Oh, man. I'm in trouble. I'm so sorry for the delay here, friends. But, as a reward for your patience, I give you a nice, long chapter filled with action-y goodness.
Plentiful thanks to hobbitsdoitbetter for her, as always, amazing beta work. She knows Sherlolly better than anyone, in my opinion.
Thanks for your supportive and lovely reviews. Bucky5, angelfishlex, OpalSkyLoveDivine, standasawitness, TheHolmesSister, Bekah1218, Icecat62, skybird716, 2009, Anasthesia93, pinta575, KraZiiePyrosHavemorefun, katybaggins, WayTooEasilyObsessed, AnonymousKoala, JessChen, An Elegant Chaos and Guest.
~oOo~
Molly's best friend as a child had been a sweet, freckle faced girl named Alice. Molly had been jealous (she honestly still was) of Alice's strawberry blonde hair that exploded from her head in a wild mass of tangled curls. But Alice's home was far from stable. Her father was a widower with four children to raise and he took out his frustrations on his children. A dirty counter would result in a large hand gripping Alice's arm hard enough to leave bruises. Shoes strewn about the foyer and stairway ensured that all the children would spend thirty minutes on their knees - resting on their backsides resolutely forbidden - as they contemplated their sin.
The man standing in the kitchen reminded her of Alice's father; seemingly harmless unless something provoked his wrath.
She watched Hawthorne pluck a napkin from the counter and arrange items on the plate. Ever so quickly, she saw his hand glance over his left trouser pocket - as if ensuring something was still there. Mental note, old girl, she whispered in her head. Whatever's in there must be important to him. Satisfied all was in order, he made his way to where she sat, the plate of food sitting atop the open palm of his hand - a perverse imitation of a waiter. He stepped to the couch and took a seat next to Molly on the small sofa. With a flick of his wrist, the paper napkin opened and he laid it gently on her lap. Molly tensed.
Easy now, Molly. Play the game. She took in a deep breath and let it out slowly.
She held out her hand to take the paper plate, consciously avoiding touching his hands and smiled as he handed it to her. "Thank you. I'm famished."
As if nothing about the situation were out of the ordinary, Hawthorne leaned back against the cushions and draped his forearm over the armrest.
"I should imagine. It's been quite a busy few days for you."
He tilted his head and smiled.
Molly wanted to throw the plate at him and scream. A busy few days? She searched his face. Relaxed. In control. Content. Being stalked, drugged, kidnapped and chained to the floor was, in Hawthorne's mind, no more of a bizarre and stressful situation than running out of petrol. Molly needed to come up with a plan. Fast.
She pushed down the anger that threatened to blur her focus. The edges of her mouth tilted upward in a slight, demure smile. "Quite busy, yes." Molly took a bite of the sandwich he'd prepared - consciously forcing herself to swallow despite the sourness of her stomach. She turned her head to the left, in the direction of the small stone hearth and the empty, cold fireplace.
Play the part, but change his script.
"It's good to see you eat, Molly. You don't take care of yourself like you should." His hand slid across her knee before patting it twice. She forced herself to look up into his eyes and nod.
"I suppose I get distracted. I do love my work."
Hawthorne clicked his tongue and shook his head, shifting forward. "No, it's not that. Not your fault in the least." She could see the muscles in his jaw tense. "It's his. He's the distraction."
He spat the words as if they were poison on his tongue.
"Sherlock Holmes is a selfish prat, Molly." He stated it matter-of-factly. "He's using you for his own ends, you see that, don't you?
"You deserve to be taken care of. Protected. I can make that happen."
Molly pulled her shoulders up in a resigned shrug.
"Well, sometimes he is a difficult man," she allows. She has to play this well, even if she hates saying the words. " But he seems to care about what happens to me..."
Hawthorne turned to his side, facing Molly. "He cares about himself," he snapped. "He cares about what you can do for him." He reached out, taking her hand and Molly had to force herself not to flinch.
"I know how hard you work, Molly," he says tightly. "I know that but Holmes won't ever admit it. He was gone for two years without a word while you toiled away at the hospital. He bandies about London without a thought to what his actions might mean for you-"
Hawthorne stopped and closed his eyes briefly in an apparent bid to calm himself. Molly could see the tenuous hold he had on his emotions. The tremble in his voice and flurry of his fingers tapping his palm belied the unruffled exterior he wished to project. That was what made him dangerous.
