A/N: Well, here it is at last, Chapter 12 of Torn. So sorry for the long wait. The first part's been written for a long time, it was just a struggle figuring out the ending, where it was going, and all that. I was torn (hah!) about two different directions to go immediately after this, but I have a good idea now. There are at least two more chapters after this one, possibly three, and then the story will finally be done. Thanks for all your wonderful reviews and patience with me in getting to this point. And thanks as always to my wonderful beta moonmama for pointing out how important the difference can be between "his" and "this" in making it clear who I'm talking about! :) And a special thanks to nocturnias for helping me get back on track when I wanted to wander in ten different directions. You ladies are the best!


When a soft knock sounded on the bathroom door sometime later (how much later, minutes, an hour? No way to tell), Molly had managed to get herself somewhat under control. She knew her voice was raspy when she called out "Just a minute" and regarded her reflection in the mirror. Face blotchy, eyes red, nose runny...oh, lovely. The very image of cool, calm, sophistication.

The door opened as she turned on the water to splash her blotchy, tear-stained features, bringing her face to face with the very last person she wanted to see at that moment: Greg Lestrade. She stared at him, unable to move even to shut off the tap as the water poured down the drain.

Lestrade did it for her, taking the two steps that brought him right next to her, leaving his hand on the porcelain basin as he studied her, reminding her a great deal of Sherlock at that moment. Either Sherlock. "You know something about what happened to my Sally, don't you."

The tears she'd just gotten back under control began to roll down her cheeks again, but she managed a nod.

"Made you watch, did he?" Lestrade asked, his voice calm and impersonal, but his eyes...she shivered. They weren't cold, but there was a deep, abiding anger in them, and the sense of a storm about to be unleashed was palpable in the air between them.

She nodded again before finally finding her voice – although it still cracked in the middle. "I tried...I couldn't..."

"It was fast, though," he said, and suddenly it seemed he wasn't talking to her any longer. "Single gunshot to the head, no others signs of antemortem injuries besides the—" he swallowed, hard. "Besides the…damage done to her corpse. No injection sites, no bruising or broken bones, nothing in her blood panels, so she wasn't tortured or drugged."

The remainder of the litany was recited abstractedly, as if Lestrade had no emotional investment in the words and was just rattling off the facts of some random case. In spite of that, Molly had the horrible feeling she knew where this was leading. Sure enough, his next question, spoken barely above a whisper, was: "Why was that, Dr. Hooper? What made the Sherlock Holmes from this reality decide to be so...merciful?"

He knew. Oh, God, he knew.

And even if he was only guessing, there was no way Molly could keep the truth from him, not when he was asking her, flat out, what had happened.

He deserved nothing less than the truth. And so did the others. She turned the tap back on and deliberately turned away from him, splashing the cold water onto her face as much to clear her head as to wash away the tears. When she finished, she turned back to him just as deliberately. "Detective Inspector, we should...can we go back out?" She raised her hands to indicate the small confines of the bathroom that had been provided – toilet, sink, shower stall, all tightly crowded together and claustrophobic even before Lestrade had entered the room.

"That sounds like a good idea."

Lestrade barely reacted to John Watson's voice coming from behind him, but Molly jumped a bit; she'd been so focused on Lestrade that she hadn't noted the other man's approach. Without turning around, the DI said, "All right."

But the look he gave Molly told her how very, very interested he was in the answer to his question – and how very, very unlikely he was to let himself be put off again. Then he turned and left the room as John stepped aside, giving neither of them a backwards glance.

"You all right?" John asked her, pitching his voice low. Not just his bedside-manner voice, either; even after a year's absence she recognized the sincerity in the question. A rare enough emotion in this hell-hole, but it heartened her to know she wasn't beyond recognizing it.

The question in combination with that realization almost caused her to start crying again, but she'd already indulged herself enough today. Who knew how long they had together before "Mr. Holmes" came for them? And why, she wondered with a sudden burst of fear, had he left her with his other prisoners at all?

