twined Molly's limp fingers in his. She did not respond with even a flicker of eyelids. He closed his eyes and went deep into his mind palace.

He opened the door to Molly's room there. Once it had been a modest room, with a door that was only open a crack. Still quite a testimony to Molly: few people had a room there, and her door was open as wide as anyone's except John's. After Reichenbach and his faked suicide, the door had opened wider and the room was brighter, filled with more information about the petite pathologist.

Once Moriarty had returned and blackmailed him into this relationship, Molly's room had grown to about five times its previous size. Every detail he'd learned about her in the past 6 months or so was there. There were curtains on the windows now, and double French doors opening to overlook a lush garden. There was sunlight and the scent of roses and antiseptics, and warmth. Sometimes Sherlock went there to calm himself, center himself, feel comfort. There was no higher praise he could give any woman than that.

The thought of that room, of Molly, fading into a bleak gray emptiness brought a pain that no amount of running to other rooms could erase. Everything of Molly was here. Her giggle, her smile, the way she nuzzled her nose against his, her surprisingly astute observations about people, her soft warmth curled against him as they slept or talked…

Sherlock was jolted out of his mind palace by the feeling of a wet warmth on his face. His fingertips came up and touched his cheek. Tears. He was crying. The thought of being without her now left an ache inside him that no amount of scorn towards sentiment could erase. If he lost her, he would lose some part of himself.

And that's when he knew.

It was all part of Moriarty's plan. It always had been. The way that made a person face their feelings, their fears, and realize the plain and simple truth. The prospect of losing someone so close.

Someone that you…loved.

There it was.

He could lie to himself, he could be angry at how it happened, but none of that would make it any less true.

He, Sherlock Holmes, was in love with Molly Hooper.

It was time.

He accessed his website with his mobile. There, for all the world to see, he wrote: "why is the measure of love, loss?"

Two minutes later his mobile rang.

He answered it. "You win," he said without preamble.

"What do I win, Sherlock?" Moriarty asked.

"You were right. I am capable of love and I love Molly."

"Are you sure?" Moriarty asked, voice somewhere between smug and pleased.

"Don't ask me what you know is true," Sherlock said flatly.

"Yes, I suppose you do. Right. Leave her room and walk down the left corridor. Turn right and go down that hall. You'll see the door for the stairs. Walk down one flight. On the underside at the juncture of the steps, taped on the right, you'll find two swabs and two syringes. Inject the one in black into your arm, then inject the one in blue in Molly's abdomen."

"Why am I injecting myself with something?" Sherlock asked.

"It's the antidote, stupid. The drugs in the chocolates have been protecting you but those chemicals are almost completely out of your system now. Otherwise you'll end up like Molly in a few more weeks."

"When did you give me a poison" Sherlock demanded, even as he rose and headed out the door.

"I didn't. Well, strictly speaking. You gave it to yourself. Remember the little dots on Molly that looked like moles? That formed an S and an M?"

"I touched them and they disappeared," Sherlock said.

"Your touch triggered the poison. You administered it to Molly and to yourself when you did that. Very slow acting, took my boys months to make that stuff. Clever, wasn't it?"

"Very," Sherlock agreed hollowly, having reached the stairs. He went to the spot Moriarty had instructed and reached his hand up. Sure enough, two syringes were taped there. He pulled them off and slipped them into his coat pocket. "Now what?" He asked as he headed back to Molly's room.

"I'll be in touch within a few hours. You might want to arrange for some fast transportation. You'll be needing it in, oh, less than eight minutes. By the way: AWWWW!"

Sherlock dialed Mycroft. "Brother dear. I'm rather in need of a fast, secure ride. Can you be outside Bart's in, oh, six minutes?"

"Is it time?" Mycroft asked.

"Almost. I'll explain later. I suspect I will be a suspect, by the way."

"That is nothing new, Sherlock," Mycroft sighed, and disconnected.

Sherlock went back into Molly's room. He quickly injected himself, then called John. "Come back to Molly's room, now," he said. "Without Lestrade if you can, but if not, let him come along."

