He was trapped his mind told him, as the effects of the sedative wore off. Tied on a cold steel table. Blinded by tape, rope and handcuffed - it was over kill - restraining him twice but three times? His head was strapped in place. Over kill again.
Fear.
He could hear her moving about. The fabrics pull and stretch the calculating footfalls. She as pacing at the other end of the room or space. Tapping on something - A phone? Messaging, no? Rhythm was wrong.
Waiting then.
"Ahh you're awake then. Good." Her voice gave him a name. THE woman.
"Oh, I really could cut himself on these." A hand touches his cheek gliding over his cheek bones. Before he heard her again move to the end of the room pacing. A ping of a text message.
"You could have had me, Sherlock, ME!" The woman suddenly raged. "But you, you chose HER!"
"Irene what are you talking about?" Sherlock voice was steady and cold as always, as if he wasn't tied up.
"MOLLY HOOPER MD!"
"Molly? What on earth does Molly have to do with anything? Seriously Irene, my pathologist."
"She had dinner with you." Irene purred dangerously.
"Dinner, this is all about some bloody food. Irene I expected better from you."
"DINNER. Sherlock, a notch that was to grace my bedpost not MOLLY HOOPER'S!"
"Jealousy is most unbecoming on you Irene."
The tape covering Sherlock's eyes was ripped away, causing his eyes to water viciously.
"Yes most unbecoming."
"No Sherlock, I'm helping you. She is a distraction and chemical defect. Sit tight. Let me take care of the issue for you. You will thank me Sherlock."
Clarity is a merciless thing and the realisation that HE, Sherlock, was the bait in a game laid out for his sweet pathologist hit him, stalling his mind.
"You want to hurt Molly."
"Oh no, dearest Sherlock. I'm going to kill her."
Cold slipped into Sherlock's veins. Kill Molly. Kill Molly. The words ripped at his controlled façade like sharks. Sherlock worked his hands out the cuffs with a practiced ease.
"Oh I forgot the bleeding heart needs a little push."
In a flash of silver, pain lashed Sherlock's torso as a gash opened. The warmth of his own blood trailing on his skin confirming his bait theory. Molly would see him rushing where angels fear to tread and leaving herself open to Irene.
He had to warn her.
'Molly, warn Molly.' He chanted to himself as he worked the ropes again only to hear Irene move closer again. No. The sting and pressure of something entering his body told him he wouldn't be able to warn his Molly.
He never told her.
Irene looked into his eyes as they closed.
"You will thank me. Sherlock."