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Before you get to reading this chapter it is highly advisable that you re-read chapter 4. My lovely beta, caughtinblackseyes,went through it and added some details that are important for this chapter, as well as fixed a lot of my mistakes.

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Stamford had been being stubborn in his refusal to let Sherlock have his way and too much time had already been wasted. For all he knew, that blasted woman had already used her heavy hand to butcher the latest victim; thereby ruining any, and all, clues that it might be harboring. Left with no other alternative, Sherlock had been forced to play dirty. He grimaced. Using such tactics were abhorrent to him, and he took no pride in having forced Stamford into such undignified obedience. But, being left with no other recourse, using all the power he had at his disposal had been necessary; a last resort so to speak.

Mycroft Holmes had been that last resort; the power behind the government. Having to use Mycroft's connections would have been deeply repugnant to Sherlock on a visceral level, but when needs must, well… He was pleased it hadn't come to it. If his brother ever gained knowledge of his almost-need, it would have been used against him relentlessly (he'd, no doubt, be in charge of taking his parents to some god-awful musical upon their next visit) and Mycroft would have crowed on about it for years to come.

Following closely behind the silent and discomposed head of the staff of pathologists, the consulting detective covertly tried Molly's number again, huffing in perturbed manner when nothing resulted from his continued efforts. Trying to squelch the distress brewing in him since noticing her absence, Sherlock whooshed into the morgue with an arrogance akin to a sleek, self-satisfied cat, his shin-length coat billowing after him adding a dramatic touch to his entrance.

Ruth's head snapped up at the interruption, over her shoulder grey eyes met those of her boss and then quickly flicked to Sherlock and then back to Mike again; her gaze both curious and wary.

"Ruth," Stamford addressed her in a calm, collected tone, "If you would be so kind as to allow Mister Holmes to check the body before you begin the post-mortem, please."

The woman in question, lowered her already poised scalpel and swiftly straightened up, surprise evident on her youthful features. "Is this a joke, Mike?" She asked, her voice clipped and cold. "I've already told you that I won't work with him!"

Only Sherlock noticed the small beads of nervous perspiration breaking out on Mike's forehead. The man clearly did not want to go toe-to-toe with one of his most trusted employees, but also knew what was at stake if he went against the taller man standing at his side. While Causey shot silent, metaphorical daggers at him, Sherlock hit the speed dial on the mobile resting in his coat pocket, hoping that this time, Molly would answer.

"Ruth…" Mike began, looking conciliatory but trying to sound firm.

"NO!" The woman cut him off in her obnoxious voice."Get that pathetic excuse of a man out of here before I get a restraining order!"

"Oh, please," Sherlock drawled derisively.

Causey turned on him, red-tinted lips twisted into a snarl, "What did you do, Holmes?! How the bloody hell did you convince Mike to let you in here?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sneered back at her before asking, "What will you do next in this little tantrum of yours? Stomp your foot in a childish manner? Fly into a rage? Run home crying to mummy? How absolutely dull and uninspiring of you." Shrugging his shoulder in a negligent manner, he added, "I must confess to being unsurprised; you reek of ordinary."

Causey let out a guttural growl and lunged at Sherlock, knife in hand. The consulting detective stood his ground. Mike let out a, "Holy shite, Ruth!" Intercepting her before anything of a serious nature could occur that would ruin her career forever.

Breathing heavily, Causey wrestled herself out of Stamford's hold and muttered shakily, "Sorry about that, Mike. Forgot the damned scalpel was in my hand. Don't know what came over me."

"Sentiment. Emotion. Stupidity" Sherlock deadpanned. "Take your pick."

"You can just shut it, Sherlock," Mike barked. The other man raised an enquiring brow. "You will be permitted to examine the body, but I won't tolerate you inciting my employees to violence! Stop baiting her!"

The consulting detective gave a brief nod of agreement while pressing on his mobile's dial button again.

Addressing the flustered woman, Stamford said, "You don't have to assist him. Frankly, I'd prefer that you didn't." Patting her soothingly on the upper arm, he suggested quietly,"Go on now and take your break."

