Chapter Six - Contacts

Several days passed before John could reach Mycroft. He was out of the country and unavailable; Anthea promised to let John know as soon as he returned. John didn't understand why he felt so anxious about Sherlock's phone. It didn't change the fact that Sherlock was gone, but there had been something in Molly's voice. An urgency that kept haunting him. He felt restless and unsettled.

Thursday evening, John answered the door at 221b to find Mycroft standing outside, cane in hand. "Anthea says you wanted to take a look at Sherlock's mobile?" he asked.

John nodded and stepped aside to allow Mycroft to enter. Mycroft looked around the flat curiously, it was the first time he had been there since the funeral. The furniture was the same but Sherlock's things had been packed away. The only object of Sherlock's that remained was the skull which vacantly peered at him from the mantle. The lack of clutter and scientific equipment made the room spacious but still cozy feeling. Mycroft took a seat in what was once his brother's chair.

"May I get some tea for you?" John asked politely.

Mycroft shook his head. "Why now John? What has happened to make you want to see his phone now?" John sat down in his chair which was directly opposite Mycroft. He looked at Mycroft Holmes and shivered. He wasn't frightened, nothing about the elder Holmes was threatening at the moment, rather he just felt a sense of déjà vu. An echo of Sherlock seemed to fill the room. Was it Mycroft's tone of voice, the tilt of his head, or the fact he was sitting in Sherlock's chair that bothered him? Whatever it was, it was gone in a moment. He had never really thought of Mycroft and Sherlock being alike. Certainly they were both brilliant and manipulative bastards, but they had seemed so different. John had always thought of Sherlock as so totally unique that he couldn't possibly have similarities with anyone, not even a brother. He cleared his throat.

"I don't know. I was talking to Molly Hooper last week and..." John paused as Mycroft frowned slightly. He could almost see Mycroft processing the name, connecting its relevance to the topic of discussion. At Mycroft's slight nod John continued, "And she mentioned the mobile and wondered if there might be a message on it for me."

"She works at Bart's I believe?" Mycroft asked. At John's nod he continued. "She had a crush on Sherlock." he stated thoughtfully. "Interesting." A look of satisfaction crossed his face. It was the look of someone who had just found a missing piece of a particularly difficult puzzle.

Did the man actually know everything about everyone even slightly connected to his brother? Evidently he did. John smiled slightly visioning the files on Donavan and Anderson. He would love to get a peek into those.

Mycroft reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a mobile phone. He handed it to John.

John held the phone in his hand for a moment before turning it on. Memories and thoughts of Sherlock flooded his brain. Quickly scanning through the various apps he went on to the directory. Not a lot of numbers listed. Himself, Mycroft, Lestrade, Molly, Mrs. Hudson, and a few others. He was amused to find Anderson listed as well. The notepad was filled with the usual notes one would expect Sherlock to make about current cases. John was about to give up when suddenly it was there. He stared at it in disbelief.

"Oh, jeezus," he swore. He looked at it again. After all this time he couldn't believe what he was seeing. He rubbed his eyes with one hand and peered once again at the phone's tiny screen. It was still there. His eyes weren't playing tricks on him. All kinds of emotions came crashing down. He was elated. Sherlock was alive! He was bewildered. Why hadn't Sherlock contacted him? He was angry. Where was he? He was confused. He had seen him fall! John handed the phone to Mycroft. "I don't know what to say." he stood up rubbing the back of his neck with one hand. Mycroft looked at the screen. On it was a simple grocery list. He had seen this before. He looked at John with raised eyebrows.

"This is not a grocery list" he stated. John looked at him and shook his head.

"It's a code."

"And you know what it means?"

"Yes.". He took the phone and held it so they both could see.

Sainsbury's

tuna

carrots

spice cake

I will get milk

p.s. Don't forget I need cigarettes

"The first line tells me it's a code. We never shop at Sainsbury's. Sherlock hates it for some reason. Tuna stands for 'All is not what it seems,' carrots means 'Danger,' spice cake is 'If you tell Mycroft you're an idiot.'"

"Really John?"

"It's better than pound cake." he said with a straight face. "That one means 'Under no circumstance tell Mycroft.' I will get milk means 'I will contact you at the appropriate time.'" John handed the phone back to Mycroft. "Something went wrong didn't it? He would have contacted me by now."

"Never underestimate the powers of my dear brother." Mycroft said gently. "I have full confidence he will appear when he chooses, or sooner if I track him down. I have suspected something like this for some time. This just confirms my suspicions. John, what does I need cigarettes mean?"

John flushed uncomfortably. "Private message," he mumbled, "nothing really."

Mycroft frowned watching John's face. Suddenly he smiled. "Oh, I wouldn't say that John. Cigarettes are terribly addictive aren't they? What's your code name John?"

If possible John's face grew even redder than it already was. Sherlock had insisted his code name be cigarettes. John had given in. After all it was just a silly code and they were listing things they didn't like. Things that would never appear on a real shopping list. John had been impressed that Sherlock was willing to include cigarettes as one of the items.

