CHAPTER 27

John and Mary were sitting at Mary's kitchen table, discussing their future together. Each wanted to pursue a relationship with the other, but with all of the things currently happening, was it such a good time to do so?

"We should start dating," Mary blurted out, her eyes sparkling mischievously.

John blinked, gaping at her. "Par - Pardon?"

Mary laughed; her throaty chuckle was appealing. "My goodness, Doctor Watson! I might begin to think you are repulsed by the idea."

"No!" John replied hastily. He gave her a solemn look. "But isn't it too… ?"

"Soon?" she interjected. Mary shrugged. "Some may think so, but I've never really cared what others think."

He shook his head. "No, I meant after…" he gestured helplessly, not sure how to put her attack into delicate words.

She held up her hand to stop him. "That's my call, don't you agree?

John nods, not taking his eyes off of Mary. She continues, "Interesting. Forming complete sentences suddenly seems too difficult for you. I should often suggest us dating. Would that be terrible?"

"No."

"That settles it, then. Would you like to be my boyfriend?"

John practically chokes on his Thai food. "I thought I supposed to ask you."

"This is the twenty-first century, John; ladies can do anything. I've done loads of things that would make your head spin."

John's eyes twinkled mischievously. "I'll bet. So, ladies can do everything, yeah? Except be leaders of the free world, you mean."

Mary punched him playfully. "Be serious!"

"I am", he chuckled, "and am flattered at your proposal. I accept - heartily. Where are you taking me on our first official date?"

"Oh, that is the man's job, so make sure it's really nice," she grinned impishly.

John guffawed, and Mary chimed in with her own peals of laughter. In the end, they chose Angelo's, as John knew the owner, thanks to Sherlock, and the food, he confessed, was excellent.

As they planned their first date as a new couple, John promised himself to never let this woman go; she was, without a doubt, the best thing that ever happened to him.

Later, the new couple discussed Molly.

"Will she really be brought to trial?"

"Difficult to say. Lestrade said a special prosecutor is pushing for a quick trial date, so… perhaps."

"That's awful!" Mary gasped. "Molly can't be guilty of the things she's being accused her of - can she? I didn't see her at all during… that time... but those men talked about her; what if they did so I would latch onto it?"

"Meaning…?"

"I was meant to get away and talk about Molly Hooper, thereby bringing suspicion down on her."

John gaped at her. "That's… that's…"

"Impossible?" Mary replied solemnly, looking for all the world that such a thing could be possible. "I hardly think so. I've been thinking about it, over the last few days. The best way to make someone look bad is to make people doubt them. Also, why I was able to get away, when no one else had? It was awfully convenient of that SUV to pass by when I ran out of the forest."

"But you broke free and stabbed one of the men," John gently reminded her.

Mary nodded. "Only after I had noticed one of my straps had been cut and a knife was lying next to my head. I was allowed to leave, John-that's the only explanation."

John countenance took on a skeptical look. "That seems highly unlikely; Moriarty would never-"

Mary brought up a hand to stop him from speaking. "From all that I have gathered-especially from you and your blog-about the man, it seems very likely. This is all a game to him, John. Sherlock should tread carefully; it is as if Moriarty has a message just for him."

John hesitated. "Ironic that you should say so."

"Why?"

He sighed. "Moriarty does."

"What do you mean?" Mary looked confused.

John paused for a moment. Molly did not want Sherlock to know this, but she never said he could not tell anyone else. Mary was definitely not his aggravating - but brilliant - flatmate. He explained in a low voice, "There are marks on Molly's body that are a message for Sherlock, but she refuses to let me tell him about it, the stubborn woman!"

"Oh, no!" Mary cried, her hand covering her mouth. "Where?"

"Chest, navel, and… lower." John closed his eyes and frowned at the memory.

"My god! That poor woman. What does it say?"

"I.O.U." The pain in John's eyes made Mary want to cry.

"What does that mean?" She asked in a small voice.

John shook his head, indicating he had no earthly clue.

After several long moments of reflective silence, both agreed: Molly was a pawn in the whole game to get to Sherlock. But how to prove such a thing? There was so much evidence against her, and Moriarty had vanished.

oooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Donovan had some choice words for Lestrade, but the Detective Inspector ignored them; if Sherlock wanted to question Mark Johnston, he was going to allow it; he did not need Sergeant Sally Donovan's approval. Besides, the Consulting Detective must have had some reason for requesting—demanding, actually; Sherlock rarely asked—to see Mark Johnston again.

