Hi everybody. There's only one chapter of this left. And ah, I'm loving the reviews. They make me so happy. Particularly the ones commending the portrayal of Molly as a badass.
So, the usual thing - I own Sherlock as much as I own Benedict Cumberbatch.
Molly could now watch the insects and plants with relative ease.
Everything still hurt. Everything was still paining. But she felt – freer. She was going to survive this, and it was going to work out for the best. She kept repeating that to herself.
A lot of Molly's life had been coloured by Darwin. He had painted her younger years, splashed across her life in medical school and had been part of everything Molly had ever done.
The elegance of Darwin's theory was something so fantastic that Molly had thought over it for so long – and right now, she was watching these little living creatures grow out of the very earth, almost popping into existence without thought.
Natural selection.
The tough ones survive, the ones who are able to adapt.
And through the simplicity of the initial reality, endless forms most beautiful, come up.
Molly ruminating on the underlying theme of humanity was quite common now – since she had found her peace of mind, she was able to think about such topics without too much discomfort. And besides. That Sherlockian voice still persisted sometimes.
You've come very far, Molly. But you're not quite there yet.
I know, she said. I don't know what to do next.
Think, Molly. What did you do when those boys hurt you?
You keep repeating that, but it is yet to make sense. Molly was sardonic in her head. Brilliant.
Come on, Molly. Endless forms most beautiful. Of what?
That's Darwin, Sherlock! Molly was indignant. That doesn't count! That's cheating.
Sherlock of her head chuckled. Endless forms most beautiful, Molly Hooper. Endless forms most beautiful.
Molly was retreating more into the realm of metaphor and philosophy, which didn't surprise her. Science was philosophy, after all. It was just hard to focus on the philosophical aspect when confronted with a woman whose heart had failed. Mundanity generally pushed these concerns to the background.
It was funny how quickly Molly had grown on him once she entered his life. It was almost like John, the only difference was he had always kept Molly at an arms distance, away from him, away from his abrasive personality.
Molly was too good for that.
And then she wandered again into his life, like a fixture that was persistent in its ability to stick. Molly and Sherlock had formed such a coordinated dance through the month of staying together. And they always were in sync, almost all the time.
John had actually come in to find Molly drinking coffee and controlling Sherlock with small looks.
He had entered, ready to give his speech of righteous fury, about being called away from his pregnant wife, to find Sherlock in his usual excitable state when hot in the chase of a new murderer, or maybe a new rapist, or maybe a new blackmailer.
"Excellent, John, we need to go to Scotland Yard!" exclaimed Sherlock upon the entry of the very disgruntled John.
"You know I have a pregnant wife?" asked John.
"Well, she's nowhere close to labo –"
"Mmh. Sherlock," said Molly quietly from her place on the desk, reading a book.
"Sorry," he addressed Molly. "I apologize, John, but I'm sure the serial rapist can take precedence over your still not giving birth wife."
"What – how did she do that?" asked John.
"What? Who? Well, never mind. So the rapist always takes girls in a particular order, and he doesn't exactly have a patter, which would be clever – except – the randomness is his pattern!"
Sherlock practically hopped. Molly silently offered a black marker, not lifting her eyes from her book. Sherlock took it, popping the cap, and continuing, as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened. "So he attacks here, here and there – and he's going to continue onwards on this path. Can't you see, John?" asked Sherlock.
"Did you – did you just see that?" he asked Sherlock, looking between Molly and him.
"John, please try to concentrate. Idiots aren't appreciated arou –"
"Sherlock," came Molly's quiet reprimand.
"Oh come on!" exclaimed Sherlock. "He's used to it, Molly, he can handle it!" whined Sherlock.
Molly lifted her eyes and stared at him from above her glasses.
Sherlock glared back at her.
"Oh, alright," sighed Molly. "I can't teach you all the social cues. Have your toast."
"Thank you. Now go away," said Sherlock, yanking the toast.
"She's making you eat?" asked John, incredulous.
"I'm leaving," said Molly. "In a bit."
"What on earth are both of you playing at?" asked John, visibly shaken.
Where was Molly when he needed his markers and toast? Sherlock wasn't quite sure how long it had been since he slept or ate.
"Come on, mate. You need rest," said John.
