After the door closed behind Irene's back, a wave of exhaustion flushed over Sherlock's mind and body. He honestly couldn't say whether it had been a turn for better or worse to be held by Irene instead of Molly - granted, Irene wasn't clinically insane and she was alive today thanks to him - but the fact that it had also been Sherlock who had brought about the threat of her losing it in the first place seemed to not have escaped Irene's memory. Sherlock remembered her white-glowing anger seven months ago, how Irene's whole being had radiated sheer rage due to owing her life to a man who had, through beating her in her own game, jeopardized it the first place; and today Sherlock had seen a trace of that same very same emotion coloring Irene's eyes.

So it was apparent that Irene had not, by any means, forgotten; and this might turn out to be a problem. Sherlock realized the reason Irene couldn't let him go was, in addition to any personal vendetta she might have had, the fact that Sherlock knew about the whole scheme. Therefore Sherlock was a liability, and he very much doubted that promising Irene he wouldn't tell anyone what was going on would do the trick. By being here Sherlock had made himself a wild card and therefore a threat to the succession of her plans, and by now Sherlock knew that Irene was too skillful a player to leave any risk factors run free. So that much was clear - he couldn't expect Irene just to let him leave.

Sherlock closed his eyes. He felt tiredness all over his body; the events of the recent past started to take their toll on him. He didn't remember the last time he would have felt so tired, so worn - it was, in fact, very well possible that he never had. Every fibre in him seemed to scream for an exile from reality; a short moment of rest, of oblivion, was what his body needed. But it wouldn't do now, he couldn't give in to it now when he had to find his way out of this mess - preferably sooner than later.

Determinedly Sherlock pushed the weariness that tried to conquer his physical being aside and focused. So what did he know? To start from the beginning, Sherlock remembered going to the Reichenbach warehouse to meet Moriarty. He had done so with the knowledge that it might have ended up costing him his life; and it had been a possibility he had accepted. It had been more difficult than he would ever have seen possible to leave John, though; even now, as Sherlock thought about the last time he had seen John - when he himself had been burdened with the knowledge of quite likely going to his death and knowing the pain it would cause John when he would find out - the memory made Sherlock uncomfortable. It was still very new to him to allow these feelings for another human being, to accept them and even embrace them; and even if he hadn't always been the most sensitive of men, or most considerate, he had known that his death would have - had - devastated John. So he had tried to explain, left his meager excuse for a goodbye scribbled on the backside of a chinese take-away menu; but Sherlock had known then as vividly as he knew now that asking John to forgive him, or even to understand, was probably too much to expect.

But that's the way it had had to be; at least this is what Sherlock told himself. John would have tried to stop him, or even worse, come with him; Sherlock could have not risked his life as well, not after that incident at the pool. Never again, he had sworn to himself then; and if keeping John in the dark was what was required, so be it.

Sherlock also knew John probably wouldn't have seen it the same way.

But what was done was done. Sherlock pushed the thought of John away from his conscious mind - at least for now - and thought about the faithful night further. He recalled going into the warehouse to meet Moriarty and he remembered how it had felt, to walk into one's likely death. He hadn't been afraid but he had felt a certain level of discomfort with the thought; and then, just a few minutes before the clock stroke the hour of the meeting, he had sent a text to John -

Forgive me, John. But don't forget. SH

- And as the small beep told him that the message had been sent, Sherlock had felt so light, like all the anxiety brought about the approaching death would have been sent away together with the text. Sherlock had known that what he was doing was right, that he would free the world from the most dangerous criminal mastemind it had ever known, and if he would have to die doing so, he would do so gladly.

But Sherlock had never seen Moriarty that night. His memories ended there, as he had put his phone back into his pocket; so it must have been there where Molly - or whoever it had been helping her - had got to him. Sherlock felt slightly appalled with himself for having being taken down so easily, without him even seeing it coming; but then again, he had had no reason to expect anyone but Moriarty being present and he, criminal and insane as he may have been, had way too much flair for drama to sneak up behind him. So his guard had been down, as unbelievable as it was in a situation like that, and as a result he had been surprised.

