Trigger warnings: mentions of non con/rape. SKIP THIS CHAPTER IF THAT BOTHERS YOU.

Sherlock sat in the back of the cab, brooding. His eyes never left Molly, who nervously avoided his gaze, choosing instead to alternately stare out the window and at her hands, which were twisting together in her lap.

He hated himself for getting them into this situation. He hadn't been able to find a scrap of information about their tormentor and so they were at his mercy for the time being. Which meant that Sherlock was now forced to take Molly to a place he knew would wound her deeply. He had tried to leave her behind, to collect the clue he needed by himself, but his phone had been compromised and no sooner had he sent a message to Mycroft that he was sending Molly back to Baker Street than he had gotten another text from their enemy, demanding that he take her with him.

Sherlock sighed audibly and Molly's eyes flitted towards him, darting back to the window when she saw he was watching her. He was angry with himself. Angry he had ever succumbed to the pull of sentiment. Not that he regretted Molly. Quite the opposite in fact. Sherlock's regret was that he hadn't been strong enough to stay away from her when he had known from the beginning that he would hurt her one day. He had known that if she stayed with him long enough, eventually she would get burned. Sherlock could have killed himself for being so selfish as to let her face those inevitable consequences.

He shook himself as the cab came to a halt in front of a large brick warehouse. Sherlock shot off a text to his brother, requesting a car pick them up within the hour. He opened his door and got out slowly, looking over the top of the cab at Molly, who returned his gaze, before closing his door and tapping the top twice. The cabbie drove away, leaving the two alone, as there were few buildings nearby and those that were crumbled with age and disuse, having long been abandoned. Ivy crawled up the side of the red brick, contrasting with the deteriorating façade. Sherlock thought it was a fitting metaphor, the ivy spreading across the building like a disease, the memories of this place infecting the mind.

A glance to his left provided him with evidence that Molly still didn't recognize their location. Though he had never been here, he'd deduced where they were being sent by comparing it to where he'd had to go face his past. Sherlock's "rehab," or detox house, was the closest he'd come to hell on earth. It only made since that this place would signify the same part of Molly's past.

He reached for her, grasping her hand in his and lifting it to his lips to plant a kiss on the back.

"Come on, Molly," he sighed as he pulled her gently towards the door that would no doubt be open for them.

He pushed their way inside and coughed as the dust swirled up around them. The detective calculated in his head that it had been nearly five years since Molly had been here, and the decomposition of the place was consistent with that timeline. He doubted anyone had set foot in the place since then. Molly sneezed violently a couple times before recovering and examining the large room they were in with her brow furrowed. It was obvious that she was at a loss, so Sherlock began to walk across the room, heading towards a door on the far side. Its rusty hinges creaked as he pushed at it, having to use a bit of muscle to wrench it open. Behind lay a dark hall, cobwebs covering the upper portion of the walls. Molly gulped, eyeing the webs and Sherlock remembered her telling him at some point that the only two phobias she had were of spiders and enclosed spaces. He shrugged off the Belstaff and covered her head with it before taking her hand and leading her through the hall, brushing webs out of the way with his other hand.

They passed several steel doors, Sherlock eyeing each one as they walked, until they were nearly at the end of the long passage. Sherlock stopped in front of one that was different from the rest. It was solid wood, stained dark, and looked to be reinforced with metal bars. He glanced back at Molly, who was biting her lower lip, and looking between him and the door. She gave a small nod and he pushed it open.

The space was fully furnished, with a large wrought iron canopy bed dominating the room. It was hung with white sheer material and the duvet was a deep crimson blood color; there were no pillows. Near the door stood a table, one of the plastic fold-up types in a dull beige color. Sherlock eyed the object atop it, a stereo, and determined that it had been there for a long time, though it had recently been used, judging from the cleanliness of it. On the other side of the bed sat a chair, not unlike the electric chair used for death sentences. It was large and heavy looking, solid wood, with what appeared to be leather straps on the arms, legs and back of it. Sherlock swallowed thickly as he took in the sight of what he could only assume was a collar on the ground near it. The floor was thick, luxurious, shag carpeting in a grey color, and Sherlock's steps were muffled as he ventured further into the room.

