Hello again, my little crumpets! Thank you for your continued support of this story. It's been quite a challenge for me as a writer and I owe a HUGE debt of thanks to hobbitsdoitbetter for her unfailing wisdom and input.

To the guest who asked about an M rated chapter - that's doubtful, honestly. I don't write mature content very well so I leave that to those who do - it's possible I'll 'write around' it but I'm not sure that level of intimacy will fit appropriately in this story. Hope you'll still give this story a chance even without it.

Continued thanks to those of you who favorite, follow and, especially, review. I can't even tell you how much it means to me. Starcrier, ashlanielle, Arcoiris, Reina434, NicoleJacobs, Einvine, lollypop-GuildUK, JustMandy0811, Davichi, legolover, Renaissancebooklover108, Angels-heart1, Monirosez, and the guests - many thanks for the words of encouragement.

Let's do this. :)

~oOo~

When they were younger, Mycroft and Sherlock Holmes often retreated to the woods surrounding their parents home to explore. Those moments in which they were typical boys were few and far between - but when they did roughhouse or play imaginary games, they gave it their full attention. Sometimes, when Mycroft was in a torturous mood, he would tease Sherlock as they returned to their house in the encroaching dusk. He would whisper about monsters and boogeymen emerging from the shadows to eat them alive.

It wasn't so much the notion of some malignant beast chasing him which had worried Sherlock. It had been the notion that he couldn't see it which had bothered him. Even as a boy, he had greatly prized the evidence of his own two eyes. And yet…at that age Sherlock had been willing to take Mycroft's word for it. Had been willing to break into a run and push himself as fast as his long legs would carry him, heart pounding in his chest, spurred on by the fear of being consumed by some horrific supernatural creature that was hard on his heels - "Run, Sherlock, they're almost on you!" - Just before Sherlock's hand would touch the door handle, he would have sworn he could feel the beast's breath on his neck.

And it was this memory which stirred through his brain as he pounded up the stairs to Molly's flat, that same childhood dread of the unknown- the unseen- which flooded his mind as he reached for the brass handle of Molly's front door. The memory of grappling with a thing you couldn't see yet feared with all your heart mixing in with the newer, more adult sentiments of worry and anger. The rage that someone was harming what was his. The monster was loose again - but it wasn't after Sherlock any longer...its nose had picked up Molly Hooper's scent. It was hiding in shadows, hunting her, running her to ground…

And Sherlock Holmes wasn't about to let anything - mythical beastie or human psychopath - touch as much of a single hair on his Molly's head. It would not happen.

It already has, you foolish boy, Mycroft's voice sounded sardonically in his head.

She's alright, Sherlock inwardly snapped back, trying to ignore how hollow the words sounded until he could confirm them with his own two eyes.

He burst through the door and was immediately met by stalwart James the Bodyguard whirling around on him, the man's hand pulling his gun from its holster just before he recognized who he was about to shoot. (Good on you, James.) Both men took a moment to breathe deeply and refocus themselves. Wouldn't do Molly any good for her two brainless protectors to kill each other. The bodyguard cocked his head to the side, directing Sherlock's attention to Molly, sitting on her sofa, the cat (Name...name...Tabby? Toby? Yes, Toby) cradled in her lap. Sherlock felt the breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding, push out of his lungs. (She's fine. Absolutely fine.)

For a moment he just blinked at her like an idiot, not entirely certain what to do now he knew that she was physically uninjured. It had been one thing to hear her say so but another to see it.

She looked up as he approached, her red rimmed eyes, tense set of her jaw and hunched shoulders telling him everything he needed to know about her current mental state. Terrified. She's terrified.

He wanted to do something about it, but couldn't begin to imagine what.

Even as a boy he had always managed those emotions on his own. And by managed, he meant ignored.

But he can't- he won't- ignore this.

"He's been in my flat," she's saying. "Taking my things. I...I don't know how long it's been going on…."

Molly's lip twitched and her head moved from side to side as she stammered out the words.

Sherlock stood before her, his back straightening and jaw clenched shut. Molly's fear only served to worsen the tension already coursing through his body. He should comfort her - assure her safety, speak soothing words into her ear. Yet doing so would plunge him further into the mental chaos that threatened to engulf him. He wouldn't...he didn't know how to do any of that. Not like a real person. Not in a way that wasn't fake. And now was hardly the time for experimentation, he'd more likely make her worse. His attachment to Molly had already rendered him nearly impotent at the crime scene earlier. The last thing he - or Molly - needed was for him to lose himself completely in this...sentiment.

