CHAPTER 6:

7:15 p.m., Christmas Eve

Molly sat back in the cab, fiddling with the crushed bow on the gift box. She peeked inside, and was relieved to see that everything was still there. She was so glad now that Sherlock never opened it; she might never have recovered from her death.

Even if he didn't accept the gift, he would have read the words, seen the cufflinks...

She sighed deeply and wiped her eyes; she was such a girl. Molly couldn't wait to get home. She'd get out this stupid dress and toss in the rubbish bin. She wouldn't put Sherlock's gift back in her jewelry box; she'd put it in a box at the back of her closet and forget about it.

Well, not really. One doesn't forget a piece of their soul. Do they?

The cab took a left turn instead of a right, and Molly sat up quickly. "Excuse me," She said, "you're going the wrong way."

"No, I'm not!" The cab driver in the front seat sang out.

Every hair on Molly's body stood on end, and her heart skipped a beat—and not from joy; that voice was so familiar…

"I can see you're confused," the cabbie said with a small giggle. "Sorry about that. Let's try again: Hello, Sweet Molly. Has Ickle-Sherlocky-kins broken your heart—again? Girl, why do you put up with that?"

Molly then realized who's speaking: Jim. She's too stunned for a moment to say anything.

"I know, right?" he gasped. "Surprise!"

"Hello, Jim. I didn't know you drove a cab."

"Oh, certainly. I do this part-time—for extra special people, like you. "

"I see."

Jim clicked his tongue and shook his head. "No, I don't think you do, but that's all right. You'll figure it out soon."

"What do you mean?"

"And spoil the awesome surprise?" Jim mockingly gasped. "Tsk-tsk! I'm facing the other way; I want to see your face when you find out."

"Oh, well, how about you tell me, and when we get there, I'll act surprised?" Molly replied.

"You're so adorable! How about… no."

"Seriously, Jim, I'm a little creeped out right now."

"Oh, you don't know the half of it, darling."

"Jim, is this revenge for breaking up with you via text?"

Jim sighed. "Well, I was going to say yes, to gauge your reaction, but… no. I've had this special surprise lined up for you a few weeks ago."

"Why did you wait until now to give it to me?"

"I had to time it just right, and it turns out I have you to thank! This evening couldn't have turned out as well as it did—for me!" He said cryptically. "I'm so glad I waited!"

"You're acting oddly."

"Hahaha!" Jim snickered gleefully. "Not yet, I'm not!"

Molly made a confused face. "What in the bloody hell are you on about, Jim? I really don't have time for this. Let me out now." She put her hand on the door handle, but it wouldn't open.

"Nope!" He announced loudly. "And, really, Sweet Molly…" he continued, his voice dropping to normal levels, "What huge appointment must you to rush off to? Toby? A whole bag of crisps? Silly romance films that make you cry? God, you've been doing an awful lot of crying as of late. It's boring. YOU'RE BORING!"

"Hang on," Molly countered, ignoring Jim's shout at the end. "Everything you've just said was exactly what I was doing a few nights ago. How—?"

"I'm omnipotent," Jim bragged. "I. See. All."

"Yeah, right," Molly shot back. "I don't know how, but you crossed a line. What are you, some sort of stalker?" She definitely didn't need one of those—unless it was Sherlock; she'd seriously consider putting up with that.

"No, I'm a serial killer." His statement was uttered so smoothly, Molly mistook it for a joke.

"Oh, stop it," Molly retorted. "I don't want to play this game anymore, Jim. Pull over, and let me out."

Jim tapped his chin, as if he was actually mulling it over. He then replied: "Mmm, no."

"Damn it, you wanker!" Molly shouted, hitting the glass between them. "LET ME OUT!"

"Really, Molly? Is that how you speak to a friend?"

"You're not my friend," Molly spat. "Not any more."

"Aw, shucks, darling;" Jim replied in a mocking tone. "I had so much fun the last time we saw each other."

Molly tried not to think about where Jim had put his hands. "What do you want?" She bit out.

"I want Sherlock to die, but that's for later."

