Sherlock 1. Chapter 1

written by a very amateur non-owner of BBC Sherlock and its intellectual property, sorry :(

The Scientist by Coldplay seems to work as background music

leave me your comments, I can use the feedback.. I think

*a probably AU scene from HLV, you decide lol

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><p>The Lear jet sat on the tarmac at a private airport near London. Its crew could be seen moving around, busily engaged in their pre-flight rituals, while g roup surrounding Sherlock Holmes stood nearby.<p>

It occured to him that the sunny, windy elements were being distinctively bright and unsympathetic to their subdued mood.

He had gained a few brief moments of privacy from Mycroft, even while his mind registered disbelief that this might be the last time he and John Watson were together.

All the while, an instinctual sense of self-preservation hummed along his nerves, and as he glanced around, he catalogued the actions, thoughts and obvious deficiencies of those nearby.

As he struggled with a painful sense of regret and failure, a bright ray amongst the gloom of his present circumstances was his encounter with Molly in the early morning hours . Mycroft has been his usual intractable self, requiring his best negotiation skills. Self-doubt had overtaken him, and it was this on which he blamed his failure to fight Mycroft's insistence that he leave London.

He had insisted on seeing Molly though, all the while knowing there was the possibility that she would refuse to comply with his request to see her.

Events had moved quickly after his surrender to Mycroft and his elite tactical squad. If London's media was to remain oblivious to his involvement in Magnussen's demise, time was of the essence.

In the pre-dawn, Anthea had entered his private quarters to announce that Molly had agreed to see him shortly.

Under normal protocol, he knew she would be given a brief skeleton overview of what had transpired. His undisclosed location would remain so to her, with every precaution being made to ensure that their meeting was invisible.

The whole incident was now something that only a few select people would ever be aware of the truth if Mycroft had his way, the woman Molly Hooper now regretfully included in that number.  
>After what was probably about an hour and a half, but felt like days, the door opened and Molly stood in the midst of his holding cell. She seemed to pay little attention to her surroundings, appearing bewildered and deeply concerned on his behalf.<p>

What surprised him most was his own sense of relief, as he realized how much he had counted on seeing her. It seemed obvious to him to guard his reactions, to protect her from the coming ordeal.

He felt disheveled and vulnerable, ballistics having taken his outer garments and dress shirt for testing. In their place, he wore only a snug nondescript gray sweatshirt. As usual, it disturbed him that his scarred arms might be seen, causing him to tug surreptitiously on his sleeves.

Molly was the first to break the silence, "Sherlock, what's going on? Are you okay?"  
>He struggled not to answer the gratuitous questions with his usual dry sarcastic humour. As he had found to his chagrin, Molly took it as a personal attack, signifying his disdain of her. "I don't count', rang in his ears, even now.<br>He spoke solemnly but with a slight amount of his usual stoic demeanour, turning slightly away from her. "My solution to my latest case has led to my involvement in the death of Charles Magnussen. I am now and will be for the foreseeable future a political hot potato, too hot for even Mycroft. The most that can be done for damage control apparently, is for me to leave England, for an unknown period of time." His head and shoulders slumped, and he seemed slightly lost in his thoughts.

"And I'm here, why, exactly?" Molly's words seemed harsh to her ears, but to date, Sherlock's apparent determination to keep her at arms length, nothing more than a necessary, albeit friendly colleague, was wearing a bit thin with her. It would be easy to lose her composure as she observed his tired features, but it would be to her own cost if Sherlock chose to rebuff her compassion.

Seeing his discomfort, she softened, "How long this time?" Her voice cracked, remembering how hard they all had taken his absence, and how much his coming departure must underneath be hurting him.  
>He looked toward her then, swallowing as he spoke, "Mycroft thinks it'll be over in six months, and he's usually right." ...<br>Molly assessed his expression and body language, reading what he refused to say. Right or wrong, the damaged man before her needed her solace and comfort, and she reached out to pull him into her embrace.  
>"Molly," he spoke muffedly into her shoulder, wrapping his arms around her half-heartedly.<br>Her hand instinctively brushed through his disheveled curls, pulling back to look up into his eyes, his arms loosening all the while.  
>He stared intently down at her, her head near his chest, eyes locked, speaking softly now, "It's time to forget me, Molly Hooper. Move on with your life. This time, I'm not coming back."<br>The tears welled up, all the while Molly knowing Sherlock hated them.  
>She grasped his upper arms, feeling his unyielding resistance to her demand for reassurance, "I've given you everything you asked of me, Sherlock..." fading away as she shook her head.<p>

He smiled humourlessly, his voice rumbling throughout her body as he spoke, "I suppose you expect a miracle from me, like John."

"Only that you stay as safe as you can, and remember, I'm here, always, whatever you need."  
>He stepped back, pulling himself free of her comforting hands, turning away from her again. Whatever he must face, he would do it alone. He had requested that Mycroft ensure Molly would be watched for her own safety, he owed her that much. And to set her free.<br>A growly voice came from his depths, surprising even him, "Why, Molly? Why pledge your loyalty to a murderer? Are you that desperate for a man's attention?"

Molly flinched painfully, aware of Sherlock's scare tactics, but still feeling the sting of his words. Right, into battle it was, if that's what he wanted. Her head snapped up, her eyes fierce, reminding one of a small wrathful dragon.  
>"If you want to rehash the past, Sherlock, we could go down that street. But right now, I think you need someone. If someone caring about you is that much a burden to you, just say so. You're the one that's going to be alone."<br>"So will you," he retorted swiftly, looking at her briefly.  
>"No, I learned from my dad's death, that the feelings you share with someone stays, no matter what happens. No one can take their love away from you, Sherlock."<br>Sherlock remembered his desperate fight to survive his shooting and how Molly and Redbeard's presences had kept him alive.  
>"Thank you, Molly Hooper," he said, gruffly.<br>At that moment, the guard came in, signifying the end of their visit.

