It was a frantic race to get their clothes back on to some level of decency.

At Mycroft's curse, Anthea had shot up from the mattress to look at the screen herself. She just caught the door to the warehouse closing behind a dark figure. She yanked her skirt down, shrugged on her blazer and slipped on her shoes, ignoring the pants she couldn't find. She reached into her handbag for the small pistol she always kept there when they traveled.

Mycroft was already clicking back, replaying the CCTV footage from the last minute or so. Four men approached the warehouse doors and strolled in casually. It was impossible to miss the handgun tucked into the waistbands of two of the men's trousers. No doubt the others were carrying as well.

"Should we…warn them?" The words came out as a gasp as Mycroft followed her out the door, having already pulled his own gun from a hidden compartment inside of his briefcase.

"Too late for that," Mycroft scowled. He was, however frantically typing into his mobile.

Anthea realized he was calling for help. She just hoped it would arrive in time.

Mycroft knew there wasn't time to find a more discrete way in…they'd have to enter quietly through the front door with guns drawn and hope for the best.

The door creaked open into a darkened room, chairs were overturned, a corner of the large desk was broken off, and the paint on the walls was peeling, but it was obvious this used to be a reception area for the warehouse.

Two open doorways led out of the room from either side of the desk. A faint beam of light touched the ground a ways into one of them and muffled voices and noises could be heard from that direction as well.

Mycroft glanced back at Anthea, who also had her gun drawn. She looked relatively composed, however, which shouldn't have impressed him, but it did.

They crept quietly down the hallway, made it to the other side of the door from which the light was coming. Mycroft paused to listen, but even his rapid fire brain didn't have time to translate any words from Spanish before he heard Anthea let out a sharp gasp and turned to find her in the grasp of a large Hispanic man, a gun pressed to head.

Mycroft knew Anthea spoke only a little Spanish, but that probably wasn't necessary in order for her to understand the man's instructions to drop her gun. It clattered to the floor and the stranger turned to Mycroft. He quickly dropped his own gun at the shouted to threat to do so or else Anthea would die.

They were shoved roughly into the room and Mycroft felt himself become immediately restrained from behind as Anthea was dragged further into the room. As his eyes adjusted to the light, he realized that Sherlock was in a similar situation. The final man stood beside Molly and had his gun trained on her. Rosales lay on the floor in a pool of blood, unmoving.

The men spoke rapidly in heavily accented street Spanish, but Mycroft understood, as he knew Sherlock did. They knew why the thugs were excited by the addition of another young woman to the room. What they intended to do with them.

Anthea was led over to Molly and the man beside her, who Mycroft only now realized was Diego Salcedo himself. At least it wasn't his brother, a small consolation.

Mycroft felt his brother tense beside him as Diego circled Molly like a shark…running his hands here and there, over her bottom, her breasts, the cleft between her legs. Molly squirmed uncomfortably but kept her eyes trained on the floor. Diego laughed with the others, saying how innocent she looked. He wondered how old she was. Would she have pubic hair? Would she even know how to suck him off?

"Let's find out," the man holding Sherlock suggested.

Mycroft glanced over, trying to give Sherlock a warning look, make him understand that assistance was on the way. It was safer to obey and wait for back up. But Sherlock wasn't paying him any attention, his eyes glued on Molly and his expression furious.

Diego ripped open Molly's colorful shirt and the buttons scattered on the floor with five little pings. The man's face was centimeters from her own as he ran a finger over the laced edge of the simple nude bra that covered her small breasts.

Mycroft knew that Sherlock wouldn't let it go much farther. He'd do something. Something rash and stupid and one of them would get shot. At least.

But then Anthea stepped forward slowly, seductively. She deliberately popped the button holding her blazer together and shrugged it off, letting it drop to the floor. All eyes were on her, even, especially, Diego's. He turned away from Molly and Anthea didn't even flinch when he moved into her personal space. On the contrary, she managed to dredge up enough Spanish to offer a clear invitation: it's not her you want; take me instead. She even ran her hands down her body, highlighting her supermodel-esque figure, pulling the camisole down to reveal the swell of a far rounder bosom than Molly could boast.

And now it was Mycroft's turn to feel sick.

He didn't understand. Anthea was brave, sure, but hardly self-sacrificing. She thought so much like him, and this wasn't a move he would have made. Were she and Molly really so close?

There wasn't time to contemplate it further because, just after he heard the sound of Anthea's camisole rip, the door burst open and the room was flooded with swat gear clad men. And the roar of bullets rang out, yelling. He found himself struggling with the man who held him for control of the gun. It was chaos and impossible to keep track of what was happening to the others.

But over it all he heard a woman's scream.

Anthea's eyes went immediately to Molly; the boys could handle themselves.