Lestrade met him at St. Thomas' and nodded to the officer standing outside his door. They entered the room to find Mark laying quietly, the telly on a game show, the volume on low. His eyes shifted from the screen to the two men, and Sherlock noticed his entire body stiffen immediately.

'He's bracing himself for something,' Sherlock thought. 'If he's innocent, he wouldn't have done that.'

"Mr. Johnston," Lestrade began. "How're you feeling?"

Mark's gaze transferred from Lestrade to Sherlock then back again. He cleared his throat. "Er, not so good. My ear wasn't found in time, so I won't be able to have it reattached."

"Sorry about that," Lestrade said sympathetically. "My team tried to sweep the museum as quickly as possible."

"I appreciate that, Detective," Mark replied. "So, what can I do for you?"

"We have some more questions."

"I see," Mark replied with a slight nod. "I warn you, the nurse gave me a sedative just a few minutes ago, so if I fall asleep suddenly…"

Lestrade nodded. "Understood."

Sherlock stepped forward. "Mr. Johnston, during your captivity, were you ever allowed outside?"

"Outside of the room or outside in the fresh air?" Mark asked warily.

"Either. Both."

Mark shook his head. "Never."

"Right." Sherlock did not look convinced. "How did you know what took place between Molly Hooper and James Moriarty?"

Mark inhaled sharply. Sherlock could see Mark was trying to think of something to say, instead of answering immediately.

"I... well... that is..." Mark began, "Moriarty and some other guys would come in and beat me up, and they would either talk about things to each other, or tell me. I think they were trying to scare me."

"Who were the other men?"

"One was called Seth—or maybe Seb, I think. Not sure of the other. I spent a lot of time hurting, so it was hard to focus on hearing properly."

"For someone who was beaten often, you have so few old bruises."

"I heal fast," came Mark's defiant reply.

"Right," Sherlock drawled, unconvinced. "Tell me again—how did you lose your ear?"

"I tried to escape, but was caught. That guy, Moriarty, jumped on me and held me down and urged Molly Hooper to cut my ear off. She did." Sherlock noticed Mark's gaze slide to the side as he said this; clearly, he was trying to recite what to say from memory.

"When did this occur?" Lestrade asked.

Mr. Johnston shrugged. "I don't recall; I didn't exactly have a calendar in my cell."

"Interesting," Sherlock murmured.

Lestrade looked up from scribbling notes. "How so?"

"How is it that your ear was recently detached, yet, Molly Hooper has been in our custody for nearly a month?"

Lestrade's look of surprise was turned toward Mark, who reddened and moved his gaze to the wall.

"Maybe they kept it on ice," Mark muttered.

Sherlock's brows raised. "What makes you special enough for that, Mr. Johnston?"

"Sherlock!" Lestrade said sharply.

Ignoring the admonishment, Sherlock picked up Mark's medical chart and gave it a glance. "This says your last dose of approved sedative was given eight hours ago. There is no indication that you recently received another. So, you were not honest with us right from the start of this interview. Were you planning to pretend to sleep, so we would leave, thereby saving you from answering questions? What do you have to hide, Mr. Johnston?" Sherlock returned the chart to its place. "Let's begin again - and no more fiction, Mr. Johnston; I already know the truth."

"Sherlock…" DI Lestrade warned, but Sherlock held up one hand, his eyes not leaving Mark Johnston's face.

Mark glared suspiciously. "Then why are you asking me questions?"

"To give you a chance to be straightforward." Sherlock replied, as if speaking to a three-year-old. He noted Lestrade was watching this exchange with growing fascination.

"I've said my piece," Mark bit out. "You both can get the hell out, now."

"But it was not the correct piece, Mr. Johnston," Sherlock accused. "Tell me, how is it that you were the only male to be kept prisoner? All the others were female." Mark Johnston stared at him in stony silence, so Sherlock continued. "Can't answer that? Not surprising. How about this: what did you do to be taken into custody by the Yard and recite untruths about Molly Hooper?"

"What?!" Lestrade and Mr. Johnston replied together—although Lestrade's outburst was more genuine.

"You owe Moriarty for the drugs you'd been taking," Sherlock said to Mark, not looking at Lestrade. "Your criminal record indicates that you have a particular love for illegal substances—"

"As do you, Mr. Holmes." Mark sneered. When he realized what he'd said, a look of surprise crossed his face.

Sherlock's wide smile did not meet his eyes; it was only a matter of time before criminals slipped up like this. Mr. Johnston did not disappoint. "How did you come by that information, Mr. Johnston?" Sherlock asked, his tone thick with curiosity. "And please do not tell me you guessed."

Mark's jaw set mulishly, and he crossed his arms. "All drug dealers know who you are, Sherlock Holmes."