It seemed inevitable they would turn to face each other, making eye contact. Molly's hurt seemed unbearable but she remained impassive. Sherlock seemed calmer than when she had come in, his stoicism coming to the forefront.  
>"Good-bye, Molly Hooper," Sherlock spoke in measured, respectful tones.<br>"Good-bye, for now, Sherlock Holmes," she responded quietly, her eyes shining with unshed tears.  
>She turned to walk quickly through the door, turning to glance back briefly. Sherlock had already turned away. Her last sight of him was a still, quiet form staring into space, his hands clasped behind him. Maybe he was filing it the encounter in his mind palace, maybe not. She smiled sadly as she followed the guard out into the hallway.<p> 


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter Two

Sherlock paused at the memory, as he stood facing John. Saying goodbye to Molly had turned out to be more difficult than he had thought, for it seemed a part of him followed Molly out the door.

Maybe it was fanciful but the room had suddenly turned colder and not as bright. He immediately tucked away the encounter in his mind palace, resolving within himself to keep an area there that held the warm kindness of his friends.

He had been allowed access to a small bathroom, and after showering and shaving, he had dressed in the reassuring garments that built a barrier between himself and others. Within minutes, he had found himself standing facing John, wondering if it was normal for his chest to feel cramped and painful.

It felt wrong to be abandoning John at the beginning of his new experience of fatherhood. Inexcusably, he had underestimated the genius of Magnussen the blackmailer, and even now the memory of the error he had made appalled him.

If from the beginning he had understood that Magnussen stored his litany of blackmails against the world only in his mind, he would surely have found a way to nullify his poison without being forced to take violent action that night.

It was not his nature to mete out punishment to the guilty, but only rather to unravel their deceptions, brilliantly exposing their heinous deeds to the bright light of justice. Still, there had been times and would be again when his only avenue was to take swift self-defensive action.

Taking the life of another brought him no pleasure, though, and he knew that in times of deep stress, the memory of Magnussen's corpse laying lifeless and grotesque would bring nightmarish torment to his dreams.

For now, he was with a friend, and it behooved him to repay John Watson's loyalty and friendship with as much openness and decency that he was capable of.

He strove to match pleasantry with pleasantry, and as with Molly, the encounter would be stored in his mind palace, for he was learning how valuable true friendship was to his well-being, possibly even being crucial in matters of life and death.

He shook hands with John Watson, and turned swiftly away, climbing aboard the plane without a backward glance.

Preparations were complete, and the jet immediately taxi-ed into position, and started down the runway, lifting flawlessly into the air.

The prospect of never seeing London again cast its shadow over him, and for a few minutes he stared out the window, looking for those familiar cityscapes that made up his world.

When the attendant passed him the phone, he realized belatedly had been ringing inside his coat pocket, tossed casually aside.

He assumed it was Mycroft, already crafting a plan as promised to bury him deep in some criminal organization.

Not quite, it seemed, hearing of his reprieve from Mycroft. It seemed the world-wide game of chess between good and evil now had a familiar antagonist on the board again.

Going back over the fateful events on the rooftop of St. Bart's, he knew James Moriarty to be dead. You didn't have to be a rocket scientist to recognize brain matter, bone fragments and congealing blood pooling together in the sun.

On the tarmac, Mycroft listened uncomprehendingly to the looped feed that was being played on every monitor in England. Hanging up, he got out of his car, staring off in the distance as Sherlock's plane lined up for a landing.

Watching his brother disembark, he stood aside while Sherlock climbed into the back with John and Mary.

He lifted the remote wordlessly, turning on the monitor that played the monotonous loop.

Sherlock's eyes narrowed, immediately beginning to sift through his mind palace as he analyzed the video feed.

The ride back into the city was silent, until John broke out,

"Sherlock, what about Molly? She's in danger now, isn't she?'

Sherlock nodded shortly, then sighed at John's look, "After we drop you off, I'm heading for St. Bart's. I'm sure Mycroft can arrange a safe house for her for the present."

'Of course, Sherlock. I agree entirely on bringing Miss Hooper under our protection."

"You better. We all know she is at risk now if Moriarty's network is still alive," John huffed.

Mary listened worriedly, knowing that both John and Sherlock were also likewise in danger. The baby kicked, and she quietly held her hand on her belly, soothing the child with her soft touch, as the car carried them all back to the city.

Sherlock Holmes stood still for a minute before the closed pathology lab doors.

There was no sound from within, even though he knew that Molly's shift wasn't over for another 20 minutes.

Clearing his throat abruptly, he shook off the demons that ghosted his awareness, as he opened the large double doors.

It was silent in the morgue, and he stood holding the door open for a moment, a frisson of doubt shiveringdown his back.

Footsteps from behind him echoed hollowly, and he twisted around, his senses telling him it was a small woman approaching even as he glanced around.

"Molly', he spoke quietly, allowing the door to silently close.

Wordlessly, she approached him, coming to a stop only inches before him. Her eyes were dark and frightened, yet his presence seemed to be a welcome one.

"They brought you back for this, didn't they?" She spoke tonelessly, "Greg called, he was worried about me."

"Mycroft is insistent that I accompany you to a safe house. You are, after all, the one person that prevented me from literally jumping to my death that day."

Molly shuddered, recalling the many times she had dreamt of his jump from St. Bart's, most of them nightmarish, ending with the broken lifeless body of Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, HER Sherlock, lying on the pavement.

