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CHAPTER TWO: GIVE MY REGARDS TO WINSTON SMITH

GCHQ Tracking Station 13a (The Mews)

123 Carendon Rd.

Maybe… Three seconds later?

Truth be told, Sherlock's a little… disappointed.

After all, when one encounters the Orwellian mob which has been watching you for the last decade, one expects a certain… je ne sais quo. A certain mystique. A fortress-like building, perhaps, or terribly manly-looking agents doing terribly manly-looking things. Futuristic costumes. The odd death ray.

One doesn't expect to find a group who could essentially be the IT department of any major office, shifting about and looking gormless as he walks in-

And yet, that is exactly what he finds.

For as he enters the room- his arrival preceded by Mycroft's trademark "Why Me, Oh Lord?" sigh- Sherlock sees a group of five, well… Nerds. There really is no other word for them. They're all dressed in their kind's trademark uniform of jeans, ironic t-shirt and a pallor which is only possible when you never see actual daylight.

The tallest, a whippet-thin young black man with a mass of dreadlocked hair and a Star Trek t-shirt steps forward, extends one massive hand to shake and though Sherlock's not inclined to civility he elects to behave himself. He wants these people to help him find Molly and John's always going on about getting off on the right foot, so-

"You're team leader?" he asks the young man by way of greeting, partly to skip any tired small-talk he may be inclined to inflict on him, and partly because he knows damn well this will annoy his brother. (Mycroft is always the senior officer in any secret service mission).

The young man obviously doesn't realise Holmes senior is being needled though, he merely smiles and nods. "Yeah," he says brightly. "I'm Adi. I-"

He shakes his head sheepishly, throws a look around at the rest of his team.

They all shift from foot to foot, the very definition of "socially awkward," and inwardly Sherlock sighs.

He has dealt with his… fans before.

"Sorry, Mr. Holmes," Adi is saying. "It's just… I've been your data analyst for four years: It's an honour to finally meet you." He winces. "Though obviously I wish it were under better circumstances."

Sherlock's opinion of such maudlin sentiment must show on his face because Adi clears his throat. Straightens up.

He shoots another look at his team.

"Mr. Holmes- the other Mr. Holmes-" he corrects himself, inclining his head towards Mycroft- "he told us that you've already discovered that Roo- I mean, Dr. Hooper- is missing."

Sherlock gives a single, curt nod, unwilling to investigate why the other man's words regarding Molly bring a certain… tightness to his chest, a tightness which might almost be characterised as worry.

"Yes," he says stiffly, making sure to keep his tone even and disinterested. Wouldn't do to set Mycroft sniffing around his feelings (or lack thereof) regarding the diminutive pathologist. Not again. "John and Mary suggested I pop around- She'd be the most like candidate to be taken, were Moriarty or one of his lieutenants involved.

I thought I'd best check."

He doesn't mention that the thought of seeing Molly again, having spent the last few days knowing he'd either be jailed for life, executed or sent into exile, had put a bounce to his step which even Anthea had recognised (and snickered about).

Just as he doesn't mention that realising she was nowhere in St. Bart's but had only recently- and quickly- been taken had set something dark and panicky wriggling round about the location of his belly.

No, he doesn't mention these things because he's damn well not thinking of them, he doesn't care what John says, and he won't have this crowd of social misfits prying into them either-

He can feel Mycroft's gaze practically boring into his brain but he elects to try for nonchalance.

It's really all he has left, at this juncture.

"When I realised Molly was missing," he says, "I thought it best I get in touch with my darling brother." This time he smiles sharply at Mycroft. Said darling brother narrows his eyes. "After all, if you want to know a secret you'd best ask the secret-keeper-"

At this two of the team, a tiny red-haired woman in a massive brown cardigan grins and holds her hand out to tattoo-covered blond man.

He scowls but fishes in his jeans pockets, hands her a twenty.

"Sorry," the young woman tells Sherlock, "but Dan here swore you didn't know we had cameras in St. Bart's." She holds up the twenty, gives Sherlock a sharp, tight smile. "Thanks for buying me dinner."

The young blond man- Dan- continues to mutter vindictively under his breath, only quieting when Adi cocks a warning eyebrow at him.

"Sorry, boss," he mumbles. He shuffles over to his computer terminal. "I'll see if I can find anything on that ambulance that took Dr. Hooper-"

"You've already got a lead?" Sherlock demands and Mycroft's smile turns acidic.

"Of course they have, little brother," he says. "I only employ the best, after all." He nods to the redhead who'd so recently had her windfall. "Violet, why don't you go through what we have with Sherlock?" He sniffs. "I'll get the rest of the team up to speed…"

And with that he gestures to Adi, Dan, a compact, dark-skinned woman wearing a gypsy skirt and Spiderman t-shirt and a burly heavy-set woman in Goth makeup who looks vaguely familiar though Sherlock can't place her. It seems she answers to the name of Squeak, while her counterpart answers to the name of Lakhi. This is, apparently, The Team. They scuttle off into a corner to start collating data, as if these people would put together anything about Molly quicker than Sherlock-

"Would you like to have a seat, Mr. Holmes?" Violet asks. She nods to the stool beside her. "I can get you up to speed on what Roo- I mean, Dr. Hooper- was doing when she was taken."

Her lips tighten, her face set to a frown.

"And then hopefully we can do something about it."

Sherlock takes the seat offered and the young woman begins bringing up surveillance footage, showing him Molly stopping and staring- presumably at the Moriarty footage- before smiling and walking out of camera-shot, into the hall beyond.

"She knew her abductor?" he asks and Violet nods darkly.