Pushing that cord to snap would not end well for Molly - or Sherlock.
"I suppose you're right." Her voice was soft, deferential. She had to play this well, she might not have another shot. "I just wanted so much for him...for someone...to take an interest." Molly dipped her head slightly. Stared at her hands, clasping them together. "Men aren't exactly clamoring for woman who works with dead people."
"Well, those men are spectacular arseholes." Hawthorne shook his head. "Sorry. There goes my language again." He smiled again - managing to look innocent and menacingly evil at the same time. It chilled her to the bone. "You're an angel, Molly Hooper." He patted her knee once more - her skin crawling at the contact. "And I'm going to take care of you."
She nodded, smiled gently and took another bite of her sandwich. As she swallowed (the food really did taste like sawdust now), she glanced down and saw the outline of an object in Hawthorne's pocket.
It appeared quite like the key to a set of handcuffs.
Molly blinked and found her captor's eyes with her own. "May I have something to drink, please? I seem to be a bit parched."
He rose to his feet, turned to her and bowed. "Anything for my lady." Hawthorne chuckled at his own joke and returned to the small kitchen.
She had a plan. Albeit, a hastily formed and probably ill-conceived plan. But it would have to be enough.
And, hopefully, when all was said and done, she wouldn't be dead as a result.
~oOo~
Sherlock looked up from the GPS on his phone and waved his hand. "Pull off on that lane and park. We're close."
James did as Sherlock instructed and, a few minutes after Sherlock's clipped instruction, the car was parked to the side of a gravel lane. Sherlock took a deep breath as he often did to clear out the clutter in his constantly working mind. Unfortunately, that normally useful tool from the manual of Sherlock Holmes Detective Skills and Other Things He Does So Well fell utterly and completely flat. There was no option to remain calm as he normally did so expertly. No, right now the best he could muster was not gritting his teeth together, yelling or punching everything - everyone - in sight.
Once this mess had been sorted and Molly returned to where she belonged - right back by his side - then he would return to Sherlock Holmes, unaffected consulting detective, something which…which if he was to be completely honest with himself, was utter bollocks.
He would never be unaffected again, not where Molly Hooper was concerned.
The little mouse from St. Bart's had burrowed her way firmly inside his chest and, surprisingly, he had no intention of making her leave-
If the big bad wolf hasn't gobbled her up already, that is - the Mycroft voice whispered in his head.
Sherlock growled to himself, irritated. Punching someone - his arrogant sod of a brother, preferably - would have been a great relief right now.
Holding the phone in one hand, Sherlock opened the car door. James mirrored his own action - pausing briefly to double check the gun in his shoulder holster.
Sherlock held up the phone so that the other man could see the map and raised his arm to point in front of them. "There. Just under a kilometer to the north. We'll examine the perimeter and determine our course of action from there."
James gave a single, somehow menacing nod.
"Just us two then."
Sherlock regarded the other man carefully. It wasn't a question. It was a statement. James The Ever Stalwart was itching to see this through. Anxious to see the previous injustice done to him by Charles Hawthorne set to rights.
It was good to know there was someone who was taking this just as seriously as he.
"I think just us should be sufficient, don't you?" Sherlock asked. The man nodded and the side of his mouth rose in a smirk.
"Mr. Holmes, an army couldn't survive against you and I. Even with one gun between us."
Sherlock's eyebrow rose and a small smile played over his lips. Yes, he certainly did like this James fellow.
"Well, then, let's get back our girl," he said and with that they headed down the lane.
~oOo~
Hawthorne returned to Molly a few moments later with a glass filled with water. When he placed it in her hand, Molly almost chuffed out loud at how happy she was at the feel of the heavy glass in her hand. Her heart hammered in her chest. She was about to either get herself free or be on the receiving end of Hawthorne's psychotic punishment. Either way, when all was said and done, Sherlock would no doubt be spectacularly furious with what she was about to do.