Causey threw her boss a small but grateful smile while cleaning up her station and removing her safety equipment. She gave Sherlock a wide berth and was nearly out the door when Stamford called after her.

"And Ruth, I'd like to be clear on one other point, if you ever raise an instrument to Sherlock, or any other living person, I will boot your arse outta here so fast it'll make your head spin. Understood?"

Sherlock was impressed. He had never heard Stamford sound so stern and assertive.

Causey's shoulders slumped but she managed to say in a defeated whisper, "Yes, sir."

Satisfaction at the thwarted woman's exit was difficult for Sherlock to contain or hide adequately; his well-schooled features remained intact, but he failed miserably at keeping the corners of his mouth from turning up. Stamford noticed.

Turning on Sherlock, he bit out, "Damn you, Sherlock, was that really necessary? I've never seen Ruth like that before, never!" Throwing his arms up in the air, he prophesied angrily, "I'll more than likely have to send her home for the rest of the day! I'm already short-staffed what with Molly out too! " The older man groaned. "The paperwork alone..."

Remorse was an emotion relatively foreign to Sherlock, but he felt a stab of it as he looked at Mike's tight, distressed face. The man had been a boon to the consulting detective for quite awhile now. Allowing him nearly limitless access to the morgue and Molly's expertise, had been but one of the ways he'd improved Sherlock's life. Without the shorter man, he never would have met John Watson.

"My apologies, Mike if I've put you in an untenable position."

Stamford blinked. Astonishment and apprehension warring with each other. Sherlock couldn't, in all honesty, blame the man. The apology had been sincere and Mike clearly didn't know how to react to such an unheard of event.

When he finally did speak, it was in a more agreeable tone, "Well then, I'll leave you to it."

The consulting detective casually mentioned to the departing figure, "This might be a fortuitous time for you to access that large bottle of gin in the locked third drawer of your office desk."

Stamford came to an abrupt halt.

"If I were you," Sherlock tacked on with a trace of humor lacing his voice, "I'd be more than ready for a large nip or two. After all, Causey and I together in a room for longer than two seconds is bound to drive just about anyone to the bottom of a bottle."

Sherlock heard him chortle under his breath as he continued on his way.

Flexing his fingers in anticipation, he was prepared to give his full attention to the body, but first he wanted to give reaching Molly another go only to be stymied once more.

"Blast," he muttered under his breath, running a frustrated hand through his dark curls whilst setting his mobile on the corner of the slab.

This was no good. He needed to focus on the case. The case was of prime importance. Worry for Molly was impeding his normal process, and that just wouldn't do. Even so, he found himself making one more futile attempt before pushing the female pathologist to the back of his mind.

The body itself smelled slightly damp, as had the clothing. When examined under the microscope, Sherlock discovered that though the hair hung in matted ropes, it was clean, but stripped of all its' natural oils. This all signified that they'd been bathed or washed down; with a hose perhaps.

Could it be that the murderer bathed or drenched their bodies and redressed them before dumping them off at the allotted locations? Of course, the person who'd cut them down, would want to rinse away any type of trace evidence that could lead to his identity. Fingerprints would not be found either; the killer had to have been wearing latex gloves. Only a fool would do otherwise, and this… this genius… this mastermind… this killer, was no fool.

The clothing Sherlock noted, after having examined them more thoroughly, were rather sophisticated and nicely tailored with a whiff of expensive cologne around the collar; the articles had fit the victim like a glove. Had the murderer measured them up and then gone to some high-end establishment to buy the proper clothing? Sherlock shook his head. No, far too tedious. It was possible that the clothing could have been taken from their own homes. He was speculating that all of the victims had been found dressed just so as serial killers didn't deviate from their preferred pattern.

Sherlock leaned close, breathing in deeply, while sweeping his nose over the upper torso. He detected the pungent beginnings of mold spores on one side of the body (transfer from the victim's clothing) indicating that they must have been leaning against a wall located in the north corner where rain had seeped in through.