She did the one thing that would convince her that they were both still safe from HIS brutal games.. she stepped forward into Sherlock's space, reaching both arms around his neck to draw him near to her.

She could feel his body stiffen in surprise, then, as if realizing her turmoil, he wrapped his arms loosely around her, providing the reassurance she craved from him. Before he could get fidgety, she released him, stepping away from him slowly.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," she mumbled, an embarrassing heat flushing her face and neck. Sherlock seemed awkward, standing indecisively for a moment.

He then turned silently, and began walking, grasping her elbow as he went. "If you agree to that, and I suggest you do, there's a car waiting for you outside. We can go straight to your home, allowing you to gather some things before taking you to safety."

Together they exited St. Bart's. Sherlock opened the door to the black Lexus parked outside the doors, helping Molly inside, and the car swiftly slid away into the busy London traffic.


	3. Chapter 3

no, I do not own BBC Sherlock or its intellectual property

I thought Jar of Hearts an appropriate choice of song for this chap

thank you SO much to those who followed, favourited and/or reviewed my little blurb..

Sisterspy- I'm glad you loved that first chapter, I did too!

Monirosez- I hope you like the rest, and here is next chapter :)

Kathmak- As everyone says, and I agree, it's very hard to keep Sherlock in character, I hope I can keep that balance between his mercurial temperament and his cold rational side. It's a tightrope! \

Magentacr - you were my first comment, thanks! trust Sherlock to have the world's shortest exile!

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><p>Chapter 3<p>

Mycroft Holmes was sitting quietly on the far side of the car. He quietly gave Molly's address, a quiet one bedroom apartment in Courtney.

He noted with detached amusement Molly's surprised consternation as to the location of her digs, but in his world, addresses were entry level information, that could be gathered after spending 5 minutes on the internet at the public library.

"Miss Hooper, I wish to offer you England's highest level of protection. Without you to turn to, my brother's chances of surviving his encounter with James Moriarty would have been less than ideal."

"Not at all, Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft answered his mobile phone, his face immediately becoming serious, his posture becoming more rigid than before.

Speaking abruptly and then hanging up, he looked at the two with him, 'We have an appointment after we visit Miss Hooper's flat. Do be brief in your packing.'

"I have a cat,' Molly proffered seriously, wondering how the two men would react.

"Yes, Miss Hooper, we are well aware of that," Mycroft stated. "If you would be so kind as to place the creature in a carrier with its toys, I believe my assistant, Anthea, will be happy to provide suitable digs for it."

Molly thought he looked quite stunned to be actually discussing cat lodgings, as she wondered how Toby would settle in with this temporary hostess that was being offered.

She left the two men in the car, although Sherlock had climbed out to do a quick assessment of her neighbourhood, before she was allowed to enter her building.

Toby was waiting at the door, and she first busied herself feeding him and preparing his cat carrier for their departure. She had spent most of yesterday afternoon cleaning, so with a quick refresh of the litter box, and a garbage bag now ready to be placed in the outside dumpster, she turned her attention to the question of clothes.

As she stashed the last of her clothes in her suitcase, someone knocked on her flat door. Going to it and opening it, she found Sherlock outside, looking impatient. Letting him enter, he immediately dwarfed the rooms, as he wandered about.

"I'm ready, if you want to leave," she said quietly, bringing her suitcase and overnight bag into the living room.

He first checked her living room and bath, stilling as he came to the windows in her bedroom.

"Molly, do you open these?' he inquired, looking at the window sill.

"Not at all, there's too much noise from the street for that."

"Well, someone has," indicating smudges that could faintly be seen.

"I cleaned yesterday,' she said, worriedly, and she could see Sherlock's mind beginning to work as he studied the markings intently.

"Is it rude to ask when was Tom last in here?" he asked abruptly, staring into space.

Molly blushed, looking nervously down, "About 5 months ago, maybe more."

She looked up to see Sherlock silently assessing that, then blurting out, "So that'd be not since the wedding."

A pregnant silence fell between them, and Sherlock cleared this throat, "I'll take your bags, Molly, if you can manage your cat."

She nodded, picking up Toby and placing him in his carrier by the door. Sherlock closed and locked her door after checking the flat, and together they left the building. Once outside, Molly walked over to place the garbage bag into the dumpster.

She was sure there was things that would need to be dealt with if her absence was prolonged.

Sherlock tucked her bags into the boot, before placing the cat carrier in the front next to Mycroft's staff.

Mycroft was engaged on his mobile phone when they re-entered the car. With his hand, he indicated to his driver to move on.

"As I mentioned, I'm afraid the first stop will have to be my offices near Whitehall. I apologize for any inconvenience.'

It was unsettling to understand that for the present, nothing was certain about her life anymore, and she struggled to appear unconcerned in the face of these two intimidating, albeit competent men.

Instructing Molly to wait in Mycroft's outer office, Sherlock and Mycroft entered the room, leaving the door open.

To Sherlock's deep surprise, Janine sat ensconced in a leather chair.

"What the hell is she doing here?" he snapped at Mycroft.

He looked back at her, and then at Mycroft. Details he had neglected in his schemes involving Magnussen floated up at him effortlessly and he shook his head in disgust at his stupidity.

Once again, Mycroft had played him, and he was certain that his take down of Magnussen had not been opposed by Mycroft, but rather engineered.

Angered, he started for the door, while Mycroft spoke commandingly,

"Sit down and hear me out, Sherlock."

"Let me start first, BROTHER... MINE." Mycroft winced, but kept his peace. The deadliest game of one-up-man-ship between the brothers commenced with Sherlock's harsh words.

"Janine was put in Mary's place of work. Her instructions were to befriend her, in hopes that Mary would ascertain who her boss was and given her background, would act accordingly to protect her marriage and her child."