"So what do we do now? How do we find him? You will include me in this search if only so I can be the first to beat the stuffing out of the cold-hearted git," John growled. "Who does he think he is, running off like that, leaving me behind?"

"My brother appears to have an inordinate desire to protect you." Mycroft said mildly. "Perhaps he thinks you have great value."

John snorted. "Yeah, right. He thinks so much of me that he neglects to let me know he is alive after all this time."

"Perhaps he wants to make sure you are safe."

"If I wanted safe I wouldn't be here. Why didn't he ask me what I wanted?"

"I'm afraid that's a question which will have to wait until you can ask him yourself." Mycroft looked at his wristwatch. "It's not too late. What do you say we pop over and pay Dr. Hooper a little visit? Something tells me she may be able to shed some light on the whereabouts of my dear brother."

The two men headed out the door, down the stairs, and out to Mycroft's ever-present limo waiting at the curb. As he gave Molly's address to Anthea, John wondered about what it was that Molly knew. She had always spoken of Sherlock in the present tense, as if he were still alive. At least until last week. Why had she changed? He thought of their many meetings. Why had she started meeting with him? What was she trying to tell him? If she knew Sherlock was alive why hadn't she said so? What was really going on? Should he helping Mycroft? Sherlock hadn't forbidden it; he only said he would be an idiot if he did. What in the hell was going on? The questions kept going around and around in John's head, but there were no answers in sight.

"John?"

John looked over. Mycroft was looking at him with concern.

"Relax, John. We will find him. I've been following his activities for several weeks. I just didn't realize it was him until recently."

John nodded and forced his clenched fists to straighten and lie open on his knees. "I just wish he had trusted me enough to help him." he said bitterly.

Mycroft didn't reply and the rest of the ride was spent in silence.

When they came to a stop in front of Molly's flat, John looked up at the dark windows.

"It doesn't look like she's home. It's too early for bed. Maybe she's still at Bart's."

They climbed the stairs to Molly's second floor flat. There was no answer to the doorbell. John was about to suggest that they call Bart's when he saw Mycroft fit something silvery into the lock. There was a small snick and he turned the knob and swung the door open.

The smell hit their noses as John snapped on the lights.

"Oh dear God," he moaned as he spotted slippered feet jutting out from behind kitchen table. He rushed closer to the body and thankfully realized that it wasn't Molly.

The old lady lay on her back, a look of surprise on her face. A tin of cat food was gripped in one hand. A single bullet wound in her forehead told the story. Surprisingly, there was very little blood.

Mycroft holding a handkerchief over his nose leaned over and pointed at disfiguring tears of the skin and tissue around her nose and lips. "What on earth caused those?" He asked.

John grimaced. "Molly owns a cat. When left trapped with a dead body cats sometime do this. Once a person is dead they can't tell it was human. To a cat it's just meat. I suppose Toby got hungry." That explained the lack of blood, he thought grimly.

"Remind me to never own a cat." Mycroft said looking down distastefully at the mangled corpse. How long has she been dead?"

"Just based on her current state of decomp, my guess would be three or four days."

Mycroft nodded and moved off to phone Scotland Yard.

John stood and looked quickly around the small flat, careful not to touch anything. It was a mess. Someone had trashed the place. "Who is this woman? Where is Molly and what in the hell is going on?"

XXX

Molly lay on the lumpy mattress shivering in spite of the blanket she had been given. It was dark. It was always dark. The single light bulb several hundred feet away allowed only shadows and forms to be seen of her surroundings. She was inside a large metal wire cage of some sort. It looked like the kind of thing some warehouses used to secure valuable merchandise. It contained only her mattress and a bucket to be used as a toilet. Four times a guard had brought food, water and had exchanged the bucket for a clean one. She had been here four days then; but Molly also vaguely remembered bright lights, pain and questions, lots and lots of questions. She thought she remembered answering those questions but she wasn't sure. She must have been drugged. Her only clear memories were of being in this cage. If she had been given drugs to make her talk why was she still alive?

Some time later she heard footsteps. Her guard was coming. Surely a day had not passed already? Molly rolled smoothly to her feet. As the steps grew closer, she noticed the difference in sound. This was a different man, lighter of step. This was her chance, if she could overtake him when he turned to close the door to her cage she might be able to escape. She had tried with the other guard and had been electro-shocked for her effort. Perhaps this man would be less cautious.

The steps stopped outside the door of her prison.

"Hello again, Molly," Jim Moriarty smiled. In his hands he held a taser. "I think it's time for some fun don't you?"

XXX

Sherlock sat at a small table littered with papers and maps. The two men opposite him were discussing the best way to break into the suspected headquarters of one of Moriarty's lieutenants. Their voices droned in the background. His thoughts drifted inward shutting out the sounds of his surroundings. It had been a mistake going to watch John and Molly last week he admitted to himself. Seeing them had surfaced feelings of discontent. He was not satisfied with his current life. He wanted more than capturing criminals and solving puzzles he realized with surprise. He allowed his mind to drift to his mind palace, to the special room he had created recently. It was more detailed than any other room. The living room at Baker Street was recreated down to the smallest detail. He acknowledged his skull sitting on the mantle with a nod. One vacant eye socket winked back at him and its jaws widened slightly in a ghoulish grin. Sitting in his chair, small table supporting his laptop, John was busy working on the latest entry to his blog. He didn't look up, he never did, but continued typing a satisfied grin on his face.