Molly's ears perked up at this. "Sherlock?! What do you want with him?"

"I want to play with Sherlock's toy, so I've taken you without asking. Let's see if good ol' Sherlock Holmes will come and fetch you back."

"That's very doubtful," she muttered. "He hates me. I account for nothing in his eyes."

"Oh, no, honey; I've got his number. I'll tell you this: He's the wee jealous lad who yanks a smart girl's pigtails because he wants to be number one—but he really, really likes her and doesn't know how to express it." Jim went on, sorrow creeping into his voice. "Sad, really. If he keeps that up, he'll die never knowing the love a good woman."

"Sherlock has never touched me," Molly retorted defiantly. "So you're wrong."

"Really?" Jim gasped in disbelief. "You called out for him quite often at night. What was going on in those dreams of yours?"

"Stop it!" Molly screeched; trying to block out the images from her intimate nighttime fantasies—where Sherlock's hands were on her skin.

Jim was still talking. "You touched him tonight, though! Yes, that was a pretty fantastic display of shedding your skin, if I may say so. Brava!"

Molly's mind reeled. "What?! How did you know?!"

"OMNIPOTENT, DOOFUS!" Jim screamed.

Molly was struck silent.

"Still, you are so very wrong, Sweet Molly," Jim continued. "He does touch you—with his words. He did tonight, because he thought you were going on a date with me!" Jim giggled maniacally. "Funny how things turn out, huh?"

"Hilarious," Molly muttered.

"Awww," Jim cooed mockingly. "I saw you on that curb, crying in your very pretty dress, because he's touched you one time too many."

She didn't want to think about Sherlock touching her! "Let me off here!" she demanded loudly.

"No-can-do!" Jim sang out again. "I'm taking you home."

"Oh." Molly started to calm down a little. "So you drove me around to do what? Threaten me?"

"You're so adorable, with your ordinary brain," Jim spoke to her as if she were a Spaniel puppy; if he had a free hand, he probably would have reached back and patted her head.

"I'm taking you to my home, you simple woman," He continued. "I wonder if the great Sherlock would like a piece of that adorable dress?" He wondered aloud. "Probably not, knowing him, The Virgin that he is; he didn't appreciate it when it was right in front of him just moments ago…" Jim sighed. "Still, it just might motivate him to play…"

The cab suddenly stopped with such force, Molly fell to the floor.

"We're here!" shouted Jim excitedly.

The left door yanked open. Before Molly could move back, two sets of hands reached in to grab her and pull her from the vehicle. She inhaled so sharply, her lungs hurt, but immediately screamed loudly—at a pitch high enough for one of the men who grabbed her to let go in an attempt to protect his ears. Her right foot and hand hit the smooth ground—roadway pavement—and she felt the heel of her shoe break off, and her earring went flying into the darkness.

Molly tried to kick, but they were stronger. She tried to fight them off, but Jim smoothly exited the cab, reaching into his pocket as he did. He reached over and injected her neck with something very sharp and cold, and she heard the rush of water in her ears, and saw only his insane grin and burning gaze before she passed out.

ooooooooooooooooooooooo

1 a.m., Christmas Day

When Molly woke up, the room was spinning, and she thought she was lying on a ridiculously oversize ball of candy floss, but she closed her eyes again and waited for the rolling and gyrations to come to halt.

She took stock of her person; besides the ache in her head, neck, and hand, she seemed okay. She was still wearing that damned dress. Her shoes were not her feet. Molly sent a silent thanks upward, when she realized she had not been sexually assaulted.

She lay still and tried to use her other senses.

She smelled lemon wax—and damp. Mustiness. Mineral water. It reminded her of the times her father took her spelunking. She was in a room with four walls, but she smelled a cave. That really threw her off.

She heard the roar of a waterfall. She was near a cave, then. But which one? Was she even still in London? In the United Kingdom?

Molly took a deep breath and sat up gradually, her right arm moving slowly—it felt like she was dragging a heavy tree limb—upwards to rub her neck. It really hurt.