Possibly the victim had been being held in a building of poor construction with the balance of probability suggesting an old, slowly crumbling place; leading Sherlock to believe that it must either be an abandoned flat block or a factory. A cursory exam of the extremities of the body showed no signs of any sort of shackling of the wrists or ankles which led Sherlock to the conclusion that while in captivity, the victims were permitted to wander freely in their prison.

The bruising on all of the other bodies which Sherlock had examined, had been at least two weeks old, give or take a day. The massive bruising in the rib cage area of this latest victim, was no exception to those findings. Obviously, he'd been pummeled repeatedly in the chest by a size 11 shoe or boot. That, along with the desiccated remnants of pink saliva at the corner of the mouth, were all clear indications that a broken rib or ribs had punctured the lung. Even without the benefit of an autopsy, the consulting detective could easily conclude that this had ultimately been the cause of death.

There was plenty of bruising in the neck area as well, signifying strangulation. Sherlock pulled his magnifier from his pocket, squinting as he moved the glass all around the mottled region. Upon closer inspection, he deduced that they were not marks of strangulation as previously thought. The killer had left the bruises while holding the victim by the throat as he pried open the stiff, unyielding mouth so as to be able to stuff the ether soaked cloth inside.

This made perfect sense to Sherlock. Such a brutal man would never allow his victims a full dose of ether; that would ruin the fun. After beating them nearly senseless, he would want to watch the suffering of his victim, to delight in the painful agony of their impending death; to see the light of life slowly ebb away into nothingness

Fascinating. Utterly fascinating. It was looking more and more as if this wasn't your regular run-of-the-mill serial killer. Oh no, not at all! Sherlock was on the trail of an authentic psychopath! Life just got interesting!

Absent-mindedly, Sherlock reached over and hit the phone icon of his mobile, listening to the consistent ringing, his eyes still glued to the body he was inspecting. The familiar voicemail message of Molly Hooper reached his ears, asking the caller to leave a message. He jabbed the redial button instead. Then hit it again. And again. And again. Giving up when his efforts appeared fruitless, Sherlock continued on with his extensive examination; Molly would have to wait.

Then, the familiar buzz of his mobile cut into his thought process. Not a call, but a text, he noted distractedly whilst snatching the device from its resting place. Sherlock fought back disappointment when he realized it was from John and not his pathologist. He pressed the text icon, quickly scanning the brief message: 'Quit bloody calling her!' Taking the situation into his own hands, the consulting detective stabbed the call button. To his credit, the former soldier answered immediately.

Sherlock rapped out, "Is she okay, John," Not waiting for the other man's reply, he continued on conversationally, "Obviously, she is. She's overslept after a night of drinking wine and watching crap telly. We must insist that this never happen again. It reflects poorly on Molly and doesn't help us out much either. She..."

"Sherlock… she's not here."

There could be a thousand reasons why she wasn't currently in her home or as to why she didn't have access to her mobile; perhaps Molly had lost the device. Possibly that damned cat had made off with it and hid it someplace which Molly hadn't yet discovered. Or, maybe she was there and John hadn't looked thoroughly enough. After all, his friend wasn't as familiar with layout of Molly's flat as he was.

A more disturbing thought suddenly struck him. Could it be that Molly had found herself a new paramour and was at this moment engaged in an early afternoon romantic rendezvous at his residence? It would be a perfectly legitimate reason for having not returned calls or texts. Silencing all items which could interfere with the mood while engaged in such activities was the thing to do, or so he'd been reliably informed. Sherlock's brows drew together into a tight furrow, feeling uneasy with this train of thought.

"Did you check every room?" Sherlock demanded sharply, effectively pushing aside all silly, wild imaginings of Molly's theoretical love life.

"Yes," John confirmed, sounding tired. "Every single one."

The consulting detective could hear steps, so either John was pacing back and forth or he was still looking around the rooms hoping he missed something on the first go.

Sherlock's hand tightened on his mobile. "The cellar too?"

