Anybody can tell you that a really busy day will really tire you out. You make your way home, barely awake and fall into bed. But a non-busy day, a day full of non-essential scutwork, can deplete your energy levels in a more subtle way You can find yourself drifting into a state of ennui, awake but unfocused, eyes open but mind closed. Thus was the day Dr. Molly Hooper was having in the basement morgue of St. Bart's hospital on this Friday afternoon in March. Hours of boring paperwork, no interesting cadavers to explore, no Sherlock Holmes to break the monotony. By two o'clock she was in desperate need of caffeine, and had to do something about it before she dozed off over her laptop.

Having decided that she needed a pick me up immediately, Molly decided to forgo the hospital's offerings of caffeinated beverages in favor of the more flavorful variety on offer at a shop around the corner. Besides, she reasoned, a short walk in the chilly late winter air would help re-energize her. Wrapping her long white lab coat around her, she made her way down the street to the shop, where she was greeted by a longer than expected line. She recognized several other hospital employees in the establishment, evidently sharing her opinion of the coffee available in their own cafe. Three office employees sat at a table in the corner, and nodded at her as she entered. Ralph Waters, a neurologist who she knew in passing, waved a greeting as she stepped in line just behind an attractive woman about her own age, with two small children in tow, a girl of about eight years, and a boy several years younger. After placing her order, the woman turned to check on her children, and seeing Molly, spoke to her, "You're a strong soul, braving this chill in just that flimsy thing!"

"I didn't have far to come, really. And maybe the coffee will warm me up for the return trip," Molly smiled in return.

"Are you a doctor?" the little girl asked.

"Yes, I am. I work at the hospital around the corner."

"Last time I had some hot chocolate I burned my hand a bit. Can you fix it if I burn it again today?"

"Indeed I could. But if you're very careful, I won't have to, will I?'

"I'll be very careful, but I don't know about Joey, here. He's a bit of a klutz." The girl pointed at her little brother, who promptly stuck out his tongue.

Molly was laughing at the children when she turned to say something to their mother, but was stopped short by the look on the woman's face. Fear. She had seen that look before, and there was no mistaking it. The pathologist's eyes followed the direction of the woman's gaze to alight upon an unkempt looking man making his way through the door of the shop. The woman barely had time to scream, "NO!", before the newly arrived man reached into the folds of his heavy coat and pulled out a gun, shouting for everyone to stay in their place, then turning his eyes towards the terrified threesome, ordered them to come with him. The mother crouched down, pulling the kids to her. Another patron lunged at the gunman, who reacted by firing at him. Molly was not overly familiar with firearms. The only one she had ever seen up close, even handled, had been Sherlock's revolver. ThiS weapon seemed far more lethal. It seemed to spit out bullets at a remarkable speed, cutting down the good Samaritan before he could get completely out of his seat. The gunman then turned toward what he perceived as motion on the other side of the shop, and continued to fire. There was a brief respite from the noise as he turned once again on the woman cowering next to Molly with her children. "This is all your fault! You left me! You can't have them!" The man was becoming incoherent as the woman tried to shelter her kids with her own body before the man once again opened fire. Molly felt a burning pain in her upper arm as she ran forward toward the gunman, not really knowing what she intended to do. Before she could reach him, he had been taken down by a group of three man who had been awaiting just such an opportunity.

The silence seemed deadening, until Molly could hear it broken by sobs and moans. She quickly made her way back to the woman and her children, only to find them bleeding on the floor of the shop. The woman, was clutching the small boy, while the girl was bleeding at her knee. The pathologist immediately went into "doctor" mode, assessing the wounds. The boy had a massive wound in his chest. The girl had a head wound, which didn't look all that serious, but was bleeding profusely from a wound in her thigh.

"Are you injured?" she asked the mother.

"My arm, but it's nothing! Take care of my kids, please. Are they going to be alright? Oh, god! oh, god…."

Molly started ripping strips off her lab coat. She grabbed the hat from the woman's head, compressed it into a ball, and placed it over the open wound in the child's chest. "Keep this firmly in place. Talk to him, try to keep him calm." She then turned her attention to the girl, tying one of the strips of cloth around the child's thigh to staunch the bleeding They could already hear the sound of approaching police cars and, hopefully, paramedics.

Molly looked about, trying to survey the damage. There were at least two future visitors to her facility laying about, perhaps three. A gasp escaped her throat as she realized that Ralph Waters was one of them. She was still holding one hand on the girl's thigh and the other on the boy's chest when paramedics came to relieve her, and lead her gently to an awaiting triage site.

