Sherlock jumped out of his seat in a panic. Shouting her name, he searched the house for his companion, throwing doors open and frantically checking all crevices, as if she was suddenly playing hide and seek.
Molly was nowhere in the house, and he didn't stop to get his shoes as he tore open the front door. He ran his hands over his face and through his hair, looking around, unsure of which way to go. Sherlock had rarely before been at such a loss for what to do.
He'd lost her. She'd been sitting right in front of him, in broad daylight, and he'd bloody lost her. He felt a wave of nausea hit him, self loathing and panic making his head reel.
I can't do this without her. I - I need her. He started to run, circling round to the back of the house.
I need her. I need her. The mantra echoed in his head. No sign of Molly.
I love her.
He collapsed to his knees, hands interlocked behind his head, breath ragged. What now? He needed to focus. He had to find her. He shut his eyes tight, forcing himself to think carefully. What was the last thing he remembered her saying?
"Mr Holmes, what are you doing?"
No, that wasn't it.
"Sherlock."
Closer.
Think, you idiot.
A hand rested on his shoulder. He opened his eyes.
Sherlock grabbed the hand angrily and twisted it's owner so she fell in front of him on the ground. As the woman yelped, he pounced and pinned her arms back. "Where is she!", he shouted into her face.
"Hello again, handsome," Irene replied.