Her captor smiled again. "I can't wait to show you around the house, my angel. I've made everything up just for you. I know you'll love it here." His cheeks actually flushed red. "It's a proper home for a young couple, I think."
If Molly had harbored any doubts about whether Hawthorne might be reasoned with, they evaporated in that moment. He was utterly gone. Consumed by the fantasy that he and Molly would live some kind of happily ever after in this home. She would not be the victim of his twisted version of a fairy tale any longer.
Molly took a sip and smiled. "Much better." She looked toward the television opposite the sofa. "Would you mind if we watched something on the telly?"
"Well, yes, of course." Hawthorne seemed delighted at the idea and stood up to cross the room. As he was reaching for the remote, Molly took the arm holding the glass and firmly threw it across her body towards the stone hearth. She was rewarded with the sound of shattered glass and leapt to her feet, the plate on her lap clattering to the floor.
Molly frantically grabbed at the glass, careful not to cut herself. Bleeding wouldn't do at all. "Oh, I'm so sorry! I just wanted to put it on the table and it slipped! Sherlock always said I was clumsy and stupid!"
Out of the corner of her eye, Molly saw him approach. That's it. Closer. He crouched down next to her and Molly looked up, her face a feigned mask of embarrassment. The corner of Hawthorne's mouth rose in a chilling smile. "Now don't you worry, my Molly…"
I am not your Molly - her mind screamed as she shot her arm up and impaled a palm-sized shard of glass in Hawthorne's neck. In the same movement, Molly pushed on his knee, sending him on to his rear end on the throw rug. His hand flew flew up to his wound but not before Molly pulled the glass out out and slammed it into his bare forearm - dragging it down toward his wrist.
Hawthorne was stunned but that didn't stop him from lunging toward her. She reared back and that's when her fingertips blessedly found the plate on the floor. Molly grabbed it and struck him in the side of the head - the ceramic shattering from the force. The blow managed to stop him short, crying out from the pain. She used that brief miracle to finish her work, dropping the glass and digging into his pocket.
She was rewarded with a handcuff key. Molly moved backward but felt Hawthorne's hands grab her wrists - he'd come out of his stupor quickly enough. Her head shot up and the two of them locked eyes. The shock in his gaze had been replaced by fury - she saw the insanity buried behind the once-calm facade. But she would not cower. Strong Molly was in charge now and Charles Hawthorne would understand just who he'd made the mistake of terrorizing.
"I'd suggest that you release me." Her voice was steady and low. "If, that is, you plan on not bleeding out in the next two minutes." His grip on her wrists loosened only slightly. "I'm a pathologist, in case you forgot that fact. I know how people die. And, in your case, I anticipate you'll be unconscious in less than a minute."
You're gambling, Molls. Keep that poker face solid or you're up the creek - a voice that echoed Mary warned her.
Hawthorne's face fell slightly and Molly pressed her luck. "And if you keep me locked up, I won't be able to help put pressure on your wounds. I've punctured your jugular and cephalic veins. If you want even a chance of not dying from blood loss within thirty minutes, I suggest you let me free myself immediately."
Molly wasn't adept at lying - and, oh my, how she was lying. She'd not hit any of those veins (maybe nicked the jugular) and she sincerely hoped that her stalker's obsession with her didn't include pathology. If he saw through her bluff, he would most certainly not let her off with a little choke hold.
He broke eye contact before dropping his right hand and putting his left back up to his neck. Her gamble had worked.
Molly knew he wouldn't surrender so easily and that it was entirely probable he would recapture her quickly, but she had no choice. She scooted backward on the floor, away from him as much as possible, before inserting the key into the cuff on her wrist. The sound of it unlatching was as beautiful as any music. She smiled and then looked back to Hawthorne.
"Now, I'll get some towels. Lay down."
Another gamble. He started to shift and that's when Molly darted forward and slapped the cuff around his ankle. It was her turn to smile - and smile she did as she threw the key across the room.
Her defiance of him seemed to spur Hawthorne to action and he lunged at her, grabbing her, once again, by the throat. Her head impacted the wood floor - narrowly missing the hearth, thank goodness - but, this time, she wasn't felled by fear or confusion. She was running on pure adrenaline now. Molly brought her fist up and punched the wound on his throat. That made him falter, but only slightly. His grip tightened on her throat. Molly shifted her body underneath him and managed to bring her knee up and solidly slam into his groin. The blow hit home - literally.
