A/N: Okay here is the next chapter. I cannot promise I will have chapter 9 up anytime soon, but I am hoping to work on it next weekend. I will be busy for the next few weeks as work gears up again:P
Thank you to mattsloved1 for once again putting up with my mistakes:D
8. He Knows the Gift She Gives
Bored.
Totally, completely and maddeningly bored. He had been left alone for a while now. He'd only had one other visitor after John Watson left in what he assumed was the night before; a tall man with silvering hair had brought him breakfast a little while ago and of all things, embarrassingly, an actual old-fashioned chamber pot. The man at least had the courtesy to leave the room whilst Sherlock attended to his personal needs.
There was not much to look at except the unrelenting grey of cement bricks. The only bright spot in the room was the blanket spread out on the cot. Standing beside the bed, he stretched cramped limbs, as he contemplated how long he'd been here. Not overly long. Twenty-four hours since he had seen the Watsons at the harbour, he believed. It was hard to say for sure as he had been unconscious for part of that time and his internal clock was askew.
Being bored with nothing to do made the desire to be pulled back into sleep stronger. It lingered at the edge of his mind. Sleep was irritating, and he had dozed long enough. He wanted to be doing something, needed to be away from his inner thoughts, which were far too personal at the moment.
As he mused about his state of ennui, he was suddenly distracted by a noise at the door. There was a strange clunking sound, almost as if someone was trying to turn the knob but didn't quite have the strength. There was a pause, some more noise and then with a rusty groan the lock clicked and the door sprang open.
Molly Watson entered, with a slow hesitancy, as if checking to see if he was alone. After a quick survey, she scrambled over to him. Without any fear, she climbed at the foot of the cot and sat cross-legged. He continued to stand as he regarded her.
"Hello," she said, not a bit shy. She stared at him with her dark blue eyes. The memory of her reaching out and touching his face hovered between them. Something in him almost shrank back at the thought of being touched again, but the majority of his feelings were of curiosity. This child had fundamentally changed him in ways he was still trying to discover.
"Hello," he said back. "Does your father know you are here? I would think he wouldn't be too pleased."
"No."
"Okay."
Shrugging, he joined her on the cot. She watched him, her face open and honest. There was sweetness there but not cloying. Rather it was of someone who felt that in spite of all the bad things in the world, the trust in the greater good and the belief in others were implicit. Her regard, a five-year-old judging him, was a heavy weight.
"You killed Molly."
"Yes, I did." No prevarication, no lying. Simple straight up facts. Besides he knew she knew so what was the point.
"Why? She was my friend."
"I'm sorry." He was. He hadn't been before. "It was all I knew how to do. It's how I get or rather got information. I needed to know where you were. She wouldn't have told me if I asked. It is not something I would do again." He bent his head down and fiddled with the blanket. He'd never felt so uncomfortable before. "I also needed to feel other people's emotions. I didn't have my own. I do now, thanks to you." He looked up and narrowed his eyes at her. "You have changed me. I couldn't do it again if I wanted to. Hurt someone that way, I mean."
"Daddy says it's not good enough to say sorry. You have to promise not to do it again. You have to say it like this. 'I am sorry I hurt you by killing your friend. I promise I won't do it again.'" She waited for a response.
A little bright glow of astonishment grew inside him.
"Well?" she asked, impatient with his delay.
He smothered a smile. It would not be appropriate to the solemnity of the moment.
"I am sorry, truly sorry, I hurt you, Molly Watson. I am very sorry I killed your friend. I promise I won't ever do anything like that again."
"Okay," she said. "I'm supposed to say, 'I accept your apology.'"
Sherlock waited. Molly continued to stare at him.
Right.
Well then.
After the thick, awkward silence, she crawled closer, invaded his space and threw her arms around him. Logically, he knew he couldn't hurt her with touch anymore, not that way, but he was still hesitant. She squeezed harder and almost of their volition, his arms went up and wrapped around her. Such a simple act, such emotional connection, such a moment of healing. He closed his eyes. This was peace.
It only lasted a moment as the door was flung open and banged against the wall. Sherlock's eyes snapped open, and his arms dropped. Molly continued to hold on. John entered, face like thunder. For a small man, he was much larger when angered. He had a gun, and it was raised and levelled at Sherlock's head. There was no pity in his eyes, and his aim was sure and steady.
"Molly, come away from him right now." His voice was calm but with a note of steel underneath. She let go of Sherlock with one arm but held on with the other as she turned and faced John.
