I'll stop apologizing for the posting delays and just say that this story will take a bit longer than I'd like and that I am sorry for the wait between chapters. Things are getting darker down the rabbit hole, my lovelies so please hang in there.
As always, thanks to those of you favoriting and alerting. Special thanks to those of you who take time to write a review. It really does mean the world - hobbitsdoitbetter, Arcoiris, AJP910, Starcrier, MizJoely, angelfishlex, Angels-heart1, Reina434, Icecat62, TerraMacMillan, Bucky5, legolover, Renaissancebooklover108, Anon, coolmissy11d12, The-Scorpio-Holmes-Sister-221B, 16magnolias, jigsawjazzz, RoseWilliams15, johngirlwalton, Tragicomix, doctorwho985.
And a super huge thank you goes to hobbitsdoitbetter. She's the best beta and collaborator a gal could ask for. Thank you for your endless support and help. If you're not reading her stories, you should be. Go and do it right after you put down that lovely review. You'll be glad you did.
~oOo~
A sharp peal of thunder jolted Molly from her sleep. She opened her heavy eyelids, pushing through the haze of lingering medication. She remained still, her eyes blinking away the drowsiness for a few moments while she pushed herself back to consciousness. When she felt confident about moving, Molly sat up slowly. As much as she wanted to move quickly, the dizziness in her head and uneasy stomach made that difficult. She ran through all the possible drugs he might have used to incapacitate her and knew that most of the after effects would restrict any significant physical activity for at least an hour or more.
Questions flooded her mind. Where was she? What did he have planned? Oh, God...did he…for a moment, Molly couldn't breathe - the thought that her kidnapper might have assaulted her made panic bloom fresh in her chest. She took a quick inventory - her clothes remained the same and, despite the nagging grogginess of the drugs, her...body didn't feel any different. She closed her eyes and sighed in relief.
After a moment, she opened her eyes again and surveyed the room. She needed to work the facts, as Sherlock so often reminded her.
She was in a bedroom - simple, clean and sparsely decorated. A bed, night-table and chest of drawers comprised the furniture and two brightly colored prints of flowers adorned the walls. A large vase with fresh flowers sat atop the night-table. Acid bubbled in Molly's stomach at the idea that he might have put them there as a welcoming gesture. She turned and saw that a plastic cup had been placed beside the flowers. Molly picked it up and smelled the contents - water. Despite her thirst, Molly was hesitant to take anything that might be drugged.
She set the water aside.
Her eyes slid upon the small window in the corner of the room. She scooted herself off the bed and stumbled to the opening, the shakiness of her legs and heaviness in her head a reminder of her vulnerability. She pulled back the plain tan curtain that covered the glass. Hope sank like lead in her chest. The room was on the second floor and nothing but trees lay beyond the house. Getting out the window and dropping to the ground might be... manageable, but the woods - and not having any bloody clue as to where she was - would make a successful escape unlikely.
The full reality of her situation descended upon Molly in that moment. That anxiety she always felt when she was upset or stressed began to blossom in her belly, tying it into knots. Her pulse thudded and shook, her chest and throat tightening - she could feel the pinch of tears stinging her eyes as the anxiety grew and grew. Breathing would, she knew, become a problem if it continued, and from there it was just a matter of time before she passed out. She closed her eyes, tried to focus on calming herself but it was nearly impossible. The methods she'd always used before were falling short. She was stuck. She was trapped. She was going to die in some slow, agonizing, twisted way and there was nothing she could do about it...
Stop it. Don't be stupid, Hooper. She heard Sherlock's voice clearly.
Stay calm and do try to work with the facts, rather than hysteria. There's a good woman.
Molly blinked - she could almost swear he was with her. God, she wished he was. How she wished she'd never stepped foot outside Sherlock's flat that morning.
Well, if wishes were horses, beggars would ride, Sherlock's voice growled tartly. Her father used to say that, and at the thought of the two men she loved so dearly, the anxiety finally relented.
She would be alright. She would make sure of it.
She had Sherlock bloody Holmes to go back to, and no minor psychopathic killer was going to keep them apart.
Slowly, Molly closed her eyes. Breathe in. Breathe out. That's all you have to do right now. She let the thought of Sherlock calm her, focused on recounting every detail of his face, telling herself that she would see that sharp jaw and furrowed brow soon. He would kiss her in that precise, particular way he had and everything would be alright. Her eyes opened and, while the rawness of being trapped and alone bubbled just below the surface, Strong Molly's determination was set.
She was getting out of here.
She stepped back from the window and made her way to the door. Gently, she tried the knob and was both relieved and concerned to find it move easily in her grip. She pulled the door open - pausing instantly when the hinge emitted a low creak. Not hearing any noise in response though, Molly stepped into the hallway, glad to realize that her socks muffled her footsteps.
She looked to her right; the small hallway ended with a door slightly ajar - illumination spilled through it from the other side. A second door stood open and she could see the outline of the hand basin clearly in the soft light.
Well, at least I know where the toilet is, she thought sarcastically.
