Disclaimer: This fan fiction is not written for profit and no infringement of copyright is intended. Thanks for their reviews go to Poodle warriors, my mystery guest, feralandfree, AJP910 (happy birthday, Joan!), roisinnk, Calicar, The Beautiful Filth, jankmusic, Reina343, Rocking the Redhead, Katya Jade and Renaissencebooklover108. This is a big chapter, so hold onto your hats and as always, feedback is appreciated. Please note that there's a little bit of swearing, mainly from Hough. But that said, let's get on with the story. Hobbits away, hey!
YOU TELL ME DOUBT IS DEVIL-BORN
Sherlock deals rather well with the stress that comes from derring-do.
After all, he has been dealing with it, in one way or another, for most of his adult life.
Be it Moran's henchmen, General Shen's acrobatic assassins or Mycroft's shadowy operatives, he always knows how to handle them. A deft mix of sarcasm, brawn and his patently massive Big Bloody Brain allows him to make the most of any situation, to get out of any scrape. And it is this very knowledge that he will get out of things- only Moriarty has ever truly made him doubt it- that gives him his nonchalance regarding life or death. It gives him his confidence, which so many see as arrogance but which he sees simply as an illustration of fact. He survives. He thrives. It's what he does. No matter what projectile fate elects to lob at him, no matter what he must do to ensure victory, in the end he walks away from any enemy intact and successful-
All of which means precisely jack and shit (in that order) now that he's trying to save Molly.
All of which means nothing now that he's let Hough get his hands on her, now that she's in real danger for the first time in six months.
He shakes his head angrily to himself, wondering why he didn't just order her to go stay with the Watsons once he realised that Baker Street was no longer safe for her- Why he let his asinine desire to see she was safe with his own two eyes take precedence over what would clearly have been best for her-
"We'll get the bastard, Sherlock," John says quietly beside him, even as he directs the cabbie to pull into a side street a few minutes walk from Hough's place. "He doesn't know we've talked to Marina, Lestrade and his team are on their way, and both of us are armed: He's not walking away from this one-"
Sherlock snorts derisively as he exits the car. "Just like he wasn't going to walk away from what he did at Baskerville?" He throws the words over his shoulder, takes off at a fast clip leaving John to pay the taxi-driver. He can feel adrenaline- nerves- tightening his body as he does so, the knowledge that he may be about to find Molly dead or injured setting something low, dark and angry buzzing in his chest. "You're an army man, John," he says as the doctor catches up to him, "surely you know how unlikely a happy outcome is in these circumstances-"
John takes his friend by the elbow, pulls until he slows to a halt though he is so agitated. Turns Sherlock around to face him, his expression serious and intent.
"Sherlock," he says quietly. "Sherlock, look at me."
Holmes makes a show of eye-balling him, just to illustrate how ridiculous he finds this, this… sentiment. John however doesn't react.
"First of all," he says instead, "Hope is never a ridiculous reaction when we the ones we love are in danger." Sherlock opens his mouth to contradict him, to point out that his statement is nonsense and that even if it wasn't, he does not love Molly Hooper. But though he opens his mouth to say so, the words don't come-
And irritatingly, by the look on his face, John can guess why.
"Secondly," the other man continues, "We are going to find Molly, just like we are going to find Mrs. Hudson. And then we are either going to stop Hough and get him arrested, or one of us is going to stop him permanently." He gestures to the gun tucked into his inside pocket and Sherlock blinks. John doesn't- His years in the army have made him less willing to take a life, not more, and he didn't expect the threat implicit in Watson's words.
"It's not the first time I've killed to protect someone I care about," John says quietly at his expression. "And I know it's not the first time you have either. I just hope it's the last."
"You really need to stop hanging around with me, then," Sherlock says dryly. There is suddenly something which resembles a boulder lodged in his throat. He- He didn't expect this. It has occurred to him that he may have to take Hough's life, and the knowledge that Molly may see him do it has made him shy away from the thought. He doesn't see how she'll ever fully trust him again, if she witnesses that. So to know that his friend has already made contingency plans, that his friend was willing to do this for him…
"Thank you, John," he says quietly. Curtly. "I- Thank you."