"No."
John blinked and his lips thinned. He wasn't used to being disobeyed by Molly, Sherlock observed.
"Molly, you will do as I say. Get down this minute and away from him. He already hurt you once, and he won't get a second chance."
Rolling her eyes in that way that obviously irritated John, she clambered down. She stood with her arms crossed in front of Sherlock and said, "No. He didn't hurt me. I hurt him."
John blinked again but said nothing. Molly sighed and then before she left she reached up and planted a kiss on Sherlock's cheek. "If he shoots you, I won't speak to him for a long time."
She walked out but gave her father a good scowl as she passed.
John waited until she left and then said, "If you ever go anywhere near her again, I will shoot you."
Sherlock didn't speak. He knew there was no point telling John she had come to him.
John backed out of the room and slammed the door shut. Sherlock could hear the lock turn.
His breathing began to calm, and his heartbeat slowed the longer he continued to sit and stare at the closed door.
Interesting.
He'd never been scared before.
oOo
"You, young lady, are in so much trouble." John stood, arms crossed, trying to glare down his daughter. He was getting the impression it wasn't going to work.
She in turn ignored him and was playing with her porridge, either not hungry or too tired to eat. Although she had slept through the night, she had been restless and had called out for Mary a couple of times and once for Molly. There were dark circles under her eyes.
John hadn't slept at all. He had laid on the bed beside his daughter but every time he closed his eyes he heard the ocean, he saw eyes like the stars shining in the dark and heard a voice like deep water. His eyes would snap open, and he would shiver. Lack of sleep wasn't conducive to being cheerful and happy in the morning, and self-recrimination about whatever this was wasn't helpful either. When he discovered, Molly had snuck down to the basement and was chatting pleasantly with St. James, hugging him for Christ's sake, well it made him slightly unreasonable.
"Molly, do you hear me?"
"Yes."
"Yes, what?"
"Yes, I hear you. But Sherlock won't hurt anyone anymore."
"Sherlock?"
She just looked at him as if he were really, really stupid. Or a bug. He wasn't sure he liked it. He had to admit he was a bit slow this morning.
"His name is Sherlock Holmes. He used to hurt people. Now he doesn't. I fixed him." She sounded weary of repeating this phrase. "He likes me, and I like him and you aren't going to hurt him." She looked a little unsure for a moment. "You aren't going to hurt him, but he did do something really bad."
"Holmes? Sherlock Holmes? Are you sure?"
"Yes. That's his name."
"Shit."
"Daddy!"
"Sorry, but that is not a good piece of news. No wonder he looked familiar."
"Why Daddy?"
"He's brother to the man who runs the Agency. I've heard of him. Huh. Well, that makes sense, about the touching people. That's how he kills." At one time discussing trained agents in front of Molly would have been out of the question. He was too tired to wonder at this latest upheaval in his life.
"I told you that."
"Yes, I know. I'm sorry. Well hell, that complicates things a whole lot more."
"But you won't hurt him, will you?"
John sighed, the sound of a father put to his limits with an irritating child. "Molly, I can't promise I won't hurt him. My feelings about him and what happened to you are complicated. He was sent here to hurt us, and I won't let him do that. Do you understand me?"
"Yes, but he won't. He won't ever, ever hurt me. But Daddy, he killed Molly."
John knew deep down inside that Molly Hooper was the link to how they had been found and that the likelihood of her being alive was slim, but it was still a blow. He sat down abruptly. "Oh God."
Molly scooted off of her chair and mirroring her comfort of Holmes, she climbed onto her father's lap and flung her arms around him. He could feel her shoulders begin to shake as she let go of her grief. John's chest ached; ached for all the pain his daughter had gone through. He wasn't sure if he could take her being in pain anymore and he was very close to snapping. Holmes would make a convenient target.
Harry chose that moment to walk in on them. She stood cautiously in the doorway at first and then came over and hugged them. After a few minutes, she reached around for some Kleenex and wiped at Molly's eyes.
"Come on pet, you haven't slept much. Why don't we go into the garden? Uncle Greg's out there and he can keep an eye on you. There's a lovely hammock under the tree, and maybe he will read to you. What do you say?"
Molly nodded. Harry got her a glass of water, took her hand and led her to the garden. She was back in a few minutes. John hadn't moved.
"Dad wants to speak to you. He wants to know what we are going to do."
"Dammed if I know," John whispered.
"John?"
"Fuck Harry, it's so goddamned complicated."