There was a momentary pause before John asked, "She has a cellar?"

Pinching the bridge of his nose, he bit out in exasperation, "Yes! It's a door off the kitchen, adjacent to the ice box."

He was growing irritated at his friends' inability to search a flat thoroughly. Clearly, he was going to have to re-educate John on the proper technique. Sherlock heard quick footfalls moving to the kitchen.

"Uh, there's something in front of the cellar door. "

Sherlock scowled. "Well, spill it, man! What is it?"

"It's some sort of decorative thing. Has potted plants, cookbooks and… I don't know, Sherlock… Thing-a-ma-jigs on it. What Mary called knick-knacks; things of that sort."

"How tall is it," Sherlock fired off.

"Covers the entire door, pretty much." He mumbled. "No wonder I missed it. I mean, honestly, if you didn't already know it was there you'd pass it by completely. Even the blasted knob is...

"Focus, John!"

Sherlock heard what he was sure was a whispered, 'tosser' but ignored it.

"Look at the floor in front of the Bakers' Rack; that's what it's called, by the way. Do you see any markings as if it had been dragged across the floor or pulled out and then shoved back into place?"

A heartbeat passed, then John said, "Nope, sorry Sherlock. There's nothing like that."

"Don't touch anything," Sherlock informed him sounding both ominous and firm. "Do you hear me?"

"Yes," John answered, clearly put out.

"Not a single thing," Sherlock reiterated sternly. "Not even the cat."

"The cat?" John echoed, confused.

"Yes! The cat," Sherlock shot out quickly. "Do keep up, John."

With a single tap the call was ended and the mobile was stuffed into the pocket of his coat. Sherlock took a deep, calming breath. It would serve no use to give in to rising panic. Still, an abnormal unease began to reassert itself. What if she was in danger?

The word danger, in Sherlock's mind, was antithesis to Molly Hooper. Over their long acquaintance, he'd made sure that it had stayed that way. His actions towards her, especially the unpleasant ones, ensured that no one from Jim Moriarty straight down to John, would ever look on her as anything other than insignificant in the eyes of the great consulting detective, Sherlock Holmes. He'd placed her firmly in the shadows; unseen and obscure. It might have been a thankless place for Molly to have dwelled, but it had been a safe one.

He'd been unkind to her in both word and deed. All of which had been done out of necessity, or so he'd told himself over and over again as he tried to ignore Molly's wounded, brown eyes whenever he'd inflicted pain through countless nasty deductions. He'd found it quite gratifying, in these latter years, how she'd taken to putting him staunchly in his place, refusing to take any of his shite. If he were the sentimental sort, he might say she'd come into her own. If he were a trite one, he'd say she'd blossomed beautifully. Since, he was neither, he'd kept both sentiments to himself.

When the time had come to implement The Fall scenario; she'd been instrumental to the entire plan. At first, when Mycroft had suggested Molly's inclusion into their small conspiracy, Sherlock had balked at the idea. But, as the plan grew to fruition, even he had to admit that the 'British Government' along with his homeless network wouldn't be enough to pull off something so intricately convoluted. They'd needed someone on the inside of Barts hospital corridors, someone they could trust, and Molly had fit the bill perfectly. When she's asked what he needed and he'd uttered the word: 'You.' A truer one had never been spoken.

Although, only a select few knew of Molly's initial contributions, it had still been far too many for Sherlock's liking. After his resurrection, she'd been even more exposed. It was as if a bright beacon of light had been aimed directly on where she had, until then, lingered amongst the shadows; safely ensconced from prying, predatory eyes. No longer was she a relatively unknown factor, which had concerned Sherlock. Molly was always meant to be a stranger to danger; a codicil he and Mycroft had worked out between themselves before bringing her into the fold.

It took thirty bloody minutes to get to Molly's flat. The combination of horrific traffic and a dolt for a cab driver had really worked on Sherlock's fraying nerves. He had briefly considered walking, which would have helped to clear his head, but chose a cab so as to get to Molly's much more quickly. In retrospect, he probably would have reached his destination sooner if he had walked. To add insult to injury, the sum required to pay the driver had been preposterous.

