A/N:Thanks for the reviews on the prologue!

Beta-Hoodoo

Sherlock Holmes hated being confined.

It wasn't something he had factored in when he had pulled the trigger. Murder meant prison, typically. At least, it certainly meant prison if it occurred in front of a dozen or so witnesses. Had he been alone and unobserved, he would have come up with a much more creative, much less conspicuous method of ending the man he despised like no one he ever had before.

As it were, even if he had considered the consequences, he knew it wouldn't have affected his decision. He now had people to protect. His vow to uphold and nothing would keep him from doing so. Certainly not Charles Augustus Magnusson!

That didn't ease his current agitation however.

The best that Mycroft could do was to have his containment stationed at Baker Street, with 24 hour surveillance. This consisted of two armed guards at the front door, both downstairs and up, another who was to guard Sherlock at all times, as well as around-the-clock video surveillance and a small plastic ankle bracelet that would trigger an alarm so that if he so much as breathed the air outside of his apartment, it would result the arrival of an entire fleet of British guardsmen to Baker street within 90 seconds.

He was allowed no outside contact with anyone save Mycroft; no means of communication and with only the television to remain informed of outside events; none of which that had involved Moriarty so far.

The British Government had pulled Sherlock out of exile because the consulting criminal had become a threat again—or in the very least, his image appearing on every television or computer screen across the country was being treated as such—but so far there had been nothing further to go on. The broadcast had been sent over a wireless network that bounced from several ghost servers and had been cut before it could be traced back to its original source.

However, until something solid surfaced for them to go on, a lead for them to follow, Sherlock was still considered too dangerous to be allowed free roam among the citizens of London and was therefore required to remain in the custody of British Government.

It was absurd. After all, what good was he, tucked away while whoever had sent the broadcast worked at whatever plot they had underway. But not even Mycroft's influence could convince those who stood over him in authority that Sherlock would be put to better use out in the field.

Honestly, he would never understand how "normal people" had survived the evolutionary process.

And so here he sat. Most days were spent inside of his mind palace. Not only did this help to alleviate some of the utterly mind-numbing boredom and even the beginning stages of claustrophobia, but it also gave him the time to sort through everything he had stored away about the consulting criminal, time and again, until the details were so well memorized he wouldn't have needed his mind palace for them.

Nothing made for an acceptable answer however.

No matter how many times he sought and reasoned and deduced, Sherlock simply could not rationalize the concept of Jim Moriarty being alive. Sherlock based the very fabric of the way he functioned on facts and the facts were indisputable, facts he had witnessed with his own eyes. There had been no smoke and mirrors, as his own faked suicide had relied on; Moriarty had placed the barrel of a gun between his lips and pulled the trigger.

The clarity with which Sherlock recalled the spray of blood that exploded from the back of his head could not have been faked or chalked up to illusion.

Jim Moriarty was dead.

Which meant the only possibility at this point was that someone was using his image to send a message.

But why? What had the person been hoping to accomplish? He couldn't say for sure, but he had a feeling it was for more than just attention.

Sherlock had cycled through every possibility he could logically associate with Moriarty and yet he drew complete blanks at every avenue he ventured down. Every possibility was dismissed on technicalities and the spirals he spun in only ended him up right back where he had started, adding to his frustration of being unable to /act/.

There had to be a missing factor, something he either didn't know about or hadn't thought to account for. Much in the same way that Moriarty hadn't thought to account for Molly.

Ah... and then there was Molly. The thought of which he sought after constant distraction from.

His biggest distraction so far had been smoking. It was one thing that Mycroft simply couldn't bring himself to deny his brother in the situation. Oh, how he meandered on about sentiment.

Pfft.

Sherlock snorted even as he drew from the cigarette he was currently indulging in.

Because he had little to amuse himself with these days, he had begun to take enjoyment from the smallest things, with one of those being that his smoking seemed to annoy his personal guard. Several times of Sherlock's chain-smoking binges had resulted in a glare his way and an opened window.

He knew the man was simply doing his job by hovering the way that he was, however that didn't loosen Sherlock's utter irritation at the situation. Thus the poor guardsman became the only recipient within range of many of Sherlock's methods of stress relief including, but not limited to, the meticulous ways in which he would make deductions about the man on a daily basis any time there was new material to do so with.

In fact, Sherlock was certain the man hated being here with Sherlock /almost/ as much as Sherlock hated being here at all.

"Seriously, that's your seventh cigarette in the past /forty/ minutes. Are you trying to suffocate us both?"

The quiet flick of Sherlock's lighter seem to have been the proverbial straw; the guard had yet to verbally complain, but it wouldn't have taken Sherlock's prowess to deduce his displeasure. In fact, Sherlock was a bit surprised that he had held out this long to speak up.

