Notes: This is based on an alternate future. It combines elements of BBC's Sherlock and Doyle's canon. It contains an established Sherlock/Molly relationship and John is married to Mary. The rating is for language, adult situations, violence, and torture (physical and psychological).
If any of the previous information is not your cup of tea, please click your 'back' button now.
Enjoy.
John and Mary had a little place north of the city. Mary rode the train in to uni every day she worked; John had found a job at a local hospital. It had nowhere near the exotic cases London was able to provide, but John's attraction to thrill and danger had mellowed once his first daughter was born. When the second was on the way, he rearranged his schedule so he could spend more time home with them once she was born.
Sherlock was never so glad his best friend had left. He needed him more now than ever, but was so happy John had escaped he could cry.
He needed Mycroft too, but had less chance of contacting his brother than John. Moriarty would know. Moriarty would know, and . . .
John had moved away, and Molly moved in. There was no longer any rent to pay; Mrs. Hudson willed 221b Baker Street to Sherlock. Now boarders paid them for the flat vacated by their former landlady. They couldn't find anyone to rent the basement rooms because of the damp.
They visited John and Mary occasionally. Their garden was bordered by a slow and wide stream, and it was a pleasant place.
Sherlock surprised everyone—maybe not John, he knew deeper into Sherlock than anyone—by being very patient and kind with the girls. They adored him; he took them to the edge of the stream and taught them scientific names for the bugs they found. He encouraged them to explore and lifted them into the trees to look into bird's nests. At night he shook them awake—ignoring Mary's protests that little girls needed their sleep!—and led them outside to see different phases of the moon because the light pollution was much less here than in the city.
When John and his family visited London, he wasn't amiss in teaching them urban wisdom either: how the Tube worked; how you could tell a person was lying by the way they sat; where in the British Library you could sneak passed the security guards and borrow books you weren't supposed to.
He confided in John that he liked children, but wasn't sure he could be a good father, because his own was absent most of the time and abusive when he wasn't.
John reassured him he would be a fine father. He didn't tell Molly what Sherlock had said, although he did repeat it to Mary. She agreed with John's assessment. It wasn't any surprise, then, when they received the text,
Molly is pregnant! SH
The exclamation point was proof of his joy.
He needed John, he needed Mycroft. He needed help—he couldn't think, couldn't reason any of it out—his violin was useless, smashed in a fit of rage—he needed someone but there was no one—Moriarty held all the cards, Moriarty called all the shots—Sherlock screamed wordlessly, head thrown back and every muscle strained in the effort of shrieking.
There were footsteps on the stairs, voices of concern from the tenants—
Sherlock fired his gun in their general direction, without the courtesy of looking at them, hitting the doorframe and shattering glass somewhere. The footsteps tripped and scrambled back down the staircase.
He didn't care. He couldn't will himself to leave his desk, wasn't able to look away from the laptop.
Moriarty would know.
A single line of text popped up on the screen.
"She's expectant, I'm expectant, and I'd put money down you are too."
Snatches of scenes ran through his mind, like flashbacks in a movie—
. . . Molly coming slowly down the stairs, her progress slowed by the sheet she'd wrapped around herself . . .
. . . the sheet discarded, the early morning light so purely white it washed her skin out . . .
. . . his dressing gown was easily opened and wrinkled beneath her knees as she climbed atop him in his armchair . . .
. . . he hadn't done much, simply held her upright as she straddled his legs and slipped him inside her, and then she did all the work . . .
. . . the light still made her almost too bright to look at . . .
. . . she came, and then he came, and then she came again with such intensity that she cried . . .
. . . those exact same tears appeared again when she took a home test and the result was positive, and Sherlock could then pinpoint the exact moment she'd become pregnant . . .
. . . the congratulations, the excitement, the doctor's appointments ("No, Sherlock, I'm not an obstetrician, and in any case I'm too far away now!"), the fear that this was new and sometimes he didn't adapt to 'new' well, he liked to have experience in things so he didn't feel lost . . .
—and now she was gone, taken—now he realized he'd had no concept of fear, he didn't know the true meaning of fear until now.
Moriarty fucking Moriarty—
. . . John and Mary were excited too, and offers of help and suggestions abounded . . .
. . . Mycroft was absurdly pleased to hear the news he would be an uncle (Molly told him) . . .
