A/N: ***This is the same note that is being posted on my other 2 chaptered Sherlock Fics, so if you read more than one of my stories, you can just skip over it next time. :D***

Oh. My. GAWD. YOU GUUUUUUUYS. Seriously, I am humbled and grateful and completely amazed by the response I've received from you, dear readers. I wish I could send you all tea and cookies and hugs (to mend all the heartbreak/agony/anxiety I've caused, it seems!), so let's imagine I did. :) Thank you, thank you, a thousand times, thank you.

Also, I believe that my posting schedule is going to every Monday from now on. While I do have quite a bit written in each story, I don't have them edited, which is the slower part of it all. Add in a 5-year-old and my husband being out to sea at the moment, and I've got a full plate. So bear with me, but I promise, I shall try to make it all worth it in the end. :)

Chirp.

[He gave you no other explanation? -MH]

[No. Just told me to find out the truth. -SH]

Chirp.

[I wish I had better to offer you. -MH]

Sherlock stared at the screen angrily. The ride back to 221B had been too long for his tastes; it was too much time that he needed to figure out what truth Moran was sending him after, too much time that he needed so that he could figure out where John was. Once home, he'd raced up the stairs and into the kitchen, glancing around before stalking into the living room, frantically searching for anything that would tell him just what he was looking for.

Mycroft had been incessant in his useless texting, when all Sherlock wanted to hear was the rustling of papers as he searched the flat, trying to find something that would give him the truth. His messages had gone mostly ignored except for a curt, [Sod off. -SH] after the seventh message had come through since he'd walked back into the flat.

Sherlock was now in John's room, sprawled out on the bed, curled around John's pillow and inhaling his scent, his essence, the very thing that defined John at a cellular level. John, his John, his John in nearly every way, and all he had was the scent of him in this bed and the clothes in that closet and the newspapers downstairs that John never seemed to throw away...

Sherlock sat up abruptly. John may not always be the most fastidious of people, but he was neat, and he was generally tidy, and he wouldn't have kept all those papers for no reason.

Sherlock did not remember the stairs, did not remember sitting down after grabbing the stack of newspapers by John's chair. But there he was, sorting through them all. Each paper had something, even a small article, about Sherlock. John wasn't the overly sentimental type - he wouldn't have kept these, fawning over ink and paper. No, these were highlighted, marked in someway. He'd been looking for something... or someone...

"What have you been searching for, John?"

Chirp.

He pulled his phone from his pocket. [Have you thought of anything else? -MH]

[Where's Moriarty buried? -SH]

Sherlock nearly held his breath while he waited for his brother's reply. When the phone rang he answered it before the first trill had finished.

"I have no death records for either James Moriarty or Richard Brook."

Sherlock's mouth quirked at one corner. "Interesting."

"Quite. I presume you understand what this means."

"Of course I do. It means this is starting to get more interesting."

"Sherlock-"

"I need to go."

"Sherlock." Sherlock paused, phone still held to his ear. "I trust you'll remember that in most cases, discretion is the better part of valor."

"This isn't most cases, Mycroft." And with that, he hung up, launching himself out of the seat and tossing his coat on. The papers were tucked under his arm as he hurried downstairs and flagged a cab.

# # #

St. Bartholomew's Hospital had always been beautiful. Sherlock had felt comfortable and welcomed the first time he'd walked in, Mike Stamford next to him babbling about the newest equipment they'd gotten and asking all sorts of questions about how Sherlock had gotten the permission to use the lab, etc. Sherlock had simply smiled and asked how long Mike had been married. Mike had been startled - he wasn't wearing a ring. Sherlock had quirked an eyebrow and told him the tan line was very faint, but still there, and that he should simply look into getting a new one that would fit his finger since the weight gain. Mike had stopped asking questions.

Sherlock stepped into the morgue entrance and had taken three steps when someone grabbed the back of his coat and began hauling him back out of the building.

"What the-"

"You said you were going to call later!" He yanked out of the grasp and turned to face Molly, in her terrible jumper and grungy old pants and trainers that should have been condemned but that she couldn't bear to part with because they were comfortable. "This isn't the best place for you - there are plenty of people who still remember watching you wheeled in without a pulse!"

Sherlock rushed forward, hands grabbing Molly's upper arms but not hard, not rough, just enough to get her attention. "Where's Moriarty's body?"

Molly's eyes when wide. "I-I-I don't.. what?"

"Moriarty's body. He was on the roof with me, and he shot himself in the head. Where did his body go? And what name was he given?"

"What are you talki-"

"Where is he?" Sherlock pulls Molly closer, pressing his face in close to her and he can see it, he can see that he truly does frighten her, and he doesn't care because right now all that matters is John, finding John, helping John, holding and kissing and telling John...

"Sherlock." Molly's voice is soft, and small, and he realizes his grip is tight and probably bruising her so he let's go and steps back. "There wasn't a body. Just some blood, but I thought... I mean, I gave you two pints, I thought something had happened and one broke up there, so..."

