A/N: Apologies for taking so long, but if you follow me you know that the vampires took temporary custody of my brain and finally relented and gave it back to me tonight. So here is the latest chapter of "Abandoned" and thank you for your lovely review - and patience!
"What makes you think it isn't one of your many, many enemies?" Moran countered smoothly, clearly unrattled by Sherlock going on the offensive. "I can't be the only one out there who hates you enough to kidnap your son. Or maybe it's one of your dear brother's enemies – which reminds me, I am going to have to do something about him as well as Irene. Any suggestions? I know you two aren't very close, any posthumous requests to make of me when I finish with you and go after him?"
Sherlock shook his head and managed to look both bored and irritated at the same time. "Regretfully, no. Mummy wouldn't have it. Besides, we both know you're not about to kill me, not yet."
"Oh? And why not?" Moran shifted the gun so it was pointed at Sherlock again. Molly remained in his grasp, not moving, watching Sherlock as well. Waiting for a sign, a signal of some sort, telling her when to move. She might not be well-versed in hand-to-hand combat, but she had a few moves Moran might not be expecting. "Why shouldn't I just blow your fucking brains out, then kill these two?" He jerked his head toward John and shook Molly hard enough to make her cry out.
"Because you want Edmund," Sherlock replied. "You brought the three of us here to make sure we hadn't pulled a double-bluff, that one of us wasn't behind his disappearance. And now you know we aren't, you still want to know who has him. If you simply searched for him yourself, you know I would be coming after you, that I'd have hidden Molly somewhere safe and that you would spend half of your time watching over your shoulder. No, this way you can force me to find my son and bring him to you, with the threat of killing John and Molly if I don't. However, we both also know that won't work, since you've already proven to what extremes I would go to protect my son. Yes, I would search for him and find him, but I would never turn him over to you. Not even to save the lives of others I love."
There was a burning intensity in his eyes as he spoke, his words a low rumble that Molly recognized as Sherlock at his most sincere. He meant every word he spoke, and in spite of the implications for herself and John, she was immensely proud of her "significant other" at that moment. Proud and certain that, no matter what, she would find some way to forgive him everything he'd done in Eddie's name in the past four months.
He and Moran traded stares for a long, fraught moment, during which Molly's heart, which had been beating like an out-of-control locomotive, slowed and steadied. She also recognized when Sherlock was about to act, and knew she had to be prepared to assist hm as best she could under the circumstances. Not just for his sake, but for her own and John's and – most importantly – for Eddie.
Just as Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, a new voice entered the conversation, coming from somewhere in the darkness outside their immediate circle of light. "Oh, Sherlock, is this the real reason you slept with me? I'm terribly disappointed, but then, darling, I've been disappointed in you ever since you decided to start playing happy families with your pet pathologist."
Irene stepped into the light, wafting an insincere smile Molly's way. "No offense, dearie."
"Cut the crap," Moran growled, swinging his gun around and training it on Irene's head. "I know you're working for Mycroft Holmes, you fucking bitch, working to bring me down. So don't think you can come in here and bat your eyelashes at me and get me to let Sherlock go so you can play with him some more. No matter what I owe you."
Astonishingly – at least in Molly's opinion – Irene had the temerity to roll her eyes and huff an annoyed sigh. "Yes, let's talk about what you owe me," she said, returning her gaze with laser focus to Moran's face. "Let's talk about the fact that I found a way to keep you alive after I was given strict instructions to do the exact opposite, shall we? Let's talk about all the assistance I've given you since Jim killed himself, including finding a proper body double to take Dr. Watson's bullet in the face for you." Her eyes bored into Moran's and Molly had the terrifying feeling that he wasn't the most dangerous person in the room. "We both know there are other things we could talk about, but as Jim would have said, darling, not in front of the children."
Just like that the balance of power had tipped from the man with the gun to the woman with the poise and posture of a supermodel and the feral eyes of a predator. The only question was, who was the overly made-up bitch really working for – Moran, Mycroft, or, as Molly suspected, only herself?
As long as she wasn't the one who'd taken Eddie, Molly really couldn't find it in herself to give a flying fuck. Nor did she care who came out on top as long as her son came out of this entire muddle safe and once again in her arms. She would even sacrifice Sherlock and John if that was what it would take, much as Sherlock had willingly sacrificed their own happiness in order to save Eddie from Moran's twisted plot.
Irene actually sauntered closer to Moran, who still held the gun on her but whose expression had gone from furious to uncertain as she approached him. Molly didn't dare turn her head to look, but she knew Sherlock had to be watching the woman – sorry, The Woman – as well. She felt an irrational surge of jealousy deep in her gut and did her best to ignore it. She'd kiss the dominatrix herself if she ended up being the one to hand Eddie back to Molly.
"Sebastian," Irene was purring as she gently pressed her fingers against Moran's wrist, the one holding the gun, her eyes never leaving his even as his grip on Molly tightened. "You know I always walk my own path. Working for Mycroft allowed me to earn back my identity, the life I was forced to abandon after that mess in Karachi." Her eyes didn't so much as flicker in Sherlock's direction even though everyone in the room knew exactly who had extricated her from that mess. "But I never forget my own debts; you helped me out in so many ways that I could never turn you over to him. I was going to warn you but I figured you already knew something was up when you sent Sherlock my way. Thank you for that," she added, finally allowing her disinterested glance to meet Molly's. Her coral-red lips turned upward in a wicked smile. "He was delicious."
