Hello my lovelies! I bring you another hunk of sherlolly drama.
Many thanks for the wonderful reviews! Your feedback/criticism/interest in this story is tremendously appreciated and inspiring!

Unfortunately I have a rather brutal chapter here for you. Poor Molly will get her happy ending, I assure you, but in the meantime I've been absolutely dreadful to her. I understand that the abrasiveness of this chapter may be quite off-putting. And so...
WARNINGS: this chapter includes violence, drugs, non-con intimacy and a whole lot of angsty angst. It's basically the most brutal shit I've ever written.
If you're still hanging on after this, THANK YOU, I LOVE YOU.
The worst is nearly over. I promise.

Sherlock's pale eyes swept across St. Bart's lab, narrowing as they settled on a young male pathologist, late twenties, smoker, married with a female infant. This was as far as he could tell from the distance at which he stood, gloved fingers clasped around the blood sodden cardboard box he clutched to his chest.

"Who are you?" Sherlock demanded, startling the man.

"I'm Doctor Stevens. I'm covering Molly Hooper's list while she's... away." His voice was hesitant, awkward. The man didn't live in London, he was probably a transfer Pathologist from Cardiff, judging by his belt. He paused for a moment before squinting at Sherlock's face, recognition flashing in his dark, sleep deprived eyes.

"I am Sherlock Holmes, and I need you out of this lab for the next 2 hours at the very least. You should go home and rest Doctor Stevens, your wife won't make you sleep on the couch again if you make it home in time for supper." Sherlock flashed him with an impatient smirk.

"Uh... How..."

"Never mind that now, Doctor Stevens, you really do look haggard. It would be best if you pick up something on the way home, flowers perhaps? Skip the visit to your mistress' abode and go straight home. She'll come around eventually." The other man gaped at him before setting down his stainless steel instruments.

"I'll just be off then," His voice was defeated. He trudged past Sherlock who stood ready with the door open; hands clasped tightly around the box, roguish smile playing on his cupid bow lips.

"Enjoy you're evening, Doctor." The moment the door swung shut the smile vanished from Sherlock's face, replaced by his usual concrete expression. He needed to work quickly, and remain uninterrupted. Ignoring another text from John, he set about examining the box and the crusty blood soaked towel, laying it on the lab table before gently removing sliced of the material with a pair of scissors before separating his samples and preparing them for separate tests.

Within 20 minutes Sherlock had deduced based on the material evidence that the blood on the towel was indeed that of Molly Hooper's, and that the towel itself possessed several qualities that made it extremely valuable; boasting authentic Egyptian cotton and a miraculously high thread count. Also, Molly Hooper was not dead when this towel was sent to him. The splatter pattern on the towel and the amount that had soaked into the fabric was obviously from a deep wound, although the quantity was inconsistent with that of a fatal blow. A few of Molly's hairs were trapped between the fabric of the towel, along with threads that did not belong to the towel itself. After further analysis Sherlock found the threads to be the remnants of surgical stitches.

The towel had been pressed firmly to the base of her skull to stop the bleeding, not to mop up the mess following her death, as Moriarty had indicated in his text. For a fleeting moment, Sherlock paused, closed his eyes and allowed himself a moment to hope. He took a deep breath, desperately reigning in the irrational hidden emotions he had fought so desperately to tuck away since she was taken. This was the first shred of tangible evidence of her possible survival, and no matter how small and inconsequential it seemed, it was the only thing his mind could cling to. Rationality had been in short supply since this incident had begun, and although Sherlock had maintained his frosty, calculating composure, one more push in the wrong direction would surely have him spiraling over the edge and back into his old, destructive habits.

Shaking his head abruptly, Sherlock desperately attempted to clear his mind. John's past words echoed around the edges of his fragile psyche. "You need to stay strong for her, don't you understand?" Molly Hooper was alive, and if he was going to find her that way, he needed to keep his mind clear, and sharp. He needed to stay sober and feed himself, sleep and keep his energy up. Unwillingly, his mind called up a memory of her, of them together in her flat following his fake suicide. His mind conjured the image of her face grinning brilliantly, candlelight illuminating her flawless, pallid complexion, sincere adoration shining in her eyes.

