I'm a horrible, horrible person. Four months without an update? Seriously, I'm awful. I genuinely apologize. Work has been very busy as well as the personal life and it's delaying this story more than I'd like. I so appreciate you sticking with me.
Gratuitous thank you to my amazing, spectacular and utterly indispensable beta, Hobbitsdoitbetter. If you aren't reading her stories, you may well be missing out on the best stories ever.
To my fantastic reviewers - BAdeMorte, AJP910, vixen519, angelfishlex, OpalSkyeLoveDivine, Starcrier, Reina434, TheHolmesSister, Angels-heart1, Em Kay Who, Bucky5, RenaissanceBooklover108, standsawitness, JessChen, SnerdtheOwl and our guests - thank you, thank you. Your continued support means the world.
Without further adue...
~oOo~
Barely twenty minutes after his brother's text message, Sherlock arrived at Charles Hawthorne's front door. He'd taken the three flights of stairs two at a time (barely winded, thank you), but stopped suddenly in the doorway to Hawthorne's flat. James scarcely skidded to a halt just behind him, narrowly avoiding a slapstick-worthy collision.
Under normal circumstances, Sherlock would stride into a crime scene and compile the data - the facts - as easily as a mathematician solves a simple equation. Mere minutes would pass before the solution was finalized and he arrogantly presented his findings to the detectives on the scene.
But these were not normal circumstances. (A fantastic understatement.) Normal would mean that he'd prevented Hawthorne from coming anywhere near Molly. Normal would be that psychotic son of a bitch locked in a cell wearing a padded straitjacket. No, he was on the other side of the universe from normal - and since he'd proved of no value in protecting Molly up to this point, it was of vital importance (an even more fantastic understatement) that Sherlock Holmes pull his head out of his arse and do his damn job.
So Sherlock stood still, closed his eyes and slowly clasped his hands behind his back. He took a deep breath. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. He could not afford to be careless now. Correction: Molly could not afford for him to be careless.
Sherlock opened his eyes. He stepped forward, into the flat in which Charles Hawthorne lived. Sherlock had walked through grisly crime scenes - places in which deranged murderers plied their trade. He'd stepped over barely cold bodies, blood, instruments of torture - anything and everything that might be written into a grisly horror film. But never in all those times had the consulting detective felt any emotion stirring within his breast. No sorrow for the victims or anger at the perpetrators for what they'd done. His ability to detach and remain focused on the facts was not only a natural part of his makeup but mandatory for his own sanity. Too many detectives allowed themselves to become emotionally invested in their cases - thus subjecting themselves to all manner of psychological distress. Sherlock, however, was impervious to this inconvenience.
At least, he used to be.
Before he'd touched Molly Hooper's cheek and felt the soft skin of her hand in his. Before he realized that when she wasn't around, he missed not only her presence, but her smell, her laugh, even her damnable hideous jumpers. Those insidious tendrils of emotion had wound their way through his heart and found a solid root in his chest.
Molly has somehow become his touchstone…and Charles Hawthorne had taken her from him.
For that, Charles Hawthorne would pay. Dearly.
Sherlock's jaw clenched involuntarily as moved through the small flat. Rather than fight the adrenaline that surged forth - damnable emotions, once again - he allowed it to fuel him - give him focus.
Sherlock stopped first at the small desk that occupied the space just below the one window in the room. Office supplies sat in a row on the top, right corner while four file folders lay on the opposite corner. Sherlock picked up the first and opened it, wondering silently if the contents might be pictures of Molly. But, no, the folder contained blueprints and notes related to a new office building.
Charles Hawthorne was an engineer. Not a bad one at that, he reluctantly thought to himself as he closed the folder and replaced it on the desk.
A quick survey of the room revealed that its occupant enjoyed a sparse existence. No pictures hung on the walls, the carpet appeared spotless and no other furniture decorated the room. The detective turned to the left and entered the small kitchen. Once again, Hawthorne's obsession with cleanliness and order was on firm display. A small table and one chair were set against the wall - making the already cramped space even more so. The counters were clean (the lingering smell of disinfectant hung in the air) and each drawer Sherlock opened was meticulously organized.
Leaving the kitchen, Sherlock then made his way around the corner to the bedroom. He'd barely cleared the open door before his eyes zeroed in on the white piece of paper placed in the center of the bed.
Hawthorne had left him a fucking note.
Sherlock approached slowly - as if there might be booby traps hidden somewhere in the flat. That particular piece of conjecture was not so far fetched as he might have once thought - Hawthorne had so far proven himself to be a man willing to go to any lengths to get what he wanted.
He would find that Sherlock was willing to go farther.
He stood directly in front of the bed and looked down at the paper. Computer generated. Large enough font to be read from where he stood - which, in point of fact, was a good thing. Sherlock would not pick it up - not only to avoid tampering with any evidence - but because the very idea of putting his hands on something that Hawthorne had meant to taunt him with felt as if he was surrendering to the madman's plan.
