I listened to the song Home by Machine Gun Kelly and that's what inspired this fic. Really short and kinda dumb but someone might like it.

Home. A place where I can go.

She wanted nothing more than to just go home. Her wrists burned from the rope that they had bound her with, her body ached from where their fists had come into contact with her, her ribs burned from where they had cracked when they had dropped her onto the concrete. It had been three days. Where was Sherlock? Where was the dashing detective and his blogger? The lyrics of the song continued to play in her mind, and she shut her eyes and listened closely, tears flowing from her face and onto the dusty concrete where she lay.

To take this off my shoulders

Someone take me home.

The silence in the room was deafening. She had heard this song on the radio while riding in a cab. She began to sing the verses softly, not caring if anyone heard or not. The verses that she could remember, anyway.

"Home. A place where I can go.

To take this off my shoulders

Someone take me home

Someone take me home."

She heard a shout and stopped singing as two men stepped into the room, wielding their sticks that they were so fond of. Curses were being yelled at her yet she didn't hear them. The chorus kept playing in her head, clear as day, drowning them out.

Home. A place where I can go.

Blows began striking her body. She cried out but kept her eyes shut, focusing on the lyrics and the melody. If she couldn't leave this place in reality, then she could detach herself mentally. Sherlock had taught her that when he had explained his mind palace to her. Oh, what she would give to see that pale, intelligent face again, firing off deductions and occasionally insulting her as usual.

To take this off my shoulders

Someone take me home.

She could hardly feel the pain anymore. She began to feel herself slip away, away from the pain and Suddenly the door slammed open and in burst about half a dozen police officers, with Sherlock in the front. Her captors lept up from where they were standing and rushed at the detective, who fired two shots in rapid succession. The two men fell back, each with a bullet buried in their foreheads. Lestrade and the officers dealt with them while Sherlock rushed over to the hostage and checked her pulse, before gently checking her for injuries.

"Molly?"

She turned her head to face him. His face was twisted with worry, and his hair was a mess of black curls. She touched his face with her bruised hand, running it along his cheek bones.

"It's alright, Molly. I'm real." He said.

"Sherlock?" She said weakly, her voice cracking.

"Yes?"

"Take me home."

Sherlock nodded. "Okay, Molly. Alright, you'll be home soon enough." He carefully placed his hands under her back and legs and stood up, cradling her in his arms. She put her right arm around his neck and let her head rest against his chest as he carried her out to the ambulance waiting outside. She smiled inwardly to her self.

She was already home.

This is what happens when I listen to music. Oh well.