The weeks following the incident were the absolute worst. With a tarnished name, no cases to work on and a tiny living space that had quickly evolved into a cage in his eyes, Sherlock's mind began to turn on him. Refusing to allow Molly to see him as depressed and hopeless as he felt, he simply behaved as he would any other time, taking out his frustration and sadness on her in small increments. However, most of his aggression and guilt manifested in a familiar urge, a strong all consuming craving that threatened to drive him mad.

He missed John. He missed his work. And now the entire world believed him a fraud, a psychopath who was nearly responsible for the deaths of two children. Ordinary people are so stupid, so easily led astray. Sherlock Holmes did not believe in heroes, nor did he acknowledge himself as one. However, he was not the villain everyone believed him to be. Slowly the newspaper clippings and Internet articles he came across on Molly Hooper's sofa in the wee hours of the morning began to wear him down. Without John's authoritative presence and steel hard resolve, there had been nothing to prevent a relapse.

Molly had found him, the night he decided to end it. She searched London for him for hours, checking all the spots John and Mycroft had informed her were his old haunts immediately following Christmas. They thought it best at the time to inform everyone Sherlock had "relations" with, considering they were so few.

The lights were so bright when she found him, splayed across a filthy motel bed at three or so in the morning, eyes roving back into his skull as his body seized and his heart thudding dangerously fast, slipping into cardiac arrest. Lines of white powder were neatly arranged on the coffee table in front of the crappy motel television, which only had 3 working channels. The memory was so vivid, however the only pieces he could make out coherently was that of Molly's face, tears streaming down her cheeks in earnest, sitting atop his chest and sobbing silently.

Waking abruptly to a blinding light, Sherlock groaned, startled to find breathing surprisingly difficult. His head ached as he attempted to sort out his surroundings, and the string of events that brought him here.

"Molly?" He choked, coughing instantly at the sensation of daggers sliding down his throat. He noted the temperature of the room and the lighting and recognized his surroundings almost instantly. "W-why am I in the morgue?"

"Oh god, you're alive!" Molly collapsed heavily onto his chest, sobbing thickly into the crook of his neck. Unable to move, Sherlock waited patiently for her sobs of relief to subside. She eventually pulled back from him gingerly, slipping easily off of the table. He watched her silently all the while, fascinated by her emotive response towards his consciousness. Her face flushed a deep red as he appraised her.

Sherlock and Molly had been living together for weeks following his dramatic leap from St. Bart's roof, and in that time, Molly had never willingly laid a finger on him. She actually seemed intimidated by his closeness to her most of the time, taking steps back whenever he leaned in to her, shaking silently whenever his hand had reached for her for any reason, handing over groceries he had requested, or bringing him a mug of coffee. The liquid would reverberate fractionally as he extended his reach for it, only stilling once it had been completely transferred from her grasp into his.

Now here she was, Doctor Molly Hooper, the impressively young pathologist from St. Bart's, desperately pounding away at his chest just moments before, firm thighs straddling his hips as she breathed life back into him.

"How did we get here?" He asked quietly, throat dry and cracked, head pounding, chest aching. A cold sweat had developed, perspiration and the shakes accompanying what felt like tiny feet scrambling over his entire body.

"You aren't that heavy, you know. I paid a cabbie to keep his mouth shut and help me into the car. I needed medical equipment and a quiet place, and fast. You had so much Sherlock, I didn't expect your heart to handle the stress, and time was ticking. I brought you in through the drop off dock in the back and got to work. " Molly's voice was weak, exhausted and emotionally frail. The stress she was under was physically evident: hair carelessly swept into a loose bun, dark under eye circles, chest soaked in what could only be her tears.

