Hello everyone! So this is the sequel to 'The Hunt is On' that came to me after watching The Reichenbach Fall. This story is much more oriented towards the Supernatural stories and will contain far more adventure and violence than the first story (hence the rating).

I also went against my own philosophy and decided to post this first chapter before writing the rest of the story. Think of it as a wee little teaser. Review please!

Molly clutched the cup of tea in her hands, willing them to stop shaking. She could almost feel John's burning stare as he looked down upon her. Finally Molly set the cup aside and looked up to meet the desperate man's eyes.

"I'm so sorry John…but there is no way to bring him back."

It had only been a month after the events in the warehouse. Moriarty's death and her near death had awoken something in Molly. She was…stronger now. Stronger in mind, body, and spirit.

A new relationship had also bloomed between Molly and Sherlock; one of a teacher and a student. Nearly every night after the warehouse incident Sherlock would show up at the mortuary with a list of questions he wished to ask of Molly.

"How do you identify a rugaru before it eats 'long-pig' for the first time."

"Why would an angel choose to 'fall' to Earth?"

"Is there such thing as God?"

Molly did her best to answer the questions to the best of her ability, and, when she couldn't answer something, she would call up her Uncle. Sherlock showed his appreciation by bringing her coffee to work.

But soon things began to get back to normal…sort of. John and Sherlock would go out and solve their mysterys, and Molly would act as their ever faithful morgue attendant. The only difference was that the two men, plus Lestrade, treated her with far more respect than they used to before. They also learned not to question when they would find her burning a random corpse in the crematorium, or when they would walk in to find their recent murder victim missing their head.

Just came with the territory of having a hunter for a friend.

Of course, as is natural, when things go up, then must come down.

And down everything came.

Hard.

It all started with the text message from John. Molly was doing some paperwork in her office before she went home when her phone went off. It played the normal buzz, so she knew it wasn't Dean (although, she honestly wasn't expecting anything from him. He hadn't contacted her since Sam…).

Molly shook her head and picked up the phone and flipped it open, taking a sip of her morning decaf.

The coffee slid from her fingers and crashed to the floor.

"Oh…no…no no no no…" was all Molly could choke out. Her hand covered her mouth for a moment. Then she gripped the phone tight in both hands and quickly typed out a message to John.

Are you sure?

Molly clutched the phone tightly, taking in deep breaths. She felt the phone buzz.

Yes

Molly let out a choked sob, and then her face became furious. She abandoned her paperwork and raced home as quickly as her motorcycle would allow.

She spent the rest of the afternoon on the phone instead of sleeping. She called every contact she knew; a man in London who guarded the crossroads where she had made the deal with Crowley just a month before, Micky in Ireland, and a hunter in Russia who refused to give her his name but didn't mind going by 'Russian Dean'. No one had heard of any souls being whisked out of hell recently.

She realized she was going to have to go to the big-wig if she were to get any answers.

Traveling to the crossroads and calling up Crowley was much easier the second time around. Maybe because, instead of being full of fear and trepidation, she was angry. So angry.

"This was not part of our agreement Crowley! How the hell did Moriarty's soul get out of hell?" she screamed. Crowley stood off to the side, a glare on his face. He rubbed his lip, then shrugged.

"I don't know."

Molly stopped pacing. She turned to the demon, her eyes wide.

"You don't know? You don't know how a human soul got out of hell? Especially since you are the self-proclaimed King of freaking Hell now!"

Molly covered her mouth as the wind caught her words, carrying them over the dusty hills. Crowley didn't say anything, just raised an eyebrow.

"He had to have had help," he said after a few moments of stunted silence. Molly lowered her hands and took a deep breath.

"Dean got out of Hell because of Castiel. Do you think Moriarty had an angel help him?"

Crowley shrugged.

"I'm not sure. Could have been an angel. Could have been a demon."

Molly crouched down and placed her face in her hands. Just when everything was finally going right, she moaned to herself. She stiffened when she felt a hand on her shoulder.

"I will ask," Crowley said. Molly looked up at him, an incredulous look on her face.

"Why are you helping me?" she asked.

And just like that he was gone. Molly sighed and stood up straight. She sniffed and rolled her shoulders, trying to figure out what to do next.