"I can't take credit for your quixotic desire to become a saviour, Sherlock. I warned you to stay out of it. Without your interference, Mary would have eliminated Magnussen and no-one the wiser. As it was, I was forced to allow you to engage Magnussen in your own idealistic way.

I had no doubt you would find a solution, but I had no idea how brutal it would be in the end. Seeming to deal harshly with you was meant to appease the powers-that-be."

"I and John and Mary are not pawns on your chess board, Mycroft!"

"There's nothing that can be done about it now, and now we have a crisis more serious than anything before. If you won't listen to me, take this file that has been compiled by this office.'

He listened stonily through Mycroft's explanations, with Janine's input.

Getting up, he took the file from Mycroft's desk, walking out and slamming the door as he went.

Molly stood up in distress, "What's that all about?"

Sherlock muttered, "I have to get away from him and his lies."

"What about the safe house, Sherlock?"

"I can hide where Mycroft, Lestrade and John could search for two years and never find me. You'd be safe enogh.'

Looking into her kind doubtful eyes, he sighed, " I have to think, away from here. At least come hear me out, then decide."

Collecting Molly's belongings, they left Mycroft's offices. Hailing a cab, Sherlock gave the driver a destination.

The London nightlife pulled them in within seconds, as they vanished into the darkness.

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><p>Note - the chapter took an unexpected dramatic turn.. if it's too big a leap I hope someone straightens me out!<p> 


	4. Chapter 4

no, I do not own BBC Sherlock or its intellectual property.. more's the pity

umm... I wrote this listening to Trust Me .. the Fray fwiw

thank you SO much to those who have followed, favourited and/or reviewed my little blurb.. every one goes on the mantel shelf of my own mind palace lol

** this is more a bread and butter chapter so to speak but I have a remarkably bad habit of thinking through the whys and wherefores of a character's behaviour..

Arcoiris- I've got worse ones in my head I think coming eventually.. get your track shoes on hehe.. and thanks for the kind words

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><p>Chapter 4<p>

Traveling in the cab, Molly stared at Sherlock fixedly, who in turn stared fixedly out the window at the passing streetscapes.

Sighing, Sherlock said, "OK, you're got questions."

Molly flushed, "So what happened back there? What are you planning to do?"

"Too short a taxi ride to explain. My immediate plans are to stash your gear, feed you, potentially find lodgings, and if I can, purchase a disposable mobile phone."

"Why?"

"In the same 24 hour period, someone breaks into your apartment, and a threat is staged against England. Not likely a coincidence.

The reason you've been likely targeted is because you count now," looking over and smiling grimly. "You're a client now and under my protection, obviously."

Silence reigned in the cab until they approached the Strand, disembarking near Charing Cross station.

"Let's find a locker down in the Tube, and there should be somewhere on the Strand to eat."

Finding one in Charing Cross, Molly placed the necessities in her overnight bag, electing to leave her suitcase and purse in the locker.

It was nerve-wracking a bit, wondering if you were being followed or identified by security cams. She already missed her quiet life and her research project at St. Bart's. How had Sherlock lived through two years being banished from England and the day-to-day turmoil of his life's work?

They chose a quiet dimly-lit cafe on a side street from the Strand, Molly thankfully settling in to a booth.

Sherlock immediately pulled the file out, rapidly going through the documents it contained. When the waiter came, he indicated that Molly order her choice, and requested tea for both, asking the attendant where he could purchase a disposable phone.

The food when it came was heavenly, and the tea was ambrosia. She ate, while Sherlock drank and studied the file in silence.

Being colleagues had been one thing, with Sherlock often placing his need of her lab and her services foremost, to the detriment of any friendship between them. This was something entirely different.

0o0o0oo0o00o0o0o

She remembered the first time she had met Sherlock. She had just become a surgeon within the last year, electing to do a research project in surgical mortality. No one knew that her focus on it was because of her dad's death on the operating table two years after she entered medical school.

It had been lonely and she wasn't sure even now if she was over his loss. The hours in the morgue and the pathology lab were tedious and lonely but at least she had work and home to comfort her.

She had walked into the lab one morning to find DI Greg Lestrade inside, with a young slight male with dark hair. DI Lestrade looked tired and harassed, while the newcomer appeared professional but remote.

The Inspector was a routine visitor, seeming to approve of Molly's thoroughness in difficult postmortems for deceased individuals whose deaths warranted police interest.

'Miss Hooper, this is Sherlock Holmes. He'll be working with me on and off, and I hope you will co-operate with him on official cases. You have jurisdiction here, and I trust Sherlock's presence will not interfere with your research."

This earned her a scrutinizing look from the man, and somehow she felt he had weighed her in some fashion and found her wanting. Inexplicably, this intimidated her in some way she couldn't describe.

"Oh, are you a college student, Mr. Holmes?"

This seemed to irritate him and he bit out an answer, "Those useless places? Dull."

Slowly she had weaned from Lestrade what little he knew, that Sherlock was a Cambridge student who had taken pathology studies but had dropped out before he could complete his course of studies. How they met neither had ever said but something he had said once had made her wonder from the beginning whether Sherlock was a former uyhdrug addict.

From the start, the two were an unlikely duo, but for all his misanthropic behaviour, no one could doubt the efficiency of his analysis and beyond-a-doubt usefulness to Scotland Yard.

And somehow, the combination of guarded genius and sometimes remarkably clueless child that was Sherlock Holmes had tugged at her heart.