Sherlock stuffed his clenched fists into his pockets and read:
Mr. Holmes:
Welcome to my home. I knew you would find your way here. You will keep trying to find my Molly and me, but you should stop. Stop because Molly deserves better. She needs someone who will protect her and take care of her. You are not that man. You use Molly for your own ends and that puts her in danger. She isn't safe with you and never will be.
I will care for her as you cannot. I will love her for who she is, not for what she can do for me.
Be warned, if you try to come for Molly, your actions will have consequences. For you, for her, and for all of us.
CH
Sherlock's chest pounded as he read the last line of the letter once more. Consequences. For Molly. The bastard claimed to do all this to protect her but was willing to hurt her if Sherlock dared interfere with whatever he had planned.
Hurt the little church mouse or worse... It's the or worse that could be your undoing, a voice that sounded like Mycroft's parroted in his mind.
He stepped to the side, turning in order to continue his search of Hawthorne's bedroom when he heard James' voice directly behind him, "I'm gonna tear that blighter apart with my bare hands."
Sherlock twisted his neck and met James' eyes. The rage burning in Sherlock's chest echoed in the bodyguard's face.
"I'll be more than happy to oblige when the time comes," Sherlock nodded.
A beat passed between them and in that moment Sherlock knew that James would not hesitate to ensure Charles Hawthorne met with a messy end. Sherlock, for his part, wanted to see Hawthorne strung up - bloodied and writhing in pain for daring to lay one finger on his pathologist. But when the moment came, could he actually become the monster he hunted? Could he end the man's life without a second thought?
If Molly's life was at stake you would, the John Watson echo in his mind piped up.
Maybe. Maybe if it came right down to it, he could put a gun to Charles Hawthorne's head and pull the trigger. No, he thought, he definitely could. The cost to his conscience was a small price to pay for Molly's safety. But what about the cost to Molly? His mind whispered. What about the cost to you both, if you take a life again?
A saying about bridges and when one should go about their crossing popped into his mind and he pushed the thought away.
Sherlock nodded to James who took a breath and stepped back, glancing once more at the letter, his jaw clenched and lips pursed together so tightly, they turned white.
Sherlock resumed his survey of the room and moved to the dressing table. He opened the first drawer; a few pairs of underpants and socks were scattered haphazardly in the small space. The second drawer held only a few shirts.
It was the final drawer that caused Sherlock's stomach to roil. Pictures and mementos of Molly were strewn about the drawer. His long fingers delicately sifted through the items - A few newspaper clippings, pictures of Molly (shopping, walking along the street, talking with someone he didn't recognize), a small figurine of an angel (the twin to the one Hawthorne had left in the morgue), and objects he knew must have been taken from Molly's flat. A hair-clip. A lipstick. A pair - Sherlock grimaced - a pair of pink cotton knickers which were clearly barely worn. There were enough items there for Holmes to realize that Hawthorne had made breaking into her home a regular occurrence: Molly could have been there the same time the psychotic bastard had chosen to pay a visit.
Questions began to flood his already overtaxed brain. Did he watch her? Touch her? Had he leaned over her as she lay, fragile and vulnerable in sleep, and let his vile breath taint her lovely skin? What was he doing to her at this moment? Would she suffer as Kitty Riley had? Or worse? Would Sherlock find her lifeless body and empty, glassy eyes staring back at him when he finally found her, his Molly made an angel by a man who thought he'd more right than she to choose her fate?
Sherlock crouched there, in front of the open drawer, a violent anger roiling through his chest, the oppressive weight of fear flooding his mind. Fear for Molly - but selfish fear for himself too. He couldn't do this, this life business, without Molly Hooper. For as much as he silently protested the idea of emotional involvement - of being bound to another person - the resolution had set in.
Once he got Molly back, he would never part from her again.
His head pounded, body flushed with heat as blackness played at the corners of his vision, the pressure of emotion pushing down on his chest. Sherlock took a deep breath in, the influx of oxygen cutting the panic threatening to overwhelm him. He braced his hand on one knee and stood up. He took the time to breathe again, to rid himself of the distracting chaos of his feelings.
Feeling wouldn't get her back. Only clarity would do that.
And clarity, fortunately, was the one thing at which he had always excelled.
The vibration of his phone caused Sherlock's eyes to snap open. He reached into his coat pocket, releasing a still held breath as he saw John's name on the display screen. He slid his finger across the display and placed the phone to his ear.
"What do we have, John?"
"We've almost got him, Sherlock." His friend's voice was elevated with excitement. "The bastard might be slippery but he's no mastermind. Left a trail bigger than Nessie tromping around the highlands."
"Give me the facts, Watson."
"Right. He works at an engineering firm. According to his supervisor, he's a smart bloke, good worker, but a loner - An odd man out. In the last year, he's been leaving work early, asking for days off that he never did before - Just acting out of sorts. Three days ago, he called and said he needed some time off - Didn't say for how long."
"John, none of this less than fascinating diatribe is giving me anything…"
He was swiftly interrupted. "Shut it, great detective, I'm coming to that. We talked around and found out that Hawthorne had mentioned buying and selling property. It's a hobby. Buys a house, spruces it up and sells it. Made quite a penny doing it too…"
"Watson…" He ground out the words through clenched teeth.
