St. Barts

"She's pretty rough right now," John said quietly. Mary squeezed his hand. She didn't know if she was grateful or not that she was on maternity leave. Being seven months pregnant, both John and Sherlock were adamant that Mary stay put. Now though, Molly was safely returned and Mary could do something to help. "Just…"

"I've seen victims before, John,"

"I know, but it's different when it's someone you care about." Mary was quiet then, looking at her husband. He didn't say any more, only opening the door for her.

Rounding the corner, Mary stopped where she was for only a moment. She hadn't thought it would be like this. She'd seen plenty of victims lying in hospital beds, she'd even put a few there, including Sherlock. This was different though. It was so much worse.

"What…um…" she blinked quickly, sniffing. "How did you find her?"

"He untied her, for whatever reason, we still don't know, but she saw her chance and took it. He had a knife on him so she grabbed that. Stabbed him three times, then made her getaway; he shot her on her way out. We retrieved the bullet, he was weak, so he wasn't aiming properly. He did a pretty number on her though while she was there," Mary found herself startled by the business-like attitude in his tone, but she realized it was his way of dealing with the trauma himself. John moved to the x-ray screen, flipping the switch. "Three broken ribs, sprains in both her wrists, broken ankle, fractured knee, damage to her right cornea, bad enough to scar but we can't say yet, contusions, I lost count after eighty-three," he shut the light off on the screen, turning back to Mary. He looked haggard. "Both shoulders were out of joint, I set them as soon as I could, and there were bruises under her arms, like she'd been in a harness,"

"What about Moran?" Mary asked quietly.

"Dead," they both turned to see Sherlock in the doorway, hands in his pockets. "Whatever happens to Molly, we can at least be certain that Moran died at his victim's hands."

"She killed him?" Mary asked.

"John told you she stabbed him three times, all fatal. Where she found the strength to plunge a knife repeatedly into him, I can't say."

"Can't say as she wasn't justified," Mary shrugged.

"Knowing Molly, she understood he was a powerful man, her blows couldn't merely be enough to defend herself to get away, Moran would go after her if she only wounded him," Sherlock said.

"Or he did something bad enough to move her to stab him repeatedly," Mary added. Her words hung in the air, the implication behind them too terrible for Sherlock to contemplate, so he pushed the thought far away.

Now that Molly was safe at the hospital, Mycroft's team of doctors took over so that John could rest. Sherlock kept vigil, sitting at Molly's bedside reading aloud everything he could get his hands on. He read Molly her medical chart, the contents of the bag of saline, all of the warning labels on the machines she was hooked up to, the London Times and the 'how to wash' tag on the hospital blanket. That kept him occupied for almost the whole first day until Mary returned with a care-basket and several books.

"We're tucked away pretty well," Mary commented, looking around the room. Carefully removing the old hospital blanket, she tucked the freshly washed quilt from Molly's house around the pathologist. Mary knelt, and to Sherlock's surprise, lifted a cat-carrier up to the bed, opening the hatch. Toby, seeing his mistress, let out a yowl before purring as he stepped across the bed, curling at his mistress' side.

"You brought him?" he asked.

"Cats are good for the healing process; I thought Molly might like a friend nearby, besides, who's going to yell? Mycroft's in charge of this whole affair," she gestured to the private room. Sherlock, for once, was not too proud to say he was pleased with his brother's pull. Molly had her own room, the very best of doctors and several private nurses to look after her. "Has she woken up at all?"

"Not yet,"

"Poor thing," Mary sighed, taking the couch.

"It's unlikely she slept, considering the environment she was in," Sherlock said.

"How long have you been awake?"

"Seven days," he replied evenly. Mary got to her feet,

"Come on," she reached for his hand, tugging him over. "Lie down, I brought an extra blanket, it wouldn't hurt you get some rest."

"But-"

"She's not going anywhere, I'll be right here; if she wakes up I'll let you know."

Stretched out on the narrow sofa, Sherlock steepled his hands under his chin, shutting his eyes, he entered his mind palace.

New door adjacent to Molly's rooms.

Status: temporary

Contents: bunker, one body (Sebastian Moran), one half-suspended harness, one cudgel, two sets of chains (ten meters total), one new tool box (receipt under handle, recently purchased, use unknown, probably not for fixing things), two 9 mm. handguns with silencers, one fixed blade combat knife, standard size.

The Body:

Sebastian Moran

Status: deceased (decidedly)

Three stab wounds, two to the left lung, one piercing the gut.

Sherlock walked around the harness, studying it. A few strands of light brown hair were caught at top of the harness, where the strap went across her back. The buckles were smeared with fingerprints of blood. Moran had used his bare hands to beat her, and didn't bother to wear gloves. Sloppy for a master assassin. Or he wanted to be caught.