"Molly was nice this way. She made sure I slept," murmured Sherlock.
"Yeah, she was bloody good at handling you," said John quietly.
"She's a good person," mumbled Sherlock. "She's always been a good person. Why does she love me, John?"
"Pardon?" asked John.
"Molly," said Sherlock quietly. "She always loved me. She didn't even flinch when I asked her to fake my death. Why?"
"Yeah, mate, but you have me and Mary. You're not unlovable, much as you like believing otherwise."
"I've always tried with you, John," said Sherlock dismissively. "I never tried with her. I never made the effort."
John didn't have an answer to that.
"She's too good," said Sherlock. "Why does she have to be so kind? It's annoying. It's anomalous. She's an anomaly. Everytime, every second, every single minute. She's always been an anomaly."
John probably would have liked to hear where Sherlock was going with this, but Sherlock bit his lip, deciding it was time for some sleep.
"What are you going to do next?" asked Rook.
"She's being frustrating," said Moran, gritting his teeth.
"It's like you can't hurt her, I know," said Rook. "But what are you going to do next?"
"It's been two weeks and a half now. I'm going to use the Chinese methods."
Rook turned to face him.
"That's very near despicable," she informed him easily.
"It will break her," said Moran with a maniacal glint.
"Don't be stupid," spat Rook. "Haven't you seen her? The more pressure you put on her, the more fucking strong she gets!"
"She's just a pathetic little girl!" said Moran just as loudly.
"I haven't seen anything like it!" said Rook back. "Have you met someone who laughed in the face of a fucking burning knife? You've fucking branded her with iron, and she's not done anything. She fucking remembers my name."
"Sentiment getting the better of you, Miss Rook?" asked Moran.
"Hardly," said Rook. "This is admiration."
"Of what? A girl who can't handle pain?"
"A girl who seems to be able to accept the pain and live."
"Don't become romantic," said Moran.
"It's not romance when it's fucking true."
Sonja always had the tendency to swear when she was agitated to the core. And she hardly ever got agitated.
She grinned at Sonja. "Hello," she said brightly. "Do we have the regular disgusting gruel?"
"Stop smiling," said Sonja emotionlessly.
"Well, if I have to face the dirt in my shoes everyday, I might as well smile brightly and fucking piss him off," said Molly uncharacteristically.
Sonja stared at her.
"I heard you swearing," said Molly apologetically. "I was going with what you do."
Sonja blinked.
"It was really entertaining."
Blink.
"I think you're pretty cool too."
Blink.
"Put me in a good mood."
Blink.
"Say something."
Blink. "You're the strangest person I've met," muttered Sonja.
"Thanks," said Molly. A little of her weariness returned. "I'm really tired though. I haven't slept since I came here."
"The harness is designed to prevent sleep," said Sonja, automatically.
"I figured," said Molly. "We have to keep pushing forward, I suppose," she sighed.
"Will you really? For months? For years?" asked Sonja darkly.
"I don't know," said Molly. She sounded weary again. "I will, I know I will," Sonja briefly noted the fire in her eyes again. "But I'd be lying if it didn't scare the fuck out of me."
"Everyone gets scared," said Sonja. "What you do is… it's different," she said ponderously.
"I hope it keeps working, in that case," said Molly, squinting through her swollen eyes. "Lord knows I need it."
It was quiet for a day or two.
Molly felt deepening apprehension. Moran seemed thoughtful while he did the usual, and while it hurt, his silence was a lot more worrying.
Molly didn't know what to make of it.
He was untying her from the harness. It had been three weeks now.
Molly was momentarily so shocked, she forgot to scream. Her bones were aching, but she didn't have the space to comprehend that, out of sheer shock. Her sleep deprived brain was creating a lot of periods of retreat for her into the mind flat she had constructed.
Molly felt her arms slag out of the sheer relief of being allowed to breath. She had bruises around her chest.
"What are you doing?" Molly croaked, panicking.
The old fear was resurfacing.
Moran gripped her hair and dragged her to a chair. Molly yelled in pain, to no avail.
Molly was trying to regulate her breathing. Fear was returning, and with fear, chaos reigned. With chaos, the pain became infinite, it became unblockable, it became terrifying. And when the pain became that scary, Molly lost sanity.