Hawthorne's grip remained on her throat, but he was forced to sit back as the pain rocketed through him. Spurred on by her success, Molly placed her thumbs over the man's eyes and began to press. She tried to push away the thought of how much she was hurting him and how utterly repulsive it was to actually feel the give of his eyes beneath her touch. Violence was much easier to handle when all you had to do was piece together the circumstances of a death.
Survive, Molly. Fight back. - the Mary-voice shouted again.
It doesn't matter how disgusting it feels- What he'd do to you would be a hundred times worse.
When Hawthorne failed at shaking her off, his hands came off her throat and grabbed her wrists. But now it was he that was off balance, and Molly shot her arms outward, brought her knees up to her chest and pushed forward as hard as she could. It was enough. Hawthorne fell backward and Molly was able to wrench her arms from his grasp. She rolled herself away and scooted on her hands and feet back to the kitchen counter - well away from him.
He hissed and pulled at his chain like a dog but she was well out of his reach.
She panted, the adrenaline fresh and hot as it continued to pulse through her body. Her plan had worked - at least up to this point. Now she had to figure out how to get herself out of this place.
As if in answer to her conundrum, the door's windowpane shattered, followed by the door itself flinging inward with an ear-shattering bang. Into the room burst a wild-eyed Sherlock Holmes whose attention was first drawn to the curled up and bleeding form of Charles Hawthorne lying on the floor. He turned his head to the side and locked eyes with Molly.
Molly sighed and smiled lopsidedly.
"You're late," she said.
~oOo~
The first thing he noticed was that Charles Hawthorne was covered in blood. He lay in a ball on the floor, his ankle handcuffed to a bolt in the floor - that would need some explanation later - blood covering his face and hands. A small pool of it glistened on the floor.
Panic flooded his brain. Molly. Where was…
"You're late."
He whipped his head to the side and there she was, leaning against a small counter, her legs splayed out in front of her and...blood. Yes, blood on her neck, her hands, her cheek. She wasn't shaking. She didn't appear to be bleeding. Bruises aren't the same as cuts, he reminded himself as he stared at her, half-horrified and half-relieved.
His Molly looked like hell. Yet there she sat...smiling at him in that shy, knowing way. The smile that shifted him off his axis and bid him do anything for her. The smile that shouldn't be there. Yet. It was. She was.
Sherlock crossed the room in no time thanks to his impossibly long legs and he dropped to his knees next to Molly. His hands came up to inspect her neck (slight swelling, bruising will be evident soon), her hands (no cuts or obvious wounds), and her face (nothing presented). He was only slightly aware of her speaking.
"Sherlock."
He couldn't stop his hands from inspecting her skull (small bump on the back of her head), from assuring himself that she was intact - alive.
"Sherlock."
He stopped. Looked her in the eyes. He had no words with which to speak.
"I'm fine." She was trying to reassure him. Him. While she sat on the floor of a house in which she'd been brought for purposes that turned his stomach. She wasn't fine. And it was Hawthorne's doing. He was at fault for everything that had happened to his Molly.
"Sherlock, stop."
That he could not do. He couldn't stop the flurry of thoughts - impulses - that coursed through him in that moment. Charles Hawthorne had taken someone precious to him. Hurt her. Terrorized her. For that, the man deserved all manner of torture that he could conjure- and William Scott Sherlock Holmes could conjurer rather a lot. He turned and looked at the man who now lay on the floor staring at the two of them. The rage that had fueled him took root and coiled low and deep in his belly. His focus was drawn once again to the bolt in the floor, the chain attached to it and the handcuff around Hawthorne's foot. Sherlock then turned and traced his finger over Molly's ankles.
"He chained you." The words slithered through gritted teeth. "Chained you to the fucking floor."
"Yes, but…"
There were no 'buts' to be had in Sherlock's mind. There was no way to excuse, defend or reconcile anything the man had done.
How could anybody bear to do this to his Molly?
