Chapter 7
Sherlock is anxious—he wants to find Molly more than ever now. Sleep seems a distant thought as his mind races, gladly trading his slumber in for the sound security of his mind palace.
Navigating all possible routes to Angel tube station isn't an issue. He flits over them repeatedly and deduces the amount of time each route takes from Molly's flat with any and all potential places for the abduction to take place. The issue is that Molly keeps invading his deductions.
Jumping up from the couch, he growls in frustration and begins to pace. The nicotine patches plastered to his forearm don't seem to help either. If only she would extricate herself for ten minutes, he might be able to come to a sound conclusion and be able to pinpoint the location of her disappearance. Sherlock ruffles his hair and tries again to focus, flopping down into his old leather chair in a huff.
Most of the time, Molly's presence in his mind palace is welcome; his mind's representation of her is often a crucial piece in helping solve crimes. Today, however, her company is impeaching his ability to stay objective in the face of her disappearance. Whenever he gets anywhere, her form darts across the outer edges of his consciousness. It's beyond maddening.
Without warning, the door to his flat opens and Mycroft steps through, hooking his umbrella over his arm. He nods his head in Sherlock's direction. "Brother mine."
Sherlock furrows his brow. "What time is it?"
"It's just gone nine," His elder brother says, and sits stiffly in John's upholstered armchair, crossing his long legs in front of him. A whole night gone in a blink of an eye with absolutely nothing to show for it. He hopes Mycroft will prove to be useful for once and end this infernal state of distraction.
"Do you have it?" Sherlock asks.
"Of course."
"Well?"
Rolling his eyes, Mycroft takes out a thumb drive and passes it to Sherlock.
Sherlock jumps up from his seat and strides over to his laptop, plugging the thumb drive in with shaking hands and opening up the corresponding files eagerly. He scans the first video intently, eyes flicking over the screen in search of anything unusual, his brother becoming nothing more than an irritating thought in the back of his mind.
"I take it that's all I'm to receive for my troubles?" Mycroft asks, his words edged with irritation.
Sherlock looks up. "Yes," he says pragmatically, "Now if you'll excuse me, I've got a case to solve."
Mycroft lets a disgruntled sigh slip out of his mouth. He walks over to his brother and watches over his shoulder for a moment. A creak from the chair groans out it's discomfort as his hands find a resting place on the back of the chair. His brows knit together as he watches his brother's former girlfriend leave her flat and begin her walk to work.
Sherlock pays no mind to his brother's snooping. If anything, an extra set of eyes might be useful. His eyes begin to burn from the screen's intense light and with the lack of sleep; he isn't completely sure he's working at peak efficiency. Not that he'd dare tell Mycroft that. Mycroft is always going on about how he's the smart one and he's so much better at deductions, now he can prove it and find the missing piece to Sherlock's puzzle.
The brothers spend several minutes staring at the screen, Sherlock fast forwarding the footage impatiently when nothing immediately turns up. He clicks on the second file of footage his brother supplied him with and in silence watches his ex-girlfriend pass again through the screen, this time at a different angle. Sherlock shifts slightly in his seat. He is almost certain that this is the footage he's been looking for. He watches as Molly slows down and pulls out an object in her handbag and types upon it. His eyes flit up to the time on the screen—7:15am. Perfect. She's writing the text to her fiancé.
Then, two suspicious figures walk into the frame. However, they are facing away from the camera, making it difficult to see any defining features. One walks past Molly as if he's just strolling along with nothing better to do, but Sherlock knows better. The other one stops and begins talking to her, using the conversation as a distraction. Molly puts her phone away and tries to leave, but the person blocks her path. That's when the other suspect returns, his face covered in a balaclava, and hits Molly over the head with a rock.
Sherlock's eyes narrow dangerously. The person who is in front of Molly catches her sinking body and tries to pull her off camera to their vehicle. Molly fights it—grasping at anything she can get her hands on. There's a small struggle but finally she succumbs to her fate and is dragged off screen.
"Stop the footage," Mycroft's voice cuts through Sherlock's thoughts. "Rewind it. I just might have found something."
Sherlock does as he is bid and rewinds the footage, stopping just before the incident occurred. They go through the footage again – "Stop. There," Mycroft points to what Sherlock missed. An object, no bigger than Sherlock's thumb falls to the ground during the scuffle and lands between the two parked cars in front of Molly and her attacker. The other assailant misses it completely as they try to restrain her and pull her out of view to where their vehicle must be. Sherlock squints at the screen. It is partially obscured by the bumper of the car, making it too hard to determine what it is. There is no sure-fire way to tell who it actually came from either. Furthermore, is the object in question still there? It's been forty-eight hours since Molly's disappearance and even if he did find the item, there is a high chance it has been crushed under a tire wheel or swept up by the road sweepers. There are so many variables, and none of them promising, but it's the only lead Sherlock has to go on. He must find the item and the sooner the better.
Mycroft breaks the silence. "If you're worried about the road sweepers finding it first, her street isn't a busy one. The object will still be there, I can assure you." Sherlock nods in agreement. "Well," Mycroft says with a sigh. "Now you can slay the proverbial dragon and rescue the damsel in distress." He walks toward the door, but stops short. "Oh, and if you find yourself in need of anything else brother dear, you know where I am." Mycroft lets the offer settle over Sherlock for a moment while his hand grasps at the door knob and pulls it open, stepping over the threshold.
At the last moment, Sherlock looks up. "Mycroft," he calls out and the door stops its journey back toward the door frame. "Thank you." Sherlock watches his brother bow his head through the crack in the door, his face shrouded in shadow as if the action were meant to be kept a secret.
"If it's any consolation Sherlock," Mycroft's voice wafts through the slit one last time, "I have every confidence that you'll find her." The door shuts with a soft click, and Sherlock is alone once again.