"Sherlock?" John asked, bewildered. "What's-"

Sherlock ended the call and pocketed his mobile. He raised Molly's hospital gown to expose her abdomen just as Michelle walked in.

"What are you doing!" She yelled, seeing the syringe. She came at him to stop him but he pushed her away, hard, and swabbed Molly with the alcohol prep. As Michelle got to her feet, stunned, he injected Molly and slammed the door to the room shut.

"What the hell did you do!" Michelle exclaimed.

"I gave her the antidote," Sherlock said. "She was poisoned."

"Poisoned? How did… oh, my God," Michelle gasped. "It was you. You did this to her!"

"Don't be ridiculous," Sherlock snapped.

"It had to be you! How else would you know? How would you have the antidote?" Michelle said. She pointed. "I remember that day. I heard you tell Molly you were sorry, that you'd stop it. You'd been… abusing her, hadn't you? Or you're mental. Two of her exes have died and you probably killed them!"

"Stop this!" Sherlock snapped.

"I'm getting security and the police!" Michelle said, backing away from him towards the door, mouth open to scream.

Sherlock nodded… and promptly knocked her cold.

John and Lestrade came in about the time Sherlock was scooping Molly up in his arms.

"What the hell is going on!" John exclaimed. He saw Michelle, unconscious on the floor, and stared in horror. "What did you do, Sherlock?"

"No time right now. Moriarty is making his move soon," Sherlock said, carrying Molly towards the door. "Lestrade, that women is going to accuse me of a number of things when she comes to. Stall for as long as you can. I'll be in touch."

"Bloody hell, Sherlock!" Lestrade growled. "I'm a detective inspector! I can't just let you-"

He saw the look on Sherlock's face and sighed, running his hand through his hair. "Fuck. GO, already!"

"Open the doors for me as we go," Sherlock ordered John. "We're taking the stairs."

"Oh, my God. You knocked out Mary's sister. I am never going to hear the end of this," John groaned as he hurried ahead.

"Hey," an orderly said, seeing them as they entered the stairwell. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Is that the only word people can say today?" Sherlock huffed as he ran.

"Hurry up or there will be worse ones," John gasped as they reached the main floor door.

"Get out your gun," Sherlock said.

"What?"

"There will be guards waiting. Get out your gun!"

"Oh, my God," John groaned as he drew his gun.

They ran into the lobby. "Nobody move, please!" John yelled at the guards and other employees standing ready. He covered Sherlock as they headed for the door.

"John, Sherlock," said a voice. It was Mike Stamford. "Come on, now. Stop this. Whatever is going on-"

"Mike, I'm really sorry, but there's no time to explain," John said. He swallowed. "Also, I've got a gun."

Mike nodded. "Yes. I see that."

"John!" Sherlock snapped.

"Right. Sorry. It will all make sense soon, Mike. I think."

"NOW, John!" Sherlock bellowed.

John opened the door, gun still pointed at the room, and Sherlock ran out with Molly. John went out backwards behind him, down the steps, where Mycroft's signature black car was waiting.

They got in and closed the door. "Where are we going?" Mycroft asked calmly as they pulled away.

"Somewhere safe," Sherlock said. He cradled Molly in his lap, nestling her head on his shoulder. His eyes were wild and had a look in them John had never seen before.

"Location seven," Mycroft told the driver.

"Sherlock?" John asked.

"Moriarty poisoned her. And me as well, except the drugs in the chocolates were protecting me. I injected Molly with the antidote just as the nurse walked in, so she naturally thought I was the one who'd done this to Molly."

"And she'll tell Lestrade that," John finished.

"She also overheard me telling Molly I was sorry and I was going to stop this, when this all began. I was talking about Moriarty, but the nurse now thinks I was apologizing for hurting Molly."

"And you've just officially become the number one suspect," John sighed. "AND kidnapped Molly. No, that won't look mental at ALL."

"Sherlock?"

All three men stared. Molly's eyes were open, though a little unfocused. She was staring at Sherlock. "What happened? Am I okay?"

Sherlock took a deep breath. "Yes, Molly," he said, holding her tight and burying his face in her hair. "You're going to be fine."