Chapter 1

Sherlock Holmes raced down the steps from the private jet, staring at his mobile phone; the 'Did You Miss Me?' gif playing on a loop onscreen. Reaching his brother's side, he swiftly ushered him and the Watsons back into the car. The chauffeur raised an enquiring brow to Mycroft, querying their destination. "St Bart's hospital; as fast as you can", Sherlock barked; and without further delay the driver sped out of the airfield. Mary and John strapped themselves in, both attempting to speak at the same time. Sherlock held up his hand and typed a predetermined coded text to Dr Molly Hooper. 'Vatican Cameos'. It was a text he had hoped he would never have to send. Mycroft, noting the stark tension on the face of his younger brother; lifted his own mobile and called Chief Inspector Lestrade. "We are at minimum a half hour from St. Bart's Hospital, how far away are you?" Lestrade estimated ten minutes. Sherlock held out his hand wordlessly and Mycroft handed him his phone.

"Secure Molly Hooper, Greg", he paused, and then added softly, "please?" Lestrade hung up, ordered an armed response unit to the hospital and raced, sirens blaring, to find Sherlock Holmes's pathologist. Sherlock looked at Mycroft; trying to disguise the fear choking his chest.

"She hasn't sent the response text Mycroft; there's something wrong." Mycroft held his brothers gaze.

"It is also possible, Sherlock, that she is in no danger and simply does not have her phone on her person; let's not leap to unsubstantiated conclusions, brother mine". Sherlock set his lips tightly and rolled his eyes.

"Trace her phone now Mycroft; and find out for certain".

He scanned the cars' interior, and his brother, with a barely discernible turn of his head. "I know you're currently armed. There are two other weapons in this car. Hand them over" he demanded. Mycroft sighed, glanced at the chauffeur who nodded and, keeping one hand on the wheel, opened the glove-box, extracted two revolvers and handed them back to Mycroft. Mycroft bypassed Sherlock and handed one revolver across his lap to the very pregnant Mary Watson.

"This appears to be an appropriate time to come out of retirement, Mrs Watson".

Mary took the weapon, eyeballed him brazenly, and nodded. John, sitting in the passenger seat up front, stared at the three people in the back in growing comprehension and incredulity.

"Oh, no way; absolutely bloody not! Mary Watson; you are keeping that gun and waiting in the car. You, Mycroft, will give me the other one. Considering recent events Sherlock, you are not getting your hands on any bloody gun. You and I shall take the back of Bart's and head straight for the morgue. Mycroft; you and 'Mr MI6 Clearly Not a Chauffeur' will take the front door and make your way to the lab. Between us we'll find Molly. Is that bloody clear everybody?"

Four heads nodded in unison. Mycroft handed the second revolver over to John. Even he knew not to argue with John Watson when his blood was up. The silence in the speeding car was broken by the buzzing of an incoming text message to Sherlock's phone. It was from Molly but it was definitely not the agreed response. 'Too late. Somebody's here. Help me'. Seconds later the Gms icon indicating the location of Molly's phone disappeared from Sherlock's screen. And they were still ten minutes away.

Dr Molly Hooper; along with many of her colleagues, stared at the staffroom TV, aghast and disbelieving. That was just not possible, how could this be? Moriarty was dead. He was supposed to be bloody dead. She replayed the events of 'that day', fighting back panic. The day her relationship with Sherlock Holmes was definitively architected and concrete foundations poured. The first time he really needed and trusted her, putting his life in her hands. That same day that she put her career and professional reputation in his, without a second's hesitation or a moment of regret. That night a shocked Sherlock had told her that Moriarty had shot himself through the mouth, thus forcing him to make the jump from the hospital roof. She'd had her hands full taking care of Sherlock directly after 'the fall', smuggling him out of the hospital and hiding him in her flat until Mycroft was ready to dispatch him off to God knows where. Mycroft had been left in charge of Moriarty's body. Obviously that was a mistake. She should have autopsied the bastard herself. Then she'd know for sure.

So much had happened to both herself and Sherlock since then, and things were 'a bit not good' (as John would say) between them now. He had avoided her since the whole 'testing positive for drugs and consequent slapping incident' and she had avoided him since the whole 'Janine fake girlfriend' farce. He'd been shot and almost fatally injured, then disappeared from his hospital bed in an escapade of such incredible stupidity that she wondered if he had a death wish. She had visited him one night soon after his second surgery, while he was still heavily sedated and barely conscious, because she needed to see him alive and breathing with her own eyes. She'd sat with him that night for hours. As she held his cold hand in hers, repeatedly stroking his knuckles, she'd reassured him over and over,

"You're ok now Sherlock, everything's fine and you just need to rest. You're ok; you're ok".

She was well aware that the person she was really trying to reassure and comfort was herself. However, what she was quite unaware of was that he had heard her. Nor was she aware that he'd smiled to himself as she left, or that he'd settled down to rest, turning his face into the hand she had held, calmed at last because Molly Hooper, his Molly, had finally come to see him.

Molly dug her hand into the pocket of her white coat, searching for her mobile phone. She needed to call Sherlock, see what his thoughts were on all this saturated coverage of Moriarty. She wanted to know if he had any information on all this, whether it was a hoax or whether it merited serious consideration. She knew that their security alert arrangement would be unaffected by any personal issues between them. She acknowledged ruefully to herself that she also wanted to check on him and see how he was doing. She was one of the few who were aware of the toll Moriarty had taken on his psyche, as much as he'd scoff at the very notion. This gave her a perfect excuse for calling him and anyway, she'd been missing him very badly. Molly groaned audibly, realising that she'd left her phone in her office in the morgue. As she left the busy staffroom to retrieve it, she failed to notice the two innocuous looking men in white doctors' garb stand up from their table and follow her. Moving quickly through the labyrinth of bustling corridors, Molly made her way down to the morgue. The corridors were becoming less inhabited the nearer she got to her destination. The morgue was not the natural inclination for most of her colleagues; which, normally, suited her just fine. Today, however, she began to feel unnerved and couldn't shirk the feeling that something was off. She picked up her pace. Now she desperately wanted to contact Sherlock.

It was when she was approaching the double swing doors of the morgue that she heard it and her heart lurched into her mouth. It was the distinctive sound of footsteps, multiple sets, running behind her and getting louder. She bolted through the morgue doors and turned the lock, knowing that it wouldn't hold off anyone determined enough to break in for very long. Shaking with fear, she ran to her office, slamming and locking the door behind her. She grabbed her phone from her desk and saw a stream of text notifications on the screen. They were mainly from friends and colleagues concerned about the dead man's broadcasts. Then she heard the sound of smashing glass and knew that whoever they were; they were definitely coming for her. With shaking hands she scrolled for a message from Sherlock. 'Vatican Cameos!'. Christ; it was their code, and he'd sent it twenty minutes ago. She thought perversely that even if she survived whatever had crashed through the morgue doors and was now battering down her office door, that Sherlock would probably kill her himself for forgetting her phone. He'd been so definitive about keeping it on her person, and she had assured him that she would. Hiding under her desk she typed a response to Sherlock and after pressing 'send', waited, trembling and terrified, to be discovered. She heard her office door being kicked in, male voices muttering expletives and then rough hands pulled her by the hair from under her desk. Grabbing her mobile phone from her hands, one of the thugs smashed it on her desk and ripped the battery out while the other reined vicious blows on her torso and, when she bent over in agony, on her back. As the men started to drag her out of her office, Molly began to scream.