Molly had barely been aware that she had been hit. It was a minor injury, barely more than a scratch, really, but the paramedic insisted on seeing to it. That was when she saw DI Greg Lestrade making his way toward her, mobile in hand, his thumbs dancing over the keys.

"Molly, are you okay?"

"I'm fine, Greg. The children? Are they alright?"

"Both heading for surgery, I've been told. Mom's being treated in A and E. Paramedics said they would have both bled out if you hadn't been there, Molls. They're gonna be okay. How about you?"

Greg Lestrade could tell she was in shock. She was being eerily calm, her voice too steady. Even looking at him, her eyes seemed focused on something else. Or nothing at all. As soon as he had learned of her involvement, Lestrade had done the first thing which occurred to him, but his text had, as yet, gone unanswered.

"I told you, I'm fine. I can barely feel it…" She jumped from the back of the ambulance as heard a loud and desperate cry of, "Molly!"

Glancing around frantically for the source, her eyes finally alighted on a tall figure in a billowing coat heading in her direction. She immediately dropped the red blanket from her shoulders, and went running toward the figure, who quickly enveloped her in his arms. His face had turned suddenly pale at the sight of all the blood staining her lab coat, and the bandage wrapped around her upper arm. He would have liked to study her more closely, to convince himself that she was, indeed, alright, but he couldn't bring himself to let her go long enough to accomplish the task. And then she started sobbing. By the time DI Lestrade had approached the pair, her previously calm demeanor had completely disintegrated, as she allowed herself to let go, knowing that she was safe at last.

"Thank you for texting me, Greg." Sherlock said sincerely, and the policeman noticed that he had used his proper given name for the first time in years. "I'm taking her home now, to Baker Street." And, having said that, the detective shepherded the tearful woman through the flashing lights and the police tape to a waiting cab.

A few hours later, Molly Hooper was surrounded by friends at Sherlock's flat. Mrs. Hudson was pouring yet more tea down her throat, while John Watson was examining her small wound.

"Just a scratch, really. You were lucky."

"Ralph Waters wasn't so lucky, John. And others, too." She began to tear up again, as she thought of the injured and the dead. So tragic. So random. So unnecessary. Mary Watson held her daughter a bit more closely when Molly asked, yet again, for any word on the two children she had tended to.

"They're gonna be fine. Out of surgery, and doing well, according to the last report," the newly arrived Greg Lestrade informed everyone. He then proceeded to update everyone on the story. Two dead, seven injured. It could have been worse, but it certainly should never have happened. The color had returned to Molly Hooper's face, and her smile, hesitant at first, was slowly returning as well. The same, however, could not be said for Sherlock Holmes.

John Watson noticed his friend standing in the kitchen, seemingly detached from all the goings on, looking pale and drawn. As soon as he approached Sherlock looked at him and spoke.

"I almost lost her, John." Five simple words which explained the pained look on his face so eloquently.

"All this time, I've been so worried that she may be in danger from some miscreant who bears a grudge against me. Or Moriarty. Or myself, heaven knows I'm no walk in the park. I could hurt her. Hell, I probably will hurt her! But the thought that I could have lost her today to some psychotic arsehole who, through some accident of fate, happened to cross her path…"

"Sherlock, you haven't lost her! She's right there on the couch in your sitting room…"

"And that's where's she's staying, John. I told Greg I was taking her home to Baker Street, and I meant it. I've sent Wiggins over to her flat to bring her some clothing, and the damned cat, Toby.."

"What did she have to say about this, Sherlock?"

"I haven't exactly told her yet, John."

"Maybe you should, mate. You can't keep her in the dark forever…"

"Molly's not stupid, you know, John. I'm sure will she catch on sometime before our first anniversary." Sherlock managed a bit of a smirk, then looked toward the door of the flat, at the latest arrival. "Ah, here's Wiggins, and the damned cat!"

John Watson watched as Sherlock intercepted Billy Wiggins, and carefully removed the hissing Toby from his carrier. He then crossed the room, and gently laid the rather aggravated cat on his mistress's lap. Molly held the orange tabby close, petting him until the hissing turned to a gentle purr.

"Thank you, Sherlock." She looked up at the man with such affection and contentment that everyone in the room knew that she had truly come home to stay. Sherlock reached down to caress her face as he tipped her head gently upward, making it easier for him to plant a kiss on her forehead. "You're more than welcome, my Molly."

Sherlock Holmes turned to wink at his best friend, as if to say, I told you so!"