The morning after the night before... There are a few swear words and detailed references to torture in this chapter but nothing you'll find gratuitous, I hope.

Chapter Thirty-Five

Molly was caught in that weightless state, suspended between 'asleep' and 'awake', rising slowly, gently, towards consciousness. She inhaled and stretched her legs...and one foot made contact with a body part that was not her own. It had been many a month since Molly had shared her bed with another person and her reptilian hindbrain – the only part functioning at this stage of awakening - struggled to make sense of this sudden, new phenomenon and, consequently, sounded the alarm, triggering her survival instincts – fight or flight. She withdrew her foot immediately and rolled over, prepared to confront the intruder.

Thankfully, at that point, her social, mammalian mid-brain awoke and took control. It opened her eyes and homed in on another pair of eyes – aquamarine in colour, with dilated pupils – that were fixed on hers; and her pupils dilated in empathy.

Finally, her neo-cortex, the human add-on part of the brain, came on stream – slow and late to the party, as usual - and she recognised those eyes and smiled.

'Hello,' she whispered, her voice husky from drowsy numbness.

'I've been watching you wake up,' he said, his own voice gravelly from lack of use. 'Culverton Smith was right; it was quite lovely, in its way.'

'But also rather creepy,' she replied.

'True. But I do have an ulterior motive.'

'Which is?'

'I'm rather desperate to use the bathroom but I didn't want to disturb you.'

'That's very kind.'

'Isn't it. I surprise myself sometimes. But, you're awake now…'

He rolled over and sat up, on the side of the bed, leaning forward to scan the collection of discarded garments scattered across the floor, in search of his boxers. He reached out, selected an item and held it up for inspection.

'I think those are mine,' Molly observed and he nodded, dropping the item back on the floor and resuming his visual search of the debris.

Molly's eyes, having rid themselves of the last vestiges of sleep, were drawn to the plain of his shoulders and upper torso, illuminated now by the weak Winter morning light seeping in through the window – they'd both been too preoccupied to think about drawing the curtains the night before.

'Your back,' she gasped.

He turned his head to glower at her.

'I haven't gone anywhere, yet,' he huffed.

'No, your back!' she reiterated, pushing away the duvet, sitting up and scooting across the bed for a closer look.

The entire surface area of his shoulders and upper back was criss-crossed with a plethora of scars, welts, puckers and blemishes which her Pathologist's eye recognised as the product of sustained and repeated beatings with a variety of implements - whips, switches, batons and…something with sharp teeth that she couldn't quite put a name to.

'Oh, my God, Sherlock…' she breathed, placing a tentative hand on a particularly badly disfigured patch, '…what the actual fuck?'

There was an awkward silence, during which he dropped his chin to his chest and slowly exhaled but then he straightened his shoulders, reached across and gently removed her hand before standing up.

'It is what it is,' he said, and strode away in the direction of the bathroom, treating Molly to an exclusive private view of his naked rear aspect.

And a fine view it was, she had to admit, apart from the obvious. Not an ounce of body fat in sight and every muscle taut and clearly defined, a veritable Vitruvian man. The thought occurred that he would make an ideal teaching aide for the Anatomy lesson she was scheduled to teach her students in the coming week. However, tempting though the idea might have been, she couldn't quite bring herself to share him with anyone just yet. Her students would have to make do with the bog-standard charts.

On his return, a few minutes later, Molly was gifted with the reverse aspect and it did not disappoint, either. However, her visual appraisal did not go unnoticed.

'Do I pass muster?' he asked as he slipped back into bed beside her and pulled the duvet up to his chest, folding his arms over the top.

'Well, your pecs could use some work – just a bit flat...'

'Oh. What would you recommend?'

'Perhaps some dynamic tension exercises?'

'Ah, good choice,' he nodded.

'But everything else is most impressive.'

'Elaborate?'

'Well,' she replied, in a considered fashion, 'clearly defined abdominals, indicative of considerable core strength; trapezius, deltoids, triceps and biceps, gluts and quads all well-toned but not to excess; soleus and gastrocnemius suggest a significant degree of athleticism and…'

'And?' he prompted.

'The genitalia do not disappoint,' she concluded, nodding, sagely.

'Hmmm,' Sherlock mused, gazing contemplatively at the ceiling rose, 'that's good to know.' Then added, 'Better than Tom?'

'I don't do comparisons.'

'Oh, go on, indulge me.'

'Are you jealous?' she teased.

'Not at all, just curious,' he replied.

'Well, let's put it this way…for someone who has consistently claimed to have no interest in romantic entanglements, you certainly know your way around a woman's body,' she conceded.

