Thank you to everyone who reviewed the last chapters! Your comments are very appreciated! I would also like to thank everyone who has followed and favorited!
I decided to post this one-shot because the lovely SammyKatz asked for Molly to show some kick-butt moves. This is very different from what I normally write, so please let me know what you think! This was originally a prompt fill for ordre-et-beaute on tumblr, but I have tweaked it a little bit. I will post a second story later today, I am running a little short on time this morning!
Sherlock is aware enough of his surroundings to deduce he is being held in an abandoned warehouse somewhere on the outskirts of Paris. He had been waiting for a contact within Moriarty's flagging network when he was suddenly grabbed from behind and injected with a fast-acting sedative. He curses his carelessness before assessing his current situation.
Blood drips onto the concrete floor from a gash encircling his left eye, covering the majority of his face in the red, sticky substance. He can feel bruises forming above his eyelid, leaving him able to see through only his right one. His attackers have stripped him down to a dirty white tank top and a ratty old pair of jeans, both now covered with the evidence of his torture. They hold him roughly with his hands behind his back, forcing him to his knees as they bring him to their leader. The Consulting Detective takes in the way the man confidently commands his men, as well as the look of utter loathing in his eyes, easily deducing the man's identity. Sherlock spits some blood out of his mouth and attempts to glare at Sebastian Moran, Moriarty's second-in-command, part-time lover, and the coordinator of his capture.
Moran simply laughs at Sherlock's expression, more of a grimace than a defiant stare. He aims a kick at the supposedly-dead detective's side, and Sherlock has to restrain himself from hunching over in agony. An impressed look passes over Moran's face before he begins circling his prisoner, observing the man he blames for James Moriarty's death.
He pauses in front of Sherlock and scrunches down so they are eye to eye. He places his hands on Sherlock's shoulders, ensuring he has Sherlock's full attention before he begins speaking. Sherlock observes the way the words roll off his tongue naturally, as though he has rehearsed them time and again, waiting for the moment he would finally be able to confront Sherlock Holmes.
"I know your weakness, Sherlock Holmes. Jamie, he thought he had it all figured out! Threaten the people you care about, and you would have no choice but to do anything he asked of you! I tried to explain that love doesn't make you weak. It gives you a reason to fight, to live on! But he didn't listen, and look what happened! Jamie is DEAD!" He bellows the last word and slaps Sherlock hard, causing his head to twist violently to the left, blood spattering across the room. His vision blacks out for a moment, and Moran waits as Sherlock blinks rapidly until he brings his gaze back to the enraged man before him.
"No, your greatest flaw is not the other people in your life. It's you," he spits out. "Your pride! You already defeated the greatest criminal mastermind in the world, how could anyone else compare to the great Sherlock Holmes? Well, guess what? I. Win." He gestures to one of his henchmen. The man tightens his hold on Sherlock, who clenches his teeth to keep from groaning in pain. His arms and legs are quickly bound to a wooden chair, and a dirty rag is stuffed into his mouth. He listens as another man's footsteps come up behind him, and he feels a slight prick to his neck before he passes out again.
Moran reappears periodically, tormenting his mind and body in equal measures, until Sherlock loses track of the number of days he has been trapped here. As he drifts in and out of consciousness, he wonders if his time with John was merely a figment of his imagination, a daydream conjured up by a lonely man with little to hope for anymore.
He registers the sound of skin meeting skin, followed by masculine grunts and groans, before eerie quiet fills the room. He drifts off again momentarily, but then wakes to the feel of soft hands gently caressing his face and thinks that he must be hallucinating. He knows these hands. They are the same ones that have patched him up on numerous occasions over the past three years, the first of which was the night after he jumped off of St. Bart's rooftop into this hell where Sherlock Holmes is dead.
He slowly opens his eyes to the most beautiful vision he has ever seen. Molly Hooper is kneeling in front of him, big, brown, wonderful eyes assessing his condition. He would smile in relief if he could muster the energy, but he can only manage a small moan. She looks up at his face, pulling the gag out and standing to walk to the other side of the chair.