"How did you do it?" Sherlock murmured. Molly stepped into the room, assessing the area.
"You tell me," she answered. He paced the room, studying the body, the knife, and the chains.

"Moran untied you, for what, I don't know, probably to move you to a new location. First he lowered you from the harness, using the chains attached. Then, keeping your hands tied, removed the zip-ties from your legs. While he was unhooking the harness, you leaned forward and slipped the blade from his hip. You stabbed him first in the gut, it's nearest. It takes more effort, but he's taken off-guard. You're running on adrenaline and tackle him, your wrists are already sprained, but something moves you to use the knife twice more, this time into his left lung. The blows are intended, you wanted to hurt him. The knife is buried to the hilt once, the second time almost halfway. The blood-loss is enough to kill him. You remove the knife, throwing it to the ground and you stumble for the door, breaking the ties around your wrists finally. Your strength is already waning, but he is weak as well. He manages one final shot and misses his intended target, hitting far below your heart, just above your hip." He stood from kneeling by the body, turning to face Molly. She folds her hands before her. "Is that how it happened?" he asked.

"You tell me," she answers again.

"I need you to confirm it."

"Aren't you sure?" she asked. He frowned, almost insulted.

"Of course I am!"

"Then what do you need me for?"

"I- don't know…" he fumbled with words. "You've always been on my side, at my side, I've…always needed you."

"Then solve the case. Why did Moran kidnap me? I'm not important."

"Yes you are," his answer was immediate. "You have always been important, you've always counted. Just not to them. The one they underestimated. Moran was angry that someone so supposedly simple was the one who slipped beneath the cracks. You're the reason I'm alive. Once he knew that, he knew you mattered. He took you because he wanted to get back at me."

"Or maybe he wanted to get back at me," Molly said. Sherlock quirked a brow. "He knew I dated Jim. Perhaps he saw something in me that Jim didn't. Master Assassins have that gift you know, seeing inner strengths in their enemies. Moriarty was psychotic, he saw only the exterior of me, the silly pathologist who can't get a date to save her life. I was unnecessary. Moran must have warned Moriarty, but he wouldn't listen. So he took me, for revenge."

"Kill two birds with one stone. He was hoping to lure me to you," Sherlock answered slowly. "He didn't count on you escaping," Sherlock realized. He walked past her, out to the hallway of the bunker, leading to the outdoors. "You never willfully harmed anyone until today," he said, half to himself. "You realized what you'd done, even if he was a bad man, vomited, mostly water, sparse at that, he only gave you enough to keep you alive. Afterwards you stumbled forward ten or twelve meters, rested, and then headed for the road before we found you." He turned round, facing her. She stood in the doorway of the bunker, holding herself. "Molly Hooper, how have you come to completely fool us all?"

"Sherlock," gently, Mary squeezed his shoulder. "Sherlock, Molly's awake." His eyes flew open, and he got to his feet. "I'm going to find John," she continued. "Stay here with her," he tried to smooth the creases out of his shirt. "Just…slowly, Sherlock, don't pester her yet," he gave her a look that said he knew that. Mary crossed the room, gently touched Molly's hand. "Sherlock will wait with you, I'll be right back."

Tugging the chair over to the bedside, Sherlock sat down. Carefully, Molly turned so she could see him.
"Would you like anything?" he asked.

"I'd like this spot in my eye to clear up so I can see you properly,"

"You'll have to wait a few weeks for that, I'm afraid."

"I thought as much," she wiggled her fingers carefully. "At least he didn't break my fingers."

"He broke just about everything else," Sherlock answered glibly.

"Have you figured out what happened?" she asked after a moment, and then almost smiled, eyes shining. "Of course you have, you always do."

"I think I've figured most of it out, but there are a few things I don't understand."

"Sherlock Holmes admits he doesn't understand something? Perish the thought," she teased gently, her giggle was weak though, still in pain. She sobered quickly, suddenly hesitant. "Can you tell me how I got out? I know I took his knife, I don't know what I did with it." Sherlock was quiet for a few moments, for the first time very careful of his words.

"You...took his knife…and defended yourself."

"Is he dead?" her voice was suddenly cold, and he was startled.

"Yes." The ice in her eyes melted, relief flooding her features, she sighed deeply.

"Thank heaven," she murmured.

"Something doesn't add up," Sherlock said, interrupting her thoughts. She opened her eyes. "Why did he untie you?"

"Haven't you figured it out?" she asked. She may not quite have remembered killing Moran (she was glad of that), but she understood exactly why he was untying her. Even here, safe in St. Barts under Sherlock's watch, she still felt the shame, the dread, the fear she felt when Moran had returned that day.