—these were the people he needed right now. Needed support, needed advice, needed help—
"It's such a pity I couldn't pay my respects to Dr. and Mrs. Watson," the new text read. "I missed my opportunity twice! I understand they have two beautiful daughters now. Maybe a visit to them is next. That would be fun, wouldn't it?"
—Sherlock needed to help them, so this nightmare didn't expand.
As numb as he was, he wasn't idle. Moriarty was probably monitoring his on-line activity. Sherlock didn't know how; that wasn't important at this exact moment. He needed to get a message to John, to warn him to keep his family safe.
He'd never be able to send an email or a text—if Moriarty hacked his internet connection, there was no way to guarantee he hadn't hacked his phone as well. And if there were bugs and cameras in the room . . .
What could he do?
Sherlock dragged his gaze away from the textbox and the now static webcam video on his laptop. He scanned the room, and mentally scanned the other rooms in the flat (kitchen, bath, both bedrooms upstairs), and a solution hit him so hard he gasped.
Supplies. He needed supplies. He needed something that would look like nothing, so if Moriarty spied it wouldn't be obvious.
Scrambling through the flat, he gathered handfuls of paper and writing instruments. He wished he was making a show of being clumsy in his collecting, but he was not; his fingers didn't seem to want to work properly, so distressed they were with dread. As quick as he'd come to a possible solution to his problem of forced isolation, his brain didn't want to give up exact locations of required objects.
Cabinets were searched. Drawers were pulled out and contents strewn. At last, in the fourth drawer, Sherlock found what he was looking for, hid it between the papers, and rushed back to the laptop.
. . . she'd gone out, "need milk!" was the joke because now sometimes he remembered to pick it up . . .
. . . distracted, he barely glanced at her leaving, but did catch a glimpse of her down on the street below the window. She wasn't noticeably pregnant yet from the back, but the slightest second of a look he'd gotten from above showed the gentle curve of her belly. She was just barely showing, so it was nice to have a bit of a secret that passing strangers wouldn't notice. Just something him and her and their close friends would know . . .
Moriarty—
. . . he'd smiled watching her go across the street, then she was around the corner . . .
—fucking Moriarty—
. . . he didn't acknowledge she was going. She never saw his smile from the window above . . .
—fucking Moriarty knew.
Sherlock slammed his gathered supplies near the laptop, panicked that something had happened in his absence. The video was still the same. It hurt so much to see what the camera showed, it made him so angry, but he was impotent. He had nothing to go on; he needed time to work the puzzle.
He forced himself to calm down. He must concentrate.
Sherlock picked up a pencil and started to write. He pushed down so hard the lead snapped and he discarded it without hesitation. He had plenty of other pencils and pens. Because he broke the first lead, his forced the strokes deliberately but not overly heavy. He needed his typical scribble to be legible.
He wanted to write quickly, but couldn't help glancing at the computer screen frequently.
His nose stung with unshed tears, and he once again tried to remind himself that what he was seeing had a ray of hope in it, not simply utter despair.
The webcam showed Molly, prone on her back and bound to a bed with the leather straps psychiatric wards used to restrain difficult patients. She was stripped to bra and knickers, but her mouth gag had not been replaced once she had been sedated.
Sherlock pushed through the agony of seeing her lying there helpless, shoved aside the burning rage building in his chest. He could see her. He could see her breathing. That was important, and that meant he had a chance to find her, save her.
He had a chance to bring her and his baby home.
No new messages appeared on the computer screen while he wrote. Sherlock didn't know if that was a good or bad thing.
He moved the paper he'd written on further away from the screen so it wouldn't be picked up by the built-in webcam. He still didn't know if the flat was bugged, but it couldn't be helped at this point.
Now he drew out the digital camera he'd found in the drawer. It was a fancy camera, a gift someone who thought he could put it to use because pictures taken could be emailed directly from the camera itself without downloading them into a computer first. He'd never used frequently, although he'd read the manual. Luckily the batteries were still good.
Turning it on and scrolling through the menu, Sherlock hit the icon for its wireless connection. It automatically found his, here in the flat, and after a few more seconds, it picked up the wi-fi from downstairs, from the café below him.
The signal wasn't the strongest, but it would have to do. He had to assume Moriarty was monitoring his internet connection. He prayed the café's was unnoticed.
Sherlock selected the connection, took a photograph of his note, and spent an eternity of moments carefully typing in John's emergency email address. This was something else he had to trust to a higher power was still secure; they'd set up email addresses for each other a long time ago, in the event of a breach or emergency.
With shaking fingers, he pressed the send button.