Lestrade gave Sherlock a dark look. Was he using again? He'd arrest Sherlock right now, if so.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "You flatter me, Mr. Johnston. I have not purchased drugs or any related paraphernalia in nearly five years—not even a spoon. I can't imagine shady characters of your ilk are still speaking of me—unless someone is keeping the tales going. Moriarty, perhaps?"

Mark remained silent, but it was enough for Sherlock.

"Let me tell you what I know, Mr. Johnston," Sherlock continued. "You owe Moriarty a sum so large, that instead of killing you, he employed you to help kidnap women of a certain age and hair color, thanks to a new dating website."

Mark gasped, angrily. "What do you know about my finances?"

"Someone owed me a favor."

"That is an invasion of my privacy! I'll sue you!" Mark hissed.

Sherlock didn't bat an eye as he continued, "You and his other cohorts have been participants in brutally and sickeningly assaulting and killing these poor ladies, then leaving them all over London for the Yard and I to find. Molly Hooper has been writing the notes, but now I suspect she has been an unwilling participant. I've seen her; she was horribly savaged. Did you also abuse her in order to get those letters written?"

"No!" Mark shouted, leaning forward in his bed. "I had nothing to do with that part! It was Mor-" his jaw snapped shut, but he had already said enough.

"Moriarty? Sebastian Moran, perhaps? Adam Worth?" Sherlock finished for him, and Mark's face turned ashen. "You said one thing that was truthful: "Moriarty cut Molly… but I wonder if he also cut your ear. But, did he hurt Molly in order to get her to write those letters? Ah, I can tell from the color of your face, the flare of your nose, and the shake of your hands that I am correct. But, now, why was your ear cut off? Was it to be sure you would look like a victim—or did you do something to displease him?"

"I have nothing further to say to you. I want legal counseling - now."

Lestrade sighed in defeat. "Come on, Sherlock; we should go." He grabbed the scowling, curly-haired man by the coat sleeve and pulled him from the room.

In the hallway, Lestrade addressed Sherlock. "He's never going to give up the information you seek; it might be best to do what you do to solve this."

"I have every intention of doing so."

"This isn't too difficult for you, is it, Sherlock?"

"Nothing is too difficult for me, Lestrade! Just a bit... hindering… at times. I must look at all of the evidence, again. See to it that Mr. Johnston is never left alone with anyone you do not personally know.

"Why?" Lestrade shouted at Sherlock's retreating form.

"Because Moriarty may still want to assassinate him," the Consulting Detective called out over his shoulder, "since Mr. Johnston has now connected himself to the criminal who has been behind all the recent murders. Why am I the only one who understands this?!"

ooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

Mary never made a promise not to tell Sherlock about the message inscribed on Molly's skin. Mary thought the Consulting Detective ought to know about this detail; it might get him to see Molly as a person, not a clue to be deduced. It is obvious, from John's tales, that Molly had cared for Sherlock; would it be possible to get that overbearing know-it-all to see past the end of his nose and care about someone, too?

She texts Sherlock and asks him to meet her at the hospital. When he arrives, he wonders what Mary's motive is. After all, she has never met Molly Hooper. Mary insists that she feels a connection to Molly through the nightmare they shared, and this mollifies Sherlock. They see Lestrade, who is speaking to the guards at Mark Johnston's door, and both ask him to visit Molly.

"Yeah, I think she might be awake," the Detective Inspector replies. "Well, she was when I talked to her forty minutes ago. Had some more questions, we did. She's a real trooper. Could use someone to talk to, though."

They push open Molly's door and realize Lestrade is incorrect; Molly's asleep, her monitors beeping softly and steadily.

Sherlock stops in the doorway; this is the first time he's laid eyes on Molly since her arrest. He feels odd, uncomfortable. In response, he scowls. "Why am I really here, Mary? And do not give me some rubbish about a connection."

Mary grasps his coat sleeve and tugs him into the room, and over to Molly's bedside. "There's something you need to see - something no one has told you about."

"John said the very same words, and it nearly caused me to put his belongings on the street. What do I 'need to see'?"

Mary gently pulls back the covers and lifts Molly's hospital gown-which barely makes her stir, causing Mary to believe she was given a sedative-and shows the "IOU" to Sherlock.

Sherlock went still, as if realizing he'd overdosed on something highly toxic. The floor beneath Sherlock's feet seemed to fall away, as he understands what is carved into Molly's skin. Moriarty's note to him made sense, now - and Lestrade had not been lying; there had been no hieroglyphs, but there were letters. He had not asked the Detective Inspector the correct question.