Sherlock put his head back, eyes closing. "No body. No evidence that he was there. Brilliant." He snapped his head around to the building again. "I need to get up to the roof."

"What?" Molly's eyes were wide. "Sherlock-"

"I need to see it, Molly, recreate it in my mind." He stalked towards the door, knowing she'd follow because she's Molly and Molly might have moved on romantically but she could never turn him away when he needed a friend and he knew that and she knew that. He had barely made it through the doors when he felt her just behind him, steering him towards the stairs.

"You take the elevators and you'll be seen a lot faster." He smiled as she mumbled at him but he did not argue with her.

The rooftop was painfully familiar. He stood by the door for a moment. just looking, observing, remembering. Slowly he walked towards the precipice he had stood on. He looked out, seeing the streets and sidewalks below. Closing his eyes he could see the cab, John getting out and hurrying towards the hospital as Sherlock called him, voice frantic and urgent and scared because if John had been able to see what he did, John would have known and John, John wouldn't have been able to carry out the charade, Sherlock had known that, because Sherlock was the head, but John, John was his heart, and Moriarty had known it and Molly had known it and Sherlock had never realized it until John stepped out of that cab and Sherlock had to stop him from getting closer.

"Goodbye, John."

"What?"Sherlock whirled and saw Molly standing there, next to him.

She backed away a couple steps, giving him space. "You.. you said, "Goodbye, John." I'm sorry, I... I shouldn't listen..."

"No, it's... fine." Sherlock looked back down to the street. "I stood here." He leaned down and touched the stone almost reverently. "I said he shouldn't believe in me... I said..."

And then the moment ended, and he was the Sherlock Holmes that Molly knew, was used to, striding across the open roof with purpose and drive. He stopped in front of an old stain that was still a dark, deep red in his mind. He bent down, mini-magnifying glass out and moving over the ground. Molly watched him as he duck walked slowly over the stain, looking through the magnifying glass the whole time. She stayed where she was, not talking, not moving, hardly even breathing.

"Here!" She jumped at the sound of Sherlock's excited voice. She walked over and looked at where he was pointing. "Small stains, where blood dripped. And here, something was dragged over it, like... a foot, or an arm."

He stood up and turned excitedly, eyes wide and mouth grinning like Molly had never seen him do before.

"There was no body because someone moved him before you got up here. Don't you see?"

Molly nodded, not sure if she was seeing what Sherlock wanted her to see or not, because right then it didn't matter, not really. "So what do you do now?"

"Now, I find out who got him off this roof."

# # #

John knew that whatever Moran had given him had not been Morphine. If it had been, he'd still be asleep, and his shoulder wouldn't feel quite like it was trying to separate itself from his body one millimeter at a time, and he would not feel so alert as he did right then.

He looked around as carefully as he could. He didn't see any cameras in the small room, but living with Sherlock had proven that just because you didn't see them didn't mean they weren't there. He closed his eyes and drew in a ragged, deep breath, opening his eyes again and observing.

Aside from his army cot, he saw a small table with nothing on it and no drawers or areas to hide anything. The ceiling had a single bare light bulb in the center of it, tiny pull cord dangling off of it. There were two small windows on the opposite side of the room, high up and too small to fit through even if they hadn't been barred from the outside.

Nothing else. There was nothing on the walls except for dull, dingy old paint that John was fairly certain had once been white, though that time had probably been before he was born. The floor was poured cement. He looked the room over again, coming up with the same things. The only thing he could possibly use as a weapon was the table, but knowing Sebastian Moran, it wouldn't even slow him down - especially with John drugged and/or in pain.

So, for now, I wait. And... what? John frowned at the sparsely decorated room. Sherlock didn't know where he was - of this he was more than one hundred percent sure. If Sherlock had even the slightest idea of where he was, he'd be here by now. And Molly didn't know where he was, because if she did, she'd have told Sherlock, and Option A would still apply.

John decided to try at least stretching his arms gingerly. Carefully he moved them inch by inch, allowing the agony to subside in his right side each time. His muscles were stiff and aching, and he needed to get off the cot. He brought his arms down to his sides again, rubbing his palms over his hips and down to his thighs to get some more blood flow going.

Which was when he noticed a rather peculiar and crinkly-sounding bulge in his left pants pocket. Carefully he slipped his hand into the pocket. Fingers brushed crumpled paper. He pulled it out of his pocket, opening it up.

It was a prescription sheet from the pads the doctors at St. Bart's carried with them. John couldn't figure out when Molly had written it, or slipped it into his pocket. Couldn't figure out when she hadn't been watched by Moran. But he knew then that Sherlock had been absolutely right when he'd said that Molly Hooper was resourceful. In small, nervous looking handwriting, five words that make John's breath catch as he stared at them on a crumpled prescription paper.

He'll find you. Hang on.