She took this opportunity to get her eyes and brain to focus. She further scanned the room and noticed it was furnished well; four-poster bed, dark cherry wood, white linens, and brass sconces, cream carpeting. There are a few books on a table nearby, as well as a silver tray, bearing a glass of clear liquid—water, Molly hoped—and a few biscuits.

There were no windows that she could see, but there were two doors. One was larger than the other; it had to be the way out.

"If you hadn't struggled, you would feel perfectly fine right now." Jim's sing-song voice floated through the room.

Molly tried to locate the source, lifting the tray, checking the glass of water and the cookies, and even the books, but found nothing. She still needed to move slowly; she had been heavily drugged with an unknown substance for an undetermined amount of time.

There was obviously a camera—maybe more than one—but she'd try to find that later.

"Drink the water and eat a little, Sweet Molly. It'll help."

"Where am I? Where are my things?"

"You are a guest at Chateau Moriarty. Welcome and Happy Christmas! I do hope you find the accommodations to your liking. Your purse and all its contents are safe with me. Oh, that gift for Sherlock? So precious. That you would waste something so sentimental on him defies logic. He definitely doesn't deserve them."

Molly panicked. "Don't you dare take them!"

"I wouldn't dream of it," Jim assured her. "They aren't my style, anyway. Still, the little note was adorable. Maybe, one day soon, I'll give Sherlock your little gift."

"I hate you."

"Yes, I know," Jim replied simply. "It gives me such warm feels."

"But… where am I?"

"Hmm. I think I gave you too much knock out juice," Jim murmured. "I said Chateau Mor—"

Molly shook her head. "No, I meant: am I still in England?"

"Ohhh!" Jim replied, realization dawning. "Yes."

"But, not in London."

"Oooh, good girl! You are so adorable; too bad Sherlock didn't pick up on that."

Molly remained mute, but looked over at the tray of biscuits and water. She licked her lips.

"Please eat and drink, Sweet Molly." Jim coaxed. "I promise: they aren't drugged."

"You'll forgive me if I don't believe you right now."

"I forgive you," he replied. "Hell, I wouldn't trust me either."

"I have questions, Jim," Molly announced suddenly. "Am I allowed to ask them—and will you answer them?"

"No. No questions," Jim responded. "I'll let you know what you need to, when the time comes.

"But Jim—"

"Bup-bup-bup! Hold all questions until the end, please."

"When the end be?"

"That's a question," Jim accused. "Now, there was something I was supposed to warn you about. What was it? … Oh, yes: don't try to open the big door."

"Why—why not?"

"Awww, that sounds like a question. What did I say about those?"

"Jim, I'm a forensic pathologist," Molly replied, wishing she had a face to speak to—even if was Jim's. "I'm always asking questions."

"Well, you're no fair," Jim pouted. "All right. I'll allow you to ask, but don't expect to me answer."

Molly sighed. "Okay."

"Gosh, you're being so calm about this, Sweet Molly," Jim sighed, clearly annoyed. "It's not right."

Molly was taken aback. "Do you want me to get hysterical?"

"NO!" he practically shouted. "Please don't. The last four did that, and it drove me CRAZY. I enjoyed the screaming during the rough, rough sex-but in between, with the constant sobbing and pleading…? It was a serious killjoy."

Molly squirmed at his casual mention of sadistic torture and rape of his victims…

His four victims.

"Four—?" Molly couldn't get the rest of the words out, somehow knowing in the pit of her stomach what Jim was going to say next, but hoped her gut feeling was wrong.

"Well," Jim said casually, his calm disturbing Molly, "you knew three of them: Laura Kitterman, Millie MacGregor, and Carrie Gramble. I forget the name of the first one, but she was magnificent. She screamed and screamed and screeeeeeeeamed..."

"Oh, my god. Those poor women! You sick bastard!" Molly shouted at the empty room, dread flipping her stomach over. She had to try to be strong; she did not want to end up like the women who'd found their way into St. Bart's morgue.

