A/N: This chapter is tension and action - which is not my forte - but needs to be done so we can get to some Sherlolly fallout in the final few chapters of this fic, which I'm looking forward to writing so much more! It was so hard to write. I'm still not 100% with it, but I want to get this story completed because so many people seem to have been enjoying it so far.
Molly's head ached from where Henderson's man had knocked her down. No doubt he taken advantage of Molly's distraction as she texted the emergency extraction code to Anthea.
And now she was sitting in a hard-backed plastic vintage chair in Bill Grey's apartment.
Her bound wrists chafed from her attempts at freeing them. The gag in her mouth made it hard to breathe. And there was a gun barrel pointed at her left temple.
Despite the circumstances, she couldn't help herself having an imaginary conversation with her best friend Meena.
"So how was Vegas?" Meena would ask.
"Oh, you know, saw some sights, almost died, the usual."
Perhaps not the most profound thoughts to have when facing one's death. But it was better than thinking about the reality of the situation. And it certainly stopped her from focusing on the look of sheer venom in Sherlock's eyes as he faced off with Henderson.
Henderson nodded at Sherlock's bodyman who held Sherlock's arms behind his back and removed the pistol Sherlock had tucked into the back of his trowsers.
Once freed, Sherlock turned his attentions again to Henderson.
"Let her go. You know she's got nothing to do with this. Just a whore," he spat out the word.
Henderson laughed without mirth. "Now now. You and I both know that's not the case."
He gestured to Sherlock to take a seat, and he complied.
"You are a funny one, Sherlock Holmes," he said, running a hand through Molly's hair, making her shudder. "From everything I'd heard about you, I wouldn't think this little one would be your type."
Henderson licked his thumb and wiped a line of stray mascara that had run down Molly's cheek. She wanted to gag. She could see Sherlock swallow, trying his best not to betray any emotion.
"Over here, well, we think most of you Brits are a bit limp anyway, but there are rumours of your – what is he, companion? Wilson?" He looked up, as if the ceiling held the answer, "No, Watson."
Sherlock remained silent, refusing to participate in any game Henderson was playing.
Molly wished for the powers of telepathy, or that the two of them could communicate in Morse Code by blinking – she heard that John had done that once. Any way to get him to stall for time.
"But then I started getting reports of some particularly entertaining footage featuring you and this little piece." Henderson's eyes trailed lasciviously down her body. Molly had never felt so violated – and he hadn't even laid a finger on her.
"Smith." He nodded to the bodyman, the home theatre screen illuminated, and filled with footage of one of their afternoons together. Molly knew they weren't actually doing what it looked very much like they were doing, but it certainly was such an impressive facsimile that she felt her cheeks redden with shame.
She closed her eyes, not wanting to watch any more. After a few moments, she heard the tell-tale sound of Bill's – ending – and she opened her eyes in time to see herself (well, Cindy), dress and leave the hotel room.
After a moment, Bill yelled out, "There. Stop it there."
On the screen, Sherlock was sitting on the edge of the bed, head in his hands.
"See?"
"See what?" Sherlock asked.
"Well, Mr Holmes, that is not the look of a man who has had a meaningless lay," Henderson smirked. "That is a man who has had his life turned upside down."
"Or it's just a man who needs more coke," Sherlock retorted.
Henderson shook his head. "You could have any of the pros who worked my parties. You didn't. You only saw her. She's special."
Sherlock scoffed, "She's clean. Who knows where your young ladies have been."
Henderson circled around her. "I don't know. If she can make a man like you turn straight, maybe she'd give my pros a run for their money." He traced a finger down her neck and along her collarbone. "What do you think, sweetie?" He asked her.
Molly's eyes remained steel, penetrating into Henderson's. She was unrelenting, even as his hand moved close to her right breast. She glanced in Sherlock's direction, willing him not to react.
"Stop!" Sherlock stood. "Do whatever you want to me, just leave her."
Henderson almost doubled over, laughing in hysterics. After a moment he calmed. "Did you really think this was an either/or situation? If anything, it's a first/then. You're both going to die. I just wanted you to watch while I took your little piece for a test drive." Henderson ripped the side seam of Molly's skirt. His hands began running up her thighs. And then-
-time slowed down.
Events didn't happen in logical sequence, only as impressions.
Sherlock charging at Henderson.
Henderson pulling up Molly's dress.
Smith holding Sherlock back.
Henderson turning, gun aimed at Sherlock.
Molly twisting, turning in her chair, tipping it to the ground, freeing her arms – just enough.
Smith wrestling Sherlock into his chair, punching him in the face.
Molly eyeing her panic button on the floor – fallen from her bra.
Smith turning to Henderson.
Henderson's wicked smile as he stood over Molly.
Molly twisting, turning, trying to get to the button.
Sherlock yelling.
Henderson's eyes glazing over. Body falling to the floor.
Molly squeezing the button between two index fingers.
Smith. Standing. Plastic chair in hand. Nodding at Sherlock.
And then the cavalry arrived, led by Anthea.
