First of all, this is kind-of-sequel to "When a heart grows strong". You don't necessarily need to read it but it will help to get into this story a bit faster (don't worry it's a Short Cut series, not longer than about 2000 words).
Of course I want to thank daisherz365 for being my beta :D :D AGAIN :-*
I think there is nothing more for the moment!
Nothing belongs to me, all character are borrowed. The plot is from this overly dramatic mind of mine... yeah that is about it.
Have fun!
JJ xx
Plot: While Sherlock Holmes tries everything to win the game in order to get himself and Anne free of the hands of an unknown force, Molly Hooper is driven deeper and deeper into a sea of insanity and loneliness.
P A R T O N E
When Sherlock was able to open his eyes again there was nothing but darkness. He tried to concentrate hard, getting his eyes to get used to his surroundings but to no success. He was sitting on a chair, he could tell this after all, he was not enchained either, if he wanted, he could stand up and move around. He was not yet sure if it was a good idea though, he would need to think that through.
The room was not cold, not overly warm either, normal temperature, despitehe knew it to be relatively cold outside, rainy, middle of autumn. On the other hand was he even still in England? How long was he out? It felt like he sat on this chair for ages, he was sour and his back, as well as his neck, hurt.
He searched the floor with his feet, tried to find something with his hands in close distance. There was nothing. Would they want him dead, they would have already killed him. Would they want him in pain, this room would not be nicely tempered. Would they want him to stay in this chair, he would have been chained. Surely the idea was for him to stand up and make his own assumptions, doing what he was best at.
So he stayed seated.
Someone will come and explain and than he can do all the deduction that was to make and drew every assumption he needed. He was able to sit this out, absolutely no problem at all. He has done this for four years, four long agonizing years. He has got used to this. He has become as patient as a man can possibly get.
This brought Sherlock's thoughts back to the task he had failed. His last task, would he have been successful, all would have been well again. He could have started to clean out his name finally. Making himself a living again. Making up to people, one person in particular what he has made them, what he has made her, go through. He has promised. He, Sherlock Holmes has made a promise, one he intended to keep.
He would need to put his whole concentration, all of his effort back into that task once this was over. Whatever this was. Could it be in any connection to Moriarty's web? For sure someone knew he was alive, otherwise this situation would not have occurred in the first place. Logically. Never the less, It was his fault, his fault alone. It was him showing up at Molly's, never should he have done something so stupidly emotional, while being perfectly aware of the danger. He growled in frustration and threw his hands up in the air.
The movement ended with him folding his hands behind the chair. It was then he realized there was a paper pined to the backside of the backrest. Check. He took the paper, it was simply folded in the middle, he immediately recognized that it was written in Braille. He once learned the combination; it couldn't be this hart after all.
He closed his eyes in concentration, thinking, remembering. Going back to the place he was introduced to the lettering, the room, it all came back into his mind. It was a sunny day, hot, a hysterical woman, white walls, somewhat yellowed by smoke. There it was.
The next step was to try to feel the combination of dots instead of just seeing them. He took a deep breath, beginning. It took him a minute or two, maybe three.
There is a riddle. Well not a riddle to your standard, but it is a beginning. A little warm up.
Tell, what was first, the chicken? Or the Egg? Now, do not even think about evolution. What would Aristotle say?
When you got the solution, stand up, go four feet to your right. There you find a keypad, type in 7 for the chicken or 3 for the egg!
Sherlock grinned and got up. He typed in the number and within seconds the room was lit. He stood in a long room, a hall, there was a front door attached, while he took in all his surroundings all he really noticed was a card, pinned to the door.
You won't get far with this stubbornness of yours, nor with any kind of selfishness! - Was printed in big, black letters on a red background.
Within an instance he was at the door, took the handle and opened the door with ease. What was that? Indeed the door was the front door, he looked outside, and it seemed like the middle of nowhere. Fields, trees here and there, something that resembled a street but it was more of a mud track. A heavy car has been driven down the path recently. There was a forest in the far, at least three to four kilometres from here. He went down the little flight of stairs.
What, for god's sake, was that to mean? It was a rather big house, standing in the middle of nowhere, at least he was still in England, he was sure of this. The weather was exactly the same, the air. It was English Air. He could do nothing out of the house, its windows where sealed from the inside by wooden panels at the first floor and with thick curtains at the second.
He went about around the house. Nothing much changed, fields and fields and forest. But to the backside of the house it changed to hills, the forest was much closer.
