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The first thing he knew was a low roar, and many different voices murmuring indistinctly. Sherlock tried to open his eyes, to concentrate, but his head hurt so badly. He focused on the voices, eventually able to pick out John's repeating variants of the same sentence over and over.
"Everything happened so fast, with the lights going off and Sherlock yelling and the next thing I knew, he was gone."
Who was gone? Oh, Moran.
The fog in the detective's brain slowly cleared and he grimaced in pain, eliciting a reaction from the people around him. He heard Lestrade's voice announcing to someone farther away that he was coming to, just before Sherlock was able to open his eyes.
"What the bloody hell?" was the first thing out of his mouth, as he glared up at John, Mary, Greg and Mycroft who were gathered around him, looking down at his prone form.
Mycroft's lips pursed and he looked rather displeased as Lestrade answered Sherlock's question.
"You nearly got yourself killed, mate. I told you to let us go in with you." The grey-haired Detective Inspector shook his head. "Now the bloke is gone and we still don't have Molly."
Molly. Oh God, where's Molly?
Sherlock sat bolt upright, wincing at the sharp pain in his head. He reached up to rub the source of the pain, and brought his hand back down with blood on it. He glanced up at John, a question in his eyes.
"He hit you in the back of the head with the gun when you went for him. I tried to help," John's voice cracked a little, "but it was dark and he was just gone. No one saw him leave."
Mary squeezed her husband's hand and offered Sherlock a small smile.
"Nonsense John, he can't be 'just gone.' He had to have gone somewhere." Sherlock reached up, grabbing John's offered hand and stood, swaying a bit as he got his bearings, trying to ignore the pounding in his skull. He looked over at the carriage, which was a few meters away, then back to the small group next to him.
"Mycroft, the hole," Sherlock said, beginning to unsteadily walk in the opposite direction from the carriage, his feet catching a couple times on the tracks. John caught up quickly, steadying the taller man each time he stumbled.
"Mmm," Mycroft agreed, his face still pinched, betraying his annoyance and worry.
Try as you might, no one can not like Molly Hooper, not even you, Mycroft, Sherlock thought as he walked.
They arrived at the vent that would have directed the explosion from the carriage bomb up into Parliament, and peered up into it.
"He couldn't possibly have gone up there," Lestrade said in disbelief, glancing from Sherlock to Mycroft and back, then at John and Mary to see what their reaction was.
"Unfortunately, it is entirely possible and is indeed exactly what occurred," responded the British Government, looking simultaneously pleased with himself and utterly furious with his agents who didn't think to cover that escape route.
Sherlock stood silently staring up into the blackness, his mind racing, wondering where Moran had gone to ground and where he would resurface. It was obvious how this would end. Either he or Moran would die. The only important thing though, was if Molly would be alright.
Several hours later, Sherlock sat in his chair in 221B, his fingers steepled in front of his mouth, eyes unfocused. He was reviewing every bit of information he had on Moran, which, in the current light of things, was just the tip of the iceberg, so to speak.
Mycroft had settled into John's chair, also silently going over facts. John and his wife were engaged in quiet conversation with Lestrade, who Sherlock hadn't had the energy to tell off, and Mrs. Hudson was puttering about the flat, picking up things strewn around and crying a little bit when those things were Molly's.
His landlady had soundly beaten Sherlock with a rolled up magazine when she learned that Molly had been kidnapped and that Sherlock had been the reason Molly was out of the flat alone. When she ran out of energy, she'd collapsed onto the sofa and had a good cry, sobbing to Mary that she just wanted the sweet girl to be safe.
The night was long and arduous for all sequestered in the quiet flat. Mrs. Hudson had finally gone to sleep, taking Amanda with her so Mary and John could stay abreast of developments.
Unfortunately, there were no new developments.
Just after dawn, the eerie silence of the occupants of 221B was shattered by the ringing of Molly's phone where it lay on the arm of Sherlock's chair. The detective's eyes widened as the strains of the BeeGees' "Staying Alive" rang out through the flat. He snatched up the phone and glanced around the room as Mary sat up from her prone position on the couch and John stopped pacing to sit stiffly next to her. Mycroft simply gazed at Sherlock expectantly from John's chair, while Lestrade turned around in his seat at the desk, rubbing the drowsiness from his grim face.
Sherlock's hand shook as he pressed the button to open the message on her phone.
"I have a message to you from Molly," read Sherlock aloud. There was an attachment and after a deep breath, he opened it, thumbing the volume so everyone could hear.
There was a second of silence, then a soft melody began to play.
If I should stay
I would only be in your way
So I'll go
But I know
I'll think of you every step of the way
And I...
Will always
Love you,
Will always
Love you
You
My darling you
Bittersweet memories
That is all I'm taking with me
So good-bye
Please don't cry
We both know I'm not what you need
And I...
Will always love you
I...
Will always love you
You,
I hope life treats you kind
And I hope you have all you've dreamed of
And I wish you joy and happiness
But above all this
I wish you love
And I...
Will always love you
I...
Will always love you
I, I will always love
You...
You
Darling I love you
I'll always
I'll always
Love
You…
When the last strains of the melody died away, there was a click and then total silence. Sherlock sat, staring at the phone, his face and eyes completely blank as if he'd just shut down.
It was painfully clear what the message was, though it most definitely wasn't sent by her. Moran was letting his intentions be known through the lyrics of the famous love song.
Molly Hooper wasn't coming back.
Mary sniffed from across the room, breaking them all out of their reverie. Sherlock's eyes rose to meet Mycroft's which held an expression of pity for his younger brother. He nodded slowly, answering the question in Sherlock's eyes. The British Government cleared his throat when it became obvious that Sherlock wasn't going to say anything, and began to fire out orders rapidly.
"Mary, we'll need you in a window across from Bart's rooftop. John, you and the Detective Inspector will go with Sherlock and wait in the stairwell while he meets with Moran. Anthea," he turned, looking at the woman who had silently appeared in the doorway, "get Rogers, Lambert and Gregson, and have them outfitted in full tech and put them in windows as well. And outfit these four too." His PA nodded and began typing away on her Blackberry.
"Hold on," Lestrade said, his brow furrowed in confusion. "How do we know he'll be there?"
Mycroft exhaled, his face clearly advertising that he didn't have time for idiotic questions, but answered anyway.
"Staying Alive. Moriarty's ringtone. Ergo, Moran wants this to end at the same place Moriarty did. Bart's rooftop."
Lestrade grunted and looked to John, who slowly nodded.
Mycroft stood, and looked thoughtful for a moment, before moving to put a hand on Sherlock's unmoving frame. He shook the detective slightly eliciting a sharp inhale from Sherlock. He squeezed Sherlock's shoulder gently before straightening up and exiting the flat, climbing into the waiting car and speeding off to take care of other details.
The song here is I Will Always Love You by Whitney Houston.
I don't own it, obviously.