He hears a small click (Pocket knife, his mind deduces, albeit slower than usual), and then she is sawing at the ropes tying him to the chair. When she gets his hands free, she begins working on his feet, and, in turn, he sluggishly pulls his arms forward, rubbing his wrists to bring some circulation back to his numb limbs.
The sound of rope hitting the floor alerts him that she has completed her task, and he watches as she places the knife back in the pocket of her black leather jacket before squatting down in front of him once more. "Do you think you can move? We need to get out of here as quickly as possible. I'm not sure how long the guards will be out."
He snaps to attention at that. He has completely forgotten about his captors in his relief in seeing her again. "Molly, how did you…. Why are you here? It's too dangerous!"
"Mycroft sent me," she replies quickly, placing one of his arms over her shoulder so she could help him stand up. "I'll explain later, but we really do need to hurry."
He relents, intent on questioning her once they are out of danger. His gaze passes over two armed guards, lying motionless by the entrance, as they step around them to reach the door. How on earth could such a tiny woman defeat those men, both of whom were twice her size? She gives both men a swift kick to the side to ensure they are still unconscious and pushes him outside. He files the question away with the others piling up in his mind palace. The drugs are wearing off, and the haze in his mind is gradually dissipating.
She leads him to a motorcycle parked discreetly outside the building. His mind registers that it was, in fact, an old warehouse before he realizes something else. "How did you get my motorbike? Oh, right. Mycroft." He is going to have a long discussion with his brother about sending the pathologist to do his dirty work. Surely, Mycroft knows better. Perhaps I should go straight to Mummy, Sherlock thinks spitefully. It would serve him right for putting Molly in danger.
She hands him a helmet, helping him put it on when she sees him struggling. He carefully lifts his leg over the seat and sinks himself down onto it. Once she is assured he is safely settled, she dons her own helmet and climbs in front of him. Moran's henchmen come running out of the building just in time to watch helplessly as the pair rides off, Sherlock's arms clutched tightly around Molly's waist.
She stops at an air field, where a private plane is waiting for them. She nods to the young soldier standing watch, who salutes her and allows them to enter. When they are both seated comfortably in the leather chairs, Molly begins speaking before Sherlock has a chance to say anything.
"My grandfather and father were both MI5 agents and extremely good at their jobs, from what I can gather. I didn't know about their shared profession until after my dad died. Mycroft told me. My dad was his mentor."
"And so he took it upon himself to train you in return. I suppose he was the one who guaranteed your job at St. Bart's?"
She seems ashamed as she replies, fingers twisting nervously in her lap. "Yes. He wanted someone he trusted to watch over you since you were so adamant that he not interfere in your business. Since you always overlook those you deem unimportant, I was chosen as the best candidate. A small, quiet girl who agrees to anything you ask for? Nobody more insignificant than that." He goes to interrupt, to explain that the woman in front of him is definitely NOT insignificant, when she cuts him off.
"It's okay, Sherlock. Really. I know you don't feel that way anymore. Besides, your misjudgment of me guaranteed that there was someone who could help you when you most needed it. You might not have realized how qualified I was for the job, but at least I could aid you in defeating Moriarty. Right bastard that he was," she mumbles, obviously remembering how he used her to get to Sherlock. So not everything was a lie, then.
He ponders her words for a moment, taking in everything he thought he knew about Molly Hooper, the shy, stuttering pathologist, his friend. "When he first captured me, Moran said that pride was my greatest weakness. That I underestimate those around me, which inevitably led to my downfall at his hands. Apparently, my underestimation of you has been paramount to my success. Thank you for saving my life again."
She smiles at him, cheeks blushing a lovely pink, and this is the first instance since he laid eyes on her that he recognizes his Molly.
"If Mycroft believes in you, you must be a very good agent."
"The best." She cannot keep the arrogant tone out of her voice, and Sherlock likes this development. He knows, has always known, that Molly's intelligence and skills match his own. Now, he realizes that she fits him much better than he grasped.
"Are you staying to aid me in completing my mission?"
"Of course, Sherlock. You know I'll always help you. Anything you need. Anything at all." He grins at the reference to their previous conversation, when he first recognized how much he had undervalued Molly Hooper. Never again, he tells himself. Never again.
Any thoughts? Tips?