Molly glanced to her left and saw that the hallway gave way to stairs. She tiptoed forward but spied nobody at the bottom of them: The house may have been a two story, but it was still relatively small, and with any luck the distance between those stairs and the front door wouldn't be long. She might be able to maneuver her way through the house without attracting her kidnapper's notice and get herself the hell away from this place - woods or no woods.
And if he caught her? Well, she'd cross that bridge when she came to it.
She crept soundlessly forward, ignoring the heavy feeling in her legs and feet - hoping that the drugs he'd given her would wear off soon. Her head still felt a bit muffled and out of sorts, but there didn't seem to be anything wrong with her senses. She climbed down one flight of stairs, crept forward across the landing and made her way down the other. When she reached the bottom of the stairs she peeked around the corner of the wall. The next room was a small kitchen. Again, well kept and clean despite the obviously dated style and decor. Molly stopped and listened, waiting for any telltale sign that he was about. Once she was satisfied of being alone, she walked gingerly into the room and snuck through, opened a door to her right.
She looked through that and her heart leapt at seeing a hallway and, at the end, the front door.
Quickly scanning her surroundings, she saw no sign of keys, or any other indication of 'Colin's' presence in the small cottage. She made forward, focused only on reaching the front door. Molly placed her hand gently on the brass door knob and felt it give way as her wrist turned. She stopped and listened again. The only sound she could hear was her heart, slamming so hard inside her chest that she was sure it reverberated through the house.
Slowly, she pulled at the door and offered up a silent thank you that the hinges were quiet. She stepped through the threshold and just as Molly began to plot her next move, a high pitched, pulsing alarm began to sound. She spun around to see Colin Moore standing in the middle of the kitchen, holding what looked to be a phone in his hand.
He stood tall and still, a gentle smile playing at the corner of his mouth. In another setting - not one where she'd been kidnapped and held against her will - she might actually deem the man handsome. When he'd come to the flat earlier, he'd seemed genuinely shy and sweet. But just like Moriarty, his winsome features only served to make him even more sinister now.
Instinct told her to flee. Run as fast as she could to get away. But, logically, she knew the drug he'd injected her with earlier still made her sluggish and there was no way she could hope to outrun a man as large as him. She glanced quickly around the room for anything she could grab to defend herself. Her eyes settled on a small lamp on a table just inside the door - she grabbed it, yanking the cord from the power outlet with a harsh pop.
The man pretending to be Moore took a step toward her while he held up the device emitting that ear piercing alarm. He took a quick glance at the rectangular gadget, and pressed a button on the front. Moore slipped it into his pocket, then held out his hands to Molly.
"Molly...you don't have to worry. I brought you here to keep safe. I took the liberty of attaching a small bracelet to your ankle."
Ankle. She looked down and pulled at her trouser leg to reveal her right ankle. No wonder it had felt heavy. The weight wasn't the drugs, but a small monitoring device. The kind used for people under house arrest. She couldn't leave the house without triggering the alarm.
She was trapped like a rat in a cage.
Her resolve shook for a moment and Molly felt herself sway to the side, grabbing the door frame to steady herself while her eyes flooded with warmth again. She pushed down the fear threatening to overwhelm her body though and channeled it to anger. She stood up straighter and gripped the lamp - her only defense - in her hand.
"What do you want?"
He had the gall to appear surprised by her question - brow furrowed and eyes genuinely questioning. "What do I want? I just want you safe. Safe and away from him."
"Sherlock? You think I'm in danger from Sherlock Holmes?"
Concern fell over his face now. "Well, course you are, Molly. You see what the press says about you - how they treat you. That's his fault. And it's only a matter of time before someone comes for you to get to him. I won't let that happen."
The fear dissipated slightly, anger beginning to outweigh it. It felt better. Stronger.
"Sherlock didn't kidnap me," she snapped. "Sherlock didn't drug me or steal into my flat and take things from me. You did that." Molly took a step forward, still holding the lamp in front of her.
"You will let me go this instant."
The man shook his head from side to side and smiled again. "My sweet Molly…"
"Don't you call me that. I am not your Molly." She spat through clenched teeth.
He at least had the presence of mind to know that she was well and truly angry. He lifted up his hands as if in surrender. "Please, Molly. I just want what's best for you. You don't see it now because you're under the spell of that arrogant blighter."
"You've no right to keep me here."
"This is your home now." His hands spread wide - a twisted gesture of showing off the home that he expected Molly to accept as if this was her fondest wish. He stepped closer to her now - close enough for Molly to try and make her escape.
Molly swung the lamp at his head - barely missing his temple. He grabbed her hand and turned her body around so that her back was flush with his chest. The feel of his body so close to hers made her blood run cold. She struggled but he was strong, his arms gripping tighter. He lifted her clear off her feet and dragged her to the couch, kicking and screaming all the way. He moved himself backwards, Molly still in his lap, kicking and writhing her body in a vain attempt to break free. The arm he had around her waist tightened though, his other arm snaking up between her breasts as one thin, strong hand wrapped around her throat and began to squeeze. He kept crooning soft, nonsense things in her ear, almost as if she were a child or an animal that needed to be comforted, the heat of his breath sickening, the feel of his body against hers obscene.
