Author's note:

Hi!

I know, I know, I should update more often. I'm sorry, I really wish I could.

Trust me, I am trying my best.

On a positive note, thanks to the holidays I'll be able to post a new chapter -with more Sherlock & Molly- quite soon!

I hope you all have a lovely break.

Thanks to:

16magnolias, Renaissancebooklover108 , NiceNipps , lovebirds413, SammyKatz, mrspencil, writer's legend, almightyswot,Em Kay Who , EliTch, Bucky5 and Rocking the Redhead for the reviews!

On to the story!

Sherlock walked in the room and silently placed his hands on the table, head lowered.

He hadn't said a word since they left the morgue.

"Sherlock?" John hesitated.

The consulting detective's body seemed to shake slightly in an effort to keep breathing steadily. He gritted his teeth.

"Sherlock..."

"F..." Sherlock's roar was covered by a loud bang as he upturned the table and its items flew crashing to the floor.

The doctor looked silently at his frustrated roommate. He was sure there were things Sherlock had planned to ask, things he had promised to himself he would do...Things John would probably have tried to prevent, being a doctor and all...But now he couldn't. They'd taken his chance away from him.

Maybe Stefano got the better deal, after all.

His friend continued to swear ferociously. He picked up a vase and prepared to throw it at the wall with all his strength.

"Molly is upstairs." John murmured.

Sherlock blinked, his jaw clenched.

If the table hadn't woken her, this wouldn't.

She was too heavily sedated to hear him.

Not that it mattered if she could.

Because it didn't.

The vase was gently placed back on the coffee table.

The consulting detective ran his hand through his hair and paced the room like a caged beast.

"What next?" John asked quietly, calmly as one would when approaching a trapped, agitated feral animal...One that needed help.

His friend twitched and turned his back to the doctor, gritting his teeth.

"The case isn't over, Sherlock. Carthy is still at large and we lost two witness and leads to those who commissioned the murder. What do we do next?"

He rested his forehead against the cool glass of the French window.

"What next, Sherlock?"

Focus.

Think.

Think!

"What the hell is going on here?" James demanded flinging the door wide open. He saw the upturned table, ignored by the two friends in unspoken agreement to forget the outburst. The ambassador's eyes met Sherlock's and his shoulders relaxed. "Molly is still sleeping." He simply said.

"Any success in finding who made the call to have Stefano assigned to Molly?" John questioned.

The answer was as expected. James shook his head.

"Complete Omertà. It's bad enough with Italians in general, but when the situation becomes international, then they really know how to be quiet. Even the Prime Minister seems to be struggling to have any cooperation, although he'd rather shut us out than admit he is losing his hold on the government. I suspect his seat is soon to be vacated, my continued existence notwithstanding. The French are hardly better, although they at least attempt to appear helpful. Nobody will speak up, either because they do not know, are afraid to tell or would be compromised."

Sherlock nodded. "Someone has bought, threatened or blackmailed others to do their bidding and hide their tracks. This is bigger than Carthy, he was just a pawn, an agent working for them. We need to find him before they do."

"How much bigger are we talking?" James' brow furrowed.

Sherlock pulled out something from his pocket.

It was a photo.

Rigamonti had swiftly handed it to Sherlock before they parted ways. "I hope this helps." He had simply said."And...Thank you." Ascanio had added brokenly .

Now the three men looked over the only clue the desperate father felt at liberty to offer.

"What do you see?" Sherlock asked, helping the others grasp the photo's significance.

John eyed it solemnly.

"It looks like a picture taken from Google street view." He shrugged. "I can almost read the name of the street..."

"Via Giacinto Pullino." Sherlock stated."Look closer, what do you notice?"

The doctor shrugged. "Cars, people walking, a shop...Wait, that's a restaurant. La maisonette...That's a French name...Is there a link there? Who is the owner of the restaurant? Maybe they..."

Sherlock leaned closer. "Look at the woman and the child. Bottom right."

"What about them?"

