Chapter Fifty-Three: The Nobel Cause
Molly hadn't dozed while being carried since she was a child, but she would never forget the feeling of safety and security it evoked. She'd always felt protected in her father's arms. As the last vestiges of her drowsiness fell away, she kept her eyes closed while instinctively snuggling closer to the strong, male chest and inhaled, expecting the musky scent of her father's aftershave mixed with sweat, grease, and the slightest hint of the pint or two he'd had out with the boys down the pub.
Instead, she got a light, citrusy scent mixed with a thick, liqueur-like richness. It hit her like a pail of cold water, bringing with it the starkness of her current situation. Eyes flew open. Body tensed. Mouth gaping.
"Please don't scream, darling," he said. "I fear my ears would never recover."
The blond man. She'd fainted. He was carrying her. Remain calm.
"Put me down then," she said.
"In a mo'," he said, shifting her in his arms as he gracefully maneuvered them through a doorjamb and into what seemed to be a bedroom. Moving from the gloomy darkness of the hallway into this room was like walking into a ray of sunshine. The room was quaint and open with walls painted a buttery yellow, a large white canopy bed against the far wall, a small dresser and mirror adjacent to this, and an oblong table with two chairs placed in the very middle of the room. A shut door was situated next to the dresser, but Molly didn't have time to wonder what was in there before she was carefully set on her feet.
"There," he said before turning back to the door where two men dressed in black stood like sentinels. "Are they ready for her?"
"Yes, sir. Do you need anything else from us?"
The blond turned back to Molly and smiled before he answered them. "Yes. Dinner, I think, would be nice."
His eyebrow quirked at her in obvious invitation. Molly frowned and looked away.
"Right away, sir," the men said in unison before leaving out of the door and shutting it behind them. There was a decided click, which told her it was now locked.
The blond threw his hands up like a game show model demonstrating a prize. "What do you think? Much better than the dungeon, yes?"
"A gilded cage is still a cage," she said.
He chuckled but gave no further response to her cheek. Instead, he pulled a gold case from his pocket, procured a cigarette, lit it, and took a long drag. "You don't mind if I smoke, do you?"
"No," Molly said.
Part of her had hoped this man would be part of Mycroft's rescue plan. As Mycroft had told her little about that plan except for the code word someone would use in order to let her know they could trust them, it was still possible he could be. Her gut instinct, however, said otherwise.
The barely attached shoulder of her gown gave way, sliding down her arm. She hastily grabbed it, pressing it and the loosened bodice in place against her chest. The back of the gown was shredded in places, which called the overall stability of the gown further into question.
The blond man seemed to ignore this as he walked over to the other door. Opening it, he said something in a language Molly couldn't decipher.
Two women filed out. Both of Asian descent, their faces were pale, their statures were lithe and diminutive, and their eyes saw nothing but the blond man. They took turns replying to him, speaking in dulcet, deferential tones while they nodded and smiled.
He took another long drag on his cigarette before turning back to Molly. "Go with them. They will see you cleaned up."
Her eyes darted at the women before looking back at him.
"No one is going to hurt you, darling. Go on." He lazily looked her over for a moment before meeting her gaze. His smile was relaxed and confident. "I'll be here when you're done."
Molly wasn't sure if that was a promise or a threat. She debated using this as an opportunity to anger him further, to push him to hurt her. But she was so exhausted, and she somehow doubted that obstinacy at this point would get her nothing but humiliation. Besides, after so many days in this dress, she was desperate for a bath. So, she shuffled into the new room, which turned out to be tiled lavatory.
As the women came in after her, the blond man added, "Just so you know, Jun and Reiko will be happy to assist you in your bath, but they won't help you escape. Not only are they loyal to their master, but they're unable to understand a word of English. Hard luck there."