No, Molly kept thinking. No, no, no, no. no, NO!
"It's alright, darling," he murmured. "I have you now. There's no need to fret, angel, I'm right here…I'm going to make everything alright…"
The lack of oxygen was starting to effect Molly; despite her best attempts, she could feel herself weakening. As her struggles grew fainter Colin leaned to the side, grabbing her wrist. Stretching her body out against him, forcing her arm down over the sofa and towards the floor though the angle was uncomfortable. She struggled but it was no use; she was no match for someone his size, not in her current state. And besides, he wasn't tiring. He didn't seem to be weakening at all. She felt something clamp over her wrist and glanced over to see a padded handcuff firmly encasing her arm - a split second later she heard a click, tried to pull free but found that she couldn't. He'd handcuffed her to...to something from which she couldn't pull away. Something which had no give. Molly couldn't see what.
And then all was darkness. Once again she was helpless.
Her last conscious thought that she really was a prisoner now.
~oOo~
Three hours. To be precise, three hours, forty nine minutes and - he glanced at his watch - 48 seconds since the phone call from Donovan. So far, nearly three of those almost four hours had been waiting for Mycroft's vast network to work through the photographs -shadowy and grainy as they were. Lestrade had texted just a few minutes ago that they'd tracked down the undercover Colin Moore and were in the process of intercepting the officer for questioning.
Sherlock paced. Paced and waited, the tension mounting with each minute that ticked by without a new lead. He bloody hated the impotent feeling of waiting. Especially when his Molly was out there with a psychotic bastard who used dead bodies to send love notes.
Sherlock had known tension before. In the two years of his absence, there had been times - days - where he'd forgone sleep to focus on the job that needed to be done. He'd been tense...amped up at the anticipation of the next target and finishing the job that had taken him away from his life in London.
But back then, it was only his safety - his life - to be sacrificed. Putting himself on the line was easy - exhilarating even. This feeling was as far from exhilaration as he'd ever been. When Moriarty had threatened the people close to him, Sherlock had finally realized true fear...Dread at the prospect of John, Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade being tortured or killed because of him. But that feeling paled in comparison to the panic coiled low and tight in his stomach at the mere notion of someone harming Molly Hooper.
Kitty Riley's beaten face swam in view; As quickly as the memory flashed into his head, Kitty's face disappeared and was replaced with Molly's. Her sweet brown eyes, swollen and bloodied stared back at him. A growl erupted from his throat as he whirled around and plucked his revolver from the small desk. He thrust his hand forward and emptied a clip into the much abused wall.
John and Mary shouted simultaneously. "Sherlock!"
Holmes threw the emptied gun back on the desk and marched toward the door. Before he could grab his coat and scarf, he felt John's hand firmly around his forearm. Sherlock turned and looked down at his best friend - face blanched, eyes narrowed with concern.
"Sherlock, stop." The tone in John's voice remained just this side of commanding.
Sherlock glanced at John's hand, then back into his friend's eyes. The words 'bugger off' didn't need to be spoken - John was much more attuned to Sherlock than that. The doctor removed his hand from Sherlock's arm.
"I've been stopped all morning, John." He muttered through clenched teeth.
"We can't do anything until we hear from Lestrade or Mycroft. Running around London half arsed won't do Molly any good."
Sherlock pulled on his coat and began adjusting his scarf. "Nothing's doing Molly any bloody good is it? I'm not going to sit here any longer while Molly's…" The words caught in his throat - he didn't want to give voice to the horrors in his mind- "While everyone else is doing my bloody job."
"I get it Sherlock. If it was Mary out there, I'd be feeling the same way. But all we can do now is…"
Both men's eyes flew to the pocket of Sherlock's belstaff at the sound of his phone text alert. Sherlock dug furiously into his pocket and pulled out the phone. On the screen was a text from Mycroft.
Brother Dearest had found the bastard.
It was the kidnapper's real name, home address and work location. Charles Hawthorne. Not since Moriarty had Sherlock held a single man's name in such violent contempt.
Working on possible places he could have taken your pocket mouse. My people are already on their way to his flat and office. Join the party won't you? MH
Sherlock didn't bother responding. He gripped the phone tightly and regarded James before looking to John and Mary.
"Mycroft has been so kind as to finally give us this blighter's name and address. James, you and I will go to his flat and investigate there." The bodyguard got to his feet, immediately at the ready.
"John and Mary, you will go to his office and find out anything and everything about Charles Hawthorne." Sherlock practically spit the name from his mouth as if the syllables themselves were acid.
"I want my pathologist home by midnight: Is that clear?"
Sherlock didn't wait for any answer - instead he pulled open the door and pounded down the stairs, he sound of his small cadre of reinforcements filling up the space as they followed after.
The hounds of Hell are sniffing out your trail, Hawthorne.
There is no where on Earth you can hide from me now.
~oOo~