Sherlock settled into the chair opposite John, sighing with contentment. He closed his eyes relaxing for the first time in days. He always did his best thinking here. He opened his eyes again. There had been no sound, there was never sound in his mind palace, but a feeling of an additional presence caused him to swing around. On the leather couch Molly was comfortably curled at one end reading a book. By her side Toby lay stretched out in feline grace. Sherlock frowned, "What were they doing in his mind palace?" He had not invited them yet here they were. He turned and looked at John. He was still typing. If he was aware of Molly he didn't appear bothered by it. Sherlock twisted around again. Molly was still there, quietly reading occasionally turning a page. Toby was staring at him with a look Sherlock could have sworn said, "Of course we're here, you idiot."

Sherlock turned back around and settled into his chair. He wasn't sure what all this meant, but as he relaxed he realized that Molly's presence did feel right. She belonged there just as much as John. Whatever the reason, it was a very good thing, he decided. He focused on the problems that had brought him here in the first place and soon was deep in plans for the next raid on Moriarty's crumbling empire. He was so deep in thought he didn't react when Toby suddenly appeared on his lap vibrating with silent purrs as Sherlock petted him absently.

"Mr. Holmes, Mr. Holmes," the voice repeated in a louder tone.

Sherlock's eyes snapped open. Reality crashing around him, his brilliant mind adjusting in a fraction of a second. "Yes?"

"Sorry to bother you sir, but I think you will want to see this," George Flinn, a good man to have around in a fight, held out a sheet of paper. "This has been posted all about this area as of this morning. We're sure they weren't there yesterday." Flinn handed Sherlock a flyer. It was a missing person poster, the kind family members often desperately hung in hopes of word of a missing loved one. This one was a little different. It read: S. HOLMES Do you know where this person is? Under the words was a large picture of Molly. It was a copy of the one on her security identification badge at Bart's. Beneath the photo was a telephone number.

"Do you know what it means?" Flinn asked.

Sherlock nodded. "I'll take care of this," he said grimly

"If you need help..." Flynn was interrupted by a curt answer.

"No, I said I'll take care of this."

Flynn bobbed his head and retreated from the room.

Sherlock stood, crossed quickly to a desk against the wall and opened one of its deep drawers. Inside connected to chargers were several disposable mobile phones. Grasping one, he quickly disconnected it and flipped the cover open. He entered the number from the poster and waited impatiently as it rang twice before a pleasant voice answered.

"J.M. Enterprises, How may I help you?"

"I want to talk to Moriarty." Sherlock snapped.

"Pardon sir, could you repeat that?"

"You heard me, get Moriarty now or you will be extremely sorry!" Sherlock shouted.

"Just a moment Mr. Holmes." the voice said mildly. "I'll transfer your call." To Sherlock's disbelief soothing background music floated from the phone. He had been put on hold!

A soft click on the line and then James Moriarty's cheerful voice filled Sherlock's ear.

"Well hello, Sherlock! It's so nice to hear from you. I thought you were dead!"

"Where's Molly?"

"Oh, she's fine. She's helping me with a little experiment. Here take a look."

A video clip played on Sherlock's screen. Molly was shown being electro-shocked over and over. Her body spasming and thrashing.

"How many times do you think she will be able to handle the shock before permanent damage occurs?" Moriarty asked in a detached voice.

"Let me talk to her. I need to know she is still alive."

"If you insist." Moriarty held the mobile over close to the cage. "Molly dear, someone wants to talk to you."

"Sherlock!" Molly screamed into the phone, don't listen to him, it's a trap! Stay away! Stay away, do you hear me?"

"I'm coming to get you." Sherlock stated flatly.

"No, oh God, please don't try anything. I can handle this myself. You know I can."

Moriarty pulled the phone away and walked away from Molly. Sherlock could still hear her screaming for him to stay away in the background.

"Loyal little thing, isn't she? What do you do to your friends that make them so willing to die for you? Are you that good in bed?"

"What do you want?" Sherlock snarled.

"I want what I have always wanted." Moriarty screamed. All pretense of civility gone from his voice. "If you want to save Molly, you will come to the corner of Regents Street and Glasshouse in two hours. If you're late or you try anything, you'll be fishing Miss Hooper out of the Thames tomorrow morning." The phone went dead.

Sherlock sat for a few moments, then looked directly above his head fixing his eyes on the light fixture. "You heard him," he said quietly. "We don't have much time. If you are going to help at least give me a half hour with him before you move in." Sherlock stood up and left the room.

John stood leaning over Mycroft's shoulder peering at the room displayed on the computer. "He knew you were watching. He bloody knew you were watching him!" he exclaimed.

"As I've said before, John," Mycroft smiled with obvious pride. "Never underestimate the devious powers of deduction made by Sherlock Holmes."