Here's another chapter! Enjoy!

He stood frozen by the window for some time after seeing her stumble out of the flat and down the street, his mind strangely blank. Numb. Not the good kind of numb that came from a seven percent solution or sex with Molly. No, his mind felt sluggish. Heavy. Asleep. Dead.

What a terrifying thought.

He had come to the conclusion that he was unable to think with Molly close by, but now, to his horror, he realized it was the other way around. He couldn't think without her. Even though he'd been bombarded with the need to keep her safe and random thoughts of her all the time, it hadn't impeded his brilliance. If anything she'd sharpened him.

You blind idiot.

Sherlock had known that what he was doing was foolish and wrong but hadn't been able to stop himself from taking out his frustration on the only person within reach. The only person who really mattered to him. And now she was gone because of his actions.

After a few more moments of thought, he sprang from the window, his sudden movements alien in the stillness of the flat. As he turned, he heard the crunch of a paper underfoot. Sherlock looked down at it, annoyed at the noise that disturbed the silence of his brooding. His eyes narrowed and he moved his foot, examining the crinkled page, his brow furrowing in concentration. He stooped down, snatching it up and held it to the light.

His eyes widened, realization hitting him like a freight train.

On the page, written in Molly's familiar doctor's scrawl, were the details of each victim. It was the way she'd written them that caught his attention though.

MO – F

RI – M

AT – F

TY – F

AN – M

DM – M

OR – M

AN – F

She'd only written the initials of the victims and their sex. His eyes flitted back and forth on the paper and he nearly dropped it when he realized that the initals, in order of death, spelled out the words:

MORIARTY AND MORAN

Now, beyond a shadow of a doubt, Sherlock knew that this had all been planned long before it began. His mind reeled. Nothing is a coincidence. Lestrade, the only officer in Scotland Yard who would be willing to work with him, being the one to find him high in an alley. Molly, who wasn't even a fully qualified pathologist, being the one to do the autopsies. Her boss being sick in the bathroom, mild poison no doubt, leaving her the only person on duty. Three sets of bodies showing up, with Sherlock unable to solve the puzzle without all the data. And now, the last piece falling into place, giving him the name of their tormentor.

Sherlock's head shot up. The name of their enemy.

If he was finally showing himself that meant that the game was almost over.

And Molly was out there.

Oh God.

Sherlock was out of the room in a heartbeat, pulling on the Belstaff as he clattered down the stairs and flung open the door, bursting out into the night.

Nearly a half hour later, Sherlock was frantically running down the street, searching for his pathologist. He tried to calm himself enough to think, to consider what he knew of Molly and figure out where she would go. A fleeting memory made its way through his chaotic mind.

"So this is where you went those times I couldn't find you. That's cheating, Doctor Hooper."

She'd always eluded him the way no one else had. People were a puzzle to him, once solved, he didn't care to continue his association with them. Of course, there were a few exceptions, in the form of his close circle of confidants and friends. But even they were fairly simplistic and easy to deduce. Molly, on the other hand, was impossible for him to pin down. Just as soon as he was sure he knew everything about her, she would surprise him. He couldn't predict her, he couldn't contain her.

And God help him, he couldn't stop loving her.

His phone pinging with an incoming message in his pocket made him halt in his tracks, his momentum nearly sending him to the pavement.

RUN, RUN, RUN, AS FAST AS YOU CAN.

The phone rang just then and he thumbed the call button worriedly.

"Mycroft?!"

"Sherlock, where is Doctor Hooper?"

"Dammit Mycroft," he panted, putting a hand on his knees and bending over slightly to catch his breath. "If I knew do you think I'd be running around in the dead of night looking for her?!"

"Sherlock, I just received information that the four agents who were watching her went offline a half hour ago. They were all found dead less than ten minutes ago."

"Track her phone!" the detective screamed into his cell, causing several people passing by to stare at him and move on, hurriedly. Not that he noticed.

"We did. It was recovered from a dumpster not far from your current position."

Mycroft delivered the devastating news in a rapid monotone that Sherlock, if he had been in a calmer frame of mind, would have recognized as concern.

As it was, all Sherlock could process was cold fear settling in his chest like lead.

Vaguely, he heard Mycroft continue, telling him the location of the dumpster, as well as informing him that John and Lestrade were already on their way to meet him there along with more of Mycroft's men.

This would be kept out of the jurisdiction of regular law enforcement, handled by Mycroft himself. Sherlock's inability to think beyond his overwhelming guilt and fear kept him from realizing that reassuring fact until he had reached the location of the phone.

The detective jogged up to the area where Molly's phone was found in a small dumpster in a side alley off the main street.

"What the hell?! You just couldn't keep your bloody mouth shut, could you?!"

Sherlock's arse hit the pavement hard, seconds after his best friend's fist connected with his jaw. The detective shook his head ruefully, taking the proffered hand and pulling himself upright. He hadn't even seen the hit coming, his mind was so preoccupied.

He rubbed his jaw, dimly aware that he would have one hell of a bruise as a result of the doctor's wrath. John continued, shaking his hand and grimacing from both pain and anger.

Another ping sounded and Sherlock glanced at the message.

YOU KNOW WHERE TO FIND ME.

"Dammit, Sherlock! You've gone and blown the best thing that ever happened to you and I hope you realize that now you might never get the chance to fix that!"

John stopped abruptly, paling as he realized what had just come out of his mouth. He shook his head violently.

"No, I didn't mean that, of course you'll get the chance to fix it, we'll get her back and everything-"

"You know that you are rambling John?" Sherlock muttered under his breath as he examined the area around the dumpster, but without his usual precision. It was useless anyway, he knew where they had to go already. He'd figured it out on his way over from where he'd gotten Mycroft's call.

Speak of the devil and he shall appear.

Sherlock looked up just in time to see Mycroft strolling up with Anthea on his heels, for once, not on her phone. In fact, she looked a little flustered.

It seemed everyone was rather fond of his little pathologist.

"What is it, Mycroft? I'm on a time limit here."

"We found him."

John and Lestrade both began speaking at once, questioning Mycroft and Sherlock as to who was found, why they weren't told there was a suspect, and if Molly was alright.

The Holmes' remained silent, with Sherlock simply observing Mycroft's face, having an unspoken conversation with his brother.

Mycroft would have a lot of questions to answer after all this was over, but for now, Sherlock was content that his suspicions were confirmed.

Another message.

P.S. GOT SOMETHING OF YOURS THAT YOU MIGHT WANT BACK.

"Come along, John, Garrett."

"Oi, Greg!"

Sherlock turned to stride away but looked over his shoulder at his best friend. "I do hope you brought your gun."

"Better than that," a female voiced came from the direction of the street.

Sherlock's face lit up as he turned back and took in the sight of Mary, once again dressed in all black with a gun at her side.

"I hope that I'm not your target this time," he said, half joking, half serious.

"You weren't my target last time," she retorted. "You got in my way."

"I do that a lot," he allowed himself a brief smile as he began to stride away from the group of people, knowing they would follow him.

Hang on, Molly. I'm coming.