0o0o0o0o00o0o0o0o0o00o0o0o0o00o0o0o0o0o00o0o0o0o00o0o0o0o0o0

The scene in the lab the last time she had seen him flashed into her mind, and she flushed, wondering how she had ever gotten up the courage to slap him repeatedly. Her hand had stung for most of the day, and some part of her would always remember the despondent look she had witnessed.

Sherlock guessed where her mind had wandered to. When extreme, what might even be called emotional, interactions happened between individuals, it appeared there was a residual effect that coloured their next encounter. It was so with John at times, he had noted.

"Okay, you're thinking..."

"This probably isn't the time nor place, but I wanted to say I don't know what came over me in the lab that day. I mean, you shouldn't have been in there, even for a case, but I shouldn't have taken to violence, I'm sorry," looking down at her cup.

Of all the topics Sherlock would choose to discuss, regret and what might have been would come dead last.

He sighed, tapping his fingers and closing his eyes, "Obviously everyone was meant to believe I was spiraling down into a dangerous area. Your methods might have been inefficient and slightly abusive, but your heart was in the right place." He looked up, meeting her eyes. taking a breath, "I promise you for as long as this takes, you can trust me, Molly. I need to find out who's responsible for your attack and for the message out there."

Looking away again, he continued, "Relationships in general are not my area, obviously, but I never intentionally set out to upset you or John. Even I get things wrong sometimes, Molly."

Looking around for the waiter, "I think it's time for us to move on, if you trust me to take care of you. Otherwise I can take you back to Mycroft."

Making what could be an arguably decisions she had ever made, she nodded shortly. Knowing that her apartment had been broken into took away her sense of security there, and of all people in London, Sherlock was the one person she knew who could get to the bottom of this.

"Trust is a two-way street. Don't shut me out just so you don't look stupid, Sherlock."

He shrugged as he paid the bill, and she hoped that she had got through to him a bit.

Leaving the restaurant behind, it took time but they eventually found a place to purchase a disposable phone with cash. Sherlock immediately texted John, indicating the phone number would not be available after the next day, but that he and Molly were safe, Molly requesting that they look after Toby until further notice.

Also he texted an unknown individual, smiling and leading off after their reply came. Eventually, they walked to a back alley, Sherlock stopping them in discreet locations to ensure they weren't being followed or observed.

Silently, Sherlock located the door of what looked to be the backstage of a small theatre. Extricating his kit, he swiftly opened the door, and within seconds they were inside. He swiftly punched the code in to the alarm.

Noticing Molly's looks, he explained, "Kitty Reilly is the director of this little group. Since my fall, she has been in contact sporadically. Her original studies in college were in the arts, I requested permission to use the theatre, and she gave it and the security code. We should be safe here for a night or so."

Molly was relieved and bone-weary, a combination that made it possible for her to lie down on one of the cots they discovered in storage, a rough blanket over her. She had questions about what was in the file Sherlock sat studying cross-legged on his cot, sporadically using his phone as research.

It was useless to question him before he was ready to share information. Rolling over, she shut her eyes, thankful for the time being to be safe and with Sherlock.

Sherlock noticed her quiet, shallow breathing, her body relaxed with her coat pillowed under her. It made a picture that inexplicably he decided to store in a conspicuous place in his mind palace. Smiling, he buried himself again in his research, systematically eliminating all impossible threads and looking for the answer to England's dilemma.


	5. Chapter 5

no, I do not own BBC Sherlock or its intellectual property.. more's the pity

thank you SO much to those who have followed, favourited and/or reviewed my little blurb.. every one goes on the mantel shelf of my own mind palace lol

** I'm hoping to bring a sort of canon character into this story.. and doing a mashup same as Gatiss and Moffat do.. it could work!

enjoy!

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><p>Chapter 5<p>

Molly Hooper was not a morning person. She always turned over for that extra 5 minutes that could become 20 if she wasn't careful.

Waking up on a stiff canvas cot with a coat for a pillow and a rough blanket with a stale odor had to be one of the worst mornings ever.

Well, not including the morning after Sherlock fell. He had spent the night in her room, and although she hadn't gone to him, it was heartbreaking to hear the sounds of distress coming from the room.

NO morning would ever be worse than that.

Speaking of Sherlock, she sat up, looking around only to discover he wasn't in sight.

Getting up and cautiously investigating, it appeared Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. Upon discovering a loo, she thankfully made good use of it.

It wasn't as good as a shower and clean clothes but it would do. Breakfast would be nice too, and she wondered how long she would have to wait before Sherlock reappeared.

Meanwhile, in another part of London, Sherlock sat in a dingy estate flat that reeked of stale alcohol and smoke.

Carl had been tracked down by his network as the best forger in London, and by the looks of it, the word on the street was right.

As he watched, the passports and identities for a married couple was forming before his eyes. A few cosmetic variations and Molly Hooper and Sherlock Holmes would be transformed into Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Kelly, of Tonbridge.

Molly had not stirred when he had left, not even while he had rifled through her overnight bag to find her driver's license to use while making its forgery.

Her hair was mussed and she had looked slightly uncomfortable in sleep, but there was still a quality of wholesomeness that shone through.

Janine had looked devious, and Irene had looked seductive, almost repelling him more than they attracted. He idly wondered what Molly would look like in his bed and then shattered the thought briskly.

Traveling, making purchases as he went, he arrived back at the theatre to find a very awake, worried Molly.

First things being first, he wordlessly held up a coffee and what would have to pass for breakfast this morning.

Molly happily took her portion of the meal and her cup with its proper amounts of coffee and sugar, sitting neatly on a made up cot while she ate hungrily.

"I'm able to pay my own way, for now," Molly offered hesitantly.

Sherlock smiled a little wolfishly, but didn't speak his thoughts. Some mornings were just not the time to be scoring points off of unsuspecting victims,as was his wont.