Now his message was out. Once more he silently beseeched to any benevolent deity that John would understand it and take it seriously. In less than ten minutes he had prayed more than he had in countless years.
JOHN, (the note said) YOUR SAFETY IS AT RISK. TAKE MARY AND THE GIRLS AND LEAVE. MORIARTY HAS MOLLY. I DON'T KNOW WHERE SHE IS, BUT HE IS FORCING ME TO WATCH HER THROUGH A WEBCAM. THIS IS REAL, TAKE MARY AND YOUR GIRLS AND GO.
PLEASE TELL MYCROFT HELP WOULD BE APPRECIATED. (this line was an afterthought. Sherlock had no way to contact his brother; no secret emails had been procured, no thought of assistance in emergencies was ever put into play, no contingencies considered. this was a fatal flaw, Sherlock now knew, one that John had warned him of, of friends—not isolation—keeping him safe. it was never more plainly obvious now, and later Sherlock would physically beat himself up for never believing John, who was good and kind and smart in ways that Sherlock could never be.)
Through the webcam, on the table, in a dim, featureless room, Molly didn't move.
"Hi, Sexy!"
That was the first line of text that had popped up on Sherlock's laptop. The chime alerted him something had come in, but he ignored it for several seconds, engrossed as he was in the information he was reading. The chime came again, and this time didn't wait for him to open the dialogue box to find out who was messaging him.
His entire screen went white. The text flashed in black on the white background (Times New Roman, font size 14). It branded itself into his brain, and blinded his eyes.
Sherlock had to blink rapidly as the background faded to show the room. Cinder blocks. Bare, unshaded lightbulbs overhead. The camera automatically attempted to focus itself several times before settling on the woman on the strapped to a hospital bed. She was struggling.
It puzzled him a split second, then what he was seeing struck him like an electric shock, and Sherlock went cold.
The woman on the table was Molly. She was strapped down, blindfolded, and gagged, but still she thrashed. The bed, bolted to the floor, didn't move at all even as she did.
. . . when watching a movie in which a woman was kidnapped and prevented making any noise with a hand over her mouth, Molly always remarked with distain that even gagged a person could scream. She proved that correct with the noises she produced . . .
Sherlock found himself on his feet, then was helpless. He didn't know what was going on. He didn't know where she was, who had her, or what they wanted—
James Moriarty stepped into view of the camera, and Sherlock sat down, hard, almost missing the chair he'd just vacated.
"Hi, sexy," he said jovially. "Miss me?"
Moriarty looked back over his shoulder at Molly.
"She doesn't know who I am yet," he confided, "but I don't take that personally. You know, and she'll find out soon enough."
With that he moved toward the table, and placed his hand on Molly's thigh.
Her struggling didn't abate, and Sherlock's heart rate tripled.
Moriarty didn't say anything more, for the moment. He hummed a tuneless thing, seemingly not affected by Molly's continued screaming, or the fact that she writhed under his hand. He produced a pair of shears from a back pocket and calmly began cutting her clothing away from her.
That startled her, but she was still too immobilized to prevent it from continuing. Soon her clothing—with the exception of bra and knickers—was in tatters on the cement floor around the table, and Moriarty shuffled through it. The scissors were slipped away into his pocket again, and he faced the camera once more.
"Blindfold on or off?" he asked theatrically. "Do you think she has any clue I'm an old friend of yours, Sherlock?"
. . . Sherlock could not answer, of course. Moriarty had rigged the computer to see and hear everything, but there was no way to respond to anything . . .
"What if we did this, first?" Moriarty had continued, pulling the scissors out again and laying them against Molly's cheek.
Sherlock couldn't breathe.
At the touch of cold metal on her face, Molly stopped moving, but Sherlock could see her trembling and her chest rising and falling quickly with panic.
With care, Moriarty snicked through the cloth tied around her head that bound her mouth. Even more gently, he tugged it away from her. In its place, he placed the cutting edge of the open scissors on her lips.
"Can you hear me?" he asked Molly.
She nodded, cautiously.
"Good," he soothed. "I worried maybe you couldn't, with all the racket you were making. Did you understand what I said?"
She nodded again.
"And what was it that I said? Repeat it for me! Think carefully, I want exact words."
Sherlock's throat went dry. He could imagine what might happen if Molly didn't echo things exactly right.
"You s-said—" she started through the scissors, then had to clear her throat. Her voice was hoarse.
"Yes?"