James eyes narrowed. "The boy's face...Could it be?"

Sherlock nodded. "Focus on the boy's schoolbag. The mother is carrying it, see? Look carefully at those letters on the bag."

John bit back his frustration and focused. His eyes widened when he noticed J.R. stitched on the rucksack. "Are those...Initials?" He looked at Sherlock.

"What was Ascanio's son called?"

"Jacopo."

John could see the family resemblance in the boy's features, from the strong chin to the high brow.

"So, this is a street view with Ascanio's family in it..."

"Taken yesterday, you can tell by the sign at the bus stop in the top left corner. Google updates satellite and aerial pictures every two weeks, but street views aren't taken as regularly. Yet here we have this picture. It was meant as a sign of strength, rather than a threat to Rigamonti. A phone call would have been enough, or even a simple picture taken from a camera, but with this...Ah, with this they were trying to make a point."

John looked up at his friend.

"Carthy was just an agent, an expendable pawn of a larger corporation. We need to find him before they do."

"I'll make some more calls." James stood up.

There was a knock on the door and one of the scorta walked in, along with a rather stern-looking nurse.

"I don't think pointing out the woman's secret fetish helped us, Sherlock." John grumbled as they walked out of the hospital.

The nurse had come to inform them that visiting hours had long passed, that the hospital had been extremely...Hospitable, but after gunshots and upturned tables it was about time everyone remembered this was a indeed a hospital, not a hotel, with patients that needed peace and quiet and would you please just go away?

Sherlock sniffed. "It didn't hurt us, either."

The ambassador nodded, one of his men opened the car door and he got inside. "We should go back to the consulate. I can have someone bring us dinner there and we can continue our search...And maybe get some rest." He added, when he saw John stifle a yawn before joining him in the vehicle. It had been a very busy day...

Sherlock looked up at the hospital. Some of the lights were still on.

"Claudio is keeping an eye on Molly's room." James muttered quietly.

Sherlock's gaze didn't waver, but he nodded.

"Sir." Said the Italian officer holding the door.

Sherlock looked back at John.

"I have some things I need to do. Go to the embassy, I will join you later."

Molly woke up with a jolt.

She sat up and shakily brought her bandaged hand to her forehead as she groggily tried to remember where she was.

And why.

It was dark.

The only light she could perceive came from the streetlamp outside. She couldn't hear cars or people, everything was silent. It must be very late, or very early...

Too quiet.

Far too quiet.

"Claudio?" She croaked.

"Yes, Doctor Hooper? Are you all right?" The crisp and alert answer came swiftly from the other side of the door. "Do you need anything?"

"No, thank you. I was...Just checking."

Molly let her head fall back onto the pillow and took a deep breath.

James said she would be safe. Claudio was there, as promised.

She should go back to sleep.

Just go back to sleep.

She was fine.

Sleep.

No!

Molly sat up again, forcing herself to breathe deeply and slowly.

With a resigned shake of her head, she carefully got out of bed, painfully aware and wary of any ubrupt movements.

She would have turned on the light, but she was afraid it would make Claudio worry.

She didn't want to bother him.

Standing in the dark, she hugged herself.

It was too late to call mum.

Well, mum wouldn't say that, of course, but...No. There was no need to wake her up.

It would only make her worry.

And Molly was fine.

Perfectly fine.

She just...Couldn't sleep.

That's all.

Molly walked to the window and pulled the curtain aside, silently looking at the small square to the left and the century-old cinema facing the hospital.

One of the orange lights of the lamp posts was flickering weakly, only occasionally illuminating a corner of the pavement across the street.

Someone ought to fix that.

She blinked.

For a moment, when the light was on, she thought she saw a shadow.

A tall, dark form, leaning against a wall, looking up.

Molly blinked again.

It was gone.

She shook her head.

It must be the concussion, she told herself.

Yet, somehow, the idea of getting back into bed no longer seemed so unappealing.

Molly yawned.

With a deep sigh, she slipped back under the covers, hugged the pillow, and closed her eyes.