"Shh. Lay still," Sherlock whispered, placing his hand against Molly's forehead. He frowned, reaching for her wrist to feel her pulse.
"I'm so cold," she murmured, clutching Sherlock's jacket to her chest.
"You're burning up," he said, placing his scarf beneath her head. "Has the pain gotten any better?"
"No…worse, really," she said, shivering. "Mostly on…the right."
"Don't worry. We'll get help soon, I promise," he said, smiling weakly. "It'll be alright."
"I hope so," she whispered, eyes closed. Sherlock stood up slowly, walking to the door in the corner of the room.
"Help! Somebody, please!" He shouted, slamming his fists against the wood. "Anokhin!" He paused, listening for a voice on the other side. "Anokhin, this isn't a game anymore! People are going to get hurt."
"Settle down, Sherlock. No need to shout," Dillanger's voice sounded from the other side of the doorway. "I hear you're little friend isn't feeling quite up to par."
"Please. She's practically unconscious…"
"Anokhin still wants an answer."
"A knife. A knife and some thread, that's all I need," Sherlock said, his voice desperate. "She has appendicitis, Mark, and she's not going to hold on much longer."
"Well, let's make a deal then, shall we? You give me a satisfactory answer, and I'll send someone in with your supplies."
"224 Thresher Drive," Sherlock said quietly, pressing his cheek to the door.
"Thank you, Mr. Holmes. You've been surprisingly cooperative with us this time," he said, chuckling to himself. "Anything else you'd like me to tell Vladmir for you?"
"Go to hell."
"Very tastefull. You'll have your things in a moment." Sherlock listened as his footsteps echoed down the hall.
Sherlock waited a minute or two, sighing with relief as the door finally reopened.
"Here you go," a younger man said, stepping in and handing Sherlock a knife and spool of white thread.
"Has this been sterilized?" Sherlock asked, holding out the knife.
"Um, I'm not…I'm not really sure…"
"What are you, a bloody fool?!" Sherlock shouted, throwing up his arms. "Get me a box of matches! NOW!"
"Yes sir," the boy squeaked as he headed out the door, leaving it open behind him.
"Let's go. We've got one shot at this," Sherlock whispered, motioning for Molly to stand up.
"Here's your jacket," she said, handing him his coat.
"Thank you," he said, tossing the knife and thread to the corner of the room. "Feeling better?"
"Much."
"Thought so," he said with a half smile. "Come on, we still have to do the actual escaping part," he said, grabbing Molly's arm as they headed down the hallway.
"How did you know where Grace was?" Molly said, stopping to remove her heels. "Telling him wasn't part of the plan."
"I have know idea where she is," Sherlock said, pulling her through a doorway and into the stairwell.
"Then where did…" Molly paused, her eyes widening as she heard a voice behind them.
"Clever. Very clever," the same boy who had given them the supplies said, smiling as he pointed the gun to Sherlock's head.
"I wouldn't do that if I were you," Sherlock said, raising his hands slowly in the air.
"Yeah? Why not?" The boy smiled, cocking the hammer as he moved his finger to the trigger.
"Because you'll never be able to forgive yourself if you do."
"I doubt that, Mr…"
"You have a girlfriend living with you at your flat," Sherlock said. "She's pregnant."
"How did…how did you know that?"
"I promise you this," Sherlock said, slowly turning around to face him. "If you shoot me, you will never be able to look that child in the face and say that you love him." He paused, staring into his eyes. "Not after you've killed a man." He lowered his gun slightly.
"I've killed someone before. I…"
"No you haven't."
"Yes I have…"
"If you'd had, then you wouldn't have let me talk," Sherlock said, grabbing Molly's arm as they headed down the stairs.
"I'll be sure to remember that next time," the boy whispered to himself, aiming at Sherlock's back.