And yet…he couldn't not do something. He couldn't leave her alone in this.

He knew he was neither a good nor a kind man, but he'd be damned if he let his own cowardice hurt her at a time like this.

So Sherlock walked toward her slowly - as if she were a rabbit ready to flee from any sudden movements. He took time to survey the room - nothing obviously out of place - before he knelt down in front of Molly. Placed his hands on her knees- that isn't asinine or sentimental, is it? - he asked himself- even as he tried not to notice how good that simple touch felt. How grounding. Toby regarded Sherlock apathetically (is there any other emotion for a feline?) as he took one of Molly's hands in his. She was shaking (shivering) - probably in a mild state of shock. He knew a little of how she felt and that thought disconcerted him even more. But-

"Molly, I've called Lestrade - a team should be here presently." He kept his voice low and quiet, attempting to soothe Molly enough so that she could give him vital details. "What did he take?"

She drew in a breath and closed her eyes - Molly was calming herself. Pushing down her fear enough to get through the questions. Pride bloomed in his chest - she was a brave one, his Molly.

"One of my shirts, an old picture of me that I had in my desk drawer, a necklace, one of my bras and...a pair of my knickers."

His jaw set tighter and he rocked back on his heels angrily. Images flooded his brain - previous crime scenes where women had been assaulted, tortured…worse. Quite without his permission his mind replaced those unknown faces with Molly's -replaced those mangled bodies with hers, so dear, so known and so fragile. At the thought Sherlock shook his head, shooting up and stumbling slightly backwards, trying to mask the motion as his own clumsiness. His hands pressing to his eyes - attempting to shut out the gruesome slideshow.

Delete the data, Holmes. Delete it and work the facts.

"Sherlock?" Molly's soft voice grounded him back to the present.

He shook his head and turned back, looking down at Molly (So small...so breakable...) "Fine. Yes. Just needed to process the information. Let me think, now."

And he nodded certainly, trying to lend her his confidence, trying to drape them both in it.

He didn't want to think anymore about how small and how easy to break she might prove.

The stalker was stealing tokens and mementos. Sherlock imagined a scene reminiscent of the case boards he put on his wall - pictures, items, facts - all related to Molly. Stolen from her home - was she here when he intruded? - and displayed in a perverse shrine. Nothing unusual in that, it was practically Stalker 101. The familiar protective rage began to simmer in his belly though at the mere notion that this cretin might have been in her home while she was present. Possibly on purpose, possibly with the intent of making face to face contact. What the bastard could have done to Molly - what he still could do to Molly-

Stop. Too much. Focus on the case, Holmes.

Don't think of how badly you know these cases often go.

"How do you know he took them, Molly?" he asked instead. "That you didn't just misplace these items?"

Her eyes flashed to his - her brow furrowed with confusion and hurt. Molly was about to snap back at him when she realized that his question would be the first one Lestrade and his men would ask. She set her jaw and answered.

"I went to pack my things - but my nightshirt wasn't there. At first, I didn't think anything of it. I continued putting things in my bag and noticed one of my bras was missing. It was then I started to get worried. I looked through my hamper and realized that my bra, nightshirt and a pair of my knickers that I'd put in there a few days ago…"

"How many?"

Molly's eyes blinked as if she didn't understand the question. "Of my knickers? One pair."

Sherlock shook his head in annoyance. While the intimate nature of the items taken worried him, that wasn't what he needed to know. "How many days ago did you put them in the washing hamper?" he asked.

"Three days."

He nodded. "So not fresh. Continue."

Molly blinked, but if she thought the comment in poor taste she said nothing. "I panicked then. Looked in my desk and my jewelry and saw that the picture and necklace were gone. But I don't know how long ago those were taken...he could have been in here weeks ago."