Sitting up slowly, Sherlock had winced in pain and shook involuntarily; his strength had completely abandoned him. Molly's voice was thick when she spoke again, obviously fighting more tears. Sherlock was having trouble concentrating on anything other than her.

"You are so bloody stupid, Sherlock Holmes." She began, anger bubbling from somewhere within, behind the panic and the frailty and the fear. "How dare you think that you can just... exit, unexpectedly. You don't get to walk away when we've come so far, accomplished so much." Her heavy gaze shone with disappointment.

"I didn't mean-" Sherlock began, before being cut off by a skeptical snort from Molly.

"Shut up, Sherlock." He said quietly, closing her eyes. "Just shut up. I don't want to hear it. Ordinary people kill themselves, Sherlock. Boring people, remember?" Her tone grew incendiary and provocative. He felt a flush of anger before unconsciously tightening his fists at his sides. He looked away for a moment before a warm touch electrified his cheek, her tiny hand gently pulling his face back to gaze into her eyes, which had softened slightly. "Now," she whispered, firmly holding Sherlock's rapt attention, "Get up, get dressed and come home. I won't tolerate anymore of this, Sherlock. You need to stay strong for him. You need to finish what you started."

Sherlock's entire demeanor changed in that instant. Nodding silently, he stood with difficulty, and the two shambled back outside to her waiting cab, limbs tangled as Molly, stronger than she looked, supported his tall, lean frame the entire way.

Wordlessly, the exhausted pathologist pulled his limp frame towards her bedroom shortly after collapsing in through her front door, both greeted by the affectionate Toby, mewling for attention and probably a late night snack. After a few minutes of struggling through the apartment and knocking a few photographs from her hallway walls, Molly left Sherlock alone in her bed, covers pulled over his weak, shaking frame.

The weeks that followed the incident Molly made sure to check up on Sherlock frequently, engaging him in heated debate, bringing home details from current cases and samples to analyze and experiment on, "borrowing" some equipment from the hospital to keep him occupied. One evening Molly arrived home late from work, she had burst through the front door to find dinner neatly prepared and laid out on her tiny kitchen table, a single candle lit and the apartment spotless for the first time... since she had brought him home to her flat the evening of the fall.

The two had dined together silently, enjoying each other's presence comfortably, when halfway through the meal, Sherlock had raised his gaze to meet hers, silently requesting her attention. Downing her last gulp of wine nervously, Molly placed the empty glass back down and waited expectantly for him to speak. After a few tense moments, his lips parted, and in the most sincere, most regret laden voice Molly had ever heard leave his mouth, announced, "Molly, I am so sorry." She nearly dropped her fork in surprise. Noticing her reaction, he continued softly: "What I did was weak and foolish, and you... saved me. In every way a person can be saved. I owe you my life. I owe you everything I am." His voice was clear, confident and un-hesitating.

"You owe me nothing." Molly fought desperately not to stutter. "Just p-promise never to frighten me like that again."

"I promise." His response came quickly, and she visibly relaxed. Her brilliant smile had returned then, spreading easily across her tired face and shaving years off of her appearance. Her smile transformed her, Sherlock decided, grinning back unabashedly. Sincerely. The way he grinned at John in Buckingham Palace. He noticed a tug in his chest when he realized how beautiful Molly Hooper was when she was happy. When she smiled, she absolutely glowed. He felt something else then, something like a tug in his abdomen, a strong and sudden pull.

He knew it then, and he knew it now. Molly Hooper had him that evening and ever since. He pushed her unconscious claim on him forcibly into the back of his mind, noting subconsciously the dangers and stupidity of sentiment. Burying his emotions deep, he had all but forgotten, and hid the fact from others as well as he hid it from himself. Somehow Moriarty knew the way he felt about Molly. His words at the pool during their first face to face encounter echoed in his head.

"I will burn the heartout of you."