There was a slide, sitting beside a swing. It looked new, as if it was suppose to be here for a single reason. There was a small playhouse and Sherlock noticed a child sitting in there, arms looked around its knees, it was oddly familiar to him and his mind went into alarm the moment he began to realize.
He strode forward and was at the house within seconds, got down to his knees. It was Anne.
The second the girl realized someone was there, she began to scream, trying to run, but Sherlock grabbed her at her left hand and it was in this moment, the three year old turned around, trying to bit the hand of her attacker that she looked and recognised Sherlock's face.
"Anne, Anne, all is good." Immediately the girl began to cry and she threw herself around Sherlock's neck.
"Mummy, I want Mummy. Where is Mummy?" she sobbed desperately and Sherlock suddenly felt his stomach twist. He held her close and her small fingers grabbed his dress shirt with a force he would not have trusted her to have.
He had no idea how to calm the little girl down so he let her cry, he patted her back as he has seen Molly do it and other Mothers, he even remembered his own mother doing it with him. But never the less he was slightly afraid Anne would forget to breath at the rate she was sobbing and hiccupping.
The girl was cold, she was wearing nothing more than a T-Shirt under a thin zip-jacked. How long was she outside already? She was shaking, but really sure if it was of the cold or because of her condition she was in he was not.
Sherlock got up from his knees. Anne clung to him as if her life depended on him and with a cold realisation Sherlock understood, that it probably did. He was not able to run with her, not the way they both were dressed, he was not able to know how far away they were from civilisation. He was more frustrated by the minute. Another hour and it would be dark; there was no way this would work when he wants to get Anne back to her mother in one healthy piece. As soon as the sun sets there would be another heavy fall in temperature.
He began to walk, over to where a field began. He tried to figure out where he could be. Were these hills significant? Was there famous woods? He went through lists and lists of geography in his head, but nothing came to his mind, nothing what would fit anyway.
It took him a moment to realize that the girl had stopped crying and as soon as he did and he looked down at her small face which resembled Molly's to an extreme, she put the palm of her small hand onto his cheek.
"Mummy said, the next time we see you, all will be good. Why is Mummy not with us?" she asked with innocence only a child could posses. And Sherlock had no answer. And he realized that the girl was still shaking. He had to make a decision, so he did not answer; it was the easiest way so far. All he did was kiss her forehead, resting his hand on her blondish locks, almost directly she sighed, and it sounded foreign from the mouth of a three year old, as if the weight of the world lay on her very shoulders, small as they were.
With long steps he made his way back to the front of the house. The front door was still opened wide, nothing has changed.
This all was a game. And it seemed as if it was all about decision making. He knew he could not run, he could not leave Anne behind, strangely he was not able to and he could not shut up the feeling that forbid him so.
With his head low he went up the stairs and got back into the hall where the chair still stood, the lights were on and the moment he was far away enough from the front door, it closed behind him automatically while the door on the other side of the room opened with a click.
He wanted to sit Anne down but she shook her head strongly and held her hands behind his neck. So he got through the hall still with her in his arms. The next room was a big room, kitchen and living room in one, and another door clicked open to his left, there was a flat screen to the far side of the room, and two doors which were probably still looked. A long sofa, two armchairs, a big table, six chairs, flowers... it was perfectly decorated; it was as if it waited for its inhabitants to come back and go on about their lives.
Sherlock breathed deeply, he took everything in, and there was even a dollhouse on the right side of the sofa. He went to look for the room on his left to find it was a bathroom; the other two doors were indeed looked. He went through the kitchen, there was food in the fridge not much but it would last for another few days. Something told him, he would have to solve one or another riddle or make one or another decision to get it filled again with food. On the other hand, maybe he would find a way out of here. He would think about this in a minute. Now he needed to ask some questions, hopefully without getting the small one back to crying.
"Anne, can you remember how you got here? Why were you in this play house have you seen who brought you here?" Sherlock set himself down in an armchair and after a moment she looked up from where she had placed her head on Sherlock's shoulder, all she did though was shaking her head to an extent that her locks went flying from one side of her head to the other.
"I could not find Mummy suddenly. She was away and I don't know. I want my Mummy!" again tears formed in her eyes and Sherlock laid a hand on the side of her face, his thumb caressed her cheek.
"Don't cry. Tell me what happened!" He tried not to speak up but the frustration and this unwanted instincts that growled up within him unnerved him.
"There were lots of peoples everywhere, and I had to hold to Mummy's hand really tight. And then all was cold and I woke up on the slide outside, I am still cold Daddy and I am thirsty." She swallowed hard and again, Sherlock could not stop them, the sobs broke from the little girl and all he could do was hold her close.