"What? This? With what is happening to Molly and this man?" She looked confused. "He came after you and he wouldn't have hesitated to kill you and us and you know it. Why is that complicated?"
"Molly says he can't hurt people anymore, that whatever he did before he can't do. She insists she's changed him."
"You believe her?"
"I saw them down in the basement. He was hugging her. She was hugging him, and there was a look of pure happiness on his face, bliss and contentment, but like it was new like he didn't know what it was or what to do with it. I don't think he'd hurt her."
Harry sat down and looked at John, really looked at him. "What about the rest of us? He works for this agency of yours. You know he's come here for you and her. He is supposed to bring her back unharmed. That's what he told you last night."
"I know."
"John, what is it? What makes you so sure? I mean Molly, yeah, she's special and all, but she's five. What the hell does she know? What if he's fooling her?"
John turned his hands over and looked at them, saw the lines and calluses there, wondered about times he had had to kill people and knew that if he had been sent to bring someone back, dead or alive he would have. He had been too well trained and knew that he wouldn't have just given up on a quarry.
But he also knew Molly was special. He had seen something happen between her and Holmes. There had to be more to it than a ruse.
Then there was the thing he couldn't say, the idea that he couldn't bring himself to name yet, waiting patiently at the back of his mind. The rush of water and waves in his blood, stronger than any pull he'd ever felt was playing there, calling to him. The thing he couldn't speak of yet, that told him, Sherlock Holmes was more than just a man sent to kill him and take his daughter. A glimmer of possibilities tumbled through him, and his nervous system tingled with a brush of what could be. He shook his head. His wife of ten years was dead, the people he worked for were trying to kill him, his daughter had new and strange abilities that would put her in danger probably for the rest of her life and…
He was falling in love.
He sat up, "Right. Let's talk to Dad and see what we can do."
oOo
Jack Watson was not pleased. They were in the living room, which was a fairly large space but at the moment didn't look like it was capable of containing two angry Watsons.
He snarled, his shoulders were hunched, and he looked as if he would charge John, rush him, showing his dominance. "Are you insane? That monster was sent to kill you and her and us too, and you want to let him out of his cage? What happened to putting him in the ocean where he belongs?"
John had enough. His temper, never the best around his father, certainly frayed with everything going on, snapped. "Enough! First of all, we need him to contact his handler and let him know he is still alive. He needs to make the Agency think he is still pursuing us. That should give us the time to get away and hide someplace else." Jack looked like he was about to say something, but John held up his hand. "Do. Not. Interrupt. I'm not finished. No, I do not know for sure he will do that, but he has made a connection with Molly. I don't entirely trust him, but I am beginning to see there's more to this, and I do trust her. She has talents I can't imagine. Right now I am going downstairs to speak with him. I can ask him. I will also offer him the choice of being alive or dead."
"You can't know he won't use you and your feelings for Molly. He will lie to get you to do anything. You can't trust him, boy."
"Look, I would agree with you if I hadn't seen him hug Molly and she gave him a kiss."
Normally the expression on Jack's face would have made John laugh, stunned was not a good enough descriptor.
"His name is Sherlock Holmes. He is the brother of the man who runs the Agency, Mycroft Holmes. He is an unusual and gifted agent. Mycroft would not send him unless he were desperate to get us back. Sherlock Holmes would not come himself unless he were highly motivated. He has a singular talent. He just needs to touch someone for them to end up dead."
"All the more reason…"
"He touched Molly! Don't you get it? He touched her, he hugged her. She touched him. She's not dead, and she damn well should be! He can't turn off his ability. We all knew about him, and there wasn't one agent who wanted anything to do with him." He took a deep breath. "I am not foolish enough to entirely trust him. I will be keeping a close eye on him, but after Molly had touched him, he collapsed and went into some kind of coma. She says he's cured, and until I have proof otherwise I am going to believe her."
"But, John," Harry said, tentatively so as not to have his anger directed at her. "He could kill people just by touching them?"
"Yes and read them, too. Mary and I had heard rumours. No one talks much about the talents of others, but we'd heard. He could tell what people were thinking, feeling."
"He sounds like a monster, John! He's killed people you know and care for. He could kill us or hand us over to this Agency of yours."
"He was a monster. Can we be certain he still is?" No one said anything, not knowing how to refute that question.