"You said blindfold on or off. Do you think she has any clue I'm an old friend of yours Sherlock. What if we did this, first."
Sherlock could see Moriarty's grin even with the man turned three quarters away from him.
"Very good!" he praised. "Now—"
"Why are you doing this, Jim?" Molly interrupted.
The very slight optimism—she'd gotten Moriarty's sentences right, and the mad man was pleased!—that Sherlock couldn't help feeling popped like a light bulb blowing as she asked her question, and Moriarty's smiled faded.
Moriarty didn't know Molly was good with voices! She had an ear for them, could name people without seeing them just by hearing them, and of course she's remember Jim, the IT guy from the hospital—
"Jim?" she repeated. Her voice, raspy from the screaming she'd produced earlier, was now wavering and full of tears. "Why are you doing this?"
Sherlock gripped the edge of his desk for something to ground him. Moriarty's expression morphed to displeased, and that meant nothing good—
"This was not part of the plan," he hissed.
Whether this statement was directed towards Molly or Sherlock, Sherlock didn't know.
Moriarty shifted the scissors still poised at Molly's mouth and turned them perpendicular to her. As dim as the lighting in the room was, light glinted off them as he wiggled the pointed tip between her lips.
Molly resisted—Sherlock cried out uselessly—
—he didn't want to see what happened next—
—Moriarty whispered something into her ear the microphone didn't pick up—
—Molly opened her mouth.
The scissors slipped into her. Sherlock could hear, over the pounding of his own racing heartbeat in his ears, her teeth chatter against the metal in fear.
"What to do . . . what to do . . ." Moriarty muttered. "I'd hate to cut out that sweet tongue. I had other ideas for it. Even splitting it would be a problem—there's so much mess when you do that, even if you miss the sublingual veins! I wouldn't want you to choke on your own blood, or vomit if you happen to be able to swallow most of it.
"I could always see if I could sever your spinal cord through your mouth—these are heavy duty shears—but that wasn't my plan either . . . what to do . . ."
As he mused, he idly twisted the scissors back and forth in her mouth. They didn't advance any deeper, but Sherlock could see the fabric of Molly's blindfold grow darker from shed tears as she struggled to not move.
"Well!" Moriarty sighed. "You've put me in a bind, Molly. I was hoping to draw this out a bit more! I never expected you to recognize me so quickly—"
Sherlock's hands ached from the grip he taken.
"—but I should have known Sherlock wouldn't be taken by anyone ordinary. So! We're going to have to switch up things a bit here . . ."
He withdrew the scissors. Sherlock's gasp of relief echoed Molly's. She broke into very soft sobs. Sherlock watched Moriarty study her before he turned and walked off camera. He made no noise as he moved.
. . . Sherlock looked, really looked¸ for any clue in the room that would help him determine where they were. It couldn't be too far away; Molly hadn't been gone long. Less than an hour. The block walls and bare bulbs shouted industrial. It was chilly in that room, too; he could make out small goosebumps on her forearms.
He systematically began dismissing anywhere he knew they weren't. It wasn't the greatest opening gambit, but he had to start somewhere . . .
Moriarty returned on screen. He carried a small glass bottle, a medicine vial. He made a show of producing a syringe and drawing the clear liquid out. The vial was slipped into his pocket as he turned back to Molly.
He leaned close to her face.
"Give me a kiss?" he asked. "For old times sake?"
Sherlock's mental exercise was derailed as he watched the scene.
Molly stopped sniffling for a moment. She pressed her lips together.
Moriarty shrugged, as though she could see his response. "That makes me sad," he said with a fake disappointment. "Now, I'm going to need you to hold real still for this, Molly. Got it?"
She still didn't answer.
He shrugged again. "I just wanted to warn you. Then, in a bit, I'll be able to kiss you or do anything else I damn well please. Okay?"
He tightened a tourniquet over her upper arm.
"J-jim . . ." she whispered.
. . . her plea stabbed Sherlock . . .
". . . please—"
Moriarty ignored her. Molly cried out—Sherlock jumped as the sound—as he slipped the needle into her vein, released the tourniquet. Slowly her sobs dissipated and she slumped.
Sherlock did not; he was tight as a spring.
Moriarty turned back to the camera after he removed the tourniquet and syringe.
"In case you didn't know, I'm pretty good with giving injections and drawing blood," he said conversationally, as if this was a routine doctor's visit and he was explaining things to a worried parent. "She's not going to have a hematoma or anything. I hope you appreciate that."