"Right. Turns out, just in the last few months, he'd been following the chaps from work to local pubs and chatting them up. One of them is best mates with our Detective Sergeant Moore. Moore's chum said Hawthorne asked them questions about holiday spots - Places they go with their families, that sort of thing."
In an instant, Sherlock knew what Hawthorne had done. "Where? What places did they tell him to go?"
John began to rattle off some names - Sherlock dismissed the ones not within driving distance of London and then…
"Stop, John. Darlington. That's where he took her. It's not a long enough drive that he'd have to take a ferry or give her too much medication. There are plenty of relatively isolated cottages there that would suit his purposes."
His purposes for Molly.
Sherlock forced the bile in his throat down.
"He would have purchased the home with cash," he said instead, "tell Mycroft to look through his accounts and correlate cash sales with his withdrawals. James and I are leaving now-"
And before his best friend could respond, Sherlock had pressed End and was halfway out of Hawthorne's flat with James - his ever present, deadly shadow - following behind.
"You carry a firearm, am I correct, James?" He threw the question behind him as they flew down back down the stairs just as quickly as they'd ascended.
"At all times, sir."
"Don't hesitate to shoot Charles Hawthorne the first chance you get, then."
"With pleasure, sir."
~oOo~
For the third time that day, Molly woke from an unnatural, forced sleep. But this time, medication no longer clouded her mind and she was immediately thrust into consciousness. Her eyes snapped open and she jerked her body up - sitting bolt upright on the couch as she frantically looked around the room.
Empty and everything in order - the lamp she'd used to try and assault Hawthorne with sitting just as it was when she'd picked it up earlier. Molly turned toward the kitchen area and saw food arranged on the counter - her traitorous stomach growled at the idea of eating. She stood - the faint clinking of metal jarring her memory.
Molly looked down at her left wrist. Her breath hitched at seeing the metal encasing her arm. But the true horror lay in where the handcuffs had been secured. Hawthorne had taken steps to install a metal bolt into the wood floor. The hunger that had reared its head only a moment ago vanished instantly as her stomach roiled in protest. The other cuff was attached to a chain approximately four feet long - enough to give her room to move, but not enough to allow her to take more than a few steps away from the couch. Certainly not enough to get her to the door.
She dropped to her knees, examining the connection of the chain to the bolt, hoping to see some way to extract herself. Her fingers desperately traced over the metal, pulling at the base of the bolt, prying desperately to see if there was any give. Tears pricked the corners of her eyes as she worked fruitlessly to extricate herself.
If it took all night - if it took months or...longer...Molly would get out. She would not be chained like an animal for Hawthorne to do with as he pleased. He would find out the hard way that Mousy Molly Hooper - one of Kitty Riley's less colorful nicknames for her - would not sit idly by and become his plaything.
Strong Molly was going to kick his arse.
The right time, Molly. Watch and wait. The Sherlock voice whispered his reminder as she moved herself back up to sit on the couch.
"I see you're awake, Molly." She stiffened at the sound of his voice.
Molly turned slightly to see Hawthorne standing by the counter, smiling - hands held behind his back. She was struck once again at how benign he looked. When news reports interviewed the neighbors of serial killers, they almost always said how nice the murderer was. How normal they seemed. In the lab, Molly pictured the perpetrators of crimes as grisly, scarred and terrifying individuals - it brought a sense of detachment to not think that a normal human was capable of such evil.
Yet here she sat, just a few feet away from a man who, she fully understood, was capable of the type of vicious acts she'd seen on the corpses in the morgue.
Molly was determined not to be one of those victims.
Hawthorne brought his hand from behind his back and gestured to the food. "Would you care for something to eat? You must be hungry after all the excitement today."
She set her jaw, resisting the urge to spout the first thing that came into her mind. No, if she were to have hope of escape, Molly needed to play her cards right.
Molly nodded. "Yes, food would be lovely, thank you." A beat, as she thought of something. Something which might end up helping her. "It's nice to have a man give me something to eat," she mumbled, trying to sound as if the admission were grudging. "Sherlock...well, Sherlock never lets me eat. Says it's disgusting."
And she dropped her eyes to the floor, unwilling to let Hawthorne see the lie in them.
For a moment she held her breath, wondering whether that was laying it on a bit thick. Surely Hawthorne would see through such an obvious ruse? But the man's smile widened and he stepped forward to fill a plate for her - obviously not taking any chances with releasing her to come to the table, but taking her words at face value all the same. It was an interesting piece of information, that.
Apparently, he liked the idea of a Molly who was starting to see him in a better light than Sherlock Holmes.
Inwardly, Molly felt herself relax a little as she realized her gambit's success. She would watch him carefully. She would tell him what he wanted to hear. She would watch and wait and when Charles Hawthorne let his guard down, she would be ready.
The Sherlock in her head whispered that he was proud of her for her gumption and for the first time since this nightmare began Molly was tempted to smile.
~oOo~
Looky down there - a little box to write a note! Spiffy!