Another pretty intense chapter, guys. It takes place at the same time as the last one, but on Sherlock's end. Shoot me a review and let me know what you think.
Chapter 20
Sherlock stood in Molly's flat and gaped at the wall, his worst fears being confirmed. The letter covered the wall, followed by a phone number, all in a dripping, sickeningly familiar yellow paint. The same exact yellow paint that adorned his own flat in a smiling face now sent a shiver of fear through Sherlock's body.
Everything about this was personalized to him, and Moriarty's message was clear. It would all be his fault. Every mark, bruise, or injury on Molly would be as much his doing as if he had actually made them himself. Sherlock had to pull his eyes away, making deductions to distract himself as a cold bead of sweat ran across his forehead.
A bottle of wine lay smashed on the floor of the kitchen, and the signs of a struggle were evident throughout the flat. Sherlock took this to mean that she was still alive, at least she had been a few hours before. Deciding that there wasn't any time to waste, he pulled out his phone and dialed the number painted on the wall, putting it on speaker.
"Let her go." He wasn't in the mood for any of Moriarty's false pleasantries. The madman only laughed at the suggestion, and started to taunt Sherlock, as well as insult Molly. That was when he heard her.
Her scream pierced the room, causing John and Lestrade to wince and Sherlock's heart to break once again. She was gasping into the phone now. "Trains. Phosphorus. Paint. Sherlock, help. Please."
Moriarty's voice returned, speaking for 30 seconds or so before a click signaled the end of the call. Silence filled the flat for a moment before John tentatively broke it. "Sherlock? What did she mean, phosphorus? What was that?"
Sherlock looked around at his flatmate. "They were clues, John. Clues to where she is." He quickly ran through the files of information in his mind, and found the only possible solution, a match factory that had been under repairs on the other side of London.
A small smile reached his lips, although it brought no amusement with it. He was quite impressed by his pathologist, who had been able to give him all the information he needed even while being tortured. She was so much stronger, so much smarter, so much better than anyone realized, and he was once again reminded of how much he loved her for it.
They wasted no time getting into Lestrade's car and speeding toward the factory. All three of the men were extremely quiet. It was one thing to know someone you care about was being hurt, but to actually hear the scream of her being tortured was a profound and disturbing experience for all of them. It wasn't something that any of them would ever forget, and it would haunt each of them far into the future.
As they sped off towards their destination, Sherlock fingered the gun he had taken from one of the dangerously oblivious officers in the flat. The sentiment had filled his mind completely and he could barely contain his anger at the thought of Moriarty's hands on her, touching her, violating her, hurting her.
Only one thought kept him going. I'm coming, Molly Hooper. I'm coming.