Molly slammed the door at this. When male laughter sounded on the other side, she gritted her teeth and ignored it. Clucking like mother hens and speaking in their foreign tongue, the women approached her and began tugging at the dress. The zip at the back was quickly loosed, but getting the garment off took a bit of doing. Parts of the back were sticking to her skin and removing it caused her to wince and yelp. Finally, she was free and the remains of the once-beautiful dress slumped to the floor. The small clinks of metal hitting the tile reminded her of something she'd been hiding. She swept down and picked up the necklace and earrings she'd been concealing in her bodice since the night of her capture. Molly knew she was likely to lose them but had still thought she should try to hang on to them if she could. After all, they were Mrs. Hudson's and she would like to return them to the landlady at some point. Of course, now that felt like a ridiculous and impossible feat, but Molly still grabbed the pieces of jewelry and held them against her chest, daring the women to try to take them. They just sent her brief looks, shrugged, and went about their business. So, there she was, standing in nothing but her unmentionables and holding jewelry like it was a lifeline.
The stench of urine, sweat, and body odor pervaded everything, making Molly want to die of mortification. The women, however, didn't seem to notice as they stripped the rest of the dirty underclothes from her. Once nude, Molly happily shuffled over to the steaming tub in the center of the room. Trying to lift her leg to get inside, she was surprised to find herself too weak to manage it. One of the women came over to her, her short, pixie cut shining in the overhead lighting. Molly accepted the help. Hissing and moaning in pain, she slowly and methodically submerged herself up to her chest in the hot water. Throughout it all, she managed to hold the jewelry high so it wouldn't get wet and wondered how she would ever manage to bathe herself without putting it down.
The women exchanged some kind of dialogue as one gathered up her soiled garments and stuffed them into a plastic bag and the other collected a small stool and a cadre of bathing supplies from a nearby counter. Setting her stool and supplies in front of the tub, the woman held a hand out for the jewelry.
Molly shook her head, holding it high against her chest.
The woman spoke again, pointing at the sink and the counters. There was much nodding and gesturing as she demonstrated that she simply wanted to store the jewelry there until after Molly's bath. Ultimately, knowing they could take the jewelry from her by force if they wanted, Molly handed it over. The woman returned, took a seat on her stool, and began to wet and soap a flannel.
Molly, who had not been bathed fully by another person since she was a small child, wanted to protest this treatment, but simply didn't have the physical or mental strength to do so. The hot water had stolen the pitiful amount she had. So, she sat there like a mute while the woman gently soaped up her body, rinsed it, and soaped it again. When she was done, Molly was so clean her skin squeaked.
"Thank you," she murmured to the woman.
Apparently, her appreciation crossed the language barrier because the woman smiled and nodded at her. "Are you Jun or Reiko?' Molly asked.
She had to repeat herself a few times before the woman understood. Then, with a wide smile, she pointed to herself and said, "Jun."
"Nice to meet you, Jun," Molly said, pointing to herself. "I'm Molly."
"Mo-wee?" Jun repeated.
Molly nodded and smiled. "Close enough."
The other woman, clearly Reiko, returned, calling something to Jun before she placed the clean clothing she carried on the counter. There was a flurry of hand-waving before Jun blushed and spit out what seemed to be some kind of apology. She looked at Molly, pointed at Molly's head, and held up a cup, mimicking pouring it over her head.
"You want to wash my hair?" Molly asked.
Jun kept rattling words at her; so Molly nodded. Jun went to work, untangling the braids Mrs. Hudson had fashioned. It felt like that had happened years ago instead of days. Jun' patient fingers soon had the braids—which Molly knew could have easily turned into dreadlocks—unplaited. Her hair was then washed, rinsed, and conditioned in quick form.
Reiko had a wide, thirsty towel ready when Molly emerged from the tub, wrapping it around her charge. Molly was then seated on the very stool Jun had just used while her hair was carefully detangled, brushed, dried, and styled by Reiko into a tight French braid. Jun, meanwhile, slathered her with lotion lightly perfumed with cherry blossoms and honey. Next, she applied salve and some bandages to the wounds on Molly's back, fussing to herself as she went. At last, the two women helped her to feet, assisting her into some pants that Molly knew she would have fallen over trying to put on herself.