She kept the question to herself, just as she kept her tears to herself even when John reached out and tentatively squeezed her shoulder. "I'm sorry we took so long to figure things out," he said softly, his eyes sorrowful and sad, like her dad's eyes had been when he was dying and thought no one could see him. "I'm sorry we couldn't get through sooner, to spare you some of...this." A wry smile twisted his lips. "And most of all I'm sorry we let that bastard get the drop on us the way he did. The plan was to get you home safely, not make things worse for you."

That almost did it, nearly broke her down into a blubbering mess again, but she held onto her determination, pretending it wasn't John who was talking to her but Holmes, that he'd just told her to keep her fucking tears to herself or else. The image of a riding crop whistling down on her bare skin was all she needed to complete the task of keeping herself together. "Th – thank you," she managed to say, although the smile she desperately wanted to give John refused to find purchase on her lips. "It means a lot to me that you tried at all."

He gave her a half-grin and guided her out of the small lav. "Well, you can thank Sherlock for that. He never gave up even after your file was put into the cold cases by the police. Not," he added, "that our Greg ever gave up, either; he did a lot of afterhours legwork on Sherlock and Mycroft's behalf – yes, Mycroft," he added when Molly gave him a startled look. She should have realized that the Sherlock of her own world had a brother as well. "He was an enormous help, believe it or not."

"Yes, for once my brother actually proved himself useful," Sherlock cut in as they reached the table. His injured leg was stretched out, resting on top of a pillow laid on one of the other folding chairs. He was pale, his eyes a bit too bright – fever? – his mouth set in a grim line. The warmth Molly had begun to feel at John's kind words vanished at the sight of him. "However, I would be very interested to hear what it was the detective inspector felt was so important to interrogate Molly about that he couldn't even wait for her to leave the bathroom."

While he spoke, John guided her to one of the two remaining chairs, gesturing for Lestrade to take the other one, then taking up a protective stance behind Molly. His body language, which she had become rather adept at reading out of sheer survival instinct, said clearly that no more bullying was to be allowed.

Even as she reveled in the almost alien feeling of having someone looking out for her, Molly bowed her head, twisting her hands nervously in her lap as she struggled to find the right words.

Lestrade spoke up before she could, not sounding at all intimidated by Sherlock's pointed words. "I asked about my Sally, Mr. Holmes."

"Call him Sherlock," Molly burst out before she could stop herself. "Don't – don't call him 'Mr. Holmes,' that's what everyone calls him."

John was the only one who appeared at all startled by the venom in her voice. She ignored him, even ignored Sherlock as she focused on DI Lestrade. "You deserve to know the truth, and you deserve to hear it from me." She took a deep breath before continuing: "Because it's my fault she's dead."

There. She'd said it, out loud, told the bare truth to the one man in this entire fucked up universe that she'd fallen into who deserved to hear it. The words came spilling out of her; how she'd inadvertently given Sally's identity away to her captor; how he'd made no attempt to interrogate her before pointing Moran's gun at her forehead; how Molly had fought to save her and been forced to watch as a bullet had been put in the other woman's brain before her horrified eyes.

How "Mr. Holmes" had coldly ordered Moran to dispose of the body – and provide a suitable "souvenir" to send to Lestrade.

She stopped short of telling them what had then been done to her in punishment for her defiance, for her attempts to help; that particular humiliation wasn't something she wanted – or needed – to share. If – when – they made it back home and she underwent a medical exam, that would be soon enough for the humiliating brand to be revealed. Besides, this wasn't about her demonstrating that she'd been a victim as well – everyone already knew that – it was about telling Lestrade the truth, giving him some kind of closure – or if he needed it, someone to blame.

She waited, almost calmly, for Lestrade's reaction. It wasn't long in coming – and nothing at all like what she'd expected.

