Hey, guys. So I know it has been a while from my last update so I thought I would bless (curse) you all with another chapter. My apologies if it feels rushed and isn't up to par. Shit happens.

The boys didn't get home for a few more hours, which left Molly and Mary with their own thoughts about the matter. Now that they knew that it was Moriarity, what were they to do? What could they do? They couldn't exactly charge at him head first. They didn't even know what his end-game was. Was it getting to Sherlock or getting to Molly? Based on past events, it would seem his vendetta was against Molly, but Sherlock was the one with whom Moriarity had a bone to pick. What had Molly done? Was she simply a pawn in the game they were playing or did he actually want her? It's not like Molly actually did anything inherently wrong to James. But then again, neither had Kiera.

Mary was not a fan of her only girlfriend being targeted by the world's most dangerous man. She feared for Molly's life and for her own as well. She could very well be Moriarity's next target, but then again she was an ex-assassin and could take care of herself very well. Molly, on the other hand, was a normal person and didn't have the extensive training that she had. Though, at this point, she wasn't truly sure what to make of Molly. Perhaps she could handle herself. Perhaps she was safer than she thought. There was clearly plenty of mystery clouding who Molly really was, and nobody knew the truth.

When the boys came bursting through the door, Sherlock was furious. Molly had only ever seen him like this when he didn't know something or when he had news he didn't like. And with the situation being what it was, neither Molly nor Mary was sure which was making him furious. Based on the fact that Sherlock said nothing, nor did John, the two girls figured it was the former.

"It's Moriarity," said Molly, breaking the silence.

"What's your proof? How do you know?" Sherlock asked rapidly.

"He left me a message."

She played the recording for all of them to hear. It still gave her chills, just thinking about the fact that he had gotten into the flat, into Sherlock's room, that he was near her again. She began to freeze up, her body seemed to stop being able to move and she seemed to forget how to breathe. She bit down on her lip, trying to remember how to breathe and trying to feel something that wasn't this dreadful fear.

Sherlock recognised the voice immediately and knew that Molly was right. But if it was Moriarity, why would he mislead them into thinking he was Tom? He would own up to his crimes. That was his nature; he wanted people to know that it was him. He wanted to be known and he wanted attention. Then, why would he go through all this trouble to disguise his crimes as someone else's? It didn't make sense. Something wasn't right; something wasn't lining up in Sherlock's mind. Remembering his foe, there was nothing he didn't own up to, so why start hiding behind a mask now?

The Irish accent was so distinct that none of them argued that it was indeed Jim Moriarity. They all knew his voice; they all knew his persona; they all knew what he was. The only thing they didn't know was why. Why Molly? It rang through all of their heads, but nobody dared to say it. The question hung in the air in their silence, slowly eating away at the four of them. They all wish they had some sort of answer, but none of them had an inkling of an idea. Normally, they'd be tempted to say that they were using her to get to Sherlock, but this seemed too direct for her just to be a pawn in one of Moriarity's silly games. Then again, was there any actual explanation for anything Moriarity did?

Molly wanted to give herself up to Moriarty just to stop all the games and all the deaths. She was done playing along to his sick game. She was done playing. She was done. She was not sure what was left for him to take of her, but whatever it was, she'd give it to him to stop the madness. So much could happen, sure, but wasn't it worth it if another innocent bystander gets to remain alive?

"Why didn't he just take you?" John asked, snapping everyone else out of their thoughts.

"Pardon?" Molly asked.

"Why didn't he take you when he had the chance? He had the opportunity to simply take you, but he didn't. Why?"

"Torture," Molly answered. The other three looked at her, wary of her answer since typically torture wasn't exactly Moriarity's game. She explained, "Not physical torture, no. Well, not directly anyway. Assuming he's been watching and listening this entire time, he would know what my deal is. He knows. He's enjoying watching us scramble like this. Well, you guys scrambling."

"Are you saying you're not worried?" asked Mary.

"For me? No. For whoever comes next on his list? Terrified. You lot might as well get out while you can," she said as she walked over to window, looking out onto Baker Street.

"And leave you alone and open for attack? Definitely not," Sherlock said.

"You should have left me to die, Sherlock," she said turning to face him. "Nobody else would have gotten hurt if you would have. I can promise you someone else is going to die because you let me live. The only thing is, though, is that it'll be on my conscience, not yours."

"Molly, this isn't your fault," John consoled.

"Not directly, no. But whoever is next is dead because I'm not."

She turned back to the window, trying to ignore the people in the room with her. They could tell her these deaths weren't her fault all that they wanted, but she knew that they were. She didn't know she was doing other people a favor trying to kill herself; she thought she would be the sole benefactor. Sure, regardless Kiera would still be dead, but there wouldn't be a next body because of her had Sherlock been a few minutes later. Why couldn't Moriarity just watch her suffer with the pain of being alive? Why did he have to add to her pain? Was seeing her in pain not enough unless he was contributing to it?

