Molly may have lost focus and attention, and Sherlock and Irene had seemed unrealistically and irresistibly carnal, but she had not lost her mind. When she'd seen Sherlock sitting on the floor of that room, beneath the fairy lights, it had almost wiped her memory clean of anything that happened before, as though she could only hold that one thought, of him, in her head.
However, she knew what to fear when she saw it. The men before her, pointing guns at her heart and head… she recognised them. She knew what they had already done to her. They hadn't bothered with balaclavas in their hurry to halt the escape attempt. They hadn't been wearing masks earlier, either, when they had put their hands on her, slid their hands up her thighs and grabbed her breasts. She knew she had bruises in places Sherlock couldn't see beneath the skirt and tank top, on her breasts, at the tops of her thighs, on her hips. She instinctively buried her face in his chest, and he just as instinctively angled her out of their direct line of sight.
"Sherlock, they hurt me," she whispered in a rush. His hands clenched into fists on her back, where he was holding her. He knew they intended to do far worse; he had the brutalised body of every victim etched in his ever-long memory. He could not risk fighting back; three men stood in front of them, all armed, safeties unlocked, fingers on triggers. Sherlock had known from the first victim that beneath all the trappings of a cult – the white dresses, the poundshop-novel symbolism – this was nothing more than an excuse for misogyny. Irene had known the same and sought him out because of it. They hated women. They hated Molly. And they hated him because he sympathised with the enemy.
Molly could almost hear Sherlock thinking as he ran through the possibilities in his mind. They might kill him in this pathetic basement, but they'd want to kill her in an unconsecrated graveyard, like the others. He needed to survive long enough to make it above ground. Mycroft and Lestrade were doubtless looking for them, and anything that bought them time might ultimately keep them alive.
"So I presume you will at least let me see how it's all done before you kill me?" he asked coolly, in his most detached voice. "I'd hate to die without my curiosity sated."
The same man who had pushed him into the room earlier stepped closer, eyeing up Molly. She whimpered so low that Sherlock doubted anyone but he had heard it. He pressed his hand flat against her shoulder blade and pulled her closer. The man sneered: "We only intended to kill your whore." The man paused.
Sherlock knew the man was waiting for a Neanderthal defence of Molly's unimpeachable honour, but he hardly cared what a soon-to-be-dead serial killer thought of Molly. Sherlock was not going to do or say anything that wasn't logically calculated to secure her safety. He answered evenly: "Molly is my love, and she there is no evidence at all that she has anything been less than faithful." He waited a beat. "But even if she chose to shag every man on Baker Street, that doesn't give me the right to hurt her. I don't own her."
The man stepped right up to Sherlock now and pressed his nose into Sherlock's face. "She spread her legs easy enough for us earlier. They call me Father, you know, the collar seems to turn them on."
"Drugging her and raping her does not make her unfaithful." Sherlock assumed the worst. Molly wanted to tell him the truth – they had assaulted her, put their hands on her, that man, he'd put his finger inside her, but then Irene had been a force of nature, made them stop – but Sherlock had one hand pressed against the back of her head, holding her silent and steady against his chest. "Let her go," he inclined his head towards the window, "I'll stay here."
The handgun whipped across Sherlock's face so fast that he had little time to react. He stumbled back, his jaw cut and bleeding, avoiding the worst of the force. The other two men grabbed Molly, and Sherlock made no attempt to hold onto her, knowing that would only cause her more pain and that he had no chance whatsoever of keeping hold of her.
Sherlock nodded to Father's wedding band. "Whoever she was, I can see why she never married you; did you have to get her high every time, or did you just threaten the children?"
Father leaned over and cuffed Sherlock across the face again. "So you want to know how we killed them, Mr Holmes? Very well, we'll demonstrate." He gripped Molly by the bicep, hard enough to stop the blood flow to her hand. She winced. "We top them up with chemical love to make sure they're ready and willing." He stroked his hand down Molly's body, across her breasts and along her legs. His fingers began hitching up her short skirt. "You want your Father, don't you, bitch?"
Molly met his eyes, all trace of haziness behind her now, and kneed him in the balls. He staggered back against the wall, and one of the others carelessly hit her across the back of the head with his gun. Molly crumpled to the floor at his feet.
Sherlock fought every instinct to dive in, shove her out of harm's way and tear these men to pieces. Three guns were still in play, one trained on Molly, one on him and the other still on the ground next to the man Molly had laid out. Sherlock held still; he needed to create another opportunity, a safer one for Molly. He knelt down next to her and checked her head; the wood had soaked up the blood pouring from the wound at the back of her head. He slipped his shirt off and turned Molly on her side, pressing the cloth against the bleeding.
Father struggled to stand. He spat at Molly like a petulant child. "No need to waste a syringe on this one," he told the others, pointing at Molly. "Drag them both up to the graveyard. Cuff him. I want him alive when I put her down. Alive and watching. Tom'll like that."