"Right. I'm going downstairs. Someone, please get Greg and Molly. She needs to see this. If she has cured him and they do have a connection, maybe she can help get his cooperation. If he's lying to her somehow, then perhaps she can sense it or at the very least we can show her he's not what she thinks." What did it say about him that he was desperate enough to expose his daughter like this?
Rather than delve too deeply into that psychological quagmire, he turned abruptly and marched out of the room to the door to the basement.
He stood outside the door, gathering his courage. He knew what he had to do. He knew how it had to play out. He had used people before and got them to do what he wanted.
Right.
Shoulders squared, he pulled out his gun, unlocked the door and swung it open.
Holmes looked up from where he was sitting on the cot. He looked at John expectantly as John levelled the gun at him once more.
One look at Holmes and John's heart started to hammer. His fingers began to twitch. Throughout his entire body, there was a humming sound, beginning in his ears and flowing through his entire skin, as if he were attuning himself to a presence. A crescendo, the sound of crashing waves almost drowned the noise of his pulse. If he were to stand on the beach on a stormy day, the noise would not be louder. This is what drowning felt like.
He cleared his throat.
"Here's the deal. We will let you out of here, and you will contact your handler and let him or her know you are still looking for us. You will do whatever you need to do to make them think you haven't been in contact yet."
"If I don't?"
"I will kill you and hide your body so far under the ocean no one will ever find it."
"Of course."
"Of course what?"
"Of course I will help you. I have no interest in assisting my brother." There was such bitterness in the word 'brother' John could almost taste it.
"Why should I believe you?"
Holmes sat back. "But you already do. I can see it."
"What do you mean? I thought you had to touch people to read them."
"You've heard of me." His eyes lit up, almost excited. "Well yes. I use to, but Molly seems to have changed that. I learned how to observe people and learn their secrets, for those occasions when touching someone would be a bit not good, seeing as they usually ended up dead."
"Usually?"
"Not always."
"Huh. Well, that complicates things." John hoped to hell his thudding heart wasn't that easy for Holmes to detect.
"How so?"
"You didn't kill Molly, but she also wasn't hurt. You said you don't always kill people by touching them, so how do I know you can't hurt or kill one of us?"
"Oh, believe me, you'd know. Even if I don't kill someone they are never the same after. She would not be the same."
"And you expect me just to believe you?"
An amused smirk and Sherlock held out his arm. "Touch me."
"I'd rather not." He didn't want to say why he'd rather not. It certainly wouldn't be the reason Holmes would think.
"Oh, I see. You're afraid. Hmmm, well if you don't entirely, believe me, what will you do?"
"I guess I have to trust you. Will you do this for us?" It went against every grain of common sense and training, but he had to ask.
"Yes." Holmes stood up and stretched, his movements sure and lithe. His white shirt rode up a little showing a glimpse of pale skin. That was not helping John's ridiculous infatuation at all.
Holmes walked over to John and leaned into him a little, a seemingly stupid move when a gun was pointed at someone. Holmes did not appear scared. He whispered in John's ear, in a frighteningly intimate fashion, "You do in fact already believe me. So let's cut the charade, shall we?" And he smirked again.
John just glared and ushered Holmes out ahead of him.
oOo
Mycroft Homes was not a man to worry about agents or details of things. He knew whatever he asked for would be accomplished. Sending Sherlock to retrieve the Watsons was by far the most expedient and sensible choice, if indeed the word sensible could be used regarding Sherlock.
He was, however, beginning to be perhaps a bit disturbed. He had not heard from Sherlock since he had texted him at the Bed and Breakfast almost two days ago. He knew John Watson was a formidable agent, but he was so confident in his brother's abilities there should be no need for worry. Sherlock would prevail. He always had. Still, sometimes accidents happened or the unexpected.
Just as he was beginning to wonder if he should send another agent, his private line rang.
"Interesting timing," he said to the empty room.
"Brother, dear," came the familiar voice on the other end. "I am sure you were wondering what became of me."
"Yes, as a matter of fact, I was beginning to be somewhat concerned."
"How touching. I am calling to inform you the Watsons have left the area. I am off to pursue them and will require you to arrange transportation."
"Indeed. Slipped your fingers did they?"
"Yes. Most annoying."
"All right, Sherlock. Where do you need to go?"
"Ontario. Toronto to be precise and then I hope to pick up the trail there."
"I'll have Anthea make arrangements. I will call you back shortly with the details."
"Good." The line was terminated. Mycroft put down the receiver and stared at the phone. Sometimes even he could be surprised it seems and this time it was the unexpected.
A shame it hadn't been an accident.