He reached out, took one of her hands in his...and kissed the knuckles almost reverently. "Thank you," he said, his voice low, intense and filled with so much emotion Molly thought she would burst into tears again. It was astonishing to her, how much she'd cried today after no longer believing herself to be capable of producing tears other than through the application of physical pain. "I know you blame yourself for her death, but don't."

When Molly opened her mouth to protest, he shook his head, silencing her as effectively as if he'd placed his hand over her mouth. "I got a message, warning me that her cover might have been blown. I tried to call her back in, but she was determined to find something on him, anything that might help take him down, and refused to leave." He took a long, shuddering breath. "We both knew it was something that might happen, but it was a risk she insisted on taking – and God help me, I let her." His voice cracked a bit, and he took a moment before continuing: "But I think you and I both know that if you hadn't accidentally given her away, he would have tortured her first, instead of just killing her. Mr. Holmes isn't usually so…merciful."

Molly just stared at him, completely overwhelmed. For the first time since she'd landed on this hideous world, she found herself facing a truly good man. One who'd lost the woman he loved – and clearly that was how he felt about Sergeant Donovan – but was able to rise above the hate and anger her death had caused and find it in him to forgive the woman who'd as good as sealed his lover's fate.

Before the silence could become uncomfortable, before Molly could say something to ruin the moment – and she knew how easy it would be, her tendency to babble when nervous having been only mostly beaten out of her during the past year – Sherlock spoke up. "He's right, Molly. My counterpart would undoubtedly have turned to interrogation and torture to obtain her identity. And the end result would have been the same."

Before Molly could respond to that remarkable statement – remarkable only because it sounded as if Sherlock were actually trying to comfort her – the door opened, capturing their attention. Molly felt tension seizing her once again as two guards stepped into the room, taking up positions on either side of the door, guns prominently displayed.

Then he stepped into the room. Holmes, followed by two additional guards. He looked his prisoners over, a nasty grin quirking the corners of his lips. "All better now, Sherlock? John patched you up properly? Think you can walk on your own yet or shall I have my men assist you?" His gaze homed in on Molly, and the grin transformed into a sneer. "Or shall I have the lovely Dr. Hooper act as your crutch once again?"

"Where are you taking us?" Sherlock asked, ignoring the other man's taunts and focusing on the meaning of his words. "To see Mycroft?"

His counterpart nodded. "Of course. My brother has been as impatient to meet you as I was. And although I was quite prepared to offer up only your corpse for his scientists to examine, this way I won't have to listen to his tedious complaints about my methods of dealing with unwanted guests." He gestured impatiently with one hand. "On your feet. No, not the rest of you – well, yes, you, Molly. You've had your reunion with Dr. Watson, bared your soul to the detective inspector and obtained his forgiveness for getting his whore killed; now it's time for you to return to your place by my side."

The riding crop he held in his left hand twitched, and Molly, well conditioned to reading his meaning in the slightest movements of that particular article, rose automatically to her feet. However, instead of moving toward her captor, she turned to Sherlock, holding out her hand to him. He took it, his eyes on hers, and allowed her to help him to his feet, resting his arm across her shoulder as he limped along with her arm around his waist.

Molly didn't miss the narrowing of Holmes's eyes, the tightening of his lips as he noted her small act of defiance. Nor did she miss the way Sherlock echoed his counterpart's expression, although in his case she was fairly certain it was because he didn't want her calling any more attention to herself or giving the other man a reason to further abuse her.

The problem with that was, Holmes needed no such excuses. Not when it came to her. She braced herself as they neared him, but kept her face calm as she waited for the punishment that was sure to follow; he'd given her a nonverbal signal, and she'd followed it...but only after first aiding Sherlock. Showing her loyalties.

His look of displeasure vanished as the two of them came to a stop in front of him, replaced by a small, cold smile. "Assist Sherlock to my car," he said, jerking his head at two of the watchful guards standing behind him in the hall. "Miss Hooper and I will join you...shortly."