John sighs. "Let's hope it doesn't come to that, yeah?"
And he nods, patting Sherlock's shoulder awkwardly before setting off ahead of him. Moving at an even faster pace, that straight-backed, sharp-eyed posture Sherlock associates with his military training coming to the fore. They've already decided on which way to play this: Sherlock is going to go in through the front door of Hough's house, assessing the situation and causing all manner of disruption. Keeping Ollie's attention completely on him and giving John a chance to get in through the back. If things go well then Hough should never even see John coming. He'll get in, sneak Mrs. Hudson and Molly (if possible) out the back while Sherlock finally gets a chance to share all his frustrations from this case with their cause, just in time for Lestrade to arrest Hough for the abusive, violent git that he is.
Et voila! Sherlock thinks. No more having to deal with Ollie "The Bastard," Hough. Whatever will I do with my Friday nights now?
I'm sure Molly will have some excellent ideas about that, a voice which sounds suspiciously like John's chimes in his head, and the detective forces it away.
It's a good plan, and Sherlock knows it. At her mother's insistence Marina has provided them with a detailed layout of the house and how she'd break in, if it were a paying gig, as well as a (frankly worrying rundown) of what Hough has in-store for Molly. Though he may not be a) double-jointed or b) a professional cat-burglar, John seems quite confident that he'll be able to get into the house, and Zoya has agreed to field a call should he run into something he doesn't expect. She even offered to send young Martinique with the two men as technical adviser, but both Martinique and Sherlock quickly put paid to that idea: Sitting them both in a car while Sherlock was armed seemed a less than capital notion. So despite this set-back, their current set-up means that John Watson essentially has the plans to Hough's house and a master thief on stand-by, should he encounter any technical difficulties-
Which is just as well, since now they're on the corner just down from Hough's house.
Sherlock can count at least three CCTV cameras surrounding the place, so there will be no way to pretend he didn't do what he's about to do.
He can only hope that Hough hasn't patched into that video feed too, though he probably has.
With a quick nod he and John split up, John turning sharply and approaching the house from the rear. It's a nineteenth century mansion, broken up into flats by a property developer just before the boom went bust, but it still has the long driveway at the back where the original owners would have parked their carriages, just as it still has the remains of a coach-house (now a property in its own right.). John plans on using this to his advantage: He'll scale the roof of the one-story couch house, walk along the garden wall and from there climb up and onto the building's rear fire escape. From here he can easily climb into Hough's ground floor flat without being seen running across the back yard, or being caught on the security camera pinned above the front yard.
He just has to take out the security light at the back- Which he will, as soon as Sherlock has Hough at the door.
Sherlock, on the other hand, is going to do what he does best and make an entrance. Annoy his way into getting what he wants, all the while making sure that he puts Molly in as little danger as possible. From his interactions with Hough, it would seem that the man values his image far more than he values the people around him: Should Sherlock threaten to embarrass or disparage him in front of his neighbours, he suspects Hough will try to deal with the threat immediately, rather than stopping to think the reasons behind Sherlock's action through. Or disposing of Molly and Mrs. Hudson before going to argue with Holmes. So long as Hough has an audience, he'll keep up his "nice guy," façade and John will have a chance to sneak Molly and Mrs. Hudson out, Sherlock thinks. He just has to hope that Hough doesn't smell a rat, and that he doesn't find himself forced into doing anything he could be charged for in front of all those CCTV cameras-
This should be easy, he tells himself, ignoring the tight, wound-up ball of worry in his chest. This will be easy, I'll see to it-
And with that thought he barrels up the front steps to Hough's building, purposefully making his demeanour jumpy and agitated, slurring his words as if he's drunk.
Who knows, it might fool Hough. And it will definitely fool the neighbours.
