A/N: Getting there. Slowly but surely. I'm sure you all have your guesses as to who has Eddie. Feel free to share! I'd say first one to guess right gets a cookie but internet cookies are always stale by the time you get them. So...first one to guess gets to influence how the story ends? Good enough? :) Thanks for reading and reviewing as always! Oh, I own nothing and no one and this chapter is unbeta'd so all mistakes are mine, especially when it comes to medical stuff.
Sherlock immediately stopped trying to get his hands on Moran and turned his attention to his stricken comrade. The bullet had passed through John's shoulder – the one already scarred from his injuries in Afghanistan – and was bleeding copiously. John was fast on his way to losing consciousness, but Sherlock estimated he would survive as long as he wasn't left to simply bleed out.
While he attended to his stricken friend – not bothering to try and pull him from the moving cab as their captor increased his speed and expertly threaded through the London traffic as if he truly did this for a living – Moran was speaking. "In case you're wondering, yes, I shot to wound on purpose. Seemed like the best distraction. Something to keep you busy until we reach our destination."
Sherlock gave him no response, although he listened closely in case Moran gave something away he could use. John was biting his lip in order to keep from crying out in pain as Sherlock removed his jacket and wadded it up in order to apply a combination of pressure and blood control to the wound. After he'd done everything he could to make the other man comfortable, he spared a glance for the back of Moran's head, calculating.
As if reading Sherlock's mind – or, more likely, seeing his face reflected in the rearview mirror – Moran said: "Don't try anything, Holmes. John's not the only hostage I have right now."
Sherlock went very, very still as his mind raced, coming to the correct – the only – conclusion. "You've taken Molly," he said.
Moran nodded, glancing over his shoulder with a self-satisfied smirk before returning his attention to the traffic ahead of them. "Got it in one."
He spent the remainder of the drive – another fifteen minutes – making dark threats against Irene Adler for her betrayal of him, one eye on the road and the other on his two hostages. Difficult for Sherlock to do what had to be done without being caught, but he managed. "Thanks for that bit of intel, by the way," he said while Sherlock continued to attend to John. "I'd be sorry I sent you to her if it wasn't for the fact that you fucking that bitch hurt your darling Molly so much worse than just leaving her had."
Sherlock gritted his teeth and held his silence, relieved when they finally reached their destination. It was a large, brick building in a heavily industrial district near the port, a combination of warehouses and business catering to the shipping industry. He pulled up to a side door on a building that showed signs of neglect but not necessarily abandonment, then told Sherlock to drag John's ass inside.
Sherlock did as instructed, gritting his own teeth as John moaned in half-conscious pain as he was pulled from the backseat of the cab and half-carried, half-walked to the door. Moran followed the two men, his gun trained on them the entire time. He gestured for Sherlock to open the door, tossing him the key and watching dispassionately as he struggled to unlock the padlock and keep John from collapsing to the ground. He managed it after a moment, pulling the door open and stepping into the darkened room as Moran ordered.
John's grip on consciousness vanished as they stepped over the threshold; Sherlock felt the sudden laxness in his friend's body and just managed to catch him in his arms and hoist him over his shoulder in a fireman's carry. Even though the movement was bound to exacerbate John's injury, it was still better than allowing him to drop to the unseen – but doubtlessly filthy – floor.
The sound of the door clanging shut behind them caught his attention, followed by the click of a light suddenly being turned on. The light was dim, a series of low-wattage bulbs hanging naked overhead, but enough to reveal a pair of chairs and a low table.
One of the chairs was empty, and the other held Molly's tied and gagged form.
Her eyes widened as she took in the sight of John Watson bleeding all over Sherlock's shoulder, and she struggled a bit with her bonds, her gaze rising beseechingly to meet that of the coolly amused Sebastian Moran as he followed his two new captives into the room.
"Lay him on the table, and yes, Dr. Hooper, I'll let you attend to him. But don't try anything funny or I'll put the good Dr. Watson out of his misery for good this time."
Molly nodded, watching as Sherlock carefully laid his friend – their friend – on the table, locking eyes with Molly as he rose to his feet and backed away at Moran's order. Molly gave a fractional nod; she would do her damndest to save John, and whatever Sherlock had to do to Moran to stop him would be fine with her – after they gleaned whatever information from him regarding this son they could.
"Here." Sherlock half-turned and caught the pocket knife Moran tossed to him. "Don't you try anything funny either, Mr. Holmes." He smiled, a flat, cold smile, and added: "Or do, and watch your best friend and your whore die with your brat still in her belly."