"Molly, what would you say if I told you we probably will need to travel abroad to solve this?" he queried, abruptly.

"Abroad? How abroad, I have a flat and a cat..." instantly the stumbling blocks to the necessary plans made their unwelcome presence known.

"Your flat is being watched apparently, and unless we bring an end to this 'game', you will never be safe to go back to your normal, dull life," he spoke almost facetiously.

Molly stared at the ethereal, patrician detective who sat discussing what sounded like a covert mission as if he were proposing a trip to the National Art Gallery.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes, and began a short briefing, reeling off details in the logical order that they came to him, "Mycroft's file contains information on an operative that has been working in North America.

The region involved is known it's high amount of illegal drug activity, and money laundering, possibly even human trafficking.

Mycroft has noted the individual is not one of ours, although he seems to have some knowledge of him. Unfortunately, his cover appears to have been compromised recently, it's unknown at this point as to how.

Our 'friend' who left his calling card on England's monitors is making demands of the British gov't, claiming that his spying violates international law. They want compromises if they are to release him.

An effort must be made to gain his release, at all costs."

'Why are you and Mycroft involved if he's not 'one of ours'? Molly asked sensibly.

"Apparently, they seem to consider him valuable to us, for a reason that Mycroft can't or is unwilling to share.

At present, that seems to be a minor detail. Getting there and rescuing him seems foremost. I also believe taking you away under a false identity is basically what placing you in a safe house is. "

"Why don't you trust Mycroft or John with your plans? Why are we hiding from them?'

Sherlock looked away, his face betraying his confusion and doubt, appearing unwilling to answer the question or think about the connotations it held. Silence reigned for a space, and then Sherlock spoke slowly,

"There appears to have been compromises to both that I am not willing to share with anyone, for now. Suffice it to say that if I could involve John and even Mycroft I would.

Until I am sure the compromise has been removed, it is safer for you and I to go it alone. I have other contacts I can rely on that I feel sure have not been tampered with.

We can reach them once we arrive at our location. As for monetary concerns, my contacts have covered my expenses before for services rendered. I am sure that one way or another, we will manage."

Sherlock read the doubt, her mind struggling to grasp the idea of life even temporarily without the security of a job, friends and home. He smiled wryly, and spoke softly, "Welcome to my world, Molly Hooper."

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In a faraway location, a man with black hair lay hidden under a pile of debris... He had no id, no cash, and to make it through the next few hours would require all of his skills and ability. Multiple places on his body cried for attention but they would have to wait until the crisis had passed.

As would the puzzle of who had figured out his identity and blown his cover. For now, getting away and to safety superseded everything else.

The dark moonless night had given him an advantage over his captors who had not been locked in the darkness for days on end. He slowly angled his head around from behind the dumpster he had dove behind, looking and listening for any tell-tale noises or movement.

All was well, apparently, nothing had alerted the rest that their prison was gone. After days of captivity, he had finally managed to take advantage of the details he had observed.

He had kept them all off guard with his quick analysis' of his situation, buying him time as they struggled to break him.

During a severe beating, he had affected loss of consciousness, something he had never succumbed to before, and allowing them to drag him back to his cell and restrain him.

The rest was easy, as he had waited until one of the guards had entered his cell to bring him for more questioning. Instantaneously, taking advantage of the guard's unawareness, he leapt from the bed, throwing salt he had saved from the fast food meals into the guard's face.

A few swift moves and he had the guard at his mercy on the floor. Grabbing the man's Glock, he stepped to the side of the other guard's rush. Flipping the gun to grasp the barrel, he delivered a precise blow to the side of the guard's head.

With both guards immobile, he took control of the man's AK-47S. A few movements and he had both guards in his former cell, with the door locking them in, their weapons in his possession. A nearby window on the alley side of the building had afforded him an easy escape.

Glancing behind him now, he launched into a silent run that brought him to the corner of the alley. A quick look around the corner, and he was on the move again, sliding in and out of shadows, avoiding anything that would betray his movements.

His goal was the river, with a certain hidden powerboat that would carry him away from the gang and toward a safe haven.

**Special thanks to Marcel and Richard who helped me plan an escape! I'd be rubbish if I really was a captive truthfully!


	6. Chapter 6

no, I do not own BBC Sherlock or its intellectual property.. more's the pity

thank you SO much to those who have followed, favourited and/or reviewed my little blurb.. every one goes on the mantel shelf of my own mind palace lol

enjoy!

* * *

><p>Chapter 6<p>

John Watson's year was ending very badly. Sherlock being a drama queen wasn't a surprise. Sherlock being a drama queen and completely isolating himself from he, Mycroft and 221B again, that was. For starters, as far as he knew, Mycroft and himself were still the only contacts in his address book.

One minute Sherlock was on the tarmac, smiling and hugging Mary and himself, the next minute, he was gone and no-one knew where or why. And to boot, Molly Hooper had somehow become part of his cloak and dagger behaviour as well.

He had always seen Molly as a sensible level-headed woman. A little blind where Sherlock was concerned but otherwise one of the most dependable, grounded women he knew.

What could've set Sherlock off so much? When he had spoken to Mycroft, all he could get from him was that Sherlock was being his usual intractable unreasonable self.

He was sure that there was a LOT more to what had transpired between Mycroft and his brother, but getting the straight facts from Mycroft usually proved to be as difficult as when confronting Sherlock.

When was his life going to be a normal life? He thought back to the conversation he had had with Mary and Sherlock the night she had passed the flash drive to him.

Neither had seemed shocked that the woman he had married was not a quiet, unassuming clinician who had grown up in a white picket house, passed an obligatory amount of time in college, and then found her way into an adult version of her life.