"I'm going to kill him." A fact. A declaration. A promise. "I'm going to make him pay for this..."
Emotion was not an easy thing for Sherlock. This entire experience with his new closeness to Molly had set him off kilter. But it was worth it in the long run. She was worth it. Sitting in this place, seeing the damage Hawthorne had wrought physically and emotionally to Molly, Sherlock wanted - no, needed - to hurt him.
Molly's hands grasped his arms. She knew him well. "You won't, Sherlock. That's not who you are."
"It's who I could be."
She shook her head. "It's not who you want to be. And it's not who I want you to be either."
And with that she wrapped her arms around him and pulled him in close to her. James stepped into the room, gun drawn. He regarded Hawthorne on the floor and then brought his attention to where Sherlock and Molly sat.
Sherlock spoke softly as he rose to his feet. "James, give me your weapon."
The bodyguard's forehead creased with an unspoken question, but he didn't move.
Molly scrambled up and blocked Sherlock from moving forward. He considered her for a moment and took a step when he felt her hands on his face. Those small, sweet hands that had tentatively grasped his at the restaurant. That had splayed across his back when he'd embraced her in the lab. Molly's beautiful hands now stained with a psychopath's blood. He felt his jaw clench anew.
"Please, Sherlock. For me. I know you're angry. He's a horrible person. But you're not. You're not a man to kill someone like that. Please."
He looked at her. Well and truly searched her face. His Molly was a wellspring of emotion - quite his opposite in that regard. Worry and concern lined her brow, but there was a softness to her that belied the gruesome circumstances. She cared for him more than she cared for herself.
"Molly, he has to pay."
"He will. I promise he will. Mycroft will see to that."
In truth, his brother would see to it. If there was one aspect about his brother on which he could rely, it was that Mycroft Holmes would take great joy in showering pain and suffering upon those who interfered with his family. His brother may be an arrogant pillock, but Sherlock knew that if he asked his brother to make Charles Hawthorne experience new and differing levels of agony, he would comply. Happily.
Sherlock sighed, brought his hands to her waist and bent toward her to touch his forehead to hers. The contact - her touch - centered him. Unwound the fury that had entwined itself around his chest.
"For you, my Molly."
A guttural "No," sounded from the prone form of Charles Hawthorne. His eyes darted from Molly to the source of all their trouble. The kidnapper was moving now, attempting to sit up - reaching his bloodied hand out towards the woman he'd hurt so much.
Sherlock's body tensed but before he could react, James swung his leg and slammed his booted foot into Hawthorne's stomach. The man's groan of pain filled the small room. The sound pleased Sherlock immeasurably.
"You'll not be layin' a finger on her no more, you sick bastard." James growled. The bodyguard looked up and Sherlock nodded his approval. Yes, he did like this James character.
Sherlock gently turned Molly and brought her flush with the side of his body as he walked her toward the door. He would leave James to stand guard over Charles Hawthorne until Mycroft's people arrived. He didn't want Molly inside the house any longer than need be.
He wasn't sure what would happen were she to ask it of him.
He ushered her outside and when they were clear of the door, gathered her back into his arms. Tucked her head under his chin and smelled her hair. Felt her warmth against him. She was there. Alive and his. It seemed that he might be making progress with this whole physical intimacy area for, in this moment, nothing seemed more right to him than Molly Hooper in his arms.
Nothing would ever feel more right again.
He felt Molly draw back slightly. Sherlock looked down and saw her soft smile, her lovely eyes. She was quite fetching - even mired in blood and sweat. Maybe especially because she was in such a state. He chose not to dwell on how wrong that particular inclination that might be. He was a sociopath, after all.
"My brave Molly." he told her. "You seem to have rescued yourself."
The corner of her mouth shifted upward in a smile. "Yes, well, I am quite capable, you know."
He returned the smile. "Yes, Molly Hooper. Yes you are."
She nestled her head back under his chin and he closed his eyes. After a moment she relaxed against him, her grip on him tightening as she pulled him near. He heard her sigh, a lovely, sweet thing and in that moment he couldn't imagine ever wanting to move from this position.
He supposed that this relationship business might not be such a tedious thing after all.
~oOo~
Oh, don't leave that little box all alone down there.