Before Molly knew it, she was dressed in a gossamer pink nightgown that fell to her ankles and left her back exposed down to her waist. A matching silk robe was added, which covered the back as well as the gown's thin straps and the fact that Molly wasn't wearing a bra. The women talked enthusiastically as they ushered her over to the room's lone mirror. Molly looked at the stranger before her. She looked wane and pale and tired. There was a dark purple bruise taking up most of the left side of her chin and the swelling that accompanied this made her bottom lip look fat. But it was what she was now wearing that most worried her. Clearly, this was how the blond man had ordered her dressed. But for what purpose? Was she now to be raped? She closed her eyes, trying to regulate her breathing even as panic welled within her.
You can't think if you don't calm yourself. Thinking is what is going to assist you. Not panicking. You have a plan. You just need to stick to it.
Jun returned the jewelry to Molly, who quickly stuffed it into the pocket of her robe and thanked the women profusely. They escorted her to the bedroom again where she found the blond man seated at the table now set with identical plates of food and two glasses of wine. He'd changed clothes as well and was now dressed in a pair of black trousers; a crisp, white dress shirt open at the collar; a gray vest; and black shoes. His blond hair was wet and slicked back, indicating that she wasn't the only newly cleaned person in the room.
Jun and Reiko spoke to him, waving their hands at her. He replied and, with a nod, they saw themselves to the large door and let themselves out. A click told her the door was locked behind them.
"Well, don't you look gorgeous, darling," the man said, holding his arms out. "Here we are. Alone at last. I must say, you look decidedly better for your bath." He took a careful sniff. "And is that jasmine I smell?"
Molly turned away and headed for the bed, sitting on the side of it. Whatever his plan was, she certainly wasn't going to cooperate. The bath had refreshed her enough to be sure she had at least some energy to fight him off—at least for a little while.
"Why don't you join me, Molly? I have the most succulent beef you have ever tasted and all the fresh made bread you can stand." He looked down before adding. "And my favorite, jacket potatoes with cheese!"
"No," she said.
He paused. "I could have the men return and force you to sit with me. Then, they could take turns stuffing the food in your pretty, little mouth. What would you prefer?"
"I said no," she repeated, more defiantly.
The blond scrutinized her for a moment and then sighed, heavy and hard. "You're right. I wouldn't do that. Not my style." He waved her over. "Come now. I've no interest in hurting you. I just want to see you fed. I promise the food has not been poisoned."
She cocked her head to the side as she studied him. "Why do you care if I eat? Your master is going to kill me anyway."
"Because you are a lady and I am tasked with taking care of you. My mother raised me to always act like a gentleman around ladies. Besides, you need to eat if you're going to have the strength to deal with him when he returns."
Molly turned away, crossing her arms over her chest, and steeling herself for the fight that was sure to come.
"Did you really think starving yourself, picking a fight with Gunther, or telling me off was going to get you killed and thus undo your part in the professor's game? You think that's going to save your precious Sherlock? Not a well thought out plan, if you'll allow me to say so."
Molly didn't respond. What was there to say? Looking at it that way, it was a foolish plan.
"Gunther, I'll give you, is a complete imbecile," the blond continued, "but he likes his head where it sits too much for him to do you serious injury. I assure you Dr. Moriarty won't be pleased that his prize has been damaged, but his temper would know no bounds if you were to die. As for me, I'm not a man who enjoys violence. So, you're as safe as can be."
"You abhor violence and yet you choose to associate with Moriarty?"
The blond pondered this for a moment before he said, "Call it a noble cause."
This caught her attention. "A noble cause? What kind of noble cause?"
He gave her a wry smile. "If you want me to answer your questions, Molly Hooper, you're going to have to eat with me."
Molly finally relented. When she sat opposite him, he handed her a linen napkin. She dutifully dropped this into her lap and looked down at her plate. Strips of rare roast beef were lined up and covered in a mushroom gravy. Next to this was a jacket potato topped with pats of melting butter, cheese, and a mound of green beans sautéed with what appeared to be garlic. Pulling back the napkins from a nearby basket, the blond presented her with a thick slice of homemade brown bread, which she took.