Coming to terms with her violent past had taken him almost six months of his life, given the incredible fact that her deceptions had almost cost Sherlock his life.

It had helped at the time that Sherlock appeared to be letting bygones be bygones, but now he couldn't help but wonder whether this latest incident was somehow tied into everything else.

He quickly texted Mary to ensure she was fine, he was sure she would call him the minute contractions started, but being a first time father, the well-being of Mary and his child weighed heavily on him.

Sighing, he started his car, heading for the one person that might be able to help him to come up with some answers to all of this, DI Greg Lestrade.

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"So, what's the plan?" Molly spoke briskly, aiming for a lighter tone. For all the world, Sherlock appeared a little nervous as if unsure how to proceed.

"I have a plan, well sort of, and if it works we'll be in Toronto in a couple of hours. If all goes well, we'll meet my contact sometime after that. It's far from safe, and you may not see London for a while."

"I suppose I can call my landlady, and tell her I've been called away for a death in the family indefinitely. And maybe I could tell Mike Stamford the same thing. It is possible to put a temporary hold on my research project, and there are others that can do my postmortems."

Sherlock remained nervously silent, with his hand buried in his pocket. John and Janine had made him highly aware that faking a relationship was not something everyone approved of.

It was a little confusing, because they all seemed to treat relationships so lightly that one could begin and end one in a matter of days with no one thinking badly of the people involved.

Taking a deep breath, he pulled a box out of his pocket and walked slowly over to where Molly sat on the bed. It was strange how the room seemed to still and all sounds seemed to muffle.

"Wait, Sherlock, you don't intend that we.." Molly sputtered out, her eyes wide, flicking between his hand and his face.

He thought about approaching this as he would any case, but the realities of Molly sitting there, willing to trust him no matter what, made it impossible.

And unfortunately, Molly appeared to be developing not only the ability to see through his bluffs, but a willingness to call him on them when she deemed necessary.

A voice came from him, so gruff and low, he hardly recognized it, "I realize now I already have potentially messed this up by making a spur of the moment decision and acting on it without your consent.

I hope you can understand that the need to move quickly is the only reason I've already arranged things. It is in no way reflective of anything more than that, believe me."

Molly reached out slowly, removing the box from his hand, Sherlock sinking down on the cot beside her.

Opening it up, she found a matching set of gold wedding bands, plus a box containing what must be an engagement ring.

"Sherlock, where do they.."

"They were my grandmother Vernet's. Mummy has always made sure I knew they were mine, and she gave them to me on a recent visit. I went and withdrew them this morning from my safety deposit box."

"They're valuable, and heirlooms, I'd say. Are you sure you want to use them?"

Reaching out, taking the engagement ring box into his hand, he opened it slowly. Looking down, he took in its beauty. It was a round brilliant-cut diamond, in antique gold with a split shank setting.

"I believe I speak the truth that if my grandmother had known you, she would have said you were worthy of this ring. She was a very wise, astute woman, and I miss her," realizing he was straying into sentiment, he cleared his throat, "that and they were the most obvious and convenient solution to one of the problems I needed to solve."

Molly rose restlessly, laying the box on the cot, walking across the room, her back to Sherlock,

"Something has to be severely wrong for you to be planning such an elaborate scheme, Sherlock."

Was it his imagination or did he feel slightly abandoned by her retreat across the room? Getting his mind back on the cases,

"If the information in the file is correct, an operative is at best on the run, his cover blown, and at worst, at the mercy of a criminal organization. It appears that the information was fed to them from someone in England, someone who has accessed Mycroft's office.

The repercussions are likely to cause havoc in Mycroft's circles, unknown how far the ripples will travel. And apparently, they know something of his or our past that..."

He broke off, staring into space... "It can't be," he breathed incredulously.

"What?" turning to face him.

"The facts are pointing in that direction, but.." he trailed off, speechless, "nevertheless, Mycroft is right in that respect. As trite as it sounds, England appears to be in need of my services.

Posing as a couple allows me an ongoing proximity to you that would be difficult otherwise. Plus someone watching the passenger lists might ignore all married passengers by default."

Standing and moving into Molly's space, he took her left hand, studying it, he observed, "No line left now. It wasn't the one you would have chosen, too big, and you were always nervous of it slipping off." Torquing his head in that familiar way, but stopping at Molly's stillness, "Not good?"

"It's just that I don't think I can wear your ring in farce, Sherlock," smiling sadly up at him.

"If it helps, I realized while giving John and Mary my pledge at the wedding, there are others I was silently pledging my protection and care to. To you, Molly, I can pledge that I will always be there to protect you."

Sliding the ring onto her hand on which it fitted perfectly, he looked into her face. At that moment, sentiment did not to him seem to be a chemical defect. And somewhere inside, a part of him threw out Mycroft's maxim that caring was not an advantage.

It was an almost picture perfect moment, if you ignored the surroundings. Molly sighed a little, and committed herself to a venture that at the moment seemed extremely foolhardy.

Sherlock picked up the wedding bands, and passing her one, slid the other on his finger. The action seemed to awaken something, something that brought a change of atmosphere to his mind palace.

The logistics of deception and disguise were new ones to Molly, and it took precious time to mentor her on the necessary details. Impeccable background information, the details of the reason for their travel(fake), and the cosmetic makeovers they both needed were the most time consuming.

Eventually, they arrived at Heathrow, a ubiquitous English couple on holiday, Mr. and Mrs. Joseph Kelly. Clearing Customs without a hitch they were soon airborne on their way overseas.

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Ensconced in his office, Mycroft Holmes knew, not by any information that had reached him, that Sherlock and Molly Hooper had left England. Unfortunately, the past had a way of not staying in the past, and he wearily continued the task of separating threads, and anticipating his brothers' actions. Anything had to be better than just waiting for the shoe to drop.


