Hello everyone! Thank you for your patience with this story. It's wonderful, but proving more of a challenge to write for me, so I truly appreciate you sticking with me during the time between updates. Many sincere thanks to hobbitsdoitbetter for her continued beta and amazing contributions to this story. Go forth and read her stuff, you'll be glad you did. (Really, really glad.) You're the best, my dear.
To my faithful reviewers - Arcoiris, Angels-heart1, TheHeadphoneGirl, Khione'sKid.306, AJP910, Silenslay, TerraMacMillan, Gypse Rose2014, Bucky5, The-Scorpio-Holmes-Sister-221B, Edna Cloud, legolover, Rocking the Redhead, BAdeMorte, Starcrier, ginnyweasleyrules, JOH1, lylame, lollipopGuild-UK, JessChen and my guests - from the bottom of my squishy heart, thank you for the support. I'm just glad that you like it.
~oOo~
Molly's eyes were heavy and her mind clouded. She attempted to lift her eyelids but found that she could only wrench them open briefly before they fell shut again. She was in a car. The policeman's car. Panic swelled in her chest at the memory. She tried to push through the fog of whatever drugs Moore had given her, but the grogginess swept through her head afresh.
Molly knew she only had a few moments before she succumbed to the drugs and slipped back into unconsciousness…she drifted out again anyway.
Once more she fought to open her eyes and her body allowed a brief glimpse of her surroundings before her lids drifted shut. They weren't in the police car any longer. She shifted and realized her hands had been restrained behind her back. A fresh wave of fear caused her face to flush and eyes moisten with tears.
Wake up, Molly. You have to fight. Her inner voice - sounding suspiciously like Sherlock - commanded her attention. Now was not the time to be a victim. She was Strong Molly. And Strong Molly could take care of herself.
She remained as motionless as possible, willing herself not to give in to the sleep that loomed so closely. One moment. It's all she would need. One moment to get an upper hand and get help.
The car slowed and Molly felt the crunch of gravel under the tires. Her body stiffened as she waited. Hoping. Praying that she would find the right opening to set herself free.
She heard the sound of the door and felt a cool breeze on her face. It was only then did she smell the stale odor of the car in which she rode. His car. Molly shuddered.
"Molly, sweetheart, I know you're awake."
Don't talk. Don't talk, Molly. The Sherlock-voice whispered.
"It's not time yet. You're going back to sleep until we get home." His emphasis on the word 'home' made the panic bloom afresh in Molly's stomach. He placed his hand on her arm - stroking her bare skin gently. He leaned into her personal space, his breath upon her skin.
Now, the voice demanded. She lifted up on her shoulder, hoping to connect with his face but the drugs had made her slower than she'd anticipated. Moore slammed her back down on the car seat and she felt the sharp sting of a needle plunged into her arm. Felt her breath thinning as Moore's hand transferred from her arm to press against her throat, holding her down as he shushed her. Crooned to her. Her skin crawled.
"Oh, love, you don't have to fight me. I'm here to protect you, my Molly."
His words cut through the descending oblivion. My Molly. No. She was Sherlock's Molly, not his. She wouldn't...she didn't want- Sherlock, she thought slightly desperately, Sherlock, please… I want to go home…
Molly's silent plea to the man she loved and trusted above all else ended abruptly as she succumbed to the potent liquid.
~oOo~
The man who'd stolen Colin Moore's identity stood outside the car and looked down at Molly's sleeping form. She truly was beautiful - his sweet angel. Thank God he'd gotten to her before Holmes had a chance to sully her further. He stroked her face gently, eager to continue the drive and get Molly to their new home. Once she settled in, she would realize he'd only taken her to protect her from Sherlock Holmes. She'd realize that he was the one she deserved, not that, that self-involved bastard…
"Happily ever after, Molly. That's what we'll have." He closed the door, climbed back in behind the wheel, and smiled.
"Happily ever after." He whispered to himself.
~oOo~
Anger hung differently on Sherlock Holmes. If anyone were to glance inside the taxi in which Sherlock rode, they would have seen someone calm and relaxed - hands steepled under his chin, eyes closed, face composed. The storm - the thundering, explosive storm - churned deep within his body. It focused him. Fed him as much as Frankenstein's monster fed off the electricity that had given it life and forced it into a world that was not prepared for the full brunt of the creature's wrath.