Be that as it was, Sherlock couldn't deny the almost sadistic streak of amusement that ripped through him at finally having evoked a reaction from the man who had remained annoyingly tight lipped thus far.

"Why so tense, Nigel? Surely even you must agree that a trip to the hospital would be most welcome about now. Even the morgue-"

The words seemed to die on his lips even as they left them, but Nigel was either too annoyed to comment on it, or hadn't caught it in the first place; either way, he simply rolled his eyes and made his move over to open the window that was quickly becoming frequent to the point of ritualistic. Sherlock brought the cigarette back between his lips, drawing deeply.

"Even if you don't care about being able to breathe in the next twenty years, I do. And a little common courtesy never hurt anyone. Some of us actually /want/ to live a long, healthy life."

"Not with that amount of red meat in your diet."

It had slipped out without his consent, as if his brain suddenly switched into autopilot in an effort to scramble back together after the slip that could only possibly bring one thing to mind for Sherlock anymore.

Molly.

Molly, whom Sherlock rarely gave himself the luxury of thinking about. Molly, whom he had locked away in a room of her own in a corner of his mind palace with all of the details and memories pertaining to her; allowing himself to visit only when he became too frustrated with the mantra on Moriarty and the same four walls became too much to stare at any longer.

Molly, who counted.

Molly, who mattered.

Molly, who confused him,

Who made him question himself.

Molly, whom he had slept with.

Those memories in particular sat in a box of their own, tucked away in the room he rarely visited. A box of memories that he hadn't touched since he had put them there, seated in a car that waited outside of her flat to drive him to the airport, on the morning he had thought would be the last he would ever see of her.

A box he had no intention of ever opening.

Because if he opened it, he would have to question the things he had put there.

Sherlock was not a man who scared easily, but he could admit to himself that the idea frightened him.

Instead he allowed himself to remember only the little things, when he allowed them at all. The way she had smiled as she teased him the night he had sought her help for the stag night, the sting of her hand and the way he had never been as proud of her as he was once the shock of her blows had worn off.

These were small things that didn't require him to question them; things he had long since accepted. He didn't have to label and categorize or deduce and explain them; they were just facts.

Like the kisses he had placed on her cheek, one in apology, the other in resignation.

The things in the box would demand to be contended with. But the facts, without question, simply /were/.

However, even if the little things were simple, and even if they didn't demand to be contended with, there was something inside of Sherlock that became... uncomfortable if he allowed himself to dwell for too long. It was the reason why his trips to that room were seldom at best.

How desperately he needed out of this apartment.

He hadn't even been allowed to have John and Mary visit, instead receiving word of them via Mycroft who came once a week.

Which was why the man in question walking through the door at that moment was little more than a surprise. However, it wasn't his unexpected presence that alerted Sherlock to the fact that something was amiss. No, it was the fact that Mycroft didn't even spare Sherlock a glance as he headed straight to the table in which Sherlock kept the remote for the television and switched it on.

It was the news, despite the time of day being wrong for it; a young female reporter was outside, a stricken look on her face as she motioned to the building behind her. The caption beneath her was stamped with BREAKING NEWS and beneath it, Moriarty Strikes.

Sherlock sat up straighter in his chair, his focus raptly on the television. The camera suddenly panned upwards, to show the clock face of Big Ben and the figure of a person that seemed to be hanging from the minute hand which was pointed to the three. But it wasn't until the camera zoomed in that Sherlock /reacted/, suddenly on his feet without remembering how he had gotten to them. Because the camera was now focused on the terrified expression of one Molly Hooper and her hands which were stretched above her head were not just grasping the minute hand, but were tied to them.

It took him seconds to deduce with sickening clarity that the way in which the knot of the rope holding her up would give the moment it was pulled flush against the flat side of the arrow. Which meant the moment the clock hand struck six, Molly would fall.

"Mycroft!"

"I received a text five minutes ago that explosives have been hidden inside of building and that if anyone but you steps within ten feet, they'll be detonated. The car is waiting downstairs."

It had taken them half the time it normally would have to reach the bell tower, with Mycroft having had the insight to have the traffic for the route they needed to take cleared.

When they arrived, a sizable crowd had gathered, blocked off by police who had secured at least a thirty mile radius.

If Sherlock wasn't the man that he was, he wouldn't have noticed the way that people pointed, the stricken looks and in some cases, even tears. He wouldn't have noticed the fact that John was at the forefront of one of the masses, arguing with an officer while gesturing to the building, nor the fact that the building was plastered with posters of a still taken from the video of Moriarty's face.