Sherlock stormed into the flat with a rather large scowl on his face and found John pacing, just as he had suspected would be the case. His friend was looking particularly glum and he noticed that several strands of greying hair stood on end as if he'd been tugging on it (hard) for quite some time.

Coming to a standstill at Sherlock's entrance, John demanded huffily, "What the hell took you so long?"

"Traffic." Sherlock bit out waspishly. "Doltish driver."

Understanding flooded John's features, he nodded and said, "Think we might've flagged down the same cabbie."

"Molly's morning paper is still in the mailbox," Sherlock informed his friend, going straight to the issue. "Normally, it would be on the table by now. Molly reads it while drinking coffee in her favorite kitten-shaped mug whilst enjoying toast - frightfully brown, almost burnt in fact - thickly spread with Duerr's Fine Cut Orange Marmalade."

John nearly went crossed-eyed in astonishment, then he muttered haltingly, "Uh, right. Sure. And you would know this because... "

Sherlock ignored the open-ended question by stating matter-of-factly, "The rug by the table has a slight hump to it." Pointing, he continued, "See, it's bunched up right here while the rest of the carpet is lying flat."

"Okaaaaaay… meaning what exactly?"

"Meaning that someone with an approximate size 11 shoe made this mark. You are a size 9 and a half and, of course, Molly's feet are much smaller. There's also the fact that the type of shoe that caused this bunching up, clearly belongs to a man. See the square-toed indent? Molly's everyday shoes are rounded at the tip and when she's dressed up, her high-heels come to a point at the toe which according to her, makes her legs look longer and by extension adds height to her tiny stature."

Sherlock slipped passed his slack-jawed friend, long strides carrying him into the kitchen. One of the first things he noticed were Toby's empty bowls. A definite red flag by Sherlock's reckoning. Molly would never leave her feline companion without adequate provisions. It was her habit to overfill both his food and water whenever she knew she would be gone a good portion of the day.

He sniffed. A strong odor of ammonia-based urine and cat feces overwhelmed his sinus'; the litter box hadn't been cleaned out. Further cause for concern. Molly emptied it faithfully in as many as three times a day to keep the inevitable stench, left by her furry friend, at bay. On closer inspection, Sherlock estimated that it had been at least 15-20 hours since Toby had been fed and that the litter box had been attended to.

He took a cursory glance at the Baker's Rack. Molly must have purchased it sometime after Sherlock's sojourn in her home. Two plants, nearly dry if the leaves were anything to go on. Numerous publications on the health benefits of juicing. Several Jaime Oliver cookbooks including a dog-eared copy of Cooking For One. Ceramic figurines, a bowl with a few coins, a framed photo of an older couple; parents presumably, and a few other odds and ends which were placed amongst the wire shelving. Nothing out of the norm there, and as John had informed him, no markings on the floor.

Sherlock unerringly made his way to Molly's bedroom, John following a few steps behind. Narrowed eyes scanned the room, ghosting over whatever he considered trivial, focusing on her queen-sized bed. Meticulously made. Light turquoise coverlet neatly folded back an inch and a half. Sharp hospital corners. Multi-coloured throw rug folded three times over-end. Both pillows were pristine, no signs of concavity.

John watched his friend inquisitively as he crossed the length of the room to a beautifully crafted oak wardrobe. Raising one long-fingered hand, he lightly pressed on one side of it until a slight indent appeared, sliding the superficial loose piece of wood to the side, revealing a small niche.

"What the…"

"I had it installed," Sherlock explained. "I stayed with Molly for a bit before I left the country."

He plucked an object from the opening, holding it aloft. A small key.

"Originally the wardrobe key hung on a small hook, but after I gifted her with a small pistol, I thought it wise to have this hidden nook created for safety reasons."

"Y… you gave Molly a gun?!" John exclaimed in disbelief.

