22
Sherlock felt as though the air had been sucked from the governor's office, where he and John had been 'kindly' directed – for urgent matters - by the security guard who should have escorted them to the helicopter.
"You…you're not serious, are you Bradley?" the young military helicopter pilot looked at Sherlock with a saddened air, "I'm sorry, Mr Holmes. There's a storm out there. I'm not cleared for take-off. Coast Guard Weather Service expects improvement within half an hour…one hour at the most, sir".
Sherlock glanced out the window where rain was pouring from the clouds and lightning flashed inside them, "There must be another way to get off this island, damn it!" he yelled as he banged his fist on the governor's desk, "Sherlock…" John called softly his name bringing him back to an illusory calm.
"By sea! Last time we used those two fishermen's boat to get here, remember John?" he said pacing the room like a lion in a cage, "I'm sorry, Mr Holmes…the conditions of the sea are even worse" the governor Blossom interjected with a pitiful tone, "No, no, NO! It can't be! I can't get stuck here! Not now!" despair and frustration shone through his voice. Really there was nothing to do but wait for the storm to pass?
John approached him placing a hand on his arm, "Come on, mate…it will be okay. MI5, MI6, police, the whole British apparatus know by now the location of the cottage where those crazy two are keeping Molly. You can count on Mycroft, and on Greg…they'll take care of Molly in case you…we can't…" Sherlock ruffled nervously his black curls, " . . No ifs or buts".
Sherlock couldn't remember ever feeling this terrified before, not even when they had been under his sister's threat. Everything inside him was screaming and quivering. The fear of losing her had lurked even deeper within his being now that, not only did he know he loved Molly deeply, but that he had gotten a taste of what the two of them were together.
So not being with Molly when they found her, wasn't an option. Images of Mary dying in John's arms kept dancing before his eyes. If the irreparable were to happen and, considering how psychopathic Janine and Winston were, it was not out of question Sherlock was aware of it, he craved at least the chance to be with her, to tell her how much he loved her, to hold her close to him until her last breath.
And then there would be his revenge. And it would have been merciless, ferocious, scathing. May God have mercy on them because he, Sherlock Holmes, would have none.
The cold, aloof consulting detective, described by many as a machine and not a human being, plopped into a leather armchair with his head in his hands. The room seemed to slow to a halt and everything froze. His mind froze. But not his heart which was hammering hard in his chest. He prayed. For the first time in his life he prayed for a miracle.
It was Janine's honeyed and derisive voice coming from some speaker installed who knows where to stir Molly from the half-sleep she had slipped into after struggling in vain to free herself, "We're so sorry, luv" her words followed by a mocking laugh, "Well, not really…Anyway, the fact is that your time is up and your knight isn't here to rescue you!".
Molly looked straight into the camera and although the tape on her mouth muffled the sound of her words, "Go fuck, the pair of you!", Janine understood them perfectly and laughed at her "Oh, oh…what's up Mousy Molly? Tsk, tsk! What would the flawless consulting detective say if he heard you talk so foul-mouthed?".
Molly growled in anger, still pulling the straps that imprisoned her wrists. "Oh, sweet Molly!" Winston's voice made itself heard, and while he very coldly invited her to say goodbye to the world, Molly saw with growing terror some vents open along the skirting board. She watched with wide, frightened eyes as the flow of water spread across the floor, licking the soles of her bare feet.
How long would it take the water to level up and completely submerge her? Sherlock would have been able to answer her. Sherlock…her heart clenched in angst. She swallowed hard as a few tears rushing down her cheeks, "Oh poor, little Molly, don't cry. It will be over in a couple of hours".
She looked up at the camera again. Those two understood nothing of love. She wasn't crying for herself, for what would happen to her. Her tears, her pain, her anguish were for Sherlock. For the man she loved, whom she had loved right away and whose emotionality and humanity had been forcibly hidden behind the façade of the cold-hearted man.
But a cold-hearted man doesn't throw himself off a roof to keep his friends from being killed and spends two years dismantling a crime network undergoing torture of all sorts. Nor does he cross half the hemisphere to save a certain well-known dominatrix from being beheaded. A cold-hearted man doesn't kill, risking to ruin himself forever, a man who threatened his best friend's wife. Nor does he forgive his own insane sister for killing his childhood friend.
A good man, a great man does it. But a good man, a great man has his own weaknesses…and Sherlock's is not knowing how to manage pain. How many relapses into drugs had he had in the darkest moment of his life? And what would happen now that, as Janine had promised, his heart would soon be burned out of him? What would become of him after her…death?
Molly flinched, rousing herself, as she felt drops of water wet her face, her hair, her clothes, "Consider it a scenic touch…a little special effect" Winston chuckled. She looked up at the ceiling from where the water flowed like a thin light drizzle, "Here, that's it! The time has come to say goodbye, Molly luv. I wish you to go to hell" Janine said, "Say hello to that bitch Vanessa!" sneered Winston. Suddenly there was silence.
