With Mycroft off doing things that only Mycroft understood (at least in theory) and Lestrade rallying his troops, John Watson stepped into the morgue careful not to disturb anything more than Sherlock already had.

"Over here, John," he heard Sherlock murmur from behind the large laboratory counter.

It was an interesting tableau, Sherlock sat back on his heels, his back almost touching the heavy wood cupboards behind him, his arms locked around the diminutive pathologist, hands rubbing the small of her back and shoulders in circular soothing motions. Her arms were wrapped in a seeming death grip around his neck, her face buried into the mass of his curls as she sobbed her heart out. Sherlock met John's gaze, his eyes bleak, "Shush, Molly Hooper, I have you," he crooned then said in a far different tone to John, "So far, no discernable breaks. I have doubts that she's injured – bruises but it's mostly shock."

Molly's grip on his neck loosened slightly and she pulled back as she blinked at him. Then she recoiled backwards into the cupboard landing on her arse, muttering, "Sorry, sorry!" Wiping furiously at her tear-streaked face, she whispered, "I don't know why I did that!"

John smiled at her gently, "I dunno, love," he soothed, offering his hand to help her up off the floor and away from the mess around them, "There have been a few times I've been found myself hugging the git myself, if you ever figure out why, let me know."

As intended, Molly let out a bark of laughter, took his pre-offered hand and levered herself to her feet. Looking around the morgue, she groaned, leaning heavily against the cupboard, "Ooooh, my beautiful morgue. Mike is going to be pissed."

"Nonsense," Sherlock admonished gently, "he'll be nothing of the sort. He is sure to be relieved that his best pathologist is safe and sound, and I'm sure England himself will see to it that anything destroyed beyond repair is replaced." He patted her on the shoulder, a faint smile curving the bow of his mouth.

She stared at him for a moment, her chin tilting slightly to the left, her eyes momentarily distant before focusing again on his face, "Why are you here?" she stammered, "You said that you were needed in Eastern Europe, six month trip and all."

He nodded sagely, rocking back on his heels and if he'd been with anyone other than John Watson or Molly Hooper, they would have missed his surreptitious glance down the hallway where Mycroft was speaking on his mobile. "Yes, well," he began, "it would appear that England has decided she needs me more. Who am I to gainsay the powers that be?"

Glancing over his shoulder at Mycroft, John muttered, "Sherlock bloody Holmes, that's who."

After reassuring Sherlock (and in no small way, himself) that Molly's injuries were limited to minor bruises and abrasions, they gingerly stepped their way out of the ruins of the morgue and joined Mycroft in the hallway now practically abandoned by the Met.

To Molly's delight and John's amazement, Mycroft gave a small but genuine smile by way of greeting and said, "Anthea is quite proud of you, Molly, she expects to be fully debriefed once we're done with the fine folks of the Metropolitan Police."

Sherlock rolled his eyes at Mycroft, "Until they find the clod, there's nothing for us to do here, Mycroft."

Mycroft studied his brother for a moment, a pinched gaze that vaguely reminded Watson of an ostrich, "Sherlock, a moment in private if you'd be so kind." Stepping away, he waited patiently for a few minutes before Sherlock grumbled and gave way, striding away from his pathologist and doctor.

"What now?"

Mycroft took a deep breath, counted to ten in Latvian before saying calmly, "Please be reminded that this isn't a holiday, Sherlock, this is a reprieve at worst and a stay of execution at best. You determine which. For reasons passing understanding, this situation has enabled us to keep you in England, don't abuse it."

Sherlock straightened, his eyes narrowing as he studied his elder brother, "Us?"

"A turn of phrase, dear brother," Mycroft dissembled, "Nothing more, please keep in mind that contrary to your worldview I am not the entirety of the British government and there are limits to what even I can do on your behalf. I am as delighted as you that Doctor Hooper is unharmed but she is not and cannot be our prime concern. Focus on Moriarty we must."

Tucking his hands into the pockets of his Belstaff coat, Sherlock watched Mycroft carefully for a moment and said softly, "The focus has never been off him, brother mine. If this is indeed Moriarty, nothing he has ever done is without purpose – delay, confusion, misdirection – but always with a purpose." He glanced back at the morgue, where Molly was retrieving her coat, "Back to Baker Street with me?"

Resigned, Mycroft drawled, "Shall I have Anthea return Mrs. Watson to Baker Street as well?"

"Oh, would you?" Sherlock asked impishly, "It'll save a great deal of unneeded texting, it's so delightful to plot details over the sounds of your minion clicking on her Blackberry."

Mycroft brushed non-existent lint from the sleeve of his bespoke suit, "You do realize that you can't protect them all from Baker Street." Sherlock lifted a single brow mockingly before striding back to his friends.