The emotional dam inside began to crack and crumble with such force, Sherlock could no longer keep anything contained. He dropped to his knees at Molly's bedside, covering his face with his hands.

Mary, realizing this is a very intimate moment, quietly leaves the room, closing the door behind her. She gives a smile to the two guards, saying Sherlock will need several more minutes, and walks away, thinking she ought to pay John a visit and tell him what she has done.

Sherlock suddenly found himself at the end of the hall in the darkest part of his Mind Palace - the place he never tread. How had he arrived here? He did not recall moving, and if he had, it most certainly would not have been to this area; he avoided this place as much as possible. Something must have drawn him here.

An eerie quiet settled over him, unnerving him. He looked at the space directly in front of him—and inhaled sharply. A gaping hole where that door should have been, heavily locked, and hidden away. As he suspected, the door was gone. The locks and chains lay on the floor, as if something had broken and tossed them aside. Wood splinters were scattered about.

Oh, god… it was free.

Fear gripped him. How long had it been roaming about? Was that the voice he had been hearing in his head for a while, now? He tried not to panic, but knew it would be coming for him, consuming him. There was nothing he could do to stop it.

At that thought, the sound of sobbing—ragged and agonized—echoed through the hall. He whipped around to find its source, but he was alone, and all the other doors were closed.

Was that him making that noise? No, this sound was intensely bleak, like a heartbreaking song. He could feel the misery from each sob, seeping into his bones.

Sherlock stumbled. He needed to get back to the entrance so he could wake up from the self-induced trance. There was nothing he could do now to stop the thing swirling in his head; it would soon take over his entire body, and there was no drug, no antidote, to stop it.

He felt a light breath on his face, and froze. As he stared straight ahead, mist began to manifest into a nearly-solid object—a body, really—next to him. It was taking the shape of Molly Hooper.

She looked ragged, emaciated, and wretched.

Sherlock tried to back away, but something held him in place. He turned to see Moriarty grasping his arm - and the madman was grinning maniacally.

WaifMolly stared up at Sherlock, her face cheerless and eyes deadened. "I don't count," she sighed, the sound chilling Sherlock to his bones. "I'm not important. I'm utterly uninteresting. I'm alone. I'm scared. It hurts. Please find me."

"I owe you, Sherlock…." ManiacMoriarty sang, his fingernails digging into Sherlock's arm. "I owe yoooooou…"

WaifMolly was still speaking, her expression unchanged. "Get out of my lab. I hate you. My heart hurts. I wish you would look at me, instead of over, around, and through me. I think I'm going to die here. I've been so stupid. You don't care. Why do you hate me?"

"STOP IT!" Sherlock shouted, covering his ears and, with some effort, pushed his way towards the exit. The sobbing and cackles of laughter followed him, and he could feel warm breath on his neck.

"What have I done?" WaifMolly sobbed. "I think I'm going to die here. I'm meant to be alone. I don't count. Why are you so mean to me? Why don't I count, Sherlock? Why do you hate me? I don't count. I don't count. I don't count… but I owe you, I owe you, I.O.U…."

Sherlock ran through the hall, broken sentences raining down on him as he fled.

"You always say such horrible things. Always. It hurts."

And, then, WaifMolly growled, in Moriarty's voice: "Stay away from me... You won't put me back there, again… I'm tired of conforming my life for you, Sherlock..."

When the consulting detective reached the entrance of his Mind Palace, his eyes snapped open and he gasped for breath as if he'd nearly drowned.

That thing he had kept locked in the room was free—a starved, beaten, hollow Molly Hooper. He knew why she appeared that way; Sherlock had not ever fed her true kindness, leaving her in that room, alone, unloved, and hurting. She was now roaming about in his mind; if she consumed him, he definitely deserved it.

He needed to get delete that Moriarty, too, but decided making a special room just for him would be better. It was best to keep one's enemies close.

He began to pace the hospital room, staring at the flesh-and-blood woman who lay in the bed. Sherlock panted hard, struggling to breathe. He had believed Molly had changed and became a monster, when, all along, Sherlock was the monster for believing the worst of a woman who had repeatedly, endlessly, faithfully shown kindness to him, silently crying out in confusion and hurt when he treated her callously, pushing her further into the dark, pretending she did not exist.

Molly and John were correct; there was something wrong with him.

He wanted to talk to her, to express his deep regret, but… where to start? If John's foul attitude toward him was any indication, the real Molly likely did not want to speak to him, either.

He pulled her gift from his Belstaff pocket and placed it on her chest, then sat in the uncomfortable plastic chair nearby and waited. When she awoke, he would talk to her; he hoped it was not too late to make amends.