Molly shifted in her chair, looking around desperately. Even if her end was certain, she would not die without a fight. She pulled as hard as she could at the leather straps in distant hope they would tear. She groaned partly from the pain in her wrists partly because with the tape over her mouth it was starting to be difficult to breath.
Her constant frenzied movements in the chair made it rock until it leaned dangerously on her left side. Molly wasn't quick enough to balance her weight on the other side so all she had to do was wait for the kickback of the chair's crash on the floor which was muffled by the water collected in the meantime.
Her eyes went closed as she fell. In the back of her mind she found herself back in years, watching Sherlock using his riding crop on a corpse at Bart's morgue. That was the first and last time she had asked him out. The memory made her smile in spite of her current situation because she found sexy the way Sherlock pretended not to understand what she was asking him. How far they had come since then and faced so much!
She stood still for a few seconds trying to catch her breath and more than ever adamant to fight to try to survive. Maybe Sherlock just needed time to get there, wherever 'there' was.
What could she do? Molly needed to think. She opened her eyes again observing the room from her new position. The water level kept rising inexorably, so with an effort and a slight push she tried to rise towards her right side so to bring her hand to her mouth and at least remove the packing tape.
She could not have said after how many attempts, groans of frustration and thoughts of letting go, Molly finally managed to free herself from the gag. A victorious, relieved sigh escaped her lips and the first thing she did, instinctively, was to cry for help. Her gaze searching for any sign Sherlock had found her. But nothing, only water all around.
With a snort Molly dropped onto her left side to rest a bit even though keeping her head bent to avoid having it underwater made her neck ache. Judging by the level reached by the water, it must have been about an hour since the criminal duo had turned on the taps, so to speak.
In fact Molly was completely soaked. Her clothes clung to her like a second skin, her ponytail-free hair was glued to her face. Her body was now half submerged and the cold began to invade her bones and muscles slowing down her movements. In those brief moments of rest, Molly's mind was searching for memories of her past with Sherlock as if it wanted to push her to hold on.
And held on she did. Molly caught her breath, pulled herself up on her right side and bit into the strap that held her wrists. No result. She tried again. And again. And again. And again. Eventually she had to give up.
It was now difficult to keep her head out of the water. From time to time she went under and then resurfaced after a few seconds and took a deeper breath then the previous one. She was aware she couldn't physically take it anymore.
Molly felt exhausted. She was breathing hard and her head and arms felt too heavy. She was sore and stiff all over her body. She closed her eyes telling herself she needed to regain some strength. All she had to do was what she did as a little girl at sea when she immersed herself completely and let herself be lulled by the waves.
So she leaned back to her left, letting her entire body go underwater. As her muscles relaxed her mind became pure blackness and she was aware she was slipping into unconsciousness, but that was okay with her. No more struggle, no more efforts only peace and lightness.
And Molly felt herself being dragged away, far away. Without knowing how she found herself in a small garden with a carefully cut lawn and a beautiful rose bush. It must have been a summer day considering the clear sky and the bright sun, and besides she wore a light long strapless white dress. She could feel the warmth of the sun on the bare skin of her shoulders. A pleasant sense of peace enveloped her. Where was she? Was she dead then and was that heaven?
Molly narrowed her eyes looking curiously around. She spotted a small garden table set for an afternoon snack with two deck chairs placed side by side, just opposite the rose bush. The whole environment now looked familiar but she really couldn't remember where she'd seen it or what occasion she'd been there. "Molly", she turned to where the voice that had called her came from and she couldn't help but smile.
Mary, her dear friend, Mary Watson was walking towards her with a tray in her hand on which two glasses of cold lemonade jangled, "Come and sit with me, darling" she said giving her a warm big smile as she winked at her. But Molly stood still, petrified as her eyes, wide in surprise, followed her friend's movements.
Mary put down the tray and then turned to look at her. And laughed. That beautiful silvery laugh that always put Molly in a good mood, "I know all this seems…weird" she said strolling towards her, "And I know you're scared" she took Molly's hands in hers, "But you don't have to be".
"It's not time for you to be here, Molly. So many people still need you, my little Rosie in the first place. But also John, Mrs Hudson, Greg…even Mr Ice!" she laughed at the mention of Mycroft's moniker, then Mary's face expression became serious but not less sweet, "And Sherlock".
"You can't give up now he finally got his head out of his ass!" Molly giggled at her blunt way of speaking, "You have been his rock all this time, Molly. You deserve to be happy. He deserves to be happy and Sherlock won't be if you aren't with him". Mary squeezed Molly's hands tightly and sighed "We both know what will become of him if you don't go back".
"I'm so tired, Mary" Molly admitted with her head down, speaking for the first time. The late Mrs Watson hugged her silently then raised her chin so Molly could look into her blue eyes, "I know you are, honey, I know. But you love him, don't you?". Molly nodded, "And then come back to him" Mary whispered with a soft smile, "Go back to Sherlock, Molly".