The next memory brought him to Molly's house, even if the beginning of his time there was vague to say the most - the drugs she had been pumping into him had made sure of that. And now he was here, even if he apparently shouldn't have been; obviously there had been some mix-up when the three men had came to collect Moriarty. Obviously they had not known how Moriarty looked like, so Molly should have been there - but she hadn't returned from wherever she had left earlier. Given that the men coming to pick Moriarty up were quite an instrumental part of the whole scheme, there had had to be a something pressing, perhaps unexpected, to keep Molly from attending-

John? Could it be?

Molly had mentioned that he had stopped by and shortly after had left to "take care" of something. The two had to be connected - the question now was if Molly had managed to-

Fear pierced his insides like an icicle, cold and sharp and cutting. What if Molly had got to John as well?

I need to get out of here, now

Sherlock's worry for John and the frustration brought about the fact that he was practically helpless to do anything got the better of him. In a fit of annoyance he yanked his wrists, only to be remained of the existence of the cuffs with the sharp pain that followed the action. He grunted in both annoyance and pain; it was quite clear he wouldn't be leaving this room anytime soon.

But he had to; for he had to get to John.

x

x

x

The sun had almost set when Molly slowed down the car and took to right from the main road. They were now driving on a smaller, winding road through open scenery. Had John had some room in his head for something else that Sherlock he would have seen how beautiful the landscape was; individual country homes spotted the hilly open fields, and the setting sun colored everything with its particular, almost melancholic hue. But John Watson had no eyes for such things; only thing in his head was getting to Sherlock.

Molly was driving fast, probably too fast considering the conditions - the road was somewhat icy and winding, and she was insane - but John couldn't bring himself to ask her to slow down even if he had wanted to. He was way too anxious to get to Sherlock; the hell, he almost asked her to step on it.

"Are we close?" John's words sounded odd after the long silence in which they had driven. Impatience colored his voice.

Molly nodded but didn't say anything; merely pointed at a house situated on a hill in the middle of the fields they were driving through. From what John could tell in the dying light it was an old mansion, surrounded by a fence but otherwise located in a relatively open sight. There were lights in all windows but one in the upstairs; clearly someone was home.

The sight of the house and knowing that Sherlock was most likely in it made John's heart beat faster. He was so close now - it couldn't have been more than a 10 minute drive - so close to seeing him, touching him, having him back. He would just have to get in unnoticed, find Sherlock and get them out - piece of cake, right?

Still keeping his eyes at the quickly approaching house John said to Molly, "Slow down, we should leave the car and walk there." His voice was distant and revealed how wrapped in his thoughts he was; later on John realised that that was where his mistake had been; Molly had seen that he wasn't paying attention, just for a second, but it had been enough for her.

What happened in the next moment was so fast that John had no time to stop it from coming. One second he felt the car leap forward like a wild, uncontrolled animal; the second the power of the impact made his world go black.

x

x

x

When Sherlock opened his eyes again, the room was dark. The sun had set, and behind the window pane in front of which Irene had stood was nothing but shapeless, mute darkness. The house itself was silent, but the reason he had opened his eyes was that he had heard something from the outside. A small, scratching sound that came very clearly from the other side of the glass; and was very clearly getting stronger.

Sherlock kept his gaze locked to the window. His eyes glistened in the darkness like they would have been light sources of their own, whereas his body was very still - only his chest raised and lowered lightly. Even if he was locked down, Sherlock still possessed an aura of a predator waiting for its prey. For a while he stayed like that, motionless and awaiting, staring at the nothingness that opened behind the window. There was nothing to be seen yet, but he could sense something - someone - approaching.

And then from the darkness that painted the window black emerged a lighter shade, a figure; first a head, then shoulders, and Sherlock realised he wast staring at the face of Molly Hooper.

Her face loomed in the dark like a small moon floating outside the window. She cupped her hands around her face and peered into the room; in her pale face her eyes were like two bottomless holes through which Sherlock saw straight into the night behind her. He observed as she squinted her eyes and scanned the room; and when she finally spotted him and found his face, Sherlock's eyes were already staring into hers. She startled a bit and then smiled, a wide, manic smile that lit her whole face into a glee.