"Moooollllllyyyy!" he then yells at the top of his lungs, "Molly, come out to me, I know you're in there with that tosser!"
And he bangs loudly on the buildings front door, making sure to slip and slide all over the place, reinforcing the impression that he's inebriated. If Hough buys it then so much the better: he'll underestimate Sherlock physically when he squares up to him.
And if the police are called, the most they'll be expecting is someone drunk and disorderly.
The front door to the building is pulled open, and Hough appears before him. He's wearing a bespoke three piece suit, his tie loose and his top three buttons opened. His stance is slightly wobbly- he is drunk- and he's carrying a tumbler of what smells like scotch in his hand. He's also smiling benignly, though the smile doesn't touch his eyes.
He inclines his head politely towards Sherlock and then raises his glass in salute, apparently to the little old lady in the house opposite who's watching proceedings through her twitching curtains. "Good evening, Annabel," Hough calls to her. "Don't worry, nothing to see here."
His gaze comes to rest on Sherlock and his eyes get colder still.
He leans into the detective, pitches his voice sotto voce.
"Get out of here," he says tightly, that mock-benign smile still plastered on his face. "I don't know what you're up to, Holmes, but embarrassing me won't help you-"
And he still thinks it's all about him, Sherlock muses in amazement. Surely I'm a far more entertaining narcissist than this?
I shall have to ask Mycroft some day.
"I'm not going anywhere, Ollie," Sherlock says brightly instead, mimicking the other man's relaxed stance and smile. Annabel across the way must be finding this enthralling. "I'm just here to pick up Molly, and if you don't deliver her to me then the results will be… unpleasant."
He steps closer and Hough squares up to him; this time however Sherlock is in no mood to pretend he's the smaller of the two. He stares down at the miscreant from his rather greater height, makes sure to take in every aspect of his appearance. He can smell two types of perfume on Hough's shirt, one which he knows Mrs. Hudson favours, one which he recognises from Molly's body lotion. He can also see a long, brown hair sticking out from just beneath Hough's collar, and the colour, texture and shampoo scent he catches off it match Molly's too. This close he can see there's a smudge of red on Hough's cheek, angry and vivid as if he's recently been slapped. His knuckles are bruised slightly, as if he's delivered more than one retaliatory punch, and as the mental image of that flashes through Sherlock's head it's all he can do to hold onto his temper-
But no, he holds himself to calmness. Losing his temper will help nobody.
He needs to play this as cleverly as he does everything else.
He tells himself that this is wise, that he needs to hold on until John can text him that he has both women safe and sound and out of that bloody house-
And then he looks up at Ollie, his gaze going over his shoulder and into his flat, and what he sees makes his blood boil.
Because he can see straight through the front door, into the hall and directly through to the open kitchen door beyond it. Molly is lying in a heap on the floor of that kitchen, pulling herself towards Sherlock by her legs and hips, leaving a slithering, sticky trail of blood in her wake. One of her eyes is nearly bruised shut, and every visible inch of her body is covered in contusions. She's favouring one arm in a way which suggests that the other has been injured, though both are bound behind her back with plastic tags. There's a gag across her mouth- it's a stretch of black gaffer tape, by the looks of things- and her face is tracked with tears. Her eyes make contact with his and even through the gag, he knows she's calling his name, asking for him to save her-
For a split second Sherlock stares- He didn't know, she never indicated how horrifying Hough's practices were- And then two things happen simultaneously. Firstly, Sherlock sees John Watson enter his line of vision, Mrs. Hudson held tightly to his side. The older woman gives a small cry of upset as she sees what's been done to Molly, but she sinks down to her knees, trying to help the younger woman up. As she does so Sherlock drags his gaze back to Hough, not wanting to give the game away, but as she tries to stand Molly slips, her foot flying backwards on Hough's highly polished floorboards. Her foot rams into the skirting board of the hall, making a thunderously loud bang and knocking over a small table and a vase.
Both crash to the floor and roll. And roll. And roll.
It is, quite possibly, the single loudest moment of Sherlock's life thus far.