It was a promise Moriarty had always intended to keep. Sherlock should have known; he should have been aware that Molly was in danger that very night he realized how beautiful she was. He cursed his stubborn nature. It seemed only logical that he reject sentiment at the time, but Moriarty had seen through his thick veil somehow. He had known, and he used this knowledge to his advantage while Sherlock gallivanted around London, solving cases and pretending that nothing had changed.

Unaware of the time that had passed during his silent reverie, Sherlock bristled when the doors of the morgue burst open behind him. "I'm fine, John." He murmured without bothering to face his concerned companion. A pause, followed by a few short steps and John was at his side, brows furrowed, lips perched slightly. "She's still alive." Sherlock declared with confidence, staring intently through the lens of his microscope.

"But the text," John spluttered, eyes widening in shock. "How could you possibly know-" He was cut off abruptly by Sherlock's mobile, which he deftly retrieved from his breast pocket, answering the call with a concrete expression.

"What is it, Mycroft?" John was floundering, torn somewhere between joy and denial, silently praying that Sherlock was right, if only for his sake.

"Ritzy part of town. Must fit in quite nicely there," Sherlock was saying, followed by a curt but clear "Thank you, Mycroft." He slipped the phone back into his jacket before standing abruptly, catching John off guard. "Ring Lestrade and inform him that we have the address. Mycroft is forwarding him the details." Sherlock pulled his coat on swiftly and brushed past a frozen Doctor Watson before bursting through the doors and into the hospitals corridors.

"Where are we going?" John called after him, snapping to attention and catching up quickly. Sherlock rounded on him and grinned widely.

"We're going to see where the devil sleeps."

Molly's feverish dreams were convoluted and recurrent. Guilt seemed to be the general theme of her theatrical subconscious, guilt, and dread of coming to terms with her actions with the Consulting Criminal. Her conflicted and mixed emotions haunted her even as she woke, the memories of her dreams faded, but the feelings associated with them were strong as ever, even as she struggled to open her eyes.

Forgetting herself, she attempted to lift her head, only to be viciously held into place by a strong and sudden pain at the base of her skull. "Jesus," she breathed, her cracked lips and dry throat causing her weak voice to catch in a raspy, unrecognizable groan. The sharp crippling pain in her head retreated slightly into a heavy pounding, completely robbing her of her senses.

If the pain hadn't been so intense she may have started sobbing, but even furrowing her brows sparked a sharp stabbing sensation that danced along the side of her head. Battling not to clench her teeth, Molly became slightly aware of something being pressed to her lips. Instinctively her jaw locked tightly, offering what little resistance she was capable of.

"It's water. Drink." A gruff voice broke through her muddled panicked thoughts. Hesitantly she parted her lips slightly, unable to resist the promise of cool soothing water rushing down her throat. She nearly sighed in relief as the cold liquid eased the discomfort in her throat, and she drank greedily without pause until the glass was pulled from her and she gasped for breath.

Cracking her eyes open for the second time, Molly attempted to take in her surroundings. The room was dimly lit, thank god,she thought earnestly, any bright lights would be excruciating at the moment. She was nestled into a comfortable bed, a thick warm comforter pulled up to her chin. The man who allowed her water was sitting in a chair at her bedside, glaring down at her with slight contempt, or maybe it was just boredom.

His sandy blonde hair and peppery stubble added to his overall menacing appearance, big muscled, wide-set shoulders and bulging chest covered by a tight fitting black polo, he also wore loose cargo pants, tucked into mid-calf combat boots. Molly's squinted gaze wandered back up to his face, acknowledging briefly that the man before her was quite obviously handsome, despite the long, deep scars that marred his complexion and the cold, cruel eyes that gazed directly back at her.

"Where-" She croaked, grimacing in pain.

"Don't talk." The man snapped, boot tapping the floor impatiently. With one swift movement he had pulled an intimidating combat blade from its holster at his waist. Noticing her eyes widen slightly in fear, his lip curled into a cruel sneer. He edged his chair closer to her bedside, and Molly desperately fought the urge to scramble backwards, away from him. She felt helpless, crippled by the throbbing pain in her head, and paralyzed with fear at this new presence, obviously one of Moriarty's men. She felt her heart rate increase substantially as he leaned in over her, his warm breath brushing over her face.