'Having no interest in romantic entanglements is not the same as having no interest in sexual congress.'

'Ah, that's a distinction we might wish to explore at some point,' she replied, archly. 'But, suffice to say, Moriarty was seriously misinformed.'

'Well, he wasn't far wrong, to be fair,' he admitted. 'Suffice to say,' he parodied, 'I have been fortunate in my limited experience, benefitting from one extremely inspirational tutor, in particular. She knew what she liked.'

'Oh, who might that be, I wonder?' Molly's curiosity was piqued.

'That would be telling,' he smirked.

'Well, whoever she is, I'd like to send her a 'thank you' card.'

'I'll tell her you said so,' he smirked again and resumed his study of the ceiling rose.

'John Watson was right about you,' he said, at last.

Molly quirked an eyebrow.

'Really? Why? What did he say?'

'Well…' He deliberated for a moment then declared, 'He said that, were I to ask if I could kiss you, you would chew my face off.'

'Did he, now!' she exclaimed, before conceding with a shrug. 'I suppose one shouldn't be too surprised. Women are, after all, his Specialist Subject.' Her snort of laughter was accompanied by a deep, rumbling chuckle which vibrated across the mattress to her side of the bed.

As the mirth subsided, Molly rolled towards him and placed a hand on his arm.

'Seriously, though, Sherlock,' she began in a sombre tone, 'you've never talked about it and, to my shame, I've never asked; but what did happen to you while you were officially dead?'

His brow wrinkled pensively. He'd never talked about his experiences, during those two years away, because there was no reason to. No one but Mycroft – and the medics who had treated him for his gunshot wound – knew about his scars, until now. His brother knew the origins and it was none of the medics' business. But now Molly had seen them and recognised them for what they were. And, at this point in what he hoped would be a long and committed relationship, it was only right that she should know the whole tawdry truth.

However, if he was going to open up that particular Pandora's Box, he could probably do with a top up of endorphins so he extended an arm, inviting Molly to nestle into him – skin to skin - then wrapped it around her shoulders, as she moulded the contours of her body to his, and used his free hand to tilt her chin upwards. He inclined his head and captured her lips, with determined amorous intent.

Brief interlude over, he took a deep, preparatory breath and…spilled the beans.

ooOoo

Molly lay with her head on Sherlock's chest, her arms wrapped protectively around him, as he carded his fingers gently through her hair. Just listening to all of that had been harrowing, made worse by the gut-wrenching realisation that he'd had to keep it all to himself for so long. On his return, he had jumped straight into investigating the case of the Underground terror cell in London, without so much as a whiff of a debriefing. Molly blamed Mycroft for that, although Sherlock would probably have resisted, even had one been offered.

The first part of his story was disturbing enough, covering his journey across Western and Eastern Europe, through Russia and Iraq, wreaking havoc on Moriarty's criminal network and dodging ISIL insurgents along the way; to Pakistan, where he disrupted Moriarty's illicit trade route out of the Far East by exposing a key drug smuggler, in hiding amongst a breakaway sect of warrior Buddhist monks.

Then to India, where he took a brief busman's holiday and solved a few everyday crimes, much to the delight of a New Delhi police detective, Inspector Prakash, whom he insisted take all the credit, of course.

And on the home straight, at last, he succeeded in securing the conviction of Herr Trepoff, one of Moriarty's top lieutenants, on trial in Munich for the murder of his wife. But at that point, his luck ran out. He was forced to make a detour via Serbia, where a local war lord, the self-styled 'Baron' Maupertius, had in his possession certain papers which would provide the final nail in the coffin of Moriarty's criminal empire. But Sherlock was caught breaking in and then the nightmare really began.

All those hours, days, weeks and months of torture – starvation, deprivation and ritual humiliation; water boarding, sexual assault, extremes of heat and cold, sleep deprivation, even a mock execution; held suspended by his wrists for days on end until his shoulders almost dislocated; being allowed to escape, only to be recaptured, just when he thought he had made it to freedom; force-fed with poisoned gruel which induced horrendous stomach cramps, projectile vomiting and chronic diarrhoea, then being left to lie in his own filth; living on scraps of mouldy bread and rancid rat meat. How on earth had he survived? What a testament it was to the strength of his human spirit.

Add to all that the shock of returning home to find John no longer residing at 221B and engaged to Mary – and mad as hell at being left out of the loop with regards to Sherlock's fake suicide – he must have wondered if all his suffering and self-sacrifice had actually been worth such a heavy price.

'Molly, don't distress yourself. It's alright. Truly,' he lied. He still experienced flashbacks and occasional panic attacks but the impulse to shield her from those facts was paramount.