He bodily threw her into a chair and tightened cuffs onto her. She couldn't move. A large leather strap secured her head.
Molly was biting down on fear by this time. She was terrified, she was ever so scared. Another form of psychological torture, like her hair. It was happening again, and again, and again, and it was going to kill her this time.
Steady, Molly, said Sherlock of her head.
I don't know what's happening, whispered Molly, fear gripping.
It's going to be fine, whispered Sherlock. One last push, Molly. One last one.
Sherlock, she practically sobbed. What's happening?
He placed her under the ceiling. A single drop of water fell on her head.
Molly felt the cool drop trickle down her head and hair, rushing into her clothes. Molly watched, trying not to betray fear. Moran found fear very close to a turn on.
He left.
Molly stared.
There was no one there.
"What are you doing?" she called.
Drip.
She tried shaking her head, but the leather strap stopped her. Drip.
What new form of pain was this? Molly was wildly thinking.
Calm yourself, Molly, said Sherlock. Come on, what did you do when those boys hurt you?
Sherlock, please, Molly said, panicking. Sherlock, please – I haven't understood that, I don't think I'm about to.
Molly, concentrate. Breathe.
Drip.
Her hair was beginning to get wet.
It was another method of torture. A drop of water every few seconds till morning came.
Molly's heart was sinking visibly every few seconds.
Drip.
Molly couldn't think. It was becoming hazy again. The mentally constructed Mind Flat was showing signs of strain now.
Drip.
Molly realized what he had done. It was degrading, it was unthinkable, it was almost rotting. It was being left to the dogs for death. Midnight was approaching, and Molly wasn't being able to concentrate on anything except the steady mingle of her own tears along with the falling water.
Drip.
Underlying themes of humanity? Darwin? Survival? It all meshed into something horrible and unseemly.
Drip.
Molly didn't understand what was happening to her anymore. It was melding into a mesh of water and colours. Her scarred cornea was very close to unable to being able to see anyway.
Molly couldn't tell the time anymore. It was dark. She could hear all sorts of little creatures, and it wasn't helping. The sounds she used to find comforting were becoming a loud chorus of disorientation.
Drip.
Molly couldn't fall so soon.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
Molly was crying, and crying. She couldn't see, everything hurt, and she was still not safe in her home. She missed her cat. She missed her room. She missed her movies. She missed her books. She missed baking.
She was not going to make it alive, and for the first time, Molly Hooper felt the sinking reality that she will not make it alive from this ordeal.
Sherlock's voice was undecipherable in all the other mess. Her clothes were soaked.
Drip.
She missed Sherlock.
She missed everything about him. She missed his morbid humor, she missed his laugh, his deep baritone, his strange ability to wrench the best of her. She missed the dark way he spoke, his childishness, she missed his violin. Oh god, how she missed his violin.
Drip.
Molly wouldn't see him again.
Drip.
Molly won't sing again.
Drip.
Her dreams were taking her away.
Drip.
The sun hit the horizon.
Drip.
Molly squinted to see the pinkness of dawn, first rays of sun dispersing into the sky.
Drip.
It was like a little light bulb again.
There was a flush of memories through her head – Molly running through the garden, chasing a swallow. Molly examining an ant's nest. Molly and Sherlock in sunny London, solving cases. Molly sitting with her father, who was then dying, on a porch, watching the sunset.
She felt the sudden and overwhelming reality of existence. Molly was real, she was here, she was alive. Molly was breathing Molly was thinking Molly was loving. The sun was rising and Molly was alive.
Molly? Came Sherlock's voice.
Oh Sherlock, Molly was sobbing.
Molly, you're nearly there.
Where? She asked.
Endless forms most beautiful, Molly?
Drip.
What did you do to those boys, Molly? The ones that hurt you?
Nothing. I never did anything to them.
You didn't grudge them anything? Prodded Sherlock.
Why should I? asked Molly, genuinely surprised. They're people. People make mistakes. People… feel.
Sherlock's voice became completely silent.
The little baby sparrows that had grown during Molly's stay woke and fluttered.
The underlying theme for humanity's rise into the universe may be survival, but the very human ability to feel was perhaps, the reason why humans had managed to live for so long. Molly could feel. Molly was the strongest she had ever been.
Molly felt emblazoned with power.