Molly wondered briefly if anyone would know where to look for her? She had warned Sherlock to stay away, so he would never know that she was missing. She felt like kicking herself.

"I don't think your god's going to help you now," Jim chided, and his smooth laugh sent chills through Molly's limbs. "Got any other deities you'd like to pray to?"

"Jim, those women had families!" She blurted, before she could stop herself.

"So?"

"Jesus, Jim. I know what you did to them."

"I know!" He giggled gleefully. "I'd had such fun."

"Are you… are you going to do those things to me?" She asked warily.

Jim was silent for a while, and Molly wanted to vomit yet again. His lack of an answer could only mean one thing…

"Oh, Sweet Molly, stop that. I can see you turning green, so I'll spare you and say this: do what I tell you, exactly as I tell you, and we'll get along smashingly."

"That sounds ominous."

"Molly," Jim sighed exasperatedly, "you are locked in a room without windows, somewhere outside London, and talking to me through a microphone, and you think my threat is ominous?"

"Why won't you come in here?" She returned with a question of her own.

"Well, I like my face and all of my body parts, thank you; if I went into the room, you might decide to rearrange things."

"You are such a coward," she spat.

"NO! I'M NOT!" Jim suddenly screamed, and the horrific screeching bounced off the walls, hurting Molly's ears. "I TOOK YOU RIGHT OUT FROM UNDER SHERLOCK HOLMES'S NOSE! THAT'S NOT BEING A COWARD, THAT'S BEING FUCKING BRILLIANT!"

Molly, startled, covered her ears with her hands, and curled up on the bed. 'Please make him stop screaming!'

Jim lowered his tone immediately. "Oh. Oh! No, no, no. I'm sorry, Sweet Molly. That was so unprofessional of me. Are you all right?"

She kept her hands on her ears, but could still hear him, though in a more muffled tone. "Do you want my honest answer?"

"Hahaha," his laughter was mocking. "Beauty, brains, and wit. Are you sure I can't persuade you to come to the Dark Side?"

"No!"

"You're one of the angels, aren't you?" He growled. "All light and goodness, and purity!" His tone switched to a conspiratorial whisper: "Well, maybe not pure, as I can attest—"

"Stop bringing that up!"

"Aww, I kind of thought I made quite a fabulous impression on you. Pity." Molly's face was mutinous, certainly, so Jim pressed on. "Right, then. Let's begin.

"You mean all of the things that had occurred to this point were just for fun?" Molly blurted out.

Jim chuckled darkly. "For me, yes. Now, we have to get to the serious business."

Molly couldn't help it; she was nervous, so the first things that popped into her head flew out of her mouth: "I shudder to think."

"You are not being a very nice hostage," Jim pouted.

Molly felt ridiculous speaking to an empty room. "Well, you aren't being a very bad kidnapper."

Jim sighed loud and long. "I'm starting to rethink this whole 'Kidnap-Molly-Hooper-to get-to-Sherlock Holmes' scheme. You are most definitely not cooperating. What in the hell happened to you, Molly?"

"I thought you 'saw all'."

"Don't ever use my words against me," came the swift, angry response. "I'm the serial-killing kidnapper, here.

Molly felt control slipping away—not just from herself, but Jim as well. This was not going well. "God, I feel like we're in a really bad episode of Abbott and Costello...

"Ah, yes, the famous 'Who's on First?' skit," Jim acknowledged. "Well, you're up first. It's time for your first lesson."

She looked around warily. "Which is?"

"Oh, it's simple," Jim sounded so damned casual, it was disgusting. "Go to the big door."

"What's behind it? A lady or a tiger?"

Jim chuckled again. "I admit: that was clever. However, for you, it would be a lady. That would be so much fun to watch on this monitor!"

Molly sighed. "It pains me to admit this, but: you know I don't swing that way, Jim."

"If the right lady popped out, you would be!" He teased. "I know a rather interesting raven-haired woman…" His tone switched to a more serious one: "You know, I'm going have trouble killing you; you're funny."