"Where are you taking them?" John, still seated at the table, half-rose as he asked the question, but a gun pointed directly at his head kept him from moving further. "Why separate us now, after you went to so much trouble to bring us all together in the first place?"

Molly was surprised at John's words; hadn't he and Sherlock and Lestrade been together before Holmes brought her here? Apparently not. "You dragged Greg out of his house at gunpoint, drugged me and brought me here from our hideout, then brought Molly and Sherlock from your flat," he pointed out, raising his voice a bit and puzzling Molly with his unexpected vehemence. Or perhaps it wasn't so unexpected; after all, the man had found himself on an Earth radically different from the world he was used to, and Molly very well remembered how disorienting her first month here had been. "So why separate us now, after going to all that trouble?"

Lestrade remained silent and watchful, as did Sherlock. Molly stole a look at Holmes, to find that the man appeared annoyed, but not unduly so. Not as annoyed as he would have been had one of his own men – or Molly – questioned him in so challenging a manner in front of witnesses.

She was shocked to hear him actually answering, even as his men finally moved to grab Sherlock, draping his arms across their shoulders after handing their weapons over to the other two guards. Smart of them, since Molly had no doubts as to Sherlock's ability to disarm them, even constrained by his injured leg. "Because, John," he drawled, "fascinating though you might think yourself to be, my brother has no interest in meeting you whatsoever. And of course he can't be connected in any way to the disappearance of one of Scotland Yard's finest."

John crossed his arms and raised a skeptical eyebrow, although he remained seated. "Really," he said disbelievingly. "You could have brought Molly and Sherlock directly to your brother. Instead you brought them here first, so, what? We could have a bit of a reunion?"

The other man's grin wasn't friendly in the least, and certainly never reached his icy blue-green eyes. "Well, Molly has been missing you quite a lot; I'm afraid your counterpart here isn't much to her liking," he retorted as he laid a proprietary hand on Molly's shoulder. She flinched away from his touch, but his grip tightened, forcing her to remain in place. She gritted her teeth but tried not to show how much pain she was in as his fingers dug into her, nails biting the skin beneath her flimsy blouse. "His bedside manner is, shall we say, decidedly lacking. However, I do believe she appreciated having a recognizable face around when she underwent those tedious – and sometimes painful, were they not, Molly? – procedures. Especially," he added in a near purr, "when we removed some of her eggs. I'm afraid the art of anesthesia might not be quite as advanced here as it is on your world."

John's horrified expression spoke volumes, and Molly found herself touched by the doctor's obvious empathy for what she'd undergone. She also knew that Holmes was enjoying this form of second-hand torture almost as much as he did the real thing, and did her best to will John not to do or say anything rash in her defense. She wasn't worth it, and even though she knew, deep in her soul, that none of them were going to come out of this alive and well, that there was no way they would end up back where they belonged, there was no point in bringing on unnecessary pain in the interim. Holmes and his men were practically vibrating with their desire for one of their captives to try something.

However, after trading stares with Sherlock and offering Molly one last, sympathetic glance, John turned his head away and folded his arms across his chest. Molly nearly collapsed with relief; for a moment, she'd been certain he was about to get himself killed. Only her captor's vice-like grip on her shoulder kept her upright.

She couldn't leave things like this, though, not without saying something to show her appreciation. If she were to be punished for speaking, fine; she could handle just about anything Holmes could dish out. "It's all right, John," she said, proud of the way her voice remained unaffected by the increasing pain in her shoulder. "The other you, he's not that bad. Weak, but not evil." She kept her eyes trained on the other man, knowing that if she so much as flickered an eyelid toward Holmes she would pay for it later. Not that she thought she was going to escape her actions of this day without a beating or worse, but she'd learned through painful experience which lines were never to be crossed with this man, and giving any overt indication of her true opinion of him was one of them.