"The Boss seems to think you're special." He hissed, eyes narrowing. His voice was so low, so dangerous. Molly's eyes never left the blade in his hand, knuckles whitened indicating his fiercely tightened grip on the weapon. "I don't agree." He was so close to her now, she could smell his spicy cologne. If her head weren't so screwed up she probably wouldn't have been idly considering what use one of Moriarty's thugs would have for things like cologne. She unconsciously wrinkled her nose as the scent invaded her nostrils, eliciting stabbing pains in her temples.

She shrunk back into the covers only slightly, but the cold, unfeeling man noticed this and grinned, seemingly satisfied with her fearful reaction to his close proximity. "To be perfectly honest with you," He whispered menacingly, "I think you've been more trouble than you're worth. He didn't think you'd be waking up anytime soon, and now I'm on babysitting duty." The corner of his lips tugged up slightly. "Taking care of Moriarty's fuck toy is not what I'd consider to be a... productiveevening. But then again..." His eyes flicked away from hers and across her blanketed frame. "One only needs their imagination, don't they?"

Suddenly the man was out of his chair, hovering over her. He was huge. He clamped a hand over her mouth and nose firmly, before She had a chance to cry out in alarm. Molly's eyes were wild with fear, her heart thudding violently against her ribcage. Her tiny hands grasped his wrist instinctively, muffled cries having little effect. She writhed desperately against his grip, desperately clawing at his massive hand, which was pushing her gently further back into her pillow. Weak, terrified and in pain, she gathered her feet up in a weak attempt to kick her massive assailant, to no avail. Dots began to appear along the edges of her vision, and she knew she only had a few moments of consciousness left.

Impatient and aggravated at her apparent unwillingness to comply, something terrifying flashed in his stormy eyes before he lunged foreword with his other hand, bearing down on her shoulder with his blade. Molly froze at the sensation of five inches of cold steel burying itself in her shoulder. The urge to inhale doubled and her panicked eyes rolled back in agony, screams muffled by his massive hand.

Still gripping the hilt of the blade, the man leaned in close to her ear, voice thick with rage, and something else. "Jim's not here, you know. You're my toy now." Just as Molly began to lose her vision, he released his iron grip on her face. Air rushed into her lungs as she coughed thickly, chest heaving. He may not have suffocated her to the point of blacking out, but she was completely delirious. The excruciating pain in her shoulder and in her oxygen starved lungs left her limp and listless, completely at his mercy. She registered a faint chuckle before his blade was violently torn from her shoulder.

Her ragged scream echoed in the small room she had recognized moments before as her original enclosure. Locked in Moriarty's basement at the mercy of a man she'd never seen before, never even heard of, this is where Molly Hooper's life would end. Hot tears flowed down her cheeks as she screwed her eyes shut, shocked to feel a slight pang of disappointment in her chest. An unremarkable life ending violently, with no one there to witness it. Her mangled corpse would be the next on the slab in St. Bart's mortuary. She wondered who would perform her autopsy, and briefly hoped her face would remain untouched aside from the mostly faded bruising that lingered on her face and neck left over from her encounter in the alley.

Noticing her mind had drifted elsewhere, the man above her snarled, grabbing her face roughly. "Don't you go anywhere now," He growled. "We're not even at the best part yet. We've got hours to play before Jim gets back, so let's make them worth while, shall we?" Molly felt the warmth of her own blood seep into the fabric of her top, and she opened her eyes slowly, glaring directly into his cold, empty irises. She suddenly felt overcome with rage. If this was how her life would end, it sure as hell wouldn't be according to his agenda. With nothing left to lose; Molly felt a rush of courage, mustering up what little strength still remained. She needed him to kill her. She needed him to lose his temper and quick.

"Jim won't be pleased to find me dead," She rasped, her voice barely audible. Thankfully he had heard her loud and clear. "If you kill me, what makes you think he won't kill you?"