Then he leaned back over Molly and kissed her lightly on her lips. Straightening once more, Moriarty smirked at the camera and walked away from the table again.
At some point—he didn't know when—Sherlock's grip had shifted from the table edge to the neck of his violin. The wood groaned under the abuse of being squeezed too tightly, and in an instance of immediate fury borne of powerlessness, Sherlock smashed the instrument against the floor until it was kindling.
He'd been glued to the screen ever since. He wracked his brain mercilessly, commanding it to find answers, threatening the most grievous harm to it. His brain, like Moriarty, seemed immune to his threats.
Like an actor in a stage play, Moriarty appeared in the occasionally from the wings. He was chewing gum now, casually. In his hand was an aerosol can. He paused by Molly for a moment, looking down at her but not touching her this time, before stepping around the table and walking toward the back wall of the room.
With his back to the camera he spray-painted, in large letters, a single sentence on the cement. Moriarty did not add flourishes or extraneous marks of any kind. He wrote quickly but deliberately.
I WILL BURN THE HEART OUT OF YOU
Finished with his graffiti, he dropped the can to the floor and returned to Molly's side to stand between her and the camera. From his back pocket he withdrew a black marker and with quick, easy strokes, penned a heart onto her skin, just above the elastic on her knickers. It was nearer her middle than side, and followed the curve of her belly just a bit.
Slipping the marker back into his pocket, wordlessly he pointed to the wall he'd defiled. Then he caressed what he'd just drawn, looked directly at the camera, and tapped his nose with his forefinger. He smirked before he walked off screen again.
Moriarty had a small amount of artistic talent, to make such an innocuous little heart look so ominous.
—too many variables, too many places they could be, too little to go on! Sherlock considered sending another note to John, but what good would that do? If he'd followed Sherlock's advice he'd be gone; if he hadn't there wasn't much he could help anyway.
An unbidden thought pounced at Sherlock: If John were here, then at least I wouldn't be facing this alone—
—Sherlock choked back a sobbing moan.
New text came onto the screen. It was superimposed over the video he couldn't look away from.
"You were discussing names. How domestic. And you'd narrowed it down quite a bit, hadn't you? Declan for a boy, Adelaide for a girl."
—how could he know? How could he possibly know?
"Such nice, normal names! No contribution from Mummy Holmes, was there? Whatever did she think, when you didn't ask her input on her only grandchild's forename? Of course, calling the children from her own loins "Mycroft" and "Sherlock" probably made her the last person you want to take suggestions from . . ."
. . . Molly had forced him to tell his mother, even though he hadn't wanted to, just as he hadn't wanted to tell Mycroft. His mum was still sharp in her old age, and demanded to know if he was avoiding her because she disapproved of what he'd done with his life, what with the notoriety and all, but didn't he know she was pleased for him too . . .
Moriarty appeared again in the camera's eye. Again he walked to Molly's side. Still asleep from the sedation, she never moved as he put his hand on her stomach.
Sherlock's own stomach lurched.
His fingers traced the heart he'd drawn. His touch was so light he didn't indent her skin. The microphone picked up a very soft sigh from the mad man.
. . . Sherlock, in the name of experimentation (he said), felt Molly's abdomen routinely. He, in the name of experimentation (he said), measured her around with a tailor's tape weekly.
Molly indulged him, in the name of experimentation (she said) . . .
Moriarty leaned down and lay his cheek on Molly's belly, then kissed the black heart, then licked it, his tongue leaving a line as shiny as a snail's trail.
. . . Sherlock habitually rested his head on her, talking aloud and telling the baby inside of the differences of tobacco ash, of the composition of granite, of cabbages and kings . . .
. . . he kissed her belly too, and she always smiled and ran her fingers in his hair when he smiled up at her, all pride and fascination wrapped together . . .
"You haven't felt the baby kick yet, have you?" Moriarty asked out loud as he straightened again. They were his first spoken words for an eternity, it seemed, and they were daggers. "I bet Molly has, and I bet that frustrates you to no end, Sherlock. It's supposed to be a shared experience, pregnancy, but it isn't, not really.
"You opted not to know the sex. That's unusual in this day and age, and an intriguing thing to me. Was it your decision, or hers? Was it mutual? I have a hard time believing that you, Mr. Curiosity, would agree to wait when you could have known, when you could have had all the facts before you, all puzzled solved and mystery revealed. What has this woman done to you, Sherlock Holmes, to make you willing to be surprised?"