"Help yourself to the butter," he said, passing her a small crock.
When she looked about for a knife, he added, "You'll have to use your spoon. It's a bit unrefined, but you seem like the kind of woman who would be dangerous with a butter knife."
She used a spoon to spread on the butter before devouring the slice in four large bites. It was the best thing she'd ever eaten.
The blond chuckled. "There," he said. "That's better, isn't it, Molly?"
She swallowed the last bite of bread, licking a bit of smeared butter from her swollen, lower lip. She winced at the pain it caused before asking, "And your name is?"
"Call me Henry, darling."
Molly picked up her fork and used it to spear a green bean. "So, you're Moriarty's second. What does that mean exactly?"
"Whenever he is away, I'm in charge."
"Then why was Gunther there?"
"He was left responsible for your care. I've been running errands and only just returned myself this morning. When I found out what Gunther had done, I took pains to fix the situation. If not, you would have been decidedly worse off. Perhaps even dead if Dr. Moriarty had stayed away another few days. You should thank me."
Molly contemplated a few seconds before murmuring, "Thank you."
"You're welcome. That wasn't so hard, was it?"
She ignored this in favor of her own questions. "Errands? For your master, you mean?"
He nodded. "Of course."
"What kind of errands?"
"Next question, please."
"Where are we exactly? Still in Britain?"
"I'm afraid I can't tell you that either."
"What can you tell me?"
He cut into his own beef and examined it a bit before inserting it into his mouth. Chewing happily, he swallowed and said, "Very little, I'm afraid. But I promise to answer any question I can. How about that?"
"Why would you do that?"
"I'm curious."
"About what?
"I've seen all the recordings on you. You are a conundrum, Molly Hooper. On paper, you're so dreadfully tedious. A pathologist who lives alone in a modest flat with a cat. And, you were so uninteresting the cat ran away, didn't he? Honestly, the most exciting thing about you is your association with Sherlock Holmes." He leaned closer as if to impart a secret. "You've carried quite a tendre for the consulting detective for years, haven't you? Then, after nearly an eternity of waiting and hoping … BOOM … you become his flatmate and girlfriend in the space of a few months. You must tell me how you did it." His eyes ran over her lightly, pausing ever so long at her bosom. "Clearly he's not a breast man."
"I thought you were a gentleman," Molly said, buttering a second slice of bread.
"I said I try to be a gentleman, darling." He winked. "I didn't say I always succeed at it."
Molly hated how her cheeks were flaming. She focused on the bread, taking a bite, chewing, and swallowing before she spoke again. "You shouldn't believe rumors. People are always trying to pair Sherlock off with people. There are even tales which say he's more than just business partners with John Watson."
Henry laughed. "Sherlock is many things, but not gay."
"And you know this how?"
"Call it a gift for knowing. Besides, I've seen the recordings, remember, Molly? I know the truth about you and Sherlock and the depths of your relationship—even if he doesn't always prefer to call it by that exact terminology."
Molly dropped her bread as the full implications of his statement hit her. "There were cameras in 221B?"
"The professor does his research. He likes to be quite thorough."
Molly felt her face heat in mortification as she imagined all the things that had been seen and heard on those recordings. "And is that what all this is? You want to recreate the recordings with you as stand-in for Sherlock?"
Henry paled and leaned back from the table, seeming offended by this. "Of course not. As I told you, you are quite safe with me. I've never forced anyone to my bed. If you end up there, darling, it will be by your own choice. I'm a gentleman, remember?"
"A true gentleman wouldn't have brought up the recordings at all, much less have watched them as thoroughly as you evidently have."
"A true lady wouldn't have tried to lie about her relationship with Sherlock Holmes," he countered. "But I suppose you were only trying to protect him. Your loyalty to your master does you credit, darling."
"He's not my master."
"Isn't he?"
"No."
"Interesting. You believe yourself Sherlock's equal then?"