Whoever had done this wanted it to be known that the two events were interlinked.

If Sherlock was any other man, he wouldn't have realized in the moments as he pushed past men who tried to restrain him before they fell away—at Mycroft's cue no doubt—that this was it: the trigger that would begin to set things into motion.

It had taken six minutes to get from Baker Street to Westminister Abbey. The clock face was 160 feet from the ground. Any other man wouldn't have been able to note the fact that it took him three minutes and thirty seconds to cover the stairs that led him to higher floors.

Molly had been tied to the clock facing the west and when Sherlock finally reached the corridor that it resided in, he could see clearly the sun in the distance. It blazed across the expansive of sky in a cascade of reds, orange and pink that a normal man would consider beautiful.

Now eight and a half minutes since he had first seen the clock back on Baker Street left her precariously hanging between four and five. Her side was pressed against the glass and her white lab coat was visible, which meant that she must have been taken from Barts during her shift.

Something about the idea instilled a sense of violation in Sherlock.

His eyes scanned the expanse of wall, but there was no hatch or access to the outside, which meant he would have to go further up. But as he turned to ascend the next set of stairs, something caught his attention. Sitting on the bottom step was a crow bar and a small folded note.

Normally, Sherlock would have completely disregarded the items, had it not been for the pink bow and his name in carefully crafted penmanship. He quickly snatched up both items, unfolded the paper and scanned the letter.

Sherlock,

You cheated.

There are always rules and you broke them.

Now, something else must be broken.

The window or little Molly's body all over the pavement.

Your choice.

-M

It couldn't possibly be that simple. There had to something more, because it was hardly a decision that needed deciding.

The paper fluttered to the floor and he turned back to the window, stepping onto the ledge in which the clock was instilled. His eyes darted from where Molly hung to each panel of glass between them, before he raised the bar and swung it into the panel that was just behind the five. The glass cracked, but did not break and he could hear Molly's frightened squeak on the other side. He swung again, and again, each blow causing a spiderweb of splinters to crawl its way up until finally the panel was more cracks than solid surface.

"Molly, can you hear me?"

"Y-Yes!"

"Molly, I need you to listen to me! When the glass breaks, it's going to fly in every direction. I need you to try and bury your face into your arm and close your eyes. Do you understand?"

"Y-yes!"

"On the count of three! One, two—!'

He aimed, closed his own eyes and shoved the curved end of the crow bar into the weakest point of the glass. Just as he had said, the entire panel shattered with a deafening crash and glass sprayed out into the air, before dropping to the ground. Each piece caught the sunlight and from the view below, gave the illusion of diamonds sparkling as they fell.

A few small shards caught his cheek as he ran the bar along the now empty metal frame that had ensure none of the pieces remained before he leaned out. Molly was a staring at him, eyes wide and lips parted in an expression he had seen often from others, but usually reveled in. There was nothing to enjoy about this moment, however. Until Molly had both feet safely planted on the ground below, the tension that had coiled in his chest would not lessen. And maybe not even then.

Either way, Sherlock did not foresee being able to sleep tonight.

"Molly, listen to me. Do everything as I say, exactly as I say. I need to untie the rope, otherwise I can't pull you in. Hold on as tight as you can and keep your eyes fixed on me, no matter what, do /not/ look away from me. Do you understand?"

She nodded, and the stunned expression quickly melted into the look of fear she had been wearing when he first saw her on the telly.

He quickly studied where her hands were tied, how her grip on the wrought iron had visibly tightened and the small ledge on the other side of the glass that would be wide enough for his foot alone, if he twisted it just right. But even as he placed his foot there and got his bearings, the knowledge of losing his balance even a little would result in him going over caused a sense of vertigo, he knew she was still too far away for him to get a proper grip on.

"I'm going to untie the rope now, otherwise you won't be able to move. When I do, I need you to try and move up the bar."

"I can't!"

"You can. You have to!"

"I can't move!"

"I need you to /try/. Just a little bit."

"S-Sherlock…"

"Molly, if you've ever trusted me, trust me now. I would never let you fall. Do you understand? Never."

Their eyes held as they stared at one another and after a moment, Molly nodded. Sherlock returned the gesture, before he leaned forward, his body anchored by his left hand and leg against the frame and he was just able to reach the knot of rope at her wrist. With the single sharp tug, the rope unraveled and fell away and he slid his arm around her waist, the angle made awkward from the way he had to stretch.

"I've got you Molly, now move!"

He could feel the shuddering breath she took, the way her body tightened as she let go with one hand. The action jolted her and she cried out, quickly grabbing for the bar further up. Sherlock in turn tightened his own hold.

"Good, now the other."