Sherlock wasn't surprised that Moriarty knew intimate knowledge of them any longer.
. . . Molly had asked. That was all. An ultrasound was performed, that was standard procedure now, but she simply said she'd just like to not know if she was carrying a boy or a girl. She wanted one last bit of revelation.
That was all.
For the woman bearing his child, a child he created with her, Sherlock could do nothing but agree.
No matter what gender the baby was, he'd be just as struck with wonder. It didn't matter if it were discovered by sonogram or at the birth . . .
"I'd like to know," Moriarty continued. "I'd like to know if this is a boy or a girl, so I know what color gift wrap to send it to you in."
Once more he pointed to the far wall, and walked off-screen again.
I WILL BURN THE HEART OUT OF YOU
I WILL BURN THE HEART OUT OF YOU
I WILL BURN THE HEART OUT OF YOU
I WILL BURN THE HEART OUT OF YOU
The words flashed on the screen and now scrolled up to fill it. Quickly his entire screen was full, top to bottom. As before, they were superimposed and opaque, but did not blot out the video still showing Molly bound to a table, of a dim room, of Moriarty now rolling a small mayo stand across the cement floor.
The wheels of the stand made horrible noises on the rough ground. Moriarty stationed the tray near the side of the table, and raised it to elbow height. This was done with precision and efficiency, as if he was a surgical technician going about his duty so long it was second nature to situate everything correctly for a surgeon.
He disappeared for a moment.
Now the words began to flash.
Moriarty reappeared, carrying a flat case. Behind the blinking words, he set it on the stainless steel table and opened it. With careful deliberation, he removed and examined each instrument held inside, making sure to hold them up and turning them so his audience could catalogue them as well:
Retractors
Mosquito hemostats
Allis hemostats
Straight and curved mayo scissors
Adsons forceps
Blade handle
Number 10 surgical blade
There were several others, and bile in his throat made Sherlock gag. What he did not see were sponges or suture. Never before had he hated knowing what each and every surgical instrument was used for. Never before had he hated another human being so much.
Never before had he felt so helpless and incompetent. Never before had his mind—greatest mind in a century, it'd been called by friend and foe alike!—been so paralyzed.
Never before had he had so many tears streaming down his cheeks.
. . . The flirting's over, Moriarty told him, once, ages ago.
But this wasn't flirting, this was a final statement. This was end game.
. . . I like to watch you dance, Moriarty told him, once, ages ago.
But how could he dance? He had nothing to work with, he couldn't step up; he was forced to stay against a wall and watch!
. . . I don't like getting my hands dirty! Moriarty told him, once, ages ago.
But he was pulling on gloves now, so he meant to get dirty this time.
. . . Every fairy tale needs a good old-fashioned villain, Moriarty told him, once, ages ago.
But fairy tales became homogenized; the Big Bad Wolf never won, the Evil Queens and Evil Stepmothers were defeated.
. . . All lives end. All hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock, his only brother told him, once, ages ago.
. . . Will caring help?
. . . Nope, John said, once, ages ago.
. . . Then I'll continue not to make that mistake, he said aloud, once, ages ago.
Sherlock moaned and wept at his ignorance, and what his ignorance had brought.
Somewhere, far far away, a buzzer rang, like the start of a race, like a doorbell.
Moriarty carefully opened a slim silver package to extract a surgical blade, and made a show of fitting it correctly onto the blade holder from the surgical pack. He twisted the handle just as he had done with the scissors he'd used to cut away Molly's clothing, making the dullish overhead lights glint and scamper off the razor blade.
The mad man seemed mesmerized by the light on the edge of the blade. Or he was drawing out the suspense, wielding anticipatory drama like a different knife. It was hard to tell.
"M-mister Hol-lmes?" a very faint voice drifted up the stairs.
Cocooned in horror, Sherlock barely processed the words.
"Mister H-holmes?" the tenant queried again, stuttering on a different syllable.
There were careful, hesitant footsteps on the treads of the stairs. They creaked, just as they'd always creaked—
. . . Moriarty ascended those stairs once, making the same noises as were being made now, filling the hall and flat with a solid wall of dread . . .
"Mister Holmes?"
Something was offered up, over someone's head, so someone's head wasn't the first object visible—and therefore a potential target—from where he sat.
"The pizza you ordered is here. I'll—I'll leave it on the landing, all right?"
