Chapter 11: Reunion Waltz

"No!"

Molly was never sure afterwards where she found the strength to push this world's Sherlock aside, to shove his arm upwards so that the bullet intended for her Sherlock's forehead went into the ceiling instead, but she did it. She was able to stumble to her feet and put herself between the two men, panting and wild-eyed, daring their mutual captor to shoot her to get at his target. Because that was the only way she was going to allow him to kill the man she loved, the man she no longer deserved to love but couldn't stop even if she tried.

If he wanted Sherlock dead, he would have to go through Molly Hooper to get him.

For a minute – a long, agonizing minute – she though he would do it. She really thought he would pull the trigger on the gun that was now pointed squarely at her chest, putting a bullet through her heart before turning the weapon on Sherlock, who had managed somehow to rise to one knee in an attempt to move Molly out of the way. But she wasn't budging, no matter who tried to move her.

She'd finally had enough. The strength she could never muster in her own defense came raging forward to protect the man she loved.

His counterpart's reaction to her actions was...unexpected. He stared at the pair of them for a minute before throwing his head back and laughing.

When he finished, however, the gun was once again trained steadily on his two captives, his eyes cold and devoid of the mirth he'd just exhibited. "Well, Molly, so nice to know your spirit isn't quite as broken as I'd believed it to be. Too bad you found your backbone just in time to watch me kill the man you've been waiting so long to come to your rescue."

"You'll have to shoot me first," she said, grateful that her voice remained steady, her eyes tear-free.

"And don't think I won't, Molly", he replied, but his eyes weren't on hers any longer, they were staring down at his other self instead. "Don't think I won't shoot you down and walk over your cold corpse in order to shoot him as well. And then John Watson and the irritating DI Lestrade and whoever else tries to stand in my way. Or," he added with no change in expression, "you can step aside and let me kill him...and I pledge to spare John Watson's life. And yours."

"Do it, Molly." That was her Sherlock; she swung around to face him, eyes wide with shock as their gazes met and locked. "I didn't come all this way just to watch you die."

"And I don't think I could live with myself if I watched you die," was her heated reply, but even as she spoke she knew she'd already lost this argument. She recognized the stubborn set of his chin, the cool determination in his blue-green eyes.

"Either we all die or just I do, Molly." A faint ghost of a smile tilted the corners of his lips. "It seems a fair enough exchange, my life for those of my friends."

"Yes, yes, very noble," the other man sneered. "I'll be sure and have those very words inscribed on your tombstone. Now. Step aside, Molly."

She couldn't move, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but remain frozen in place, still staring down at Sherlock, begging him with her eyes to find some way out of this desperate situation.

The tension was broken in the most unexpected manner possible; the ringing of a mobile phone. Her captor's phone, as it turned out. He made an annoyed sound, then yanked it out of his coat pocket and held it to his ear. "This had better be good," he growled, not removing his gaze from his two prisoners.

There was a long, silent pause as he listened intently to whoever was on the other line. Molly bit her lip, caught between the desire to rush him and possibly get the gun away from him and the sure knowledge that to attempt to do so would be tantamount to suicide. Something of her internal conflict must have shown on her face, because she felt Sherlock's hand on her wrist. She glanced down in surprise; he'd raised himself to one knee in order to reach her, and as soon as her anxious gaze met his he shook his head, very slightly. Reading her just like he always did; God, she'd missed him so much, trapped on this world with his evil doppelganger...and now he was trapped, too. He and John.

She finally took the time to wonder how they'd come to be here; had the same force that had stolen her away taken them as well? No, of course; not; he'd been here for two weeks, wasn't that what the other Sherlock had said? He'd come here, or been brought or sent here, to find her. After all this time, he'd never given up on looking for her. Even if it was only because her disappearance was a mystery to be solved, he'd still come after her.

Tears threatened once again, tears she grimly fought to contain as their mutual captor finally spoke, snapping out a series of commands into the mobile before returning his attention to them. "Well, Mr. Holmes, you appear to have earned a reprieve," he said with a cold smile. Without looking at Molly, he added: "Get dressed. We've a meeting with my brother. It seems he's finally located the elusive physicist who brought you here. Perfect timing."

oOo

The drive from Baker Street was made in complete silence. He – "Mr. Holmes" she silently vowed to call him from now on – had allowed Molly to help Sherlock to his feet, to support him as he limped out of the bedroom, the other man holding the gun in a casual manner that fooled neither of them. Not when his eyes remained cold and watchful, watching and assessing their every move.

Even if there had been a moment when Molly or Sherlock might have gained the upper hand, it was well and truly gone once Sebastian Moran entered the equation. He was waiting at the door to the flat, his own gun in his hand, and there was nothing casual about the way he held it trained on the two of them, the way he watched them as if hoping they would try something.