Sherlock studied him out of cool, blue-gray eyes, tilting his head to one side inquisitively as he moved behind Molly and cut away first her gag and then the plastic zip-ties holding her arms to the back of the hard wooden chair. "Why do you hate Molly so much, Moran?" he asked as he turned his attention to Molly's ankles. "I have to admit, it's a question that's been plaguing me from the beginning. I understand your vitriol toward me, but aside from helping me fake my death, I fail to see what Molly might possibly have done to earn your enmity. Or our children," he added, watching Moran intently as he spoke.
A slow smile spread across Moran's face as Molly wiggled her legs and shook her hands, desperate to restore circulation and attend to John. "What, the great and all-knowing Sherlock fucking Holmes doesn't know why I hate his baby-momma so much? Can't deduce it?"
Sherlock shook his head. "Frankly, no," he replied, sounding rather put out about it. Molly wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry at the expression of annoyed bewilderment on his face. Really, he was taking the time to try and puzzle out Moran's dislike of her when the man was holding a gun on them all? While John Watson possibly bled out in this filthy warehouse? How had she ever managed to fall in love with him in the first place?
Then his expression softened as his eyes met hers, he blinked rapidly, and she remembered exactly why she'd fallen in love with him, even as she recognized what he was doing.
Stalling for time. Which meant Lestrade or Mycroft – possibly both and half of MI5 and the London police force to boot – were coming to the rescue. God, she hoped that was true. John, however, was the focus of her concern at the moment, above and beyond her own safety. Sherlock had managed to stop the initial bleeding, she noted approvingly, and the bullet had passed entirely through his body so she wouldn't have to try and cut it out of him.
"I need the knife," she said to Sherlock, holding out her hand while careful to maintain eye contact with Moran. "I need to cut his shirt away, assess the damage..."
Moran nodded impatiently. "Whatever. Do what you can, Dr. Hooper." He said her name with a particularly deep level of loathing; if Molly hadn't already known the man held an inexplicable – to her, at least – level of hatred for her, she would certainly have been able to deduce it just by that.
Sherlock handed her the knife, sparing a moment to frown down at John, the corners of his lips tightening in what Molly knew from long experience interpreting his expressions as indicating a great deal of concern. She felt the same way, but if she was right and help was coming, then she would do her very best to keep John alive until that help arrived.
And Sherlock, it seemed, was just as determined to keep Moran's attention on himself. "Although I haven't deduced the reason behind your hatred toward Molly, I have, however, come to realize your true relationship to Moriarty, aside from being his second in command and assassin of choice."
Moran sounded amused as he answered Sherlock's obvious challenge. "Really? And what might that relationship be? Was he my boyfriend? Bastard child – although I started young, I didn't start quite that young, so if that was your deduction you're – "
Sherlock didn't allow him to continue with his mocking, choosing to interrupt with a simple: "James Moriarty was your half-brother."
There was a moment of silence Molly chose to interpret as "stunned" before Moran spoke again, although the humor was gone from his voice as he did so. "Bravo, Mr. Holmes. How did you figure it out? There are no birth records tying us together, and our parents are all dead."
Sherlock shrugged and rolled his eyes, as if it were so blindingly obvious that even an idiot could have figured it out.
"You care entirely too much about seeking what you consider justice for him long after he killed himself. In spite of your attempts to be casual when I brought the subject up at the beginning of this overblown – and risky on your part – adventure in blackmail and emotional destruction, once I had time to review our conversation I recognized the clues I missed the first time around, when I was too caught up in my own emotions," he admitted with a lack of self-consciousness that Molly was stunned to hear. "There was a bond, but you weren't lovers; in spite of Moriarty playing gay when he and I first met face to face, neither of you have any past sexual attachments to other men, only women. I interviewed several – not terribly difficult to identify the few you two left alive – and found those conversations quite...enlightening." He paused, perhaps to gauge his subject's interest. "Shall I continue?"
Moran nodded and waved the gun in agreement. "Please, do. This is rather fascinating."
Molly gritted her teeth and tried not to shout at the two men to stop posturing and get it over with. Her instincts were screaming at her to do something, anything, but she knew that John had to remain her priority. The wound was bad, but not as bad as it could have been. John would survive as long as she kept the blood flow under control.
"You weren't lovers," Sherlock was saying while she carefully cut away the fabric from the wound and stripped off her jumper in order to remove her camisole, the better to use it as an additional bandage. "Hardened criminals such as yourself – and psychopaths like Moran – rarely form deep and lasting bonds of friendship such as I have developed with John." Sherlock spared a glance toward the unconscious form on the low table and his expression momentarily darkened. "Even a mutual interest in mayhem – being 'kill buddies' as the American expression goes – isn't enough to explain your thirst for vengeance. Especially since Moriarty killed himself. Had I killed him, it would make more sense," he added, studying Moran intently, but flashing Molly a brief look as well.
