This story follows on from "Taking Molly" (available at s/8119984/1/Taking-Molly ). You should PROBABLY read that one before this, however it is rated M, and for now, this one isn't. It likely will be in future chapters (because everyone loves Sherlolly smut). This is just a short starter chapter to help me reset the scene in my head, and also tease those of you who followed the original story, hehe. Anyway, enjoy.
He looked around the room with pure hatred. There was a ball of it deep in his stomach and he couldn't get rid of it, no matter what he did. He tried going back to his boxing club, but beating the hell out of another man's face didn't help him. He was smoking again, but that wasn't helping either. He'd even tried cocaine again, but it didn't have the same effect it used to. If anything, it just made him feel guilty. He hated Moriarty, truly hated him. The man was brilliant, yes, but he was sick, twisted.. And he'd hurt Molly. His Molly. He'd make him pay for that, he really would.
Most of all, though, he hated himself. She'd been trapped in this room, the room below his flat, for a month and he'd not even noticed. He noticed everything and yet he'd not noticed that?
He'd spent the past few days coming into this room, looking to see if he could work out what they'd done to her. Her blood still stained the floor, the restraints were still in their places, one of the whips he'd found even had part of her flesh stuck to one of the blades. He'd thrown up after seeing that. Mycroft had paid to get the place completely redecorated, stripped of it's horrible secret. But the work wasn't due to start until Monday, which gave Sherlock two more days to mope around it, hating himself.
She never knew where she'd been held captive. Sherlock figured that was a blessing in disguise.
He moved out of 221c and walked up the stairs to his own flat. John sat in his armchair, chatting with the 'visitors' who plagued Sherlock's flat. He wanted them gone, but they seemed to never leave. Mrs Hudson was fussing about, Mycroft was explaining the new decor for the flat, Lestrade was discussing the ongoing investigation into the whereabouts of Moran and Moriarty. Sherlock didn't care to stay and listen, and simply moved into his bedroom, pushing the door closed behind him.
"How are you feeling?" he asked softly as he moved towards the figure in his bed. She looked up at him in a way that he'd not yet gotten used to. She was still Molly Hooper, but now everything seemed laced with a touch of fear. They'd broken her trust, and there was another reason for Sherlock to hate them. He sat on the opposite side of the bed, resting his back against the headboard and she slowly shifted herself until her head was in his lap. His fingers instantly moved to stroke her hair. They sat like this often, these days. Neither of them speaking. He was the only person she could trust now, or so she felt, and she was the only thing he cared about. His touch relaxed her and she felt safe for the first time in a long time.
"Have they found him?" she asked after a long silence. He looked down at her, his fingers still stroking her hair. Her eyes were closed, and had she not just asked him a question he would have assumed she was sleeping. He inhaled deeply before he spoke.
"Not yet. But they will."
"What if he comes back?"
"He won't" Sherlock sighed, though he was pretty sure he was lying.
"What if he does?"
"Then I'll kill him." the answer seemed to satisfy her and she quietened. The warmth of her body against him was oddly reassuring, and it made him hate a little less. After a few minutes, he bent down and planted a kiss against her temple.
"I won't let him take you again Molly.." he promised. "I love you."
She didn't respond, and he slowly sat back up. Her chest was rising and falling more slowly now, her breathing steadied. He smiled as he watched her sleeping form for a few more minutes before gently shifting from under her, lying her back against the pillow before making his way out of the room.