Molly went rigid, her eyes narrowing into slits at Irene's deliberately provocative words. "Emphasis on was," she replied, keeping her voice as sweetly poisonous as the other woman's. "I think we both know he won't be having 'dinner' with you ever again. Especially since you knew all along he didn't need to share any meals with you but neglected to find a way to inform him of that little fact."
Molly had, in fact, just worked that out herself, and was rather proud of herself for the riposte. Especially since bandying insults about like this was normally outside her skill set. Living with Sherlock for eighteen months appeared to have rubbed off on her a bit.
"Ooh, Sherlock's little pet has found her claws, has she?" Moran asked, clearly amused by the by-play between the two women. "Maybe she's not the boring little bit of nothing you thought she was, Irene."
Irene's face had turned an interesting shade of red as Molly continued to smile at her, a smile just as bright and false as the one Irene had given her, but possibly even more self-satisfied. Although she wanted nothing more than to slap the smirk from her face, to claw out the other woman's eyes and pull her hair as if they were pre-teens fighting over the same boy, she held herself rigidly under control. She concentrated on her son's sweet face, the thought of holding him in her arms once again, and felt her fear and anger easing just the slightest bit. She would hold him again, dammit and no one – not Sebastian Moran, not Irene fucking Adler – NO ONE was going to stop that from happening.
Just as no one was going to keep her away from Sherlock once this was all over. Oh, she wasn't going to just fall into his arms and forgive him – they had a long road to travel before that could happen – but she knew she was going to get her happily-ever-after. She'd earned it.
Something of her resolve must have shone in her eyes, because Irene's narrowed in response. She opened her lips to say something – no doubt something cutting – but Moran beat her to the punch, still chuckling at the by-play between the two women. "Give it up, Irene. Our little Molly's not about to let you have the last word tonight. If she wasn't responsible for Jimmy killing himself, I might be tempted to let her go and watch while you two try to kill each other."
His words were so entirely unexpected, so incredibly bizarre, that Molly was positive she'd misheard him. Her attention turned back to him, so shocked by the thought that anyone could believe she'd had something to do with Jim Moriarty's suicide, that she almost missed the subtle movement Sherlock made, the signal she'd been waiting for.
Instead of asking Moran what he was talking about, she allowed her body to go limp, sliding down to the floor so quickly she was able to evade his loosened grasp. As soon as she hit the floor she rolled away from him, tucking herself up in order to make as small a target as possible while Sherlock launched himself at the other man.
If she was worried that Irene would interfere, she needn't have. As soon as Molly had removed herself from Moran's grasp, the other woman had dug her claw-like nails into the back of his hand. With a howl of pain Moran shook her off, then punched her in the jaw. Sherlock took immediate advantage; he'd already been on the way to grapple for the gun, but with Moran off balance and both Molly and Irene currently on the floor – Irene unconscious, Molly could clearly tell, lip bleeding from the blow Moran had landed – he was able to knock their mutual tormentor to the floor, grasping the wrist of his gun-hand and slamming it into the concrete.
Moran cried out again, as much in anger as in pain, as the gun flew from his loosened grasp. Molly went after it, skittering across the floor on hands and knees, doing her best to avoid the rolling, flailing forms of her child's father and Moriarty's half-brother, fingers touching the gun and then hauling it safely into her grip.
She reared up onto her knees, then scrambled to her feet, clutching the weapon to her with both hands once she was fully upright. She was shaking, a combination of adrenaline and terror, but she knew how to handle a gun. John had taught her at Sherlock's insistence; she'd resisted at first, but Sherlock's argument that she would be foolish to turn down any opportunity to learn a skill that might keep their son safe had swayed her. She had been four months pregnant at the time, and had faithfully kept up her practice sessions even after he was born.
Of course, she'd never shot another person; would she actually be able to go through with it if she had to? If Sherlock couldn't restrain Moran, would Molly Hooper, pathologist and mother, actually be able to take another human being's life?
Fate – and John Watson – ensured that she wouldn't have to discover the answer to that question today. Sometime during the scuffle, John had apparently regained consciousness. In spite of the intense pain he must surely be suffering from, he'd staggered to his feet in time to grab Moran with his good arm, pulling him off balance and spinning him so he faced directly toward Molly and the gun he'd once held on her.
He stared at her, no doubt gauging her intent, but the tension in his body, the clear sign that he was about to spring at her and take his chances, disappeared as a long, elegant hand reached over Molly's shoulder and plucked the gun from her grip. "Molly, I believe John could use some help," Sherlock said as he trained the weapon on Moran. "And our friend here knows he's been beaten; he'll be no further trouble. Will he."
Moran made no response as Molly gave Sherlock's arm a grateful squeeze. She inched her way past the unmoving form of the man who'd caused them all so much pain, then paused and looked him square in the eyes. "If my son is harmed in any way because of what you did to him, I promise I will kill you with my bare hands."
Without telegraphing her move in the slightest, she then punched him in the jaw as hard as she could.
She made a good job of it. If he hadn't already been battered and bruised by his scuffle with Sherlock, she knew it probably wouldn't have affected him as powerfully as it did. As it was, she watched with a great deal of satisfaction as he rocked back on his heels and slowly collapsed to the floor, as unconscious as Irene Adler.
She gave a sharp nod, then hurried over to help John, who looked about ready to collapse to the floor along with Moran.