Sorry for the posting delay. I will most likely be putting up chapters more slowly on this story, it's definitely challenging me much more as a writer. That, and life is crazy busy right now. Thank you, thank you for the wonderful reception you're giving this one. I can't tell you how much I appreciate the love!

My intrepid reviewers ~ crooney83, CloudCuckooLandHasAQueen, BenAddict Holmes, Crimson and Chrome 42, anuni83, AJP910, NicoleJacobs, Calicar, Rocking the Redhead, BazinGal, GetSherlocked, girthwithafilmcamera, romancelover198, RedTailHawk19, and my two guests ~ you are keeping the muse very happy.

MUCH thanks to the incredible, fantastic, wonderful hobbitsdoitbetter for her amazing beta. Seriously, people, she's the BEST.

Hope you like! XXOO

~oOo~

Sherlock Holmes was beyond frustrated. It was nine o'clock in the morning (over twelve hours, idiot) and he still had no definitive answer on the identity of Molly's stalker. He'd narrowed down the possibilities (eight), but he didn't have a name. The unnamed person (most definitely not for long, he would see to that) was out there. Watching her. Waiting for another opportunity to deliver either a twisted message of his devotion or...worse. It was the 'worse', he didn't want to think about. It was the possibility of 'worse' that caused anger and anxiety to wind their way through his chest like a spider's web - growing and multiplying until he was unable to think clearly.

And if he couldn't think clearly he was painfully aware that he was of no use to Molly at all.

He threw himself down on the couch at that and steepled his fingers over his mouth. These emotions toward Molly weren't altogether surprising (although damn inconvenient). He'd had them before. During his absence, he'd been in the process of interrogating yet another key individual in Moriarty's network. The brute had broached the subject of Sherlock's disappearance and whether that 'mousey little bitch at St. Bart's' played a hand in its execution. The man had laughed and winked, saying that she wasn't much to look at but he wouldn't need to see her face for what he had planned. Sherlock had intended to get the information he needed quickly and move on, but the ugly bastard's twisted smile (Don't even think about touching her) made Sherlock reevaluate his plan. Instead of the hour (or less) it normally took to obtain the necessary specifics, Sherlock took the afternoon. By the time the man begged for a quick death, Sherlock had been satisfied: The subject's death had insured Molly would be safe.

Sherlock would be satisfied again once he identified this faceless individual (some form of mild torture wouldn't be unwarranted in this case either) and ensured Molly's safety. She would be safe and sound and, and...his. His, even if he still didn't quite know what to do with her. He had some ideas, of course. Ideas that came to him late in the night when he was alone and wondering what she might be doing at the same moment. Thoughts of Molly next to him, smiling in that shy, self-conscious way, caused his chest to tighten with the weight of his... yearning? Hunger? For her. And when he started thinking about those things, he often found himself unable to think of anything else.

He longed for her in a way that made him understand why John devoted so much time to Mary. When he was away from Molly, the time until he saw her again seemed oddly pointless. He even sometimes found himself simply daydreaming (not often, mind you) about strolling through the city with Molly, content in the comfort of each others presence. Not doing anything… amorous, just happy being together. It was not entirely different from the way they worked together in companionable silence in the lab: They did make a good team. Maybe that was the foundation of all good relationships, he mused. At the thought his hands dropped to his lap. Was that what was developing between Molly and him? A relationship? Sherlock shifted in his seat - slightly uncomfortable with the word. No, not with the word. With its connotations in this context. Yet, the hallmarks of a pair bond were there; friendship, common interests, amenability to physical contact. Mutual physical attraction, even. Sherlock sat for a moment before closing his eyes and shaking his head from side to side.

"Focus on the case, Holmes." He scolded himself quietly.

He could amuse himself with notions of liaison and courtship once he'd solved things.

If, of course, Molly proved amenable, considering how untrustworthy she currently found him.

And with that in mind, Sherlock bounded up from the couch, grabbed his belstaff and scarf from the chair and made his way out of the flat. Those ideas about Molly Hooper would do nothing for either of them if he couldn't protect her by finding out who intended to cause her harm. He needed to put those distracting feelings away where they belonged in order to concentrate on the job at hand. Only after he found the culprit would Sherlock contemplate what needed to be done about The Molly Question.