"Yeah," she says. "She did. Which probably means it's not Moriarty." She sighs, throws him a look. She rakes a hand through her hair and Sherlock notes the small bits of porridge around her nape, telltale signs of a small child at home. "Not that any of us really thought it was," she continues, "but she's a friendly woman so her knowing her kidnapper doesn't exactly narrow things down…"

Sherlock frowns at the screen though. Impatiently moves his hand over Violet's and rewinds the footage himself, pausing it to take in Molly's expression just before she steps towards the door.

It makes something rather… mawkish twist in his chest.

"That's not just acknowledgement," he mutters to himself, looking at Hooper's face. Like this, she looks almost close enough to touch. "That's relief: She's obviously talking to someone with whom she feels safe. But who would that be, I wonder?"

He taps his lip thoughtfully.

And why would I not know them?

Violet frowns. Nods absent-mindedly. She reaches over to the terminal beside them- which isn't being used- and logs in. Sets some program going though Sherlock can't tell what it is.

"We keep track of everyone in Hundred Acre," she says quietly at Sherlock's look. "Sorry," she amends. "I mean, we keep records of everyone who has any interaction with participants in Project Copperbeech- If Molly knows that person, they're in there."

Sherlock cocks an eyebrow. "So that's my official designation?" he asks. "Copperbeech?"

Violet shrugs. "That's the project's designation. That year they were using trees for the big surveillance gigs. The year before they used flowers, the year after they used birds." She snickers. "Be thankful you weren't designated Operation Blue-tit."

Sherlock knows she's joking but he can't help the dark look he throws her.

The young woman stiffens. Winces. "Sorry," she says quietly. "I know you're worried about Roo- About Molly. I am too."

Sherlock fixes her with the iciest glare he can muster. "Don't presume to know anything about me, Agent…"

"Hunter," she supplies. "Violet Hunter."

"Agent Hunter." He jabs his finger vindictively at the screen. Ignores again that twisting in his chest. "Molly Hooper is a possible security leak to me, nothing more-"

"Then why did you request permission to see her before your exile?"

The moments the words are out of her mouth, Sherlock can tell that Hunter regrets them.

It's written all over her (now puce) face.

She opens her mouth- once, twice- but can't seem to find the words to apologise despite the thunderous look Sherlock's throwing her.

"How did you know that?" he asks tightly, unable to believe his brother would share something so, so private with a random stranger he's never even met.

Especially since his request was refused.

Violet closes her eyes, bites at her lip in embarrassment.

"I'm Molly's data analyst," she says quietly. "You put in an official request regarding her and the system flagged it. The system flags it, I'm notified. I'm always notified. That's how I knew."

She opens her eyes and looks at him.

Sherlock's knuckles whiten as his hands fist together and there's something disgustingly… understanding in her gaze.

"She didn't know," Violet says quietly, after a moment. "I didn't inform her about your sentence- I thought about "accidentally," tipping her off but your brother would have flayed me alive."

Sherlock is still glowering at the screen, unwilling to even look at the young woman.

He's shaking with feeling and he hates it, hates how quickly emotion has enveloped him when it comes to Molly bloody Hooper.

"It was a kindness, her not knowing," he says eventually. The words are ground out through gritted teeth; he doesn't know why he's saying them. "Molly Hooper is a supremely silly, sentimental girl and knowing what lay in store for me would have done nothing- nothing- to help her. It would have only harmed her-

Is that clear, Agent Hunter?"

And he glares at her.

Hunter nods once. She looks pale with embarrassment.

"Good," Sherlock says. "Now show me the footage of her leaving St. Bart's and someone in this investigation can start doing their bloody job."

The analyst nods once, quietly. "Very good, Sir," she says, her eyes downcast.

And without another word she brings up the ambulance footage and Sherlock gets to work.

Meanwhile,

Somewhere Underground

It's the sound of dripping water that wakes her.

That and the cold, a damp blanket that seems to have set itself into her bones.

Molly opens her eyes to find herself alone and in near darkness.

It's cold. Quiet.

She thinks there might be some sort of light source behind her but she can't be sure.

As she comes to, she tries to straighten, to move, but finds that she cannot. Plastic ties secure her wrists, ankles, knees and shoulders to the chair on which she sits.

She is not, however, gagged.

The chair she's tied to is, in turn, nailed to a concrete floor; The walls around her are concrete, as is the ceiling above. A completely transparent Perspex wall encircles her to well above her head, a small, square hatch set into its side at ankle-height-

There's something about that hatch that tugs at her intuition, that makes her blood run cold.

She tries to focus but her head feels heavy- There's still some sedative in her system, she thinks.

There's another chair facing her- she can see it through the glass- and three large studio lights. Someone has attached a mobile phone to the back of this chair via a selfie-stick and some gaff tape; a large yellow post-it saying "smile!" has been glued to one of the chair's legs. The blinking light on the mobile's upper right hand corner tells her that she's probably being filmed-

Whilst tied to a chair.

In the middle of nowhere.

On the day Moriarty has apparently returned from the dead.

Oh, she thinks.

Oh God.

Which quickly morphs into-

Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, Oh God, OH GOD, OH GOD, I'm going to die…

She lets out a dry, sharp sob, panic mounting within her. Her eyes well up and as soon as they do the studio lights flicker on, blinding her.

She squints at them, tries to turn her head away and as she does there's a sound like a distant boom; She hears reverb, the scratchiness of a miked voice coming through speakers, the words obviously electronically scrambled because no human voice could make those noises.

A sound like a music-box lullaby spills through her cell.

"It's raining, it's pouring," she hears. "Molly is falling…"

The hatch in the Perspex wall clicks open with a small, terrifying click, a small tube poking through it, and that's when her real troubles begin.