The flat box was pushed by fingertips onto the floor of the hallway. It slid on the thin rug until there was no danger of it tipping back down the stairs, and then the footsteps retreated on the stairs much more quickly than they had come up.
Sherlock stared at the box.
On screen, Moriarty paused. He grew distracted by something off-camera, looking the same direction as Sherlock like a horrible parody. He put the blade back on the tray. He moved out of the camera's eye.
Taking advantage of the break in Moriarty's concentration, Sherlock scrambled for the box. It was clearly marked for delivery to him, paid for before being sent. He opened it with no comprehension in his mind.
Inside the lid was written:
"64 Queensborough Terrace, Bayswater, W2 3SH" MH
Sherlock grabbed his coat but did not pause to retrieve any of the other usual items he took when going out. He flew down the stairs and hit the street at a run, not stopping until he reached the address only his brother could have provided.
A horrible screeching of brakes, the sound of gravel spraying and striking the house, and then frantic pounding on the door set John at a run to the front of his house.
What he saw though the peep hole made no sense, and he flung the door wide.
Sherlock, bathed in blood, was panting, raving, weeping on his front step.
John was happy he'd sent Mary and the girls away.
John demanded to know if Sherlock was all right, what was happening, what had happened—
In the end he had to drag Sherlock inside; the detective, although being slight and John having years of military training, fought like a wild thing when John told him to come in, screeching about Molly asleep in the car. A quick glance over the vehicle in the driveway gave no indication she was present, so John ignored his friend's mad insistence and physically grappled him into the house.
Once inside and forced into a chair—never mind the upholstery!—Sherlock jumped from sentence to sentence like being electrocuted. Not much made sense.
"—he took her—took her, John—and I don't know how! When did he discover the names? We never told anyone! And mummy, oh god, mummy—I had to get Molly back—thank you, bless you, John for helping—thank you Mycroft for helping, but it was too late! Wasn't it! Oh christ! John—Moriarty, he wanted to know if he should use blue or pink paper—"
"Sherlock. Sherlock!" John shouted, over the spill of words. He grabbed his friend's shoulders. "Tell me what happened! Where's Molly?"
"Molly's in the car," Sherlock answered, waving a vague gesture towards the window. "She's sleeping now, don't disturb her—"
Startled, John glanced towards the window.
"Sherlock, Molly's . . ." John started, confused. ". . . Molly's not in the car . . ."
. . . there was a car parked outside the address. Sherlock passed it going in, and didn't think it would be a bother taking it when he exited . . .
. . . he wasn't much of a driver, but got the hang of it quickly. Molly made no complaints; she slept the entire trip to John's. Maybe he should have stopped at a hospital, but his mind kept insisting he needed John, needed his best friend . . .
A high-pitched keening broke free of Sherlock's throat. His voice had been raw and raspy during his disjointed monologue, but this eerie whine was worse.
John slapped him hard enough he split the other man's lip.
Sherlock looked up at him with sudden clarity.
"Moriarty said he wanted to burn the heart out of me," he said, in abrupt calm. "I returned the favor."
From his coat pocket he withdrew something meaty and soft. Bits of pocket lint stuck to it. It fit neatly in his palm.
John was a doctor. He had seen horrific injuries from battle. He was conditioned against the violence that men do to other men.
When Sherlock offered up Moriarty's heart in a hand that never trembled, however, John gagged.
That wasn't the worst of it.
Sherlock was taken away and placed in protective custody. He was remanded to a psychiatric ward with special provisions in place to keep him contained, and medications were carefully calculated to keep him calm and compliant to the doctors and nurses who were no match for his intellect but were charged with his care.
John knew that was Mycroft's contribution, instead of prison, but still had a hard time forgiving the elder Holmes brother.
He had to call Mycroft, after Sherlock had emptied his pockets of other bits of James Moriarty. His larynx and part of his trachea, Sherlock explained, because they allowed taunting words to pass by; his tongue and lips, because they had touched Molly's body and that meant, by forfeit, they were Sherlock's now; and several fingers, because they had done Moriarty's bidding.
. . . "I'd have had his brain too, frontal lobe mostly, if I had had a bone saw for his skull," Sherlock mentioned casually, "because that's where higher thinking, and reasoning, and madness takes place, and I wouldn't want his evil to infect anyone else . . ."
That wasn't the worst of it.
John tried to contain his horror, tried to focus on helping his best friend and calming him down. Once everything he'd cut away from Moriarty was bagged and taken away, John told Sherlock he needed to know where Molly was. Mycroft was on his way, and he would need to have the full story, including hers.