Sherlock didn't return the smile; he actually wondered whether it might be a good idea to shout out to Irene. Then he dismissed the idea - if Molly had managed to come so far, it would probably - hopefully - be in the agenda of helping Sherlock out. He would just have to deal with her later.

Which, most likely, wouldn't end pretty.

Molly, behind the window, seemed to observe the situation and her options in terns of getting in. She was probably standing on a ladder which appeared to be slightly too low for her to reach the window comfortably. This didn't seem to discourage her, though; Sherlock saw her head disappearing for a second or two and then her hand, clutched in a fist and protected by some kind of fabric, came through the window glass shattering it into pieces. The obscenely loud sound made Sherlock startle; Molly, on the other hand, didn't seem to mind. She threw her hands in from the broken window and grabbed the edge of the sill on the side of the room; the shattered glass cut her hands and arms as she pulled herself in. In the moonlight the blood running from the cuts in her hands looked black.

As Molly made her way in, over her grunts and crackling of the glass Sherlock strained his ears to hear if someone in the house had been alarmed by the sound of the breaking window; but for now there was no sign of it. Sherlock turned his eyes to Molly who had almost made it into the room; there was quite a lot of blood now, and suddenly Sherlock saw that it wasn't all coming from her hands - there was a sizable cut on the right side of her face that was already forming a bruise around it. Older then, perhaps half an hour? Where had she got that?

She was finally in the room and stood now in front of the window, in the very same place Irene had just few hours ago; panting from the physical effort, blood dripping from the cuts and staining the carpet; and in her eyes such a burn, such flame that it could have lit the room on fire.

"Molly. Help me out from these cuffs." Sherlock spoke fast, with a lowered voice. He couldn't help himself from glancing at the door again.

Molly stepped to the bed and wrapped her left hand around Sherlock's right wrist, staining his skin with her blood. The grab of her hand felt cold and the blood made it sticky. She turned his wrist around, observing the piece of metal around it like it would have been a piece of fine jewelry.

"I know how to open this." Molly's voice was husky; when she looked down to Sherlock her eyes seemed to absorb the darkness.

Sherlock met her gaze with a demanding look in his own eyes. "Then please do." Sherlock's voice was not much stronger than a whisper; he was worried that any moment the door would fly open and one of Irene's gorillas would put an end to the attempted escape.

Molly let his wrist go and dropped her hand on her side. She sat down by the edge of the bed - again, the very spot Irene had occupied - and turned her eyes from Sherlock's face to the broken window and the night behind it.

"What's in it for me?" Her voice was as bare as the expression on her face. There was a smell of her blood in the air.

Sherlock looked at her, really looked; but all he could see was her madness. There was none of the Molly he had thought he had known; just a shell that looked the same but was occupied by a mind so distorted that no reasoning or logic could get to it anymore. Any compassion Sherlock might have had for her was for the role she had played before; and that character had apparently never even existed.

For a fleeting second Sherlock felt a twinge of sadness; then it was gone.

His eyes flashed in the dark room. "Molly, please. It will be OK. Help me now, and it will be OK." His voice so deep and soft, so enticing; it wrapped around her like open arms and pulled her deeper into the sea of her insanity.

She turned her face back to Sherlock and he saw that it wasn't only blood striping her cheeks anymore. Staying like that, staring into his eyes for what was a few seconds but felt like hours, she slowly slid her hand into her pocket and pulled out some kind of thin piece of metal; then, still keeping her eyes locked into Sherlock's, she moved her hand to the cuff around his right wrist. After a few seconds Sherlock heard a slight click; the first signal of his approaching freedom.

Without saying a word Molly stood up and walked to the other side of the bed. Just as she leaned down to the other cuff, the situation Sherlock had been worried about since her entry took place - The door of the room flew open and against the bright light of the corridor was drawn the unmistakable figure of Irene Adler.

And she was looking very displeased.

"Well, well, what do we-" She didn't have time to finish her sentence when the bullet fired from John's gun in Molly's hands split the wood of the door frame an inch from her head.