"Jim won't be pleased. You're right about that." The man chuckled, cleaning her blood off his blade absently with a rag before dropping it to the floor. "But you're just his fuck toy. I'm more important. Besides," he grinned widely, "He's been promising me something to play with for weeks." With that he grabbed the blanket that covered her and ripped it from her, tossing it into a heap on the floor.

Completely exposed, Molly felt the ever-familiar rush of fear coursing through her veins. She struggled to maintain her placid composure, eyes never leaving his face. Everything hurt. Her vision was still sharply affected by the pain in her head, but she could still recognize the glint in his eyes as they roved up and down her subdued form hungrily. Her heart stopped.

Not again! Her mind screamed as he reached for the top of her shirt, efficiently slicing the material from top to bottom. "No," She gasped, fresh tears making their way down her already tear stained cheeks. "Just kill me, please! Just kill me!" She sobbed as the last of her courage abandoned her. She felt his warm, callused hands grasp her exposed breasts tightly and sobbed even harder. Clearly entertained by her outburst, the man grinned triumphantly, rolling her nipples between his rough fingertips.

"Patience," He hissed, leaning over abruptly and planting his lips firmly on hers. He tasted like cigarettes, Molly noted before sinking her teeth into his plump lower lip. She braced herself as his face tore from hers, his lip bleeding profusely down his chin. She recognized the coppery taste on her lips and reveled momentarily at the shock in his eyes. He clearly hadn't expected this from her. "Now, now," He whispered, dragging the back of his hand across his chin, smearing the blood away gruffly, "if that's how you wanted to play, you should have said so."

Suddenly his hand was planted firmly beneath her breasts, pushing her roughly into the mattress with such force it knocked the wind from her. He swung his leg over her torso, landing heavily on her pelvis, strong muscled thighs locking her legs into place. A small gasp escaped her lips as he bore down on her, one hand wrapping around her throat, the other bringing his combat knife to the edge of her collarbone. Molly closed her eyes as she felt the blade digging mercilessly into her flesh as he dragged it through the trail between her breasts. He was carving her up like a turkey. Suddenly the blade's path stopped abruptly just above her navel, and was replaced by his thick hot tongue as he hunched over her, still straddling her hips. Stopping again just at her collarbone where the gash he carved into her began, he sunk his teeth into the side of her neck, not far where Moriarty's teeth had left a bloody mark not long before.

Molly refused to scream. She just lay there, paralyzed as her blood seeped from her slowly. She had no way of knowing how deep he had carved into her, but she hoped it was deep enough to end her life just a little bit quicker. She shuddered involuntarily at the sound of his lips smacking just beside her ear. His weight was suffocating, and the stench of his cologne was so thick she nearly choked.

She noticed his massive weight shift lower down her torso and flinched slightly as her flimsy boy shorts were torn from her with little resistance. His large hands grasped her calves just below the knees and she heard a sickening moan of satisfaction as her legs were spread wide. Less than two minutes later he was inside her, and Molly's scream of shock and pain was devoured as his lips again found hers.

He was huge, and she wasn't ready. She felt her flesh tear as he drove into her again and again, with no signs of slowing down or stopping. This was a new form of torture she wasn't accustomed to, and as he pounded into her she fought the overwhelming urge to vomit.

She had no concept of time, the only thing she was aware of now was the pain. It could have been minutes or hours, but eventually she felt a rush of heat seep into her as he shuddered inches above her face, releasing himself deep within her before pulling out and climbing off the bed onto the floor once more. Instinctively Molly's battered legs curled up against her bloodied chest, and unable to fight the rolling waves of nausea any longer she rolled to the edge of the bed and heaved onto the floor. With nothing in her stomach aside from the water she imbibed earlier, it ended quickly. Barely registering the sound of the man leaving the room, the lock clicking behind him, she made herself as small as physically possible before her surroundings slowly began to fade, and glorious darkness claimed her.