Sherlock hadn't moved from the chair John had forced him into. The blood on him had dried and was cracking on his skin, and much of his clothing stuck to him.
"Moriarty wanted to know if it was a boy or a girl," Sherlock whispered, his voice a dull husk.
He began to weep.
John dropped to his knees and gathered Sherlock into an embrace. Sherlock clung to him desperately as sobs wracked his body.
"It was a boy," he croaked.
John shoved him away and stumble-tripped to the door. Flinging it open and darting down the few steps to the car parked haphazardly in front, he slammed into the side as his fingers scrabbled at the handle—it was tacky, and red. Why? What is that?— to pull the rear door open—
—luckily he managed to comprehend what he was seeing lying in the back seat before he released the catch—
Molly had been put there. Sherlock had carried her eviscerated body to the car and set it gently inside before driving to the only place he could think to go. In the mauled ruin of her abdomen, Sherlock had returned the tiny baby she'd carried that Moriarty gutted from her.
John vomited bile into the driveway.
. . . is Molly still sleeping? Sherlock asked, when he stumbled back into the house.
. . . y-yes.
. . . and the baby? He's sleeping too?
. . . yes, Sherlock. He's sleeping t-too.
. . . that's good.
. . . yes . . .
When Mycroft finally arrived, John squared up and punched him as hard as he could. It staggered the taller man, but there was no retaliation.
John wasn't sure if he'd ever had had four different people's blood—James Moriarty, Sherlock Holmes', Molly Holmes' and Mycroft Holmes'—on his hand at the same time.
He didn't think he'd ever get that hand clean again.
John rarely saw Mycroft after that day, and he knew it was only when the elder Holmes brother wanted to be seen that he did.
Once, in the hallway of the ward after a visit to Sherlock, he happened to bump into him. By the surprise on Mycroft's face, John could tell it was a truly unexpected meeting.
"You're a fucking bastard," John spit without preamble.
"Now, Dr. Watson—"
John took the other man's lapels and bodily slammed him into the white wall.
"You're a fucking bastard, and a horrible brother, and there is no place deep enough in hell for you to burn. You did this to him! This is all your fault!"
"I gave him the assistance he requested—"
"You didn't give him enough! In the time it took for Sherlock to race to the address you so generously provided, you could have had snipers and a swat team storm that building—none of this would have happened!"
"Sherlock never accepted my help graciously," Mycroft tried to justify. "He would have never have wanted me to do more—"
"Sometimes it doesn't matter what Sherlock wants! You just have to do what's right!" John shouted. "If you had truly helped, Sherlock wouldn't be under sedation all the time, Molly would have survived, your nephew would be calling you Uncle Mycroft and sending you colored pictures—"
Mycroft closed his eyes and shook his head as if he didn't want to hear any more, but didn't pull away.
"—this is your fucking fault, Mycroft Holmes."
"Sherlock managed to make enemies who knew no end to their cruelty," he retorted, but there was no bite in it.
John barked a sharp, unpleasant laugh. "You're absolutely fucking right about that, Mycroft. Do you know what the worst part is? What the utter, unquestionably worst part of this nightmare is? Well? It's that Sherlock doesn't even fucking blame you. He blames himself! Isn't that hilarious? He blames himself, for not getting there in time! He was so numb and so . . . so blinded by what was happening it never once crossed his mind that your help was too little, too late. I'm sure you know he still blames himself, and that guilt is what's made him most willing to stay in this fucking sanitarium."
Mycroft never opened his eyes, but tried to say something. John cut him off.
"You told me when I first met you that Sherlock would consider you an enemy," he spit, literally, in the taller man's face. The fact that his voice was modulated and deep made the words cut that much more. "I'm so glad hewas so fucking right about that.
"Like all the others, you have no end to your cruelty either."
Mycroft flinched. John slammed him once more into the wall outside Sherlock's room. He wanted to do more; he wanted to beat him till that wall was more red than white, but with tears in his eyes John released him and stomped away, limping ever so slightly.
Mycroft sagged a moment before straightening himself. He knocked quietly on the door before Sherlock bid him enter to visit.
His brother's voice was no longer deep and powerful; it was skittish and tremulous. Mycroft ignored that, just as he ignored the wasted appearance of his only brother. He couldn't deny that John Watson was correct, but like so often, he could do nothing more than carry on.
fin.