She was Molly Hooper. She had dated and dumped the greatest criminal mastermind of the century. She made Sherlock Holmes eat his toast. She was a pathologist at Barts, the most prestigious institution. She was Molly bloody Hooper, and she was fucking fantastic. She had survived three weeks in this torture house and thought nothing of it. She hadn't judged Moran because he was human, and Molly didn't judge. She had made friends with an ex con and a murderer, because Molly was unusually attracted to strange kinds of people. Molly Hooper felt the pain and sorrows of all the little things in the world, rose from those endless forms most beautiful, into her own category of unique.
In her own way, Molly was just as much of a thrill seeker as John.
John.
Her friends.
Molly had had enough of this nonsense. She was tired of this, thank you. She was going to get out of this, if it please my dear Moran.
And he was coming in. He was entering, to see how she was doing.
Molly rearranged her features. She brought back the chaos of her mind. From the corner of her mind, she saw Moran smiling.
"You see Rook? I told you I'd get there."
Sonja was staring at her.
Molly waited for him to touch her.
She felt his fingers. She felt him undo her cuffs, undo the leather strap, and then she reached.
She grabbed his bloody stick with which he had beaten Molly so many times. She grabbed it as soon as she could, and she scuffled her way into beating him into a hard pulp. Through her haphazard attack, Moran gripped his weapon, ready to shoot her, but Sonja swiftly disarmed him and gave an expert hit at the back of his head.
The man fell to the floor. They only had a few minutes till he woke.
Sonja nodded to her. "Go. I'll tie him up. Take this," she gave Molly a gun.
"The safety's off, so you be careful."
Molly nodded sharply.
Now that the deed was done, she felt a bit of panic. Come on Molly, get out. Get out, get out, get out, get out, get out.
Molly, you need to leave. Chances are, Rook managed to get to some rope and Moran woke up before she could tie him.
Her name is SONJA, Molly said to Sherlock.
Sherlock chuckled in her head.
Molly ran through the thickets and weeds, her feet feeling the twigs and grass. They pinched her sensitive and bruised skin. She felt disoriented, suddenly, unable to figure where to go. She gripped the side of her rib – a cut had begun to bleed and she was beginning to lose blood.
Molly wasn't sure how much blood she had lost last three weeks and she didn't want to take a chance.
She needed to find a road and get a car to pick her up. She needed to leave. She needed to put this bunker behind her, she needed to get back to Toby and Sherlock and her Morgue.
She squinted to see lights in front – her swollen eyes couldn't see anything more. She lifted her hand and waved. The pain it took to scream was only just registering.
"MOLLY HOOPER!" came a savage yell.
Molly panicked again.
It was Moran, he was behind her. Molly would have screamed, but the escape had taken away her adrenaline.
Molly remembered the gun by her side.
"I'm going to get you, you stupid bitch."
Molly stared at him, almost as if the idea was surreal.
She opened her dry and chapped lips. "I'm sorry Mr. Moran," she croaked. She saw a blond figure behind him, preparing her own gun. "I forgive you for your crimes, but someone has to save me, and it sure as hell is not going to be anyone else but me."
Bang.
The man slumped to his feet.
Molly dropped to her knees. The noises and lights were coming closer.
"Molly? Molly, it's me, come on Molly?" someone was bending over her.
"John?" asked Molly
"Oh god, what has he done to you?" muttered John. John must have noticed Sonja, for he got up, arming himself.
"No!" croaked Molly desperately. "No! She helped me – don't, please don't hurt her."
"What – well, nevermind. Let's get you fixed up. Why are you all wet?"
"It was a torture method –" said Molly desperate to get out. "I'll explain later."
"Molly?" came another familiar voice. It wasn't how she remembered it though. There was no anger, no irritation, no sharp edge to the voice.
"Sherlock?" whispered Molly.
"Molly..." Sherlock lowered himself to her level. "Come on Molly," he said. "You're going to be fine."
"I know I am," said Molly, giving him a grin with bloody teeth. "You told me so everyday of my stay in that horrifying place."
And that's when Molly Hooper passed out.
And now... I'll see you next week! I love reviews, you guys, just a hint. So as an early Christmas present - how about getting this TWENTY reviews? That would be perfect I love you guys.