"Sherlock is my superior when it comes to overall intelligence."
"So, you concede—" Henry began.
Molly interrupted, "But he is my inferior in other areas. Then, there are many areas where we are peers in every way. So, no, Sherlock is not my master. He is my colleague, my friend, my lover, and my equal. You may choose to follow a master, Henry, but I do not."
"Dr. Moriarty is not my master."
"But he made you his second?" Molly picked up her fork and stabbed at her potato, watching the melted butter run over the sides and onto her plate. "How does that happen if he's not your master? Being master is everything to a man like him."
"I am loyal, a quality the professor esteems far higher than anything else."
"Loyal to your master, you mean?"
"He's not my master." Henry's hand slammed down on the table at this.
It was Molly's turn to grin. She'd broken through his façade of charm and humor. "Does Dr. Moriarty know this?"
"Yes."
"And how long have you been with him?"
"A decade."
"But why? Why pledge your loyalty to such a man?"
"I have my reasons."
"The noble cause you spoke of earlier?"
He nodded, raising his wine glass for a sip. "Indeed."
"And what is this noble cause?"
Henry swirled the wine before he answered. "Revenge. Someone I loved very much was killed, you see. An innocent whose only crime was in loving me." He stared down at the deep burgundy liquid before downing it all in one, quick motion and slamming the glass on the table. "The professor has promised me revenge. So, I follow him. I have certain … gifts … which assist him in his plans. In return for my service, he will use his superior intellect to help me with mine."
"Ten years and he hasn't made good on his promise yet? What makes you think he will?"
Henry's eyes glittered dangerously. "He will. Soon."
Molly shifted her gaze away from him, uneasy. "Revenge isn't noble."
"It is in this case." His words brooked no argument.
"And me? I'm innocent in all of this. What have I done to deserve such treatment? Then there's William. Dr. Moriarty killed that boy for nothing more than being in the wrong place at the wrong time. He shot him in the head in cold blood. What have you to say about that?" Molly demanded.
"Everything has its price. It's for the greater good."
"It's murder. Don't you dare wrap it up in pretty paper and call it something else. Moriarty executed William, and he'll do the same to me when the time comes. It'll be murder then, too. A murder you helped with. And, murder may be many things," she said, throwing her fork down on the table with a loud clatter, "but it will never be noble."
Henry stared at her, emotion burning behind his eyes. She met his stare. Held it. Let him see the truth of her words. He looked away, as if he couldn't stand it any longer. With a shuddering breath, he said, "I'm sorry this is happening to you. I wish …"
Molly wasn't done with her torture. "You wish what?"
He seemed unable to decide on how best to answer. His throat worked, making his Adam's apple bobbing to and fro. At last, he said, "I must have my revenge. I've waited too long, done too much."
"But, why do you need Moriarty? Why not get your revenge on your own?"
He took out his gold case again, removed a cigarette, and lit it. There was a long drag and a loud exhale of smoke before he replied. "I'm smart, but not smart enough to catch my prey. I need the professor to find the man I am looking for. I need him to get to him. There's no other way. And when it comes down to it, I'm really not prone to violence. Dr. Moriarty, however, doesn't mind getting his hands dirty."
Unwelcome memories pushed their way forward in Molly's mind, causing her to shudder unwillingly. "Yes," she clipped, "he particularly thrills in that part."
His eyes watched her very carefully, a flash of remorse appeared, but was quickly squelched. He took another drag. "Yes, consulting criminal and all that."
That stumped Molly. "Consulting criminal? I thought that was Jim Moriarty. Not the doctor."
Henry cocked his head. "Who do you think taught Jim all he knew? He was merely a diamond in the rough before."
"But how did you meet Dr. Moriarty, Henry? Is there an ad somewhere for something like this? Some online forum for consulting criminals? How does a man who abhors violence find himself a psychopath like Dr. James Moriarty in the first place?"
Henry gave her another wry grin, seemingly unfettered in the least about her slur against his partner/boss, and shrugged. "Simple. He's my brother."