Her breath hitched again and Sherlock could see her chest rise and fall rapidly. She was starting to panic and he needed to keep her calm. So-

"Molly. Breathe. In and out." She did as he demonstrated. He stood and watched as she stroked Toby's fur, trying not to note how much her hand trembled as she did so. Trying not to be dismayed at how much he had to disregard that piece of data for his own good when he usually observed everything. In a normal relationship, Sherlock mused, he would be sitting with her on the couch and holding her in his arms to provide physical comfort. But the stimulation to him was already too much - anxiety, fear, anger - emotions that had always been so easily compartmentalized in the past rampaged through his body. It was unproductive chaos, and it might get her killed. One part of him did want to take his place next to Molly - give her what limited support he could. But that wouldn't do right now. It wouldn't serve any purpose other than to distract him from what needed to be done.

"Is there anything else you can think of?"

She shook her head and wiped a tissue over her nose. Held Toby a little tighter.

"Right. I'm going to look around now." He paused for a moment, listening to her breathing return to normal. He should say something...supportive. "I'll be right here." He went to move away and then suddenly thought better of it. Darted forward and, before he could lose his nerve, placed his hand at Molly's cheek, his long fingers tracing the shell of her ear. She blinked at him and opened her mouth to speak but he merely nodded. Stepped away. Nodded once more, curtly.

His pulse was hammering.

Sherlock stepped to the right and let his eyes fall over the room. All the data about Molly went immediately into the appropriate compartment of his mind palace for later (quite a number of interesting and enlightening items of note). He began to move slowly through the flat and at least five relevant clues regarding the stalker appeared to him immediately. Molly hadn't imagined anything, and she had been correct as to the last time the intruder had been in her flat - three days. Three days ago, someone had broken in to her apartment using a sophisticated set of lockpicks (barely discernible marks on the deadbolt) and taken items that were not only personal but intimate to Molly - photos, clothing, trinkets. Nothing else in her home had been disturbed that he could observe.

Conclusions: The break in was the next step in the stalker's obsession with her. He'd been observing her, obviously. Could have followed her or simply done some reasonably simple internet searches for her home address. He was feeling emboldened enough to break into her home and steal things from her that he could use to further his purpose. That purpose - the end game - was the root cause of Sherlock's simmering anger. Watching wasn't quite as satisfying as interaction for the blighter. He'd proven that with the defaced body and angel figurine left in the morgue. He wanted something more - maybe he would be content with setting up a macabre shrine to Molly and sending her tokens of his affection through desecrated bodies. But it was unlikely, especially if he'd moved on to taking intimate things like underwear or jewellery. And the next time he decided to get close to Molly might mean she would be the one who might end up with a love letter carved into her body. The violent images broke free again and flashed in front of him.

Stop. STOP. Sherlock put his hands to his face and inhaled deeply. Calm down. Descending further into 'what ifs' and scenarios in which Molly was subjected to the whims of a psychotic arsehole would not do right now.

Right now, he needed to get her back to Baker Street and hope that the forensic team might be able to recover one fingerprint to point Sherlock in the precise direction of the man who would be on the receiving end of Sherlock's wrath.

Sherlock turned to speak to Molly when he heard John and Mary's raised voices in the hallway. James had apparently seen them coming and was doing his best to bar them from Molly's flat.

No idea what you've gotten yourself into, old boy, Sherlock thought.

"I don't care who you are. My friends are in there, Jason Statham, and if you don't move your shaved head and...and...biceps, I'll go through you." Mary's voice was even, low and deadly. "Don't think for a minute I won't."

Molly's head perked up at the sound of her friend. Sherlock glanced her way and rolled his eyes - at least that elicited a wisp of a smile from his pathologist.

James' voice could be heard attempting to calm the pair, but Sherlock could hear the sharp intake of breath just as Mary prepared to launch into the poor man again - hopefully not with her fists. "James, it's fine. Let them in." He called.

Mary burst into the room followed closely by John, who cast a backwards glance to the bodyguard before turning his focus to Sherlock. John mouthed, He's huge. Sherlock rolled his eyes and harumphed under his breath. James wasn't that big.

"Molly, sweetheart…" Mary flung herself down on sofa next to Mary and pulled her into a tight embrace before leaning back and cupping Molly's cheeks in her hands. "You alright? You look a fright, love." Mary directed her attention. "Tell me you're close to finding this bastard."

"Close...yes."

Mary set her jaw. "He's coming for her, Sherlock, mark my words. You have to find him before...well, just find him." Her voice was hard…commanding.