Despite her fear, she still couldn't grasp the idea of shy Jim being an actual killer. That was a dangerous thing; underestimating a person. Didn't Molly just teach that lesson to Sherlock? "Um, thanks?"

"Just go to the door," Jim instructed, exasperated.

Molly looks over at the door and shook her head. "No, I don't think I will."

"I insist."

"No."

"You know," Jim remarked with a deadly calm, "I'm becoming irritated with the sass. I've all ready broken several of my rules and now regret it, because you've gotten out of hand. I'll deal with that little problem soon enough, though." He continued quickly: "And before you make another retort, please believe me when I tell you I'll. Hurt. You. You had four dead bodies in your morgue to prove that."

So, he didn't know about Laura Kitterman, then, Molly thought. For someone who claimed to 'see all', he was lacking information. Or did he really know, and was trying to get her to reveal what she knew? She opted to reply: "You're going to hurt me anyway."

"True, but I want you to learn a lesson here."

"Which is…?"

"You'll see," he replied in that damned sing-song voice again. If Molly had her scalpel, she'd cut his throat just to get him to stop.

"I can see the murderous look on your face," Jim said neutrally. "That's so not cool."

Molly rolled her eyes. "This has got to be strangest kidnapping I've ever participated in."

"How many other times have you been kidnapped?" Jim gasped, scandalized.

Molly did not answer this question. Instead, she rose slowly, and hesitantly stepped across the plush cream carpet to stand in front of the door. It looked ordinary, but if Jim was at the wheel, there could be a thousand giant spiders on the other side, waiting to devour her.

But he said he wanted her to learn a lesson, so he wasn't going to kill her right now. So, Molly stretched out her hand and… paused just inches above the brass knob.

"Do it! Do it! Do it!" Jim chanted.

Molly gulped, braced herself for something, and tapped the knob lightly.

Nothing happened.

She gasped and sagged against the door relief. Feeling a little braver, she decided to grasp and turn the knob. That was the wrong choice; she received an electric shock! Molly fell back, crying out in fear—and considerable pain.

"Yaaay!" Jim giggled, damn him. "Good girl."

Molly glared at her hand. "I really hate you—and I'm not doing a bloody thing more."

"Oh, stop it. I'm not going to shock you—well, at least not with electricity. Unless you're into that…?"

"No!"

"Hey, everyone has some sort of dirty little secret. Sherlock's is: He's a virgin!" Jim crowed. "Yep. He's never been with a girl-or guy, come to think of it. I'll bet that bothers the good Doctor Watson." He laughed maniacally for a moment, then sobered quickly. "So, I'll bet you have some secrets!" He continued, knowingly. "Mine is… well, that's a story for another day. How about we get you out of those clothes?"

Molly looked at the big door, her eyes flying open in true terror. Was Jim going to come in and rip her dress off and force himself on her?

Jim's laugh was mocking. "Oh, dear, no. I don't want to do things to you. Well, at least not right now. Relaaaax. The smaller door is the bathroom, and yes, there's a camera in there—"

"That's disgusting!"

"—But it's pointed towards the floor, so all I'll ever see are your pretty little calves and feet. I'm a gentleman, Sweet Molly; I promise not to look at your girly parts… again. Unless you ask me to, of course."

"You will NEVER see me naked again, you wanker."

"That's not what you said last time!"

"Stop it!" Molly shouted. When Jim was silent, Molly pushed on: "Is there anything else in that room I should know about?"

"No, there's just the camera. Not telling you where it is, though. No listening devices, so you go ahead and curse me until your pretty pink tongue falls out. I don't mind; I've heard them all."

Molly fumed silently.

"Oh, and even though that room has a porthole window, don't try to scream for help. No one will hear you. Waterfall!" He sang out.

"So you want me to change clothes," Molly retorted. "How? I didn't exactly pack for a kidnapping."

Jim chuckled darkly, again. "Tsk-tsk, Sweet Molly. Such cheek! But there's something for you behind the door in the bathroom. Scoot along, now, and get a quick shower and change. I have more for you to do—and it involves writing a rather interesting letter. After that… We get to play."