'No, it's not alright,' she insisted, raising her head to meet his gaze. 'It really isn't.'

'Yes, alright, it's not alright but it's in the past,' he replied, gracing her with a tender smile. 'So, leave it there, in the past, where it belongs.'

'Just one question…'

'Molly…'

'Just one. Please.'

He sighed but nodded consent.

'Does John know?'

'No, I don't think so. I certainly haven't told him and I doubt very much Mycroft has.'

'But why not?'

'Why would I?'

'Because he might be a little less arsy if he knew what you'd been through. I think he thinks you were on some sort of luxury holiday!'

Sherlock pursed his lips, frowning, then shook his head.

'No. John has enough to contend with, losing his wife and having to bring up Rosie on his own, holding down a full-time job so he can keep a roof over their heads and put food on the table. I'm not about to add 'guilt' to all of that…what?' Molly was giving him the strangest look.

'Tell me again how you used to be a sociopath?' she teased, with a supressed smile.

'Oh, shut up,' he huffed, his mouth twitching at the corners.

'How about that cup of tea, now?' she asked.

'That would be lovely,' he replied, planting a soft kiss on her forehead. 'What time is it?'

'Just after ten,' she replied.

'I need to watch the time. Mustn't be late for Mycroft's Sunday lunch…Oh! You should come, too!' he declared.

'I can't come!' she squeaked.

'Of course, you can. Why can't you?'

'I'm not invited.'

'Yes, you are. I just invited you. You can be my Plus One.'

He reached over to the bedside table and grabbed his phone, typed a quick text and pressed 'Send'.

'There you are. You're invited. I just told Mycroft.'

'Oh, but…' she gasped.

'But what?'

'I've got nothing to wear.'

'Then go as you are. I won't mind,' he smirked.

'Well, I would!' she squeaked, again, though she knew he was teasing.

'Molly, you don't need to wear anything special. It's only lunch with Mycroft and his lady friend.'

'Lady being the operative word.'

'She's not landed gentry, for God's sake! She was an Olympic gymnast who had the good fortune – or bad, depending on how you look at it – to marry a Peer of the Realm. And he wasn't landed gentry, either, just a Life Peer. It's not an audience with the Queen…Actually, I did go to Buckingham Palace wearing a bed sheet, once, so that's probably a bad analogy…'

'Time for tea,' said Molly and, rolling away from him, she climbed out of bed and walked round to collect her dressing gown from behind the bedroom door before making her way downstairs to put the kettle on. Sherlock appeared a few moments later, wearing the spare dressing gown he kept in the guest bedroom, as a contingency.

Brew prepared – English Breakfast rather than the Royal Blend, which was back in the cupboard for another occasion - they sat either side of the corner of the breakfast bar peninsular, sipping their tea, and the topic of conversation returned to Molly's wardrobe.

'You have lots of lovely clothes,' Sherlock insisted.

'Like you would notice!' Molly giggled.

'I would, actually,' he replied, archly. 'There was that yellow, floral dress you wore for John and Mary's wedding. You looked lovely in that.'

Molly was genuinely surprised.

'You remember that?'

'Of course. Why wouldn't I?'

'Well, you usually delete superfluous information from your hard drive.'

'Exactly,' he replied, enigmatically, causing Molly to give that goofy grin she always gave when he complimented her.

'Well, alright. But that's a summer dress. I can't wear that in November. I'd freeze to death.'

'I'm not suggesting you wear that particular dress; I'm just proving that you do have nice clothes. Like the nasturtium dress you wore for Rosie's christening. You were delightful in that, with your hair all up and that scarf tied round it…Like an English cottage garden on a summer's day.'

Molly was gob-smacked. She didn't know what to say.

'You looked so beautiful,' he smiled, tenderly. 'I could hardly keep my eyes off you. Fortunately, I had my phone as a distraction. Otherwise, who knows what I might have done?' and he leant in for a lingering, tea-tinctured kiss.

'What might you have done?' she asked, provocatively.

'Made a complete fool of myself.'

'I think you managed that anyway, to be honest,' she chuckled, recalling Siri's untimely intervention.

'Anyway, returning to the topic in hand,' he redirected the conversation. 'I'm sure you will find the perfect ensemble in your wardrobe for what is, after all, a working lunch. I need you to explain to Mycroft and Lady Smallwood how you interpreted Eurus's medical records and deduced that she had been sterilised.'

A working lunch. Molly could cope with that. She smiled in agreement, feeling much more confident now.

ooOoo

A short update but sweet, I think. :)