Sherlock's head whipped around to Father. "Tom?" He didn't have time for follow-up questions; his arms were twisted roughly behind him and the cuffs attached far too tightly.
"Tom told us all about her. Fucked him for more than a year, promised to marry him, then jumped straight into your bed the minute you returned from the dead," Father sneered. "So we've arranged a wedding ceremony for her in the graveyard. Pretty white dress and all."
Father hoisted Molly off the ground and over his shoulder. He signaled to the others to bring Sherlock along. One man dragged him backwards by the cuffs and onto his feet. Sherlock knew that if he could just find a way to make it above ground, he could find a way.
…
By the time their cars screamed across London Bridge, Donovan knew where to head. They wanted an unconsecrated graveyard in Southwark, near London Bridge. Donovan already knew it. She rang Mycroft's car, just ahead on the bridge.
"It's Crossbones, behind Borough Market," she told him. "We just picked up a 999 call from an off-license near the market; seems someone matching Irene Adler's description appeared in his shop 5 minutes ago, ranting about a kidnapping and Sherlock Holmes."
"Are they in the cemetery or in a bolthole nearby?" Mycroft asked.
"I think they'll head to the cemetery, Sir, but I'm sending two units to intercept Irene and find out where she came from. We're going to Crossbones."
…
Crossbones was a pretty little graveyard: neglectfully tended in the backstreets of Southwark, but with iron gates decorated with dried flowers and photographs and ribbons dedicated to 'lost' women. It was a graveyard for prostitutes and infants. Sherlock knew before they even snuck through the gates that this was a 'single woman's churchyard'. Father and his men intended to murder Molly across its graves.
Father carried Molly across the neat paving stones while his men dragged Sherlock behind. They came to grave near the middle, adorned with an angel for a headstone, and Father unceremoniously dumped Molly's body on the concrete. She lay crumpled in a vulnerable heap. Sherlock tried to separate his emotions from his mind; kneejerk protective instincts would not save her.
"So, Mr Holmes wanted to know how it's all done, did he?" Father smiled. "Here's what we do." One the men left Sherlock to hand a syringe to Father. Sherlock didn't hesistate; the cult wanted to kill in a specific way, and he needed to disrupt it. He threw himself at Father, pushing him back just enough to knock the syringe to the ground. Sherlock crushed it with his foot, making sure the liquid from the shattered plastic casing wet the ground.
Two men pulled Sherlock off of Father, wrested him to the ground and put a knife to his throat. When Sherlock continued to fight back, they knifed him in the leg. The excruciating pain blinded him for a moment and he slowed down, just enough time to hear the sirens pulling up outside the gates of Crossbones.
Greg and Donovan barrelled into the graveyard, lights flashing and guns at the ready. Father's lieutenants dropped Sherlock and slunk towards the opposite side of the walled cemetery. Sherlock let all of his rage go, and threw it all at Father. He managed to knock the man to the ground, and stood over him, supporting himself on his injured leg and kicking Father's head and torso further away from Molly.
Mycroft walked inside the gates almost casually, and he lifted Molly off the grave. He carried her easily to the edge of the small graveyard, then balanced himself against the railings. He propped Molly's head against his shoulder, adjusting her carefully as he slid his back down to railings, upsetting the ribbons and ornaments tied to the wrought iron bars as he settled himself onto the concrete paving stones. He arranged Molly so that she did not get in the way of his right arm, her weight spread across his legs, his left arm securing her against his shoulder. He was shaking slightly, and he admitted it to himself. Lie to everyone else if you must, but never to yourself – it impedes performance, he reminded himself. He tried to keep his movements calm and measured. Here was Sherlock's everything, and he could feel blood from her head wound seeping into his Crombie coat. Sherlock had not been exaggerating; Molly honestly felt like she weighed almost nothing.
She breathed evenly against his neck; he could feel a strong pulse. His right hand flicked the safety off the Glock. Mycroft trained his aim towards Sherlock, who still somehow managing to stand, blood pouring from the knife wound in his leg, still on the attack.
"Sherlock," Mycroft called in his commanding voice, "kindly step away from that man." Sherlock stopped, from compliance or exhaustion or pain, Mycroft didn't know. Sherlock teetered back a bit, his leg weakening. Fine, Sherlock thought to himself, this time do as Mycroft asks, let Mycroft save me from myself, from my blatant desire for revenge for what this sadistic fucker had done to Molly. He'd barely cleared half a pace of Father when Mycroft fired, putting a bullet cleanly through the man's head. Father slumped over onto the grave where Molly had been dumped earlier. Sherlock sucked in a breath in shock; his training sent him face-first onto the mud and shale to avoid any follow-up shots. Two more came, whizzing over his head towards two men standing on the far side of the graveyard, a good 40 metres from Mycroft. He dropped them both before they could react.