He turned back when he got to the bed, studying Molly carefully. She stood just inside the door, clutching his coat around her small form, her face completely expressionless. No tears, no anger, no despair. Nothing. Her eyes were dull and blank. Lifeless, Sherlock thought before dismissing the word from his mind. He didn't want to imagine seeing her lifeless, though he was sure it would look something like what was before him now. She stared at him, through him, and for once, he had no idea what she was thinking, or if she was thinking at all.

The detective carefully turned around, examining the area without touching it. Unlike the other parts of the building, this room was virtually free of dust. Back door, he surmised. Someone had to have come in to leave the cipher for them so there must be another way in since he had seen no evidence of entry the way they came. The duvet had been touched recently, so, with a tentative hand, Sherlock pulled it back, revealing the sheet underneath. His eyes widened as faded blood stains and evidence of intercourse came into view. The detective had to stop for a moment to swallow down the rage that consumed him at the thought of his pathologist lying there, broken, abused and bleeding. He frowned and glanced back at the table as he pulled the duvet down further after catching sight of a cd along with a white envelope. He slowly closed his fingers around them and straightened, taking the cd to the stereo and opening the slot, pushing the disc inside. He took a deep breath and glanced back at Molly, who was still silent, before pressing play.

The soft strains of a violin rang out through the stillness of the room and after a moment, Sherlock recognized his own playing. He was startled, and looked to Molly for an explanation. Her eyes were on the bed and he got the sense that she was far away, reliving experiences that she should never have had to endure in the first place. He worried his lip, wondering if he should turn the music off, when it abruptly stopped and a voice began to speak.

"Hello lovelies, I'm glad you're here." Sherlock recognized the lilt of their tormentor and sighed.

"This is your last clue. As you probably noticed, today was about your lowest points. Both, Sherlock, were solely your fault." Sherlock's brow furrowed, anger coursing through his veins like the drugs he'd once been addicted to.

"You chose to take the drugs. You chose to dull your brilliance with chemicals, chasing that ever elusive peace of mind. It was your fault you endured hell to purge them from your body." There was a pause before the voice continued. "This place is your fault as well, Sherlock, though you might not know why yet."

Sherlock never took his eyes from Molly as she walked slowly towards the chair, rounding the bed, and sat on it, her fingers tracing the wood of the arms gently, methodically, repetitiously.

"You told Molly that Jim from IT was gay and she believed you. She broke up with the world's only consulting criminal because the man who treated her like SHIT," the last word was snarled, "told her that he was gay. Believe it or not, James was fascinated by Doctor Hooper. He was amazed that someone so simple, so fragile, could have dealt with everything she has without lashing out or becoming bitter. After she left him, his only thought was to break her, hence this place."

Another long pause and a sigh.

"It didn't though. It didn't break her at all. On the contrary, it made her stronger, even though she never told a soul what happened. Not even you, Sherlock, though that might have been because you were far too busy to notice something was wrong with your favorite pathologist." The last two words were said with such sarcasm that Sherlock winced.

"It made her stronger and James admired her for it. Which, of course, led to his downfall. His admiration for her was the reason she didn't have a sniper on her that day. He didn't want her to die. James never counted on you swallowing your pride long enough to ask for her help. That was obviously an oversight on his part. He was fond of her and the sentiment got him killed. I assure you, I have no such impediment."

Sherlock's eyes followed Molly's fingers, up and down, over and over, as she traced the carvings of the chair, never looking up from her task.

"This is it, Sherlock. Here is your last set of clues, and the clock is now ticking. Solve my riddle within 24 hours or someone, somewhere, will pay the price of your incompetence."

With that, the cd stopped and so did Molly's hands. She stood slowly, her eyes on the floor and shuffled back to the door, leaving the room with Sherlock on her heels.