She moved her line of sight from the window across the street to the pavement. She watched as the all the Londoners clogged the pavement trying to get to work during the morning rush. Cars congested the streets, each one making sure everybody else knew they were there and in a rush. With everything and everyone in the morning hustle, one thing stood out to her – or person, that is. There was one person who didn't seem to be moving at all, just staring at 221 Baker Street. One person who was looking directly at her, smirking. She stared directly back at him, thinking it was bold of him to just put himself in public like that, make his presence known. It wasn't like him, but maybe he was just getting impatient.

Maybe it was to put fear in her, but he didn't know she wasn't afraid of him. She lifted her eyebrow at him, as if daring him to do something, make some sort of move. She knew he wouldn't. He wasn't that bold, it wasn't his style. She scoffed and smirked at him.

"Come and get me," she whispered.

"What did you just say?" asked John.

Molly whipped her head around, forgetting she wasn't alone. All three of her companions were staring at her and moved to the window with her to see what she was staring at. Luckily, he was gone. All the others saw was a crowded London street and the peeking sun on the horizon. There was nothing suspicious about any of that (except maybe the sun actually being seen in London). Though, it did appear that Sherlock was staring oddly long at something, or worse – someone.

They all directed their attention back to her as if expecting an explanation of some kind despite the fact they knew they weren't going to get one. She counted her blessings that not even Sherlock had heard her and thanked the Lord for his Mind Palace. However, she needed to get out of here and she needed to leave alone. Nobody else had to get hurt. Nobody else had to die because of her. The only problem was the no one was going to let her do anything alone right now. She had very few options as to what she could do to escape their watchful eyes. Obviously, she couldn't just leave by the front door. It's also not like she could disable any of them either. Mary was an ex-assassin, John was ex-military, and Sherlock was, well, Sherlock. Whatever happened would have to be to her.

"Pardon me," she said, making her way towards the bathroom.

She went into the bathroom, locking the door behind her. She didn't like what she was going to have to do, or at least not the reasons behind it. She wanted there to be another way, but there wasn't.

She took the gauze off of her arms to expose her cuts. Then, for the first time in her life, she reopened them without the intention of plain old self-mutilation. This time she did it so she could physically leave the flat. Wincing in pain, she reopened most of them, helping the blood to come out by squeezing the wounds. She quickly covered back up with the gauze and unlocked the door. She fell, purposely knocking some things off of the vanity counter on her way down. As expected, the others came rushing to her aid.

"Molly, what happened?" asked John, always the doctor.

"Dunno. Just got dizzy I guess."

"You're bleeding again. Did you do something to yourself again?" Mary asked.

"No, I swear," Molly said, not liking lying.

"I just need to lie down, that's all."

John helped her get back onto her feet and led her to the bedroom. He sat her down, and headed back to the bathroom to get more supplied for her wounds. As he bandaged her, he knew she was lying when she said she didn't do anything. There was no way in hell all of her cuts would open back up on their own with such suspicious timing. He wanted to help, but he couldn't help if she wouldn't let him.

"So, what really happened?" he asked.

"Do you trust me, John?" she countered.

He looked at her sideways answering with, "I'm not sure right now."

"No, not with this," she said gesturing to her arms, "with knowing what I'm doing? Do you trust me to make things right?"

"I want to. I really do, Molls. I do think everything can get better, though."

"Can you trust me to do that?"

He hesitated, but nonetheless told her that he did. And that was all she needed to allow herself to do what she was about to.

He finished fixing her and went to sit down in the chair opposite the bed.

"John, there's no need for that. Not if someone is awake. It's unsettling having someone watching me sleep and if anything happens at least one of you will hear."

John didn't like the idea of leaving Molly open to attack, but she was right. At least one of them was going to be awake because Sherlock never slept. He hesitantly left the bedroom despite the bad feeling he had. Closing the door behind him, he headed back to the living room to sit with the others.

"She's lying; you know that right?" John asked.

"Of course she's lying. Wouldn't you?" Sherlock asked him. "If you had something so destructive that you do, would you not try to hide it?"

"Sherlock, I'm not sure –" John started.

"John!" Mary intervened, "did you think that maybe, just maybe, he actually knows what he's talking about for once. It's precisely that which makes him uniquely qualified to understand her lying. In fact, you're the only one who doesn't. So, maybe you're not the best fit to help her in that way."

John forfeited the argument, knowing full well she was right. The three of them sat down and began to discuss what they were to do about the situation at hand. What to do about Moriarity.

Molly, her ear to the door, heard them begin their conversation and was sure it was not going to be a quick discussion. She hurried over to the window and opened it quietly with caution. She stepped onto the fire escape and closed the window behind her. Now all that was left to do was to find the bastard, and she had a pretty good idea of where he was. And with that in mind, she began her search for Moriarity.