A cab pulled up to the curb almost immediately. Sherlock climbed in the back seat and began revising theories about the stalker in his head. Maybe five minutes passed before the text alert on his phone chimed.

Dr. Hooper security detail on their way. MH

On their way now? He'd asked Mycroft to ensure a guard on Molly at all times and only now does he find it necessary to inform him that she'd been unattended all night?

"Dammit, Mycroft. One simple bloody instruction and you manage to cock it up." Sherlock muttered, punching in his reply.

Unacceptable. You told me she would have someone last night. SH

Sherlock's previous frustration was giving way to a mounting anger. If Molly was in any way compromised due to his brother's lack of follow-through, the promises he'd made to their mother about getting along with Mycroft for her sake would be broken - along with his nose. The text alert drew his attention back to the phone.

Police guard overnight. Private security beginning today. Your Watson should be with her now. Try not to overreact, little brother. Your doctor will be looked after. Little Miss Muffet's curds and whey are in no danger. MH

Sherlock gripped his phone harder, typing out his response. "If a single curd is out of place, as you put it, I'll show you overreaction, you arrogant sod." He bit the words out through clenched teeth, glowering as he texted a response.

Obviously she'll be looked after - I'll see to it personally since you are utterly incompetent. SH

Sherlock exited his texting with Mycroft before the latter could offer any more evidence of his ineptitude and pulled up John's contact information. He pressed the screen on his phone and listened as the call connected and rang...and rang. "Pick up the phone, John," he whispered to himself.

Just before Sherlock was sure he would hear the familiar beginnings of John Watson's voice mail message, his friend's voice came over the speaker.

"Morning, Sherlock."

"John, I assume Molly is with you?"

"Well, no. I dropped her at St. Bart's around seven this morning."

Two hours. Two hours she'd been alone. Unattended. Unprotected.

"Why in the hell would you think to let her out of your sight, John? She needs protection, dammit and I trusted you for the job."

"Sherlock, she's…"

He hung up on John and found Molly's number next. John could call him a wanker later. With each ring, he gritted his teeth tighter. Sherlock swore under his breath at the sound of her voice mail message. He looked out the window and saw that the cab was making the turn toward St. Bart's. The cab barely slowed before Sherlock threw some notes at the cab driver and flung open the door, sprinting toward the entrance. As he wound through the hallways - nearly colliding with one doctor and an orderly - he felt as if he were back on the hospital rooftop; the adrenaline and fear coursing through his body as quickly as any poison. Moriarty's game had been perfectly crafted to exact the ultimate revenge on Sherlock - threatening those closest to him worked because Sherlock would do anything for his friends (for Molly). The players may have changed in this game, but the stakes remained the same.

Someone for whom he cared deeply was in danger and he had to make sure she didn't lose.

Sherlock marched into the lab, his eyes frantically searching for her brown hair. Nothing. He marched into the autopsy theater. Nothing. Panic, real panic, was beginning to bloom in his chest and he stamped it down. Sherlock Holmes resolutely did not panic. Deep breath in. Out. Repeat. Repeat. REPEAT. Focus, Holmes. He entered the lab again and surveyed the room. Bag on the floor. Computer on. Coat draped over the chair. She was here somewhere. He shook off the fleeting thought that Molly might not be in the hospital. John's warning from the previous night echoed through his head. What if she'd been taken from him - removed from his life before…before he figured out what he wanted to do with her? What if she was...? But he pushed that thought down. His vision began to blur with the increase in his blood pressure. Controlling his breathing was doing nothing: The panic he was trying to desperately to tamp down on threatened to overwhelm him.

The sound of the door caused him to spin around, but the breath caught in his throat as the figure coming through the door turned out to be Mike Stamford.

"Where is Molly?" Sherlock's voice was more little more than a bark.

The man looked completely unruffled. Idiot. "Pathology class today, I believe."

Class. She was teaching a class. "What room?"

"Education Centre. Main room, I think." Mike glanced at the clock on the wall. "Should have been over at least twenty minutes ago. What's..."

Stamford's question faded into the background as he flew past Molly's boss (down to seven possible suspects now) and followed the hallway signs to where Molly should be. His breathing evening out now that he had somewhere to look, something to do. He began looking into the windows and each time he failed to see Molly, that dreaded panic loomed in the back of his mind - waiting to coil around his heart again and squeeze. Finally, in the last window, he saw Molly Hooper.