In this moment, Sherlock Holmes felt much like that fictional monster - prepared to unleash all manner of hell upon the man who had stolen away what was most precious to him. There would be nowhere he could hide - no place on Earth that would be safe for him as long as he had Molly Hooper. And when Sherlock found Molly...and the faux Colin Moore...nothing would stand in the way of making him suffer for what he'd done to her.
The taxi stopped in front of Baker Street just as Sherlock's mind began to invent new and different ways to torture Molly's kidnapper. His teeth ground together as he exited the vehicle, seeing the empty street, knowing that just a short time earlier, Molly had been spirited away by a man Sherlock had underestimated. That fact, as much as anything else, soured his gut; made Sherlock furious at his own incompetence and inability to safeguard the one person who mattered most.
Sherlock flung open the front door and stomped up the stairs, his mind working furiously through the next steps to sort out the kidnapper's real identity and find his Molly. The flat looked like a war room; John worked on the computer, Mary talked on the phone and James sat on the couch next to a police officer whose right hand sketched furiously on a large drawing pad.
As Sherlock took a step into the room, the group stopped immediately and regarded him seriously. None would dare to speak first, that was certain. John and Mary were all too familiar with The Moods of Sherlock Holmes and they understood that he needed to be the one in charge of the situation. He paused for a moment before stepping toward James. The bodyguard shot to his feet and looked Sherlock directly in the eye. Frustration and disgrace hung heavily on his face - the twitch of his lips and tightening of his fists told Sherlock that he would not be the only person seeking out revenge on Colin Moore when all was said and done.
"Tell me." Sherlock spoke to James.
"I verified him, sir. Called the station and they confirmed his number. I should have pressed for more. I should have…" James shook his head and looked to the right as he began to give in to his anger.
"The facts, James. We'll have time to flog ourselves for underestimating the bastard later."
The large man nodded his shaved head up and down and recounted everything that happened until he was rendered unconscious. Sherlock's mind filed and processed all the relevant data as he shifted backwards and paced back and forth slowly in the room. He closed his eyes, working through all the data he'd collected from the moment this nightmare had begun in the morgue. Sherlock took a breath in and released it carefully - centering his mind and opening himself to see the solution.
From what Sherlock could piece together, the facts appeared to be these: Moore had been watching Molly for some time. But when he took the opportunity to lift the police credentials, he became more brazen about making his intentions toward Molly known. Then came the picture in the newspaper. It upset him. Made him reactionary. The attack on Kitty may have been an outlet for his anger but it also served as a setup to get Sherlock out of the flat. Coming for Molly here hadn't been his original plan, but he was desperate. Desperate and sloppy. He wanted Molly away from Sherlock. Wanted it badly enough to risk confronting a professional bodyguard and having his picture taken by a photographer. Sherlock stopped mid stride, opened his eyes and inched the side of his mouth upward in a menacing grimace.
I'll have you by morning, you bastard.
"This whole operation was slapdash at best." His sudden speech made both Mary and John jump. "He's no professional kidnapper, just some bloke who thinks he's entitled to waltz off with my pathologist. And he's made some serious miscalculations."
Sherlock pivoted and directed his attention to John. "Call Lestrade. He's undoubtedly already speaking with Moore's associates and friends. Make sure he's thorough. One of them let slip where he was - sometime within the last 5 days. Our impersonator most likely stole the credentials only within that time period. Spiriting Molly off to parts unknown was just his dream - his failsafe. He's probably known to Colin Moore and his circle of compatriots - or, at least, he frequents places they go. Find out everything you can about our burglar."
"I'm on it." John picked up his mobile immediately.
"Now we just need to identify him." Sherlock now turned his attention to James. "You got a good look at him, I assume?"
James nodded. "I can remember every detail of that blighter's face, sir."
Of course you can. You remember it because you want to dismantle the man's facial structure with your knuckles, Sherlock thought to himself.
He knew exactly how the muscled bodyguard felt.
"Good. Very good." Sherlock waved his hand in the direction of the as-yet-unnamed police officer. "Continue. And make sure it's as accurate as possible. This face is going to be everywhere within the next hour." And splattered all over the pavement when I get through with it, Sherlock grimaced.
Sherlock pulled his phone from his pocket. He sent a brief text to one of his homeless network contacts - Should have done so two days ago, stupid git, Sherlock berated himself silently. His fingers flew across the screen before hitting 'send'. Sherlock's surreptitious army would work as efficiently as any resources Mycroft had at his disposal.