"He's also someone you're unlikely to ever meet," Holmes interjected, his grasp on Molly's shoulder tightening further before suddenly easing. Just a little reminder that she was still in his power, she supposed. Or a promise of a future beating for speaking without permission. Either way, there was nothing she could do at the moment except follow obediently when he pulled her to his side and escorted her from the room, pausing only to fling one last barb over his shoulder to John and Lestrade. "As for the reason I brought your friends here...observation is always key. Seeing how you interact has been...most enlightening."

Then they left the room, one of the guards closing and locking the door behind them.

Molly exchanged a brief glance with Sherlock, wondering at his silence during that last exchange, but the guarded expression on his face warned her not to voice any of her thoughts aloud. Of course, she realized as she was guided down the hall, Holmes keeping his pace slower than normal in order for the limping Sherlock to keep up. Observation is key. For both versions.

oOo

They were nearly out of the building when Holmes's mobile buzzed. He pulled it from his pocket impatiently, scowling down at the screen before lifting it to his ear. "I'm in the middle of something, Jamie; this had better be good," he growled into the phone.

The small group came to a stop while he listened to the IT man's words, inaudible even to Molly, whom Holmes kept close by his side. She took the opportunity to look Sherlock over; he was grey-faced and sweating, lips compressed in a tight line, eyes narrowed in obvious pain, but he remained on his feet, only marginally supported by the two guards escorting them. She offered him a small smile of encouragement, wishing she could do more, and was startled when he did his best to smile in return, even adding a small nod of acknowledgment before grimacing in pain as the guard to his left – deliberately, no doubt about it – nudged his wounded leg.

Molly glared at the guard, but Holmes had his arm firmly around her waist, and she knew if she tried to break away from him Sherlock would pay the price. But she marked this particular sadist's features, searing them into her memory. If she could ever find a way to pay the guard back for that particularly nasty – and totally unnecessary – act of cruelty, she would. One thing she'd learned in the past year: vengeance was always an option. But it needed to be saved for those who truly deserved to be punished.

"Fine," the man holding her snapped out. "I'll be right there." He snapped his fingers at the guards supporting Sherlock, eyes still on his mobile. "Change of plans. Take our 'guest' and Miss Hooper to the address I'm sending you right now. My brother's men will meet you there while I take care of an unfortunate occurrence."

The two guards murmured their agreement, Holmes placed his mobile back in his pocket, then abruptly shoved Molly up against the nearest wall. She gasped at the unexpected movement, and he took advantage of her open mouth, forcing a kiss on her, pressing his body tightly against hers and not letting her go until she responded as experience had long taught her he most enjoyed: by kissing him back and sliding her hands up his chest, curling them into the lapels of his coat.

He took his time, one hand tightly gripping her waist, the other cradling her head, fingers massaging her scalp almost tenderly. But there was nothing tender about the kiss; it was brutal, unyielding, a show of dominance meant not only to remind her of her place, but to demonstrate to Sherlock how much power he still held over her.

Even though she wanted nothing more than to shove his body away from hers, Molly knew the new rules: if she disobeyed, Sherlock would pay the price.

When he finally released her she was gasping for breath, her lower lip bleeding from the cruel nips he'd inflicted on her. He held her gaze for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then a tiny, triumphant smile curled his lips, and she shuddered. Hard. That smile promised nothing good and there was no sense in hiding anything from him anymore – not that she ever could – so she allowed him to see her fear. The smile deepened, and he allowed Sherlock to see it as he turned away from her. "Changed my mind," he drawled as he drew on his black gloves, the riding crop tucked under one arm. "Lock our two guests in a secure location until I return. My brother will just have to wait a bit longer." He glanced over at Molly, still smirking as he added: "I think it's only fair I grant Dr. Hooper and my counterpart some time alone together; after all, he's come a very long way just to find her. It's the least I can do."

Then he turned and strode down the hall, two of the goons falling into step behind him, the others grinning unpleasantly at their two prisoners.

Another "merciful" act by Holmes that was anything but.

Molly knew a last wish being granted when she saw it.