Molly had spent more time in his company than anyone other than her captor, and still there were only two things she knew about him: how utterly ruthless he was, and how completely loyal he was to his employer. She tried to convey that to Sherlock just using her eyes, not even daring to shake her head or make any moves that Moran might construe as an attempt to escape or attack. Whether she was successful in her silent warning or whether Sherlock simply understood the danger the second man presented – and if he'd been here for two weeks, then surely he'd learned something about his counterpart's deadly chief of security – all he did was study their newest opponent just as intently as he was being watched.

All he did was allow Molly to assist him, limping and shaking, down the stairs and from there into their opponent's waiting vehicle.

Sebastian Moran rode with them in the backseat of the limo, facing them, the gun held casually on his lap, while Holmes uncharacteristically opted for the front seat by the driver. When Molly could be bothered to wonder about it, she supposed it was so neither she nor Sherlock would be tempted to try and overpower him or hold him hostage. Although she knew Sherlock was in no condition to do any such thing, and that she herself had already proven her complete ineffectiveness at attempting to harm either man, Holmes wasn't the type to leave anything to chance.

Holmes. She chanted the man's surname constantly in the back of her mind, until it became a meaningless string of letters, trying to impress it upon her subconscious. He wasn't Sherlock, never would be Sherlock. Sherlock was sitting next to her, allowing her to fuss with the makeshift bandages she'd been allowed to use to try and stem the flow of blood from the gunshot wound in his thigh. Wherever they were going, she hoped she would be allowed to properly see to the injury before it became infected or Sherlock bled out.

She resolutely refused to think about anything further into the future than their immediate destination, the thought of seeing John Watson – the real John Watson, the caring, friendly, loyal man she'd only started to get to know before being stolen away – and finally meeting this world's Greg Lestrade. Even if they were only fellow prisoners, being with others who wouldn't treat her with disdain or coldness would be a welcome change. And surely they would be sympathetic to her plight…or would they?

She shuddered, hard, as she wondered if their reaction would be more akin to anger at having been captured by Holmes' men while trying to save someone as stupid and insignificant as herself. Would John regret coming here, did Sherlock already do so? After all, she'd been here a year and hadn't done one single thing to remedy either her own situation or anyone else's.

Her breath caught and she turned away from Sherlock's now semi-conscious form, unable to stop the sob that erupted from her lips as the memory of Sally Donovan's murder crashed into her mind. She'd been right there, could have done something to stop it from happening, and been about as effective as an umbrella against an avalanche. Her captor had forced her to read the headlines the discovery of Sally's body had garnered, the gruesome shots of her battered corpse after it had been retrieved from the dump site in Scotland where Moran had left it – after removing both her ears and mailing them to Lestrade's private residence. Holmes had been quite gleeful as he told her that he'd discovered that Sally had apparently been Lestrade's mistress as well as his underling.

She'd very nearly thrown up when he remarked that, had he known about that relationship, he would have had Moran take a more personal souvenir from her body. Then he'd smirked as if there was something more, something he wasn't telling her. Something she definitely didn't want to hear.

She huddled into herself as the memory washed over her, staring unseeingly out of the tinted window. Her captor had laughed when she'd called him a barbarian, caught her to him and bent her over the dining room table, her dressing gown and the flimsy wisp of fabric that passed for a nightgown flipped up and her knickers askew as he'd entered her, holding her down and whispering a stream of filth in her ear as he pounded into her from behind.

Afterwards he'd had her remove the dressing-gown and made her sit by his side as he did some kind of research on his laptop. She'd been to distraught by what had just passed between them – his cruel comments about Sally Donovan more than the forced sex – to wonder why at first, but had quickly realized it was so he could have access to the small oval scar on the side of her breast. The one holding his initials: SVH. Sherlock Vernet Holmes. She knew he liked to look at it, but that day he seemed to have developed a fascination with touching it. Although he appeared engrossed in his research, every now and then he'd reach over and absently trace his thumb over the mark, much the way she would idly twirl her hair when she was reading.

Her dark memories held her trapped for the duration of the ride. When the car stopped, she waited passively for Moran to push open the door and step outside before doing her best to help Sherlock out. The bleeding appeared to have slowed during the trip, but she knew as soon as he started moving again the wound would very likely reopen.

Before she could express her concerns to either Moran or Holmes, the door opened from the outside, the driver reaching in to manhandle Sherlock out of the vehicle.

Inside the building the two of them were brought to an interior door. One of Holmes's men was on guard there, seated in a folding metal chair and glancing through a newspaper until he heard their footsteps. Sigerson, she thought his name was. He rose to his feet, dropping the paper and clearly trying not to goggle at the sight of his employer's wounded lookalike.

"Bring medical supplies, the good doctor will no doubt want to remove the bullet and patch up our friend here," Holmes ordered the man as he produced a key and unlocked the door. Moran gestured with his gun for Molly to enter, and she did so, pausing to put her arm around Sherlock when she saw him swaying a bit when he tried to make his way in on his own.. He accepted her assistance with a tight-lipped nod of thanks, and she tried not to worry too much about the chalk-whiteness of his face.

She darted a quick glance around the room, which was large and poorly lit. However, she could make out a table and four chairs set roughly in the middle, which she guided Sherlock to while still taking in the details of their newest prison.