Hopping back on her bike she just rode for a while. She took in deep breaths of the country air, gunning the bike to go faster and faster.

She knew she was being reckless, but she couldn't help it. She loved the rush. It cleared her head and helped her think. Somehow she wound up outside of 221B Baker Street. She idled on the street, staring up at the window. Suddenly her cell phone went off.

Are you going to sit out there all day?

SH

Molly chuckled slightly. Nice to see someone was still acting the same, given the circumstances.

Molly parked her motorcycle and walked into the flat. She didn't even bother she entered the flat she was almost disturbed by the quiet in the room. John was sitting in his favorite chair, a cup of tea in his hands. He was holding a newspaper. Molly flinched when she saw that Moriarty was on the front, a large smile on his face.

"Oh, hello Molly," John greeted tiredly. Molly nodded her head to him, then glanced in the kitchen. Sherlock was sitting at the table, his eyes firmly planted on his microscope.

"Molly, there is a reason you were outside," he said, not even looking up from the microscope. John gave her his 'that's-Sherlock-for-you' look and turned back to the paper. Molly smiled slightly and walked into the kitchen. She sat down in the sat across from his and raced her hands along the table.

"Molly," Sherlock warned sternly. Molly smiled slightly. A month ago she would have flinched and tittered away like a frightened school girl.

"I spoke to Crowley," she said softly, tracing the grooves in the table.

"Oh?" Sherlock didn't even look up from the microscope.

"He doesn't know how Moriarty escaped. He's going to find out, though."

Sherlock finally looked up from the microscope. He caught Molly's eyes.

"You are scared," he said after a moment of silence. Molly stared back.

"Terrified."

However scared she was, Molly knew she couldn't allow Moriarty to get the best of her. Not yet anyway. She went to work as normal, slept a couple of hours when she got home, then spent the rest of the time scouring books to try and find an explanation.

It was a couple of days after the famous 'James Moriarty Court Case' where the madman was found innocent that Molly found Sherlock in her lab for the first time since she had spoken to him at his flat.

He looked…haggard. And tired. So very very tired.

John stood off to the side and was looking through some photographs whilst Sherlock was performing expiriments on some woods chips. Molly assisted him as best as she could. She knew he disliked when people interfered or got in the way.

She kept watching him. Watching his face. The way he would glance up at John every once in awhile.

"Sherlock, you know something," she said softly.

"I know many things," he interjected. Molly rolled her eyes.

"You know you remind me a lot of Dean."

Sherlock looked up, a bit confused.

"Your cousin?" he asked.

"Brother, more like. He and I…he used to look after me, and Sam, when no one else would."

Sherlock nodded and looked back into the telescope. Molly pressed her lips together in trepidation and annoyance. She wondered how she could get out what she wanted to say without sounding insensitive.

"Did I ever tell you that he died?" she finally said. Sherlock sat back and glanced over at Molly in mild surprise. She took this as a sign and pressed forward.

"About 2 years ago, Sam was killed by a man named Jake Talley. Dean couldn't deal with the fact that he had lost his brother, so he sold his soul to save Sam. But, Dean being Dean, pissed off the crossroads demon that he made the deal with. He was only given a year instead of the typical ten. Do you remember when I took like a month off of work awhile back. Said I was visiting some friends from school. I'm pretty sure you don't, you were pretty preoccupied with that triple homicide."

Sherlock stared at Molly.

"No, I do remember that. Your replacement wouldn't let me take any bodies from the morgue," Sherlock murmured. Molly laughed slightly. Sherlock turned back to the microscope.

"Is there a point to this story?"

Molly sighed.

"When Dean was getting closer to…to his time being up. He was so nice to us. To me, and Sam, and Bobby. He was always trying to cheer us up. But when he was alone…he was sad. I saw him once."

Molly looked up at Sherlock, who had yet again torn away from the microscope to stare down at the woman.

"You look sad Sherlock…when you think he isn't looking," she motioned with her chin towards John. Sherlock glanced at the man, then back down at Molly.

"But you can see me," he said softly.

"Yeah, but I don't count."

It was true. Although she had saved his life (or so she thought), and although she had introduced him to a world that he had previously been ignorant too (to his annoyance), she did not consider herself in the same standing as John. At least, when it came to Sherlock.