	7. Chapter 7

no, I do not own BBC Sherlock or its intellectual property.. more's the pity

thank you SO much to those who have followed, favourited and/or reviewed my little blurb.. every one goes on the mantel shelf of my own mind palace lol

enjoy!

Khione's Kids... thanks! I love the Toronto, Great Lakes, Niagara area.. hopefully I can give you a taste of it!

* * *

><p>Chapter 7<p>

Why didn't anyone think or observe properly, thought Janine Moriarty, alias Janine . S**, it was proving all too easy to blindside the Holmes brothers. It was laughable, really, how sentiment had quickly decayed what the world believed was the two most brilliant men in England.

For Jim had been right, Sherlock did have a heart, and if it took to her dying day, she would finish what he started, to burn the heart out of Sherlock Holmes.

With her brother gone at Sherlock's hands, Mycroft Holmes had turned his energy to taking down the only other man in England he considered a threat.

CAM had played his role well, how she would've loved seeing Sherlock's dumbstruck face as he realized he had traded everything, for a imaginary vault filled with the guilty secrets of hundreds, and that he had made the costliest mistake of his career.

And for all the nobleness of his talk, Sherlock had proved to be like any other man, willing to kill to achieve the results he wanted.

Drawing on the cigarette she held, she carefully studied the file pictures that Ludmila had provided.

It was Mycroft's people that had without realizing who they was dealing with, contracted her to use her position as CAM's personal assistant, bribing her in order that she might provide an easy accessible link to any who had the wherewithal or vision to neatly eliminate him.

A key piece of information had been AGRA, the former operative who had worked almost solely for the CIA.

Looking back it appeared that both Mycroft and Magnussen were alike that way, seeing 'Mary Morstan' as nothing more than a pawn, a catalyst to achieve their goals.

Could none of them work out her own eagerness to see Magnussen go down?

Sending Mary that fake telegram on her wedding day had been pure genius, remembering with satisfaction the paling of Mary's face, as the words of congratulations had dropped from Sherlock's lips.

It was not that she bore the woman ill-will, given the chance to protect Jim she would've shot Sherlock and John too, and anyone else for that matter.

Families were funny that way.

A fake file had been concocted for Janine, and 'transferred' to John Watson's clinic. In the intermittent visits that were required, she had 'struck up' a friendship with Mary.

The former operative had latched on immediately, and Janine sensed that she needed to build up a circle of 'friends' in her efforts at normalcy, which was why a girl Mary barely knew had been invited to be the maid of honour at her nuptials.

The decision to form an 'intimate' relationship with Sherlock had been risky, but the wealth of information gleaned had been invaluable. Maybe not as much as the security breach they had achieved of Mycroft Holmes personal information.

Actually, Sherlock had taken her retaliation well, too bad they had to be enemies, they apparently thought so much alike.

Jim had said that, hadn't he? Except the boring part of him that had a squeamish distate for criminal society.

Ludmila would send word when things were back under control in Canada, meanwhile she would continue her search for the disappearing Sherlock. Too bad he had figured things out so fast. but the rest of the disclosure would destroy them both she hoped. Perhaps she could find a way to add extra incentive

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Just reaching River's Edge Motel and Campground had been an ordeal for Ford. The dawn had broke before he had reached its safe haven. The potential of being seen scraped along his nerves, as he glanced endlessly along the shorelines of Lake Erie and the Niagara River.

Gaining the safety of his room, he quickly locked the door. Shedding his coat, dropping his haversack beside the bed. Propping himself up against the headboard, he pulled out the Glock. Removing the clip, he spent time cleaning the gun, eventually placing the gun, safety on, in his nightstand drawer.

A shower had never felt so good, as he washed away the grime and blood from his body and dark hair, letting the spray pound at his knotted muscles and scraped, broken skin.

Climbing onto the bed, he laid back, stretching out with his hands grasped before him. First and foremost, his problem was to discover how the sting had gone sour. Who had discovered his cover, and why hadn't he seen the man's betrayal?

The past 20 years of work in undercover stings had been edgy forays into the dark underbelly of North America's crime culture, watching it undulate like a evil, deadly snake. There had been moderate successes and frustrating failures, but never had he felt the exposed spotlight of his prey, being always the silent predator.

In his mind, he ran through his list of potential culprits, but not one of the gang members had shown any suspicion or unmerited interest in him. He was 'an enforcer' from Chicago where he had assisted in bringing a few teamsters to justice, not that the gang knew that part of his dealings.

The Hell's Angels were no lightweights in the world of crime, they were experts at muscling in to a town, establishing their 'businesses' and 'clubs as fronts for their illegal activities. The Canadian RCMP were worthy opponents of the biker gang, but even the best needed a little help now and then.

He slept, fitfully, his rest disturbed by dreams of terror-filled dark alleys, and the thuds of blows falling on him.

shmhshmhshmhshmhshmhshmhshmhshmhshmhshmhshmhshmhshmhshmhshmhshmhshmhshmshm

Jack McGinty didn't care how the bastard had escaped, the two hapless bikers responsible were systemically punished. Now it remained to capture the undercover agent, and wait for further instructions from his European counterpart. A sniper who knew the background of their mutural 'friend', now hiding somewhere in the area, had promised a lucrative deal for the agent's safe delivery to their European associate.

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** Well, that seemed to FINALLY make some sense, at least on my end... It's short I know, and LATE but, life gets in my way sometimes... please forgive me as I apologize in advance for any lapses in getting chapters out :(

I LOVE you all, your reading of my feeble attempts means alot!


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