Instantly Hough turns and sees what's happening, his face snarling into a mask of rage. Without a moment's hesitation he takes his tumbler of scotch and hurls it at Molly and Mrs Hudson, the glass shattering on impact, spraying alcohol and shards everywhere as he hurls himself back into the house. Mrs. Hudson jumps and screams, darting backwards towards John. Molly however looks up and Sherlock can see blood on her face where a sliver of glass has cut her cheek, her eyes dark with helplessness and rage. As Hough nears Molly John pushes Mrs. Hudson behind him, reaches into his jacket for his weapon, even as Hough grabs Molly and yanks her forward by her hair. Smashing her shoulders into the hallway mirror and shattering it before pulling her to her feet. She gives a small scream of pain, thrashing her body around and trying to use her weight to pull away. Trying to get the Hell away from him, kicking and fighting as best she can. Hough's screaming, calling her things like "whore," and "bitch," and "traitor," his rage astonishing to see; He's picked up one of the shards of the mirror, and he's holding it to her throat, his other arm winched around her waist like a vice.
For the first time it occurs to Sherlock that Oliver Hough is as mad as Moriarty ever was, and he too is intent on harming someone Sherlock loves.
It all only takes seconds; Hough drags Molly to her feet and pulls her in front of him. Presses his back to the wall behind him, Hooper now held before him like a human shield. John has drawn his gun, is standing mere metres from the pair. Molly is breathing rapidly, her chest rising and falling in an unnatural, jumping rhythm which Sherlock knows can't bode well. "Take one fucking step towards me," Hough snarls, "And the little whore gets sliced to slivers." He nods to John. "Now put your weapon on the floor and step away from me, we're getting out of here-"
Sherlock knows that if he gets close enough, he can subdue Hough. He won't even need a gun, hunting Moriarty's network has given him a rather more specific skill-set than that he previously employed. But if he tries to get close to Molly then Hough will kill her. He has no doubt of this, he's seen a madman's eyes before. If he doesn't though, he'll probably kill her anyway, once he gets away from them, and that will be excruciatingly slow and painful.
One way or another though, Molly will be dead, and that is unacceptable.
So he holds up his hands, nods to John to do the same. Watches Watson slowly put his gun on the floor and step away from it, though his jaw works, showing how much the acquiescence costs him. "Step out of the way," Hough tells Sherlock. "Step out of the way now." Sherlock does as he's told, his eyes on Molly's.
I'm here, he tries to tell her. It may not be alright now, but it will be, I promise.
He lets Ollie move right by him, lets him step out into the street.
He keeps his eyes on Molly at all times, having to tamp down the desire to just yank her out of Hough's arms. A distraction, he thinks, all he needs is one moment's distraction. Let Hough's gaze waver from Molly for a second and he'll take the bastard down-
And that's when, alarmingly enough, a wonderfully distracting thing happens.
Because there's a sudden flash of light, the not-so-far-off call of a police siren. It's so loud that it takes Hough's attention for a moment and that's all that Sherlock needs. He leans forward and grabs Molly, yanks her away from Ollie. Pulling her close and spinning, presenting Ollie with his back so that the blow meant for her will come to him. Sherlock feels the shard of glass dig into his shoulder, feels the pain of it. He doesn't let it stop him from laying into Ollie, from finally giving into the rage he feels and pummelling the git as hard as he can. Molly lets out a little scream, trying to pull Sherlock off now he's been wounded. The other man hisses in pain, falling to his knees, and Holmes ignores her, determined to see this through. Hough forces himself forward with a snarl, knocking Sherlock onto his back, his hand going around Molly's throat even as Sherlock tackles him again-
There's a loud bang and a sudden light. A bullet pierces the quiet of the evening.
A flash of scarlet bloom in Ollie's chest, obscene against his pale white shirt.
Suddenly- Suddenly everything is silent and still. Unmoving. Petrified.
They turn to see Mrs. Hudson holding John's gun, her hands shaking as Ollie falls to the ground.