The indications of worry and fear were glaringly obvious on Mary. He hadn't known Mary for long, but it had been long enough to know that when she was concerned about someone or something, her emotions shifted into quite a professional mentality. She liked to be in control of a situation and, unfortunately, this was one scenario where that was not possible.

"Mary, I know quite well what's at stake in this game and I have no intention of allowing anyone to put so much as a finger on my Molly. Your concern is noted. " His frustration was beginning to mount again - a combination of knowing someone was out there who was currently besting him at the game and his concern for keeping Molly safe. Before he lashed out and said anything out of turn, he needed to get out of the flat.

"Molly will be staying with me until this mess is sorted," he said. "If you want to do something helpful, stay here while the police do their job and lock up when you leave." He glanced around the room and spotted the small cat perched on the kitchen counter. "And bring Toby round my place tomorrow."

Sherlock walked over to where Molly sat and held his hand out to her. Pulled her up to a standing position. Toby let out a small screech of frustration as he was unceremoniously dumped from his comfortable perch. Sherlock grabbed a small bag - the one that Molly had managed to put together before the unsettling discovery of her stalker's visit - put his arm around her shoulder and marched out the door, James following close behind. They left the flat without another word.

John turned to his fiance with a raised eyebrow. "His Molly?"

Mary smiled. Grinned, really. "His Molly. You heard him, love."

John shook his head. Trust Sherlock Holmes not to notice his feelings until they involved a crime scene. "Well, it's about bloody time Sherlock extracted his massive cranium from his arse and got on with it," he said. "Maybe now Molly can manage some of that restless toddler energy, eh?"

"Maybe." The couple moved to the couch and sat down. Toby decided that any lap was a good lap and bounded down from the counter and resumed his position on Mary's legs.

Apparently loyalty was not a trait much found in cats.

"They're good for each other." Mary took John's hand as she spoke. "As much as I want to smack the annoying git most of the time, Sherlock really does care for Molly. He'll treat her well. And if he doesn't, she'll be the one to smack him. Followed by me...and you." She smiled, ran her hands through Toby's fur. "Never thought Sherlock would grow up so fast," she snickered.

John's laughter joined hers. But his voice was low as he took his fiance's hand. "If anything happens to her though, Mary…"

"It won't. He won't let it. We won't let it."

John nodded his head He was glad that Sherlock could have some happiness in his life that didn't involve experimenting on body parts or solving cases. But John was also greatly concerned - now that Sherlock had made his intentions known to Molly, if anything should happen to her - it would destroy his best friend. Sherlock Holmes didn't do half measures. Just ask Irene bloody Adler. Molly was Sherlock's now - even if he probably didn't know what the hell to do with a girlfriend, of all things. But if this unhinged lunatic managed to hurt Molly, it may very well be the end of the Consulting Detective.

They needed to find the person responsible before it was too late for Molly - and for Sherlock.

~oOo~

From where he stood - hidden by the shadows - the man could see Molly Hooper's flat perfectly. She hadn't been home last night; that was disconcerting. His Molly was nothing if not predictable. She liked her routine - he loved that about her. Maybe his tribute to her hadn't been received as well as he had hoped. He should have thought it through better. Stupid. She hadn't understood his motive - he wanted to show her that someone cared for her more than anyone in the world.

Molly Hooper was an angel. His angel.

His attention was drawn back to Molly's flat and a scowl descended on his face as he watched her leave with Sherlock Holmes. No. Not him. Not Holmes. Not The Great User…The Great User of Molly. He took her for granted. She deserved so much more.

She deserved so much more than Holmes would ever give her.

Yet, as the man watched Holmes stopped her on the steps down from her house, one hand curling at her elbow. Lowered his head to say something soft in her ear. It looked…tender. Familiar. The touch of someone who knew their presence was both welcome and longed for. The touch of someone for whom Molly cared.

The man's fingers curled and clenched around the object in his hand, jealousy curling in his innards. Molly associating with Sherlock Holmes at the hospital was one thing - this was unacceptable. Holmes was looking at her as if she belonged to him and she didn't. She didn't. He'd never allow it. Molly Hooper would never belong to Sherlock Holmes and that was an end to it.

No, she belonged to someone much more worthy.

The man turned sharply and threw the necklace to the ground before grinding his heel into the metal and faux jewels. It was time that Molly understood.

~oOo~