That look spoke volumes to her; he wasn't so caught up in his deductions and showing off that he'd forgotten what was at stake here. Not that she'd ever doubted – well, yes, she had, if she were being completely honest with herself. Even after he'd revealed that everything he'd done in the past four months had been to keep Eddie – and herself – alive, some part of her had continued to wonder if he'd acquiesced because it was what he really wanted, deep down inside.
She'd never felt worthy of him, had buried her insecurities and doubts until he'd left that devastating letter, which was part of the reason she'd fallen so completely apart. Because part of her had always expected that day to come, and blamed herself for not being interesting or intelligent enough to continue to hold Sherlock's attention.
She still wasn't entirely convinced that she was wrong, but now was certainly not the time to blurt out the dozens of questions that had been building inside her for so long.
"A familial relationship seemed obvious once I realized that I would – and intend to – exact the same sort of revenge for harm done to my own family. Sentiment isn't something I often admit to, but in this case my own feelings for my son and his mother," he tipped his head to indicate Molly although his steely gaze never left Moran's, "led me to recognize the same emotional attachment you had for Moriarty. Who, as you already pointed out, is too old to be your son. A half-sibling seemed the most logical relationship once I determined that neither of you had changed the names you were born with and thus were unlikely to be full siblings."
"I didn't even know Jimmy existed until I was ten years old," Moran admitted, his voice low and reminiscent but still edged with a wicked sharpness that gave Molly a chill to hear. "Dad had a mistress – Delia Moriarty, her name was – but you know that already, don't you, Mr. Holmes."
Sherlock nodded, and Molly froze as Moran raised his gun and pointed it directly at Sherlock's head. No matter how cool he was playing it, this conversation was obviously starting to get to him.
"Delia Suzanne Moriarty, a lounge singer," Sherlock confirmed, looking as unfazed by the gun as he had when it was merely aimed in his general direction. "Your father – Richard Moran, a middle class 'businessman' with ties to the American mafia – met her whilst fostering those ties with a mid-level drug dealer attempting to cement a deal with a British counterpart. Your father was involved as a neutral third party – his unofficial role as a facilitator for such deals being well known amongst that class of criminal – and once the two sides had reached an agreement, he left them to their negotiations and turned his attention to the floor show."
"Jimmy's mum was a real looker," Moran reminisced. "Shame when she turned to the booze after Dad dumped her. If he'd set her up for life even after he found someone new, if he'd done right by Jimmy, then I might never have found about them. A woman scorned, and all that." He stepped around the table and watched as Molly carefully applied her make-shift bandage and pulled her hands away from John.
Without warning, Moran yanked her to her feet, eliciting a startled cry from her lips before she clamped them shut, determined to keep silent in spite of the gun he now pressed to her head.
Sherlock tensed as he watched the byplay, and Molly rested her hands by her sides, making no moves – but allowing him to see that she'd palmed the open blade.
Moran was still talking, either not knowing about the knife or toying with them. Molly hoped it was the former rather than the latter. "But you know all about a woman scorned, don't you, Sherlock? Molly here was well on her way to cutting you completely out of her life, not letting you see your brat or the one on the way ever again before some idiotic third party muscled in and snatched Eddie from both of us. Slapped you a couple of times, did she? She may be a mouse but she's not one to just sit back and take it when she feels she's been deliberately ill-used. As opposed to, say, the times when she thinks the other party – you, obviously, in this case – just doesn't get how rotten he's treating her, eh?"
Molly closed her eyes and swallowed hard as he caressed her cheek with the barrel of the revolver.
"I regret every single hurt I have ever caused Molly," Sherlock said in a low, intense voice. Speaking as much to her as to Moran, Molly knew, feeling the ice that had built up in her heart start to crack. If they got out of this alive – when, she corrected herself fiercely – and after they found Eddie (safe and sound, please God) she and Sherlock were going to sit down together and have a real heart to heart talk about everything that had happened to them.
Whether their relationship could be repaired would depend on that conversation. But she knew herself well on the way to forgiving her "significant other" based on this confrontation alone.
First things first, however. Moran didn't have Eddie. Sherlock didn't have Eddie, hadn't spirited him away to safety after discovering the poison that was being used against their son. So who had him? And why had they taken him?
She was about to risk it all and ask, beg to know if either man had any clues at all when Sherlock beat her to it.
"So, Seb," he said, putting heavy emphasis on Moran's name – nickname, she supposed – "which one of your many, many enemies has taken my son out from under your nose?"