"A pistol," Sherlock pithily corrected, flinging the wardrobe doors wide, quickly scanning the contents.

Neatly organized jumpers and cardigans of various nauseating designs were off to the left. Impeccably pressed women's trousers hung next to skirts in neutral colours made of material ranging from wool to silk. Blouses and shirts separated by seasonal usage, were tucked away into the appropriate spots. Glancing upward, Sherlock zeroed in on the small box which he knew held the Derringer. John crowded in close and gasped when his friend flipped the lid up.

"That's a beautiful piece,"John breathed reverently, taking in the elegant lines of delicate scrollwork and the shimmering mother-of-pearl handle grip.

"Yes," Sherlock agreed, gently stroking the barrel with a fore-finger. "It fits Molly's hand to perfection." The clearing of John's throat brought Sherlock abruptly back from his reverie.

Disregarding the other man's knowing smirk, he carefully returned the pistol to the box and then back to its former resting place. All seemed to be in order here. Every article of clothing where is should be. Nothing appeared to be amiss.

Wait!

Sherlock began to rifle through the hangers, rapidly pulling at each garment, pushing them singly from one side of the wardrobe to the next. It wasn't here! The dark blue dress she'd worn the day of his funeral. Had she discarded? No. He didn't believe so. The modest, but flattering frock, had been chosen at his request.

The dark blue brought a warm, becoming colour to her face, enhancing the toffee brown of her eyes. Its sweetheart neckline guided attention to the curve of her small breasts, whilst the form-fitting (not vulgarly so) material followed the slim line of her waist and hips coming to rest just below the finely-configured bones of her knees.

There was too much sentiment attached to this specific attire for Molly to have just tossed it out. Not even in the aftermath of that dreadful debacle - the call - would she have destroyed something he had hand-picked for her. It wasn't in her nature to foolishly discard an item of personal value in some silly fit of pique.

Even though Molly had been devastated at being forced to divulge what everyone had already known, it had not broken her! He was well aware that she pined for him still; yet again another reason she wouldn't have consigned the dress to the rubbish bin. Only when Molly was truly ready to move on would she dispose of any and all things in her flat which screamed Sherlock including the handsomely made, dreadfully expensive, blue garment.

"What's wrong?" John asked, interrupting the processing of his thoughts.

"Hmmm… I'm wondering where Molly's blue dress might be."

Shrugging, John suggested, "Cleaner's maybe."

Sherlock hummed in reply, looking down as something brushed softly against his leg. Toby.

"Where have you hidden your owner, you feline mongrel?"

"What the!... Where did he come from,"John sputtered.

"Toby prefers to sleep under his mistress' bed whenever he's left alone," Sherlock offered, lifting said cat, running hands and nose over the small beast. "If you aren't aware of the exact place he reclines, it can be easily missed by those with no keen observational skills."

John rolled his eyes, and said, "I saw hide nor hare of the little bugger the entire time I was here, but you stroll in and suddenly he wants to make nice?"

Examination complete, Sherlock determined that Toby would yield no clues as to what happened or where his owner might be, and merely replied, "Toby and I are quite familiar with each other."

As if to put paid to the truth of the matter, the cat in question, threw out a paw which landed squarely on the tip of Sherlock's nose and let out a belligerent mewl of hunger.

John's smart-arsed giggle was cut short when his friend unceremoniously pushed Toby at him with a sharp, "Feed the cat." The other man barely had the opportunity to catch the disgruntled feline, who did not take kindly on the switch; it hissed, trying desperately to get away from John.

"Bugger," he griped, searching for a way to grip the animal without incurring its further wrath. "Come on, kitty," he crooned. "Let's get some nummie nummies." Toby persisted in his struggles, giving John a glare that was easy to read: crazy, stupid human!

Of course, Sherlock was no help, the blighter! He was moving on to Molly's en suite bath. John tucked the yowling, spitting creature firmly under one arm, determined to feed the daft thing whether either of them liked it or not!