It was like a twisted rendition of monkey bars. Each time her hand left the hand of the clock, she would inhale sharply, her body reacting to the stress of the situation. Sherlock couldn't afford to allow his own body's response to reign. He would surely drop her if he didn't focus.

It took six turns, three times for each hand to let go only to wildly grasp for the bar again, before Sherlock felt he had a chance of pulling her in without them both going over and he slid his other hand around her, forcing his body rigid against his only hold on the building.

"I'm going to pull you over now. When I say to, I need you to let go, all right? Let go … now!'

The moment her hands disconnected from the metal, there was a brief moment that sank through Sherlock with sickening clarity. It was a moment that he suddenly felt weightless, felt the surface underneath him disappear and in that moment, he was sure they had lost balance in the wrong direction.

In that moment, her name alone resounded in his mind as if shouted from the bottom of a canyon, the two syllables ricocheting off of every solid surface until it echoed upward into the sky like a mushroom cloud.

The alarmingly loud way that his body hit the floor behind him reached him before the pain of the collision did. But once it did, Sherlock couldn't recall a time when he had welcomed pain more.

She landed on top of him and the force knocked the breath from his lungs, which left him immediately disoriented. Or, in the very least, that would be the excuse he later provided himself for the way his arms instantly snaked around her and clasped her body to his.

The sudden uproar of a distant cheer that floated up from below mingled with the sound of their harsh breathing and even Sherlock couldn't have begrudged them the desire to celebrate.

Molly's body was shaking against his and he gently cradled the back of her head before rolling her onto her side. Her face was pressed into his chest and when he lifted himself, he found that her eyes were squeezed tight, her fist which were now clutching the fabric of his shirt did so just as tightly.

Sherlock sat up, pulling her with him and still she kept her eyes shut, allowing him to move her as he wished. His eyes quickly swept over her body, trying to assess her physical condition. Her skin was pale, unnaturally so and her bottom lip was beginning to bruise, showing signs of having been bitten roughly.

Her wrists were visible from where the sleeves of her lab coat had slipped down her forearm, revealing angry red welts that had already begun to form. Gently, he pulled her hands away from his shirt and her grip gave away easily, allowing them to be lifted them so that Sherlock could give them a once over, assessing the damage before seeing similar gashes across the palms of her hands.

Sherlock rested her hands in her lap before he grasped her chin and gently commanded her head upwards.

"Molly, open your eyes."

Molly obeyed, her lashes fluttering and her eyes found his, the brown irises which were usually so astute in clarity of understanding were now glossed over. She had responded, which meant that she hadn't gone into shock and right now, the only thing he had time to care about was her physical state. He couldn't begin to fathom what she was feeling. Even if emotions hadn't always been a foreign concept, Molly had proven time and again that she did not react like other people, effectively surprising him on more than one occasion.

"We need to leave, the building—"

But then she whispered his name, and suddenly her arms were around his neck, her body pressed into his. An action that caught him off guard, to say the least. Present circumstances aside, Molly had never been the one to initiate physical contact between them.

Despite the fact that they needed to leave and that he didn't know what to say, he relented and hesitantly slipped an arm around her back to return the gesture. He could allow for this, if only for a moment. She /had/ nearly just plunged to her death, after all. Even he could comprehend the concept of needing to be comforted after experience like that.

"I th-thought you were gone..." Molly murmured into his shoulder and her grip was clenched into the fabric of his shirt. Her body trembled against his own and the way that it did so caused /the box/ to rattle, triggered by the feel of her in his arms. Sherlock quickly pulled back, because now was definitely not the time. Neither of them were currently hanging on for dear life, but that didn't mean they were safe.

"I'll explain later, but for now we need to leave."

She nodded, her posture changing and her eyes cleared into a hardened sort of understanding. It was something Sherlock had always appreciated about Molly; when something needed to be accomplished, she knew how to prioritize.

He got to his feet, helping her to stand and just as he turned towards the door, a thundering /boom/ sounded from somewhere in the distance. Sherlock's head whipped to the side, and from the opening that he had pulled Molly through, he could see flames in the distance. A second later, another /boom/ resounded before a building next to the first mass of smoke and fire erupted into the same. Screams arose from below and Sherlock watched, shell shocked, as three more buildings suffered the same fate.

Large buildings, more than likely businesses of some kind. All of which were probably occupied.

Five buildings.

Five.

The same number next to the panel of glass he had chosen to break.

Something had to break, because he had broken the rules.

It didn't matter that that something had turned out to be somethings.

Lives and families.

It didn't matter that he hadn't been given the details of his ultimatium.

The game was still on, but Sherlock had felt like he had already lost.