Upon return to Molly's flat, sherlock and John found Lestrade passed out on the couch. Sherlock sniffed around his face once, before muttering "chloroform," and continuing his investigation of the flat. He mind had clearly been so clouded by thoughts of Richard Morrell and his unprecedented feelings for Molly (which, as he had suspected, ended in a detrimental manner), that he was unable to perceive that they were, in fact, being constantly monitored by Moriarty.

He's alive. I saw the pictures. But now I've seen the man.

Regardless of whether he would admit it, first and foremost in his mind was whether or not Molly was in good health. It was almost a paradox that it was appropriate now for his concern to be centered on Molly, while that was the very thing that had put into motion this dreadful plot.

Despite being distracted, his search of the flat revealed three precisely hidden cameras, and five microphones. He was highly displeased at the fact that one of the cameras was located in Molly's bedroom.

Perhaps if I hadn't been so weak, if I hadn't given into Molly's wants…to my, feelings…this would not have happened.

Molly had ceased to struggle after the first fifteen minutes she had been bound. Moriarty had sent three appropriately sized men to make quick work of Lestrade and capture her without any difficulty.

She was blindfolded, stuffed in a terribly cramped trunk, and carted off to God-knows where. Her blindfold was removed when she had been escorted to a cramped room with a single chair; quite like an interrogation room.

She was sure she would be seeing Moriarty any second now.

Jim from IT. That cute, harmless man.

Sherlock's mind was not operating properly. How was Moriarty alive?

I've run through every scenario, none of them makes any sense. It can't be possible. Can it?

"John," Sherlock began, "I've run through every complex scenario I can. I need an id-…a doctor's opinion. How did he do it?"

John and Sherlock had returned to 221B after Lestrade had been given the proper attention and Molly's flat had bee thoroughly searched. A search of 221B's flat led to the discovery of several more, comparatively cleverly hidden cameras and bugs, all of which were thought to have been removed.

John looked up towards his companion, "Remind me again, which one of us is the world-renowned detective?"

Sherlock released an exasperated sigh. John had been less himself than even Sherlock since their encounter with Moriarty. Mary was, of course, ecstatic at the safe return of her husband, and only slightly irritated when Sherlock almost immediately insisted on returning to his flat for assistance.

"Assistance," in this case, consisted of sitting in a perpetual silence, permeated occasionally by an angry growl from Sherlock, followed by a sigh from John. They were far from any breakthroughs, and no sign had yet to be sent by Moriarty to the pair.

"Hello, my dear, long time, no see."

Molly scowled up at the man in front of her, unable to move, as she been restrained to that lonely chair.

"What do you want with me?"

Moriarty leaned up against the wall, and a ran a hand through his hair.

"Why did you take me here?"

He smiled innocently at her, "Aggressive, aren't we? Still angry about the break-up?"

She frowned, knowing full-well how things had ended between them.

"Don't worry," he straightened up and approached her, "I have every intention of telling you why I brought you here." He stroked her cheek, "How could I leave my dear Molly in the dark?"

"You did have me tied up in a trunk for several hours, I'd say that counts."

He smirked, "You are quite catty when that curly haired 'detective,'" he made exaggerated quotations in the air, "isn't around, now aren't you?"

A pause followed.

"Now, since you asked so nicely, I'll tell you exactly why I brought you here."

"I'm waiting."

"It's simple, really. You see," he waved his arms in the air and turned dramatically, "Sherlock Holmes, for all his genius, is positively idiotic…perhaps I was idiotic to not realize this in the first time, but you and I…we're going to remedy that."

Molly swallowed, "That's not an answer to any of my questions."

"Patience, dear. Patience. You see, Sherlock Holmes doesn't embrace his feelings. I do!" He emphasized the last portion, grinning with boyish glee, "Only the good ones, of course. Hatred, envy, lust. You know. Sherlock, on the other hand, has made it his life's mission to look at everything objectively. He has to, after all."

Molly interrupted, "You're forgetting that he only does that to for a substitute to getting high. He does feel pleasure."

Moriarty scowled, and approached Molly again, "Honey," he cupped her face in his hand and squeezed, "I do wish you'd stop interrupting me."

Molly squinted up at him in displeasure.

"Maybe I won't tell you everything after all."

She made no reply, and he released her chin.

He smiled, and jumped, "Oh! Who am I kidding? This part is the most fun! Sherlock doesn't know how much he loves you," Molly furrowed her brow in confusion, "Yes, I said loves. That will be his downfall. He'll do all he can to save you. He'll solve my riddles, he'll dance for me, he'll be my puppet…And when it's all over, I'll snatch victory away from him at the last moment," he locked eyes with his captive, "Do you know what I intend to do, my dear?"

"You're going to kill me."

He smashed his hand down in the air, twice, "Ding-ding, someone give this woman a prize! We're going to have so much fun together!"