Because the bathroom door was already ajar, it took a mere push for it to open completely. Molly wasn't in the habit of closing the door all the way after completing her shower so as to air out the bathroom to prevent steam from building up and ruining the caulking.

Sherlock's eyes locked onto the laundry basket in the far corner. Upon opening the lid, he pulled the clothes from the hamper, scattering them on the floor. The outfit Molly had worn yesterday (that godawful cardigan with the cherries which had been paired with navy, high-waisted loosely fitting pants and a frilly Peter-Pan collared blouse) were not present. The sea green shower curtain was pulled tightly across and there was no tell-tale drying washcloth and bath towel hanging over the rod.

Tilting his head and sticking his aristocratic nose in the air like a well-trained blood hound, Sherlock drew in a deep breath. Ah! Just as he'd thought. The room did not contain the least bit of residue from Molly's signature body wash, Winter Rose Wallflower from Bath & Body Works. Another generous sniff had him squinting; stymied at what the strange out-of-place odor lingering in the air might be.

A just noticed anomaly catches Sherlock off guard. The faded grey, grimy looking hand-towel he spies on the vanity is odd for a few reasons. It certainly wasn't one of Molly's. Hers are bright white with a trimming of green vines around the edges. Even more curious is that the thin, tattered looking cloth was placed on the left-hand side of the wash basin. Molly is right-handed.

Abandoning the dirty laundry, Sherlock heads to the sink, dimly aware that John has come to stand in the doorway. Carefully picking the slightly tattered towel up by the one of the ends, he examined it closely.

"What's that you go there." John asked. "Is it something im…"

Sherlock cuts him off by raising an imperious hand, signaling that the consulting detective needed quiet as he was about to enter his Mind Palace.

Sighing in a beleaguered fashion, John obliges his friend.

Smeared remnants of Molly's lipstick - Queen Saint Lipstick in Peachy Nude - as well as traces of her foundation - Estée Lauder Double Wear in Cool Bone - were on this unrecognizable, manky rag. Impossible! First and foremost, Molly would never use such a filthy, contaminated piece of rubbish to cleanse her face. There was also that fact that Molly never used anything other than Sephora soft touch cotton pads to eliminate the day's end remaining residue of cosmetics.

He brought the revolting item closer to his face. Curious. Sherlock detected not the aloe of Molly's face cleanser, but an odd medicinal scent. Faint, it was true, but noticeable to his superior sense of smell. He was familiar with this fragrance. Knew it, but how? He'd smelt it before, was certain of it. But where? Why couldn't he place it?!

Sherlock's eyes flew open. "No…" he gasped, rocking back on his heels, stumbling drunkenly.

"Sherlock! Sherlock! What is is? What's wrong?"

He felt hands grab him, John's face was a blurry, swirling object. Everything around him was reeling; careening out of control, heart thudding in his ears.

"For God's sake, Sherlock," John yelled, shaking him brutally. "Pull yourself together, man! What is it?!"

Sherlock's labored breathing made it difficult for John to understand what he was attempting to vocalize, so he grabbed the other man's' face, forcing him to look into his eyes.

"Listen to me. Listen, Sherlock. You're having a panic attack," he explained, tone calm and succinct. " Slow breathes, mate. In and out. Yeah, that's it. You're doing great. A few more. Good, good."

"Ether," Sherlock proclaimed, looking tragically and horribly lost. Clutching frantically at his friend's sleeve, the great Sherlock Holmes, let out a small noise that sounded suspiciously like a broken sob and said, "He's got her. He's got our Molly."

First and foremost thanks to caughtinblackseyes for being so amazing and putting so much work in helping me with this story! I owe her so much.

A small psa - I doubt that it'll be possible for me to update weekly due to university and work. Chapters will come slower, but I suppose they'll also be longer. Be patient, lovelies, the fun is just starting!

Reviews are highly appreciated and needed for further encouragement with this story!

Mondy xx

I have nothing to do with BBC's take on Sherlock neither the characters created by Arthur C. Doyle. I'm merely borrowing the characters to have some fun.