Unfortunately for Sherlock though, he knew he needed those resources to find his Molly.
Gritting his teeth, Sherlock composed his second text to his older brother, knowing full well that Mycroft Holmes was somewhere, staring at his phone waiting for Sherlock to ask for help. Self-righteous prig, Sherlock mused.
Have you found the car. SH
Not fifteen seconds later, a reply.
The car is being examined as we speak. MH
I need a name. SH
Won't do you any good. Car was stolen. MH
Sherlock cursed under his breath. He didn't need another bloody obstacle.
Give me something useful, Mycroft. SH
My people are tracing public surveillance footage of this garage. We'll find the real car soon enough. Stop acting like a worrisome old crone. The simple little pocket mouse will be located and you can place her safely back in her cage. MH
There were times that Sherlock had a genuine regard for his brother. Mycroft was brilliant - possibly as brilliant than Sherlock himself, although the younger Holmes would never voice such a statement aloud. However, those moments of familial regard were fleeting - Sherlock's feelings toward his sibling generally remained in the category of loathing. Frankly, it was safe to say that Sherlock had never hated Mycroft Holmes as much as he did in this moment. Whether it was for his comment about Molly or the obvious disregard for the seriousness of the situation, it didn't matter. If Mycroft had been standing in the room, Sherlock would have laid his brother out.
Sherlock shut off his phone - barely restraining himself from hurling it against the wall - and crossed over to the window. After all this was over, and Molly returned safely to him, Sherlock would have a chat with his brother. A chat about appropriate ways to speak about newcomers to the family. A chat about Sherlock's fist and Mycroft's face, and how the two might start regularly interconnecting unless Brother Dearest improved his manners.
It would be an enjoyable chat.
Movement flashed in Sherlock's peripheral vision and he turned his head to look down at a lone figure making his way across the street. The man quickly disappeared out of sight and only a second later, Sherlock heard the sound of the front buzzer.
Sherlock raced down the stairs (James' heavy footfalls echoing behind), flung open the door, and was met with the startled face of a young man in his early twenties. He appeared clean, wearing well worn shoes and a jacket with a large bag slung over his shoulder.
The sort of bag belonging to a photographer.
The young man extended his arm and raised his hand up level with Sherlock's waist. He gripped a plain, black flash drive between his thumb and forefinger. A small flick of his wrist indicated that the man wanted Sherlock to take the device.
"You'll be needing this, Mr. Holmes. I got pictures. They're not great, but they'll give you a shot at the bloke's face, that's for sure." The photographer's voice was soft - almost boyish - with a distinct Irish lilt.
Sherlock snatched the device from his hand and tilted his head as he spoke. "I assume you'll be wanting some sort of compensation?"
The photographer took a step back and moved his head from side to side. "No, sir." He thrust his hands in his coat pockets. "I just wanted you to get her back. We may follow and take pictures to make our money, but I couldn't live with myself if Miss Hooper got hurt and there was something I could do to help."
He smiled gently, then turned away to make his way up the street, adjusting the large bag on his shoulder as he walked. Sherlock stepped down to the street and in only a few, long legged strides, he was directly behind the young man.
"What's your name?"
The young Irishman stopped and pivoted on his foot to look back at Sherlock.
"Neil. Neil Ryan."
Sherlock extended his hand. "Thank you, Neil. Thank you very much."
Neil accepted the handshake and smiled - his boyishness much more evident to Sherlock now.
"When all this is settled, I may be persuaded to give you an exclusive interview."
The smile on Neil's face spread into an ecstatic grin. "Thank you, Mr. Holmes." He dropped his hand and stepped away once again. "But you get her back first, yeah? That's what matters." He dipped his head to say goodbye, turned once again and walked up the street.
Sherlock looked down at his palm and the small device that could hold the key to getting Molly back. He wanted to see the face of the man who dared to steal her away from him. His fist clamped shut and he turned on his heel to head back to his flat. He caught James' eye as he ascended the stoop. The rage held in the bodyguard's eyes mirrored his own.
"Let's see the face of the man we're about to make wish he was never born, James."
The two men disappeared into Baker Street, the slamming of the front door echoing through the neighborhood.
~oOo~
Look at that adorable little box down there. It needs some friends.