Sherlock picked himself up from the mud to see Mycroft re-engaging the safety and slipping the gun inside his coat. He looked calm and untroubled. There was no reason… the men had already been subdued… Sherlock had never in his life seen Mycroft do anything that wasn't logically necessary.
Sherlock watched Greg approach Mycroft slowly, both hands in plain view in front of him. Donovan followed, similarly unarmed. Greg bent down to check on Molly's head wound. "There's an ambulance waiting on the other side of the gates. I can't let the paramedics in yet, until we secure the scene. But I can take Molly out to them," Greg explained. "John is waiting there for her." This seemed to convince Mycroft, and he allowed Greg to lift Molly out of his arms. Greg balanced her thoughtfully and continued in the same even tone, "Please hand your weapon over to Donovan. She will give it back to you when our investigation into the shooting is complete."
Mycroft just smiled at Greg. He dug the gun out of its holster, flipped it in the air elegantly, catching the barrel and proffering the handgrip to Donovan. She dropped it into an evidence bag. "Best of luck tracing that," he remarked.
Donovan shrugged. "It was clearly self-defence. Two police officers and a consulting detective can swear to it."
Mycroft hopped up with more grace and ease than Donovan would have credited. Andersen was already helping Sherlock out the gates and towards the paramedics. Greg had settled Molly onto a gurney already and John was assessing her head wound. "Sherlock!" he called out, seeing his friend limping out of the churchyard. "What the hell happened to you?"
"Stab wound to the left thigh," he hissed, collapsing onto the ground next to Molly. He reached out to stroke his fingers across her forehead, drawing the hair away from her face. "How is she?"
"The cut's deep and needs stitching. We'll find out the extent of the concussion at hospital. I'm taking her to Bart's." John reached over, gripped Sherlock's trouser leg with two hands and ripped the fabric open to see the stab wound. "Dammit, Sherlock, that's still bleeding. Lay flat." He turned back to the paramedics who were loading Molly into an ambulance. "Get her to Bart's," he told them, slamming shut the doors. He didn't notice Mycroft slipping into the front seat of the ambulance, next to the driver. The ambulance roared off.
Sherlock lay his head back, John wedging a blanket beneath his head just before it met the tarmac. He started putting pressure on the puncture wound to staunch the bleeding. Sherlock felt the adrenalin draining out of him along with his blood. He had to tell John something important. Something about Molly. Molly and….
"Tom!" Sherlock called out. "John…" he grabbed hold of John's shirt. "Tell them to arrest Tom. They have to take Tom in." Sherlock heard John shouting orders to a second ambulance crew and calling for Greg, but he distanced himself from the chaos. He wandered the halls of his mind palace and found Molly's room. He let himself in.
Molly, they're taking you to Bart's. John said your vital signs are strong. Mycroft told me he'd go with you.
Molly was sitting on the sofa from her front room, Toby purring contentedly on her lap. She looked pale but whole.
You're hurt worse than I am, you idiot. That blade could have severed an artery. You could bleed out. Look at John; he's frantic!
I've seen him properly frantic, and this isn't 'Sherlock is dying' frantic. This is seriously injured.
Mind Palace Molly shook her head in exasperation. She stood up from the sofa, forcing Toby to leap off in fright with the suddenness of her movement. He noticed that Mind Palace Molly was dressed in nothing but a red lace bra and very tiny, matching knickers. She wore the diamond necklace he'd fixed around her neck the night of the Christmas party at the Savoy. She looked down at herself, then met his gaze with a knowingly raised eyebrow.
No lab coat this time? No clipboard, Mr Holmes?
I'm not actually dying. Not that I'm aware of. John has it under control. I'm just seriously injured.
Molly gazed towards the picture window that was flooding afternoon sunlight into her room. I can hear John; they're taking you to the A&E at St Thomas's. It's closer.
Sherlock mapped the streets in his mind. He nodded. The best option. You see? John's got it all in hand.
Molly stretched her arms out to him. He gathered her up, all remembered scent and warmth and softness. He snuggled his face into her shiny, clean hair and inhaled. She stepped back just a couple of inches and took his face in her hands, looking full of love and trust. He grinned at her. Then her face morphed into anger, and she let loose an agonising scream, which came out in John's voice. "Sherlock, wake up! Damn you! Wake the hell up!"
Sherlock gasped and his eyes flew open. "John…" he coughed out. He looked around to see hospital corridors flying past, John running after him. "We're prepping a transfusion, Sherlock. Hang on. Stay with me, okay? No wandering off to the Mind Palace right now."
"Molly's in the Mind Palace," he rasped hoarsely. "She's only wearing knickers and a bra. She smells like jasmine. I want to go back…"
"No, Sherlock, listen to me, I'm…"
But Sherlock ignored him. He settled back down on the sofa with Molly and ran his hands over her skin, every mole and freckle and dip and curve mapped out in his memory. Let them do whatever transfusing they needed. Boring. He would stay right here and explore every virtual inch of Molly Hooper.