The momentary relief he felt was replaced by blinding rage at the sight of a man in a white coat holding his Molly by the throat.

He slammed open the door and sprinted to where the two stood. Molly's eyes grew wide as he approached. He was vaguely aware of Molly calling his name as Sherlock grabbed the stranger's arm, twisted it behind the man's back and slammed him against the wall.

Sherlock's lips hovered just over the man's ear. "You will never touch her again."

He was a hairs breadth away from breaking the man's arm when Molly's frantic voice cut through the fog of rage. "Sherlock! Sherlock, stop!"

She was pulling at him now, grabbing at his arms in an attempt to break the two men apart. Sherlock turned his head down to look at her and saw the confusion and anger evident on her face.

"Sherlock, he's a medical student! He wasn't hurting me! Let him go!"

It took a moment for her words to register in his head. When the true picture of what had transpired between Molly and the young man crystallized in his mind, his stomach twisted as much from the mistake he'd made but from the knowledge that her stalker was still unapprehended. Sherlock stepped back quickly, dropping the man's arms as he moved.

Molly stepped forward and placed her hand on the stranger's back.

"William...Will...are you alright? I'm so sorry, it was a complete misunderstanding."

Molly was soothing him. Soothing the blighter that had just had his hands all over her. She patted his arm as the medical student turned around, a terrified look on his face. He regarded Sherlock a moment, then bolted from the room, grabbing his notebook as he left, leaving Molly and Sherlock alone in the tension filled classroom.

Sherlock stood still, the adrenaline still hot and fresh in his system. His hands clenched inside his coat pockets as he futilely tried to center himself.

Molly turned on him, her arms crossed and jaw set. "What the hell was that, Sherlock?"

His fear for her was as raw as an open wound. The mental images of Molly Hooper's lifeless body had flashed through his mind countless times the previous night. His focus on her protection had driven him even during his disappearance. Watching the scenario of Molly in danger play out in front of him - even if it wasn't real - unsettled Sherlock to his very core.

"He had his hands around your throat, Molly."

"He's a medical student that I was helping after class! I was demonstrating wound patterns, for god's sake!"

"I couldn't know that, could I? You've been threatened, Molly. I arrive here to find you gone from the lab and see…" He pulled out his hands and gestured pointedly to where she and the student had been standing. "...that. What do you imagine I would infer?"

Molly opened her mouth to reply but closed it again immediately. She regarded him for a moment, searching his eyes with her own. Her anger faded to frustration and she blew out a sharp breath as one hand went to her hip and the other pinched the bridge of her nose.

"I would imagine you inferred some psychotic stalker was choking me."

"Quite right." He huffed.

"Well, then… Thank you." She said it to her shoes. "You just gave me a fright, is all."

In that instant, Sherlock felt his body shift forward. He wanted to go to her. Cross the short distance between them and wrap her in his arms to verify that she was alright. To know that she was safe here with him. To show that she needn't be frightened of him. He wanted to feel the warmth of her against his chest, bury his face in her hair and stand together until his heart ceased its frantic rhythm.

But he remained rooted in the same spot, watching Molly Hooper go to the desk and gather her things. She turned back to him, the corner of her mouth moving upward in a shy smile.

"I always thought my knight would wear armor - not a belstaff coat and a scarf."

"Don't be daft, Hooper. Armor is too restrictive."

Her soft laugh loosened the last tenuous strand of his anger and he felt himself relax slightly. He was still tense - a boogeyman planned to leap from the shadows to snatch Molly away from him. He would not allow her to be placed at risk again.

"Back to the lab, then?" Molly's large brown eyes (she still looked tired) sought his - A silent truce was being offered.

He nodded in response. She moved in front of him and his hand automatically went to the small of her back. Instinctual. Protective. Sherlock told himself that after the stress of believing Molly to be in danger, this small gesture reassured him of her safety. It didn't speak to other wants, or needs, or desires: He wouldn't let it. They walked out of the room and turned down the hallway before he allowed his arm to drop back to his side.

It occurred to him that The Molly Question may need to be addressed sooner than he had planned.

Because though his arm had left her, he swore he still felt the impression of her against his skin.

~oOo~

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