She reached up and placed a careful hand on his shoulder. She felt him flinch slightly, but ignored it.

"Sherlock, if you need anything...you can count on me," she said softly. Sherlock glanced back down at her.

"I'm serious Sherlock. If you need anything, I will help you. You deserve it," she said before getting up slowly.

"I'm going to go get some crisps. Want anything?"

Sherlock shook his head and watched the woman walk away, the gears spinning frantically in his head at her words.

She didn't expect it.

She didn't want it.

But, somehow, she knew that it would happen. The Sherlock would take her offer and run with it.

She watched from an alleyway nearby, her dark clothes hiding her from view. She covered her mouth when she saw Sherlock reaching out to John.

When Sherlock had scared her in the morgue just hours before, she didn't know what would happen. But the confession of his fear, his certainty, that he was slated to die soon, sealed the fact that Molly's life was about to take a drastic turn.

So she made a call. A couple of calls, actually. She even said a prayer or two.

And then she hid in the alleyway. For hours. She made a call at about six am to John's cell from a disposable she had picked up only an hour before. She lowered her voice slightly, convincing him that Mrs. Hudson had been shot in their home.

She had watched as the man fled the hospital.

And now she had to cover her mouth as the tears came to her eyes. She could see the emotions passing across John's face; fear, pain, longing, grief, and disbelief.

She couldn't hear what Sherlock was telling the man, but she could see, even from her vantage point, that he was crying. And those weren't the fake tears that he was oh so good at.

Those were real, honest-to-god tears.

Molly nearly screamed when he jumped. She wanted to run, but she held fast. She saw, just barely, the flash of someone underneath Sherlock, before he fell to the ground with a sickening thud.

She motioned with her hand. A couple of people bolted out of the alleyway. She watched John run forward, then get clipped by the biker she had hired. He fell to the ground with a muffled heap, but still managed to slowly make his way over to Sherlock. She watched him grab the man's hand and check his pulse. Molly clutched the wall in worry as the people began to load Sherlock onto a gurney. One of the other people held onto John's shoulders as the others wheeled Sherlock around to where Molly was hiding.

Molly turned and followed them into the hospital. But, instead of wheeling him into the hospital itself they wheeled him into the morgue.

Molly paid the people, associates of Sherlock's of whom he had met through his homeless network, before sending them on their way. She walked over to Sherlock and flinched slightly, staring at his lifeless eyes and pale, cold skin. She took a syringe from her pocket and injected it quickly into Sherlock's exposed arm.

"Castiel, take care of him," she said into the air as she placed her hands over the man's eyes, shutting them firmly.

It was now the day after the funeral. Molly, John, and Mrs. Hudson sat in the elderly woman's parlor sipping tea and remaining all together silent. Mrs. Hudson finally seemed to have had enough. She slipped out of the room saying something about 'all of those dishes', leaving Molly and John in the room alone.

"Is Moriarty really dead this time?" John asked into the silence. Molly rubbed her eyes, careful to not smudge her makeup any more than she had already.

"It would seem like it," she said softly. John opened his mouth, closed it again, then took a sip of his tea. Molly stared at the man, then set her own cup on the side table.

"John, why did you call me over?" she asked softly. He glanced swiftly over at her.

"Molly…is there any way we could bring Sherlock back?" he whispered hopefully. This was what Molly had been afraid of. She picked up her tea again and clutched it in her hands, willing them to stop shaking. She could almost feel John's burning stare as he looked down upon her. Finally Molly set the cup aside and looked up to meet the desperate man's eyes.

"I'm so sorry John…but there is no way to bring him back," she lied smoothly.

John huffed and looked down.

"Then how did Moriarty come back?" he spat. Molly shook her head, trying to ignore the grief and hatred in his voice.

"I'm not sure John, but…but that's why I came here. To say goodbye."

John's eyes widened as he looked up at Molly.

"What? What do you…what do you mean 'goodbye'?"

Molly flinched. She hated saying goodbye to people. To…finite. But in this situation…

"John, I'm going back to my Uncles. After everything…after losing Sam…and now Sherlock…it's just…gotten to be a bit much. So I'm going to get back to hunting for a bit."

