Deep breath.
Count to three.
Release breath.
"I am not stupid."
Another breath.
"I can get out of this."
The air was biting cold and her shoes were soggy. The dull ache in her side reminded her she needed to find an open road to flag down someone, anyone. At least she wasn't in the bunker anymore.
Molly stumbled through the open field, keeping her head low. She tried to remember how John acted in these situations. Had he been in these situations? In the army probably, maybe even on a case with Sherlock. It was a first for her, and she was anything but prepared. One doesn't exactly plan on being kidnapped from work. It's the sort of thing you see on television and think "That's awful," and then make a half-mental plan for in case it happens.
She should have known that whole Moriarty message was a fake-out. She should have known she'd be a target for Moran, the former criminal master-mind's trigger man.
Breathless, she sank to her knees. Trying to keep up her current pace was exhausting. She was dehydrated and weak from lack of food. Almost three weeks she'd been in that abandoned bunker.
Her left hand was cramped and numb from holding her side. She didn't dare move it, too worried about losing blood. She wasn't sure how much she'd lost. On the windswept valley she sat, trying desperately to remember what exactly had gone on in Moran's hideaway. She recalled how she'd been brought there: taken from work, he'd been hiding in one of the drawers in the morgue. Gagged and bound, she'd been brought here, where exactly, she wasn't sure. Just outside of London? She had no idea. She was fairly certain they were still in England. But how had she gotten out? After the first two weeks, Moran had untied her, for what, she didn't know, but she saw her chance and took it.
She rubbed her forehead, groaning.
Moran bent close to untie her legs, and she reached forward, grasping something on his hip. It caught the light of the one window in the corner and then-
Molly blinked, her eyes were blurry, stinging, she was pretty sure they were swollen. She spat on the ground, realizing she tasted vomit. Had she thrown up? Looking behind her, she could barely see the bunker entrance; she'd left the door open. She must have knocked Moran out. Panic seized her. He could come to at any moment! Stumbling to her feet, still clutching her side, she ran.
She tripped through the tall grass, trying to figure out where to go. There had to be a road, a farm, anything nearby. She didn't dare yell, Moran might hear. But if someone were nearby, they could get help. Her throat was raw, more terrible memories flashing, she tried not to dwell on them.
"Get out, get out, get out, get out, get out," she croaked, a mantra she'd been repeating since she'd been dragged into that bunker.
Lights in the distance made her stop. Her heart leapt, and she let out a sob, half joy, half relief. Staggering forward, she waved her free arm, it hurt to call out, but she had to get them to see her, they must see her! The voices shouted back, and more lights were directed at her. Wearily, she sank to her knees, unable to go further. The pounding feet drew closer, slowing to a stop. A few ran past her, heading toward the bunker. They seemed to know where they were going, so Molly stayed put. Someone held her upright, the sudden memory of Moran grabbing her before he slammed his forehead into hers made her reel back, struggling to get free.
"Molly, Molly, it's me, it's John," the voice soothed. She gasped, too overcome to speak, she began to sob. It was more than she had ever hoped for. These were not strangers! Where John Watson was, Sherlock would not be far off. She was better than found, she was safe. "It's alright," John was speaking and she felt herself fall forward. He caught her, very carefully laying her flat on her back. "Ambulance is nearby, we'll have you patched up in no time. Sherlock is in the bunker, he's got Mycroft's men with him,"
"I wish I could see you all," she managed through her tears.
"Cripes you can't see," he murmured. "Your eyes are almost swollen shut, what did he do to you?" John pulled out his pocket-torch, shining it in her face. She could barely make out the light, but she knew it was there, much to his relief.
"Mm bleeding, John, don't know from what, can't remember,"
"You walked all this way-" he began, shock evident in his voice. The EMTs arrived, setting the stretcher down beside Molly and carefully lifted her onto it, strapping her on. John spoke to her all the while, telling her exactly what they were doing. Whatever she'd gone through, she needed someone to be her eyes for now, so she wouldn't panic.
"John," Sherlock was calling, making his way through the grass. Mycroft stood by the bunker, speaking to the men surrounding him. "Here," he held out his phone and John took it, studying the screen.
"Moran?"
"Mm," Sherlock quirked a brow. "You'd best ride with her, I'd rather not leave the life of my pathologist in the hands of EMTs."
"What about you?"
"I'll follow shortly, there's work to be done here, won't take long."
"Right," John nodded and jogged over to the ambulance, jumping in the back. Once secure he knocked on the glass and the engine started, pulling back onto the road. Through the rear-windows, he watched Sherlock enter the bunker, Mycroft extinguished his cigarette and followed shortly. It wasn't until they were nearly to St. Barts that John realized Sherlock smelled of cigarette smoke as well.