Molly's eyes in turn, were trained on Sherlock. And Anthea saw the disaster coming before it happened.

Molly saw Diego's gun trained on Sherlock, who was engaged in hand to hand with the man who'd been restraining him. She bolted for Diego, not realizing that an officer already had his gun trained on Diego.

The officer fired, and the gun clattered out of Diego's hand as he took a bullet to that arm.

Officers moved in to make the arrest, but not before Diego had time to shove Molly, who was now too close and coming too fast to stop, hard into a large metal support column.

She took most of the impact to her abdomen and then went down hard, her head bouncing slightly on the concrete floor.

Anthea screamed in horror and rushed to Molly's side, dropping down beside her, realizing she wasn't conscious. But breathing, she was breathing.

Sherlock wasn't far behind her. The room quieted down quickly as the Diego and the only one of his cronies still alive were taken into custody.

Anthea barely heard Mycroft barking orders in the background; she couldn't take her eyes off Sherlock's terrified face.

"Oh Molly. Molly, Molly, Molly," he murmured, leaning down to check her lips for breath and gripping her wrist for a pulse. He seemed incredibly relieved when he found both.

"Oh she's fine. She's fine," he insisted to Anthea with the slight edge of panic in his voice that proved he was trying to convince himself as much as her. "She's just passed out. She'll be fine. Maybe a concussion. Some bruising across her stomach. No signs of damage to her internal organs."

By now Mycroft was with them.

Anthea didn't know how to say it. In the end, she didn't have to decide because the words just blurted out.

"Molly's pregnant."

For once in their lives, Sherlock and Mycroft had the exact same thought. "What?!"

"Mm-Molly's pregnant," Anthea repeated. Her heart was racing and she felt so sick. This was all her fault.

"No, no…" Sherlock shook his head. "She can't be. She can't be. I would know. I would have noticed."

"She just found out yesterday."

"And you knew? And you didn't say anything? You didn't think to tell us that before she broke into a known murderer's hideaway?!" Mycroft said. His voice was so accusing as he towered over her. This was her fault, his tone seemed to say, all her fault.

Anthea swallowed back tears and tried to keep her voice steady. "It wasn't my secret to tell. Molly wanted to be the one. And at this stage…I didn't think…"

"At this stage, a woman is the most vulnerable to miscarriage," Mycroft sneered. "How could you keep this from me, Anthea? You know better!"

He was scolding her like a child. Blaming her completely. Anthea felt her cheeks flush with shame.

She glanced to Sherlock. But he said nothing to her, just stared down into Molly's still face, his eyes occasionally drifting to her exposed mid-drift.

And even as Mycroft continued to drill into her, Sherlock stayed that way, focused only on Molly, as if she was the only person in the world. That is until the paramedics came and lifted her onto a rolling stretcher. Then he started barking orders at them.

Anthea almost had to laugh. If it'd been her on that stretcher, Mycroft wouldn't even care.

It was a silent flight back to England for Mycroft and Anthea.

Molly was stretched out on a sofa in the back compartment and they'd taken seats in the other to give Sherlock some privacy with her.

Occasionally they'd hear murmured words from Sherlock and Molly, who'd regained consciousness on the way to the hospital, but otherwise it was quiet in their half of the plane. They sat as far apart as possible and Anthea couldn't even bring herself to look at Mycroft.

Molly had been evaluated at the hospital and they'd determined quickly that Sherlock was right, there was no damage to her internal organs and she suffered from only a very minor concussion. But as for the baby, it was less clear. She wasn't bleeding and showed no signs of miscarriage…but that didn't mean that the trauma she'd suffered to her abdomen wouldn't result in one over the next several days.

Sherlock was anxious to get her back to England for a second opinion and the Columbian doctors had determined there was no reason she couldn't make the flight.

Now they could only wait and see.

Agent Rosales, who had suffered a gunshot wound to the abdomen and lost a lot of blood, was in critical but stable condition after surgery. He wasn't well enough to travel, but his odds of surviving were good.

When the plane landed in London, Sherlock carried Molly off first and into the waiting ambulance. Mycroft and Anthea followed after.

When they reached the bottom of the stairs, Anthea drew a deep breath and turned to her boss. Looking up into his eyes she silently reminded herself that she'd thought long and hard about this during the flight. She knew it was for the best.

"I quit," Anthea said simply.

"What?" Mycroft asked in disbelief, his eyes dazed.

"You heard me. I quit," Anthea repeated before turning to walk away. She ignored the waiting government car and headed for the entrance that led into the public part of the airport, where she'd be able to catch a cab home.

Mycroft followed after. Grabbed her Arm. "Anthea…I…you can't be serious. Don't be ridiculous."

Anthea yanked free of his grasp. "Mycroft. I quit." She kept walking and then paused for a moment and said over her shoulder. "And I never want to see you again."