John stared at Molly, his eyes wide. Molly allowed this to go on for a moment longer before she stood up and started to put her coat on. John stood up with her and placed his hand on her shoulder.

"Let me come with you," he nearly begged. Molly sighed and shook her head. She felt terrible, to be doing this to John, but it had to be done. Molly placed her hands on his shoulders and pushed him back down into the chair.

"No, John…we've already lost Sherlock. I won't lose you too. Stay here, take care of Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade and…try to repair Sherlock's good name, won't you? You and I both know that crap in the paper is just that…please," she pressed. She had to make John understand that he had to stay safe. John finally nodded and slumped into the chair. She was just turning to go when she heard his voice.

"Just…keep me updated, please? On how you are doing. You are my friend too Molly."

Molly turned slightly and nodded before shutting the door to Mrs. Hudson's flat. She pulled her hood over her head as the heavy rain battered down on her. She hailed a taxi and made her way to Scotland Yard to say goodbye to one more friend.

When she entered the room the first people she spotted were Donovan and Anderson. Molly grimaced. She had heard that they were the ones that first accused Sherlock of being a fake. She brushed past them as they stared at her. She had only worked with either of them a handful of times, but she disliked the both of them greatly.

She quietly knocked on the door to Lestrade's office.

"Come in," she heard him say softly. Molly entered the office, shutting the door behind her.

"Well hello there Molly," he said, standing up. Molly nodded her head.

"Greg, how are you?"

"I've…been better," he said simply. Molly nodded in agreement. Then she sighed and sat down in the chair in front of his desk.

"Greg…I've come to say goodbye," she said softly. Lestrade stared at her, an eyebrow raised in confusion.

"Goodbye? Where are you off too?"

"America. I'm moving back in with my Uncle. With my cousin's death…well, he needs a bit of help now," she shrugged slightly.

Lestrade looked…perplexed. He knew, somewhat, what Molly was, and what she did. And he also knew that Moriarty should have been done long before Sherlock's death. But he stood up anyway and held out his hand.

"Molly Hooper, it has been a pleasure knowing you."

Molly smiled, a genuine smile, and took his hand in a tight grasp. She turned around quickly, dabbing at her eyes with her sleeve, when she came face to face with Anderson and Donovan. The woman leaned against the door frame, her eyes scrutinizing Molly whilst Anderson just looked like…well, Anderson; smug, snooty, and an all around asshole.

"Aren't you the morgue attendant from St. Bart's?" Anderson asked.

"Ex-morgue attendant. Quite my job this morning."

"I heard a rumor that you had a thing for Ole' Freak," Donovan interrupted. Molly raised an eyebrow.

"Donovan, Anderson, that is enough," Lestrade said behind Molly.

"Why would you like someone like him? He's a fake. Don't you read the papers?" Anderson said, ignoring Lestrade. Both of Molly's eyebrows rose into her hairline.

"Didn't anyone ever tell you not to believe everything you read in the papers?" Molly asked. She started to brush past the man when she heard him mutter something. She stopped, anger marring her features slightly.

"What was that?" she asked without turning.

"I said 'Good riddance'," Anderson stated a little louder, dark laughter in his voice. Donovan began to titter next to him. Molly clenched her fists, then smiled.

What the hell, she thought.

Without thinking she turned around, grabbed the front of Anderson's shirt in her right fist, and pulled him into her forehead. He screamed and clutched his now bleeding nose. Donovan ran forward and tried to help the man, but he pushed her away in anger. Donovan turned and yelled at Lestrade.

"What are you waiting for? Arrest her! She just assaulted Anderson!"

Lestrade chuckled and placed a hand on Molly's shoulder.

"I didn't see anything."

Donovan scowled and turned around on her heel to follow Anderson, who was trying to make it to the bathroom without getting blood everywhere. Molly watched them go, then turned to face Lestrade. He clapped her once more on the shoulder.

"Have a good trip," he said softly.

Molly yawned as she entered her nearly empty apartment, a takeout bag in hand. She set the bag down on the ground and took off her shoes. Today had been an exhausting day to say the least.

"You are late," came a voice out of the darkness. Molly jumped and started to reach for the gun in her purse when the lights came on.

"Jesus, Sherlock, don't do that."