One door in the opposite wall from the one through which they'd entered, partially open and very likely leading to a bathroom. The only other furniture was a pair of bunk beds set against the wall to their right, to which she paid no attention, too busy helping ease Sherlock into a sitting position on the nearest folding chair. She was still fretting over the amount of blood he'd lost when she noted movement out of the corner of her eye and raised her head to see who…

She felt dizzy, a wave of heat and cold flashing over her body as she saw John Watson hurrying toward them, with DI Lestrade hard on his heels. "Christ!" John swore as soon as he realized Sherlock had been injured.

It was the real John Watson, the one from her world, it had to be him, Sherlock had said he was here, thank God he was here to help, his medical training was on live people, not corpses like her and God, she didn't want Sherlock to end up a corpse...

"Breathe, Molly."

She turned back to Sherlock, meeting his gaze through eyes gone bleary with sudden tears, and did as he'd commanded. Taking a deep breath, she let it out slowly as John reached her side. "Hullo, John. Sorry I left your p-party so abruptly," she said, a feeble attempt at a joke.

"Well, it was a crap party anyway," he responded, enfolding her in a brief but clearly heartfelt hug before gently setting her aside and lowering himself to one knee in order to better exam Sherlock's wound. "Christ, Sherlock, how did this happen?"

His friend managed a ghost of a smile even as he flinched in pain as John moved his leg as gently as he could in order to get a better look at the wound. "Oh, you know how it is, John. My counterpart felt it necessary to prove his dominance through the crude methods preferred on this world. No offense," he added, glancing over John's shoulder, speaking to the other prisoner.

Molly's gaze automatically followed the same path, shrinking back a bit as she met Lestrade's eyes. "Greg," she said, then nothing more, the words drying up in her mouth as all the guilt and pain and sorrow she'd felt at her failure to save Sally Donovan came crashing over her.

"Nice to meet you, Dr. Hooper," he replied with a tired smile that barely reached his eyes, either not noticing or politely ignoring her sudden paralysis. "Wish it was under better circumstances. Tried to arrange that, but things don't always go to plan here."

"I...yes," she managed to croak out, dropping her gaze to her hands, which were twining together anxiously. She turned her attention back to John and Sherlock, unable to face Lestrade. What if he asked her...no, she couldn't think about that, not now. Right now she needed to focus on Sherlock, on helping John. She mumbled something about the medical supplies and hurried over to wait by the door, but her legs were trembling and she buckled and dropped to the floor before she was halfway there.

Lestrade reached her as her knees struck the floor, helping her back up, guiding her to one of the other seats. She refused to meet his eyes as she thanked him, knowing she must look as dreadfully guilty as she felt, which only set her stomach churning.

"It's not your fault, Molly." That was Sherlock again, speaking through gritted teeth as John adjusted the belt still strapped around his thigh. "Whatever it is you think you have to feel guilty about, stop it. Nothing that's happened here is your fault."

She was saved from responding by the sound of the door opening. A wheeled cart was pushed into the room, holding an array of medical supplies and pushed by a stone-faced guard Molly didn't recognize. Lestrade took the cart when it was clear the guard wasn't coming any closer than the position he'd taken up just inside the door, which he swung shut. Then he waited, one hand on his gun and his eyes suspiciously watching everything the four prisoners did.

He remained in the room while John quickly and efficiently bandaged up Sherlock's wound, pronouncing it clear of debris as the bullet had gone cleanly through the fleshy part of his thigh. He'd had to help the other man ease his trousers down in order to do so, apologizing for not having something else for him to wear and shooting a glare at their guard all the while. The other man affected not to notice, but Molly saw the slight grin hovering about his lips and found it in her to add someone else to her growing list of people she wouldn't hesitate to shoot, given the chance. He was enjoying this, their suffering, their pain, and most of all, their helplessness.

Once again she found herself silently railing against a God that would allow her prayers to be answered in so twisted a fashion; she'd prayed for Sherlock to come to her rescue, and he had, only to be immediately captured because she couldn't tell the real thing from the crude duplicate. She really should have just slit her wrists the first chance she got; Sherlock and John might still have come after her, but at least they would have discovered quickly the pointlessness of their journey and returned home safely.

And maybe, just maybe, Sally Donovan would still be alive.

She rose to her feet and made her way toward the half-open door, her legs continuing to support her this time, thank…No, she thought fiercely as she shut the door behind her and stared blankly at her reflection in the mirror fastened to the wall over the sink. Not "Thank God." No matter how horrified her deeply Catholic mother would be to hear her thoughts at the moment, the only thing she could do was curse whatever divinity there might be to this heartless, uncaring universe before once again collapsing to the floor, sobbing harder than she had in a long, long time.

A/N: Sorry for the delay, folks, but hope it was worth it! Chapter 12 is being worked on even as we speak. I'm estimating about 3 more chapters after that, subject to change without notice as always. And as always, many thanks to my lovely beta Moonmama for helping me whip this puppy into shape, and to Nocturnias for general all around awesomeness!