Chapter 16

Day 128-129

They were seated outside the bothy, against the stonewall drinking the last Ensure. They were enjoying the heat of the midday sun, comfortable in each other's company. Sherlock hurt. His muscles are stiff and sore from yesterday. He had done a few stretches in the morning, gradually warming his muscles until everything at least moved with a little less stiffness. He still had blood in his urine but at least it was a lot less red than yesterday. Molly had set a hydration regime in place, trying to flush his system as much as was medically safe to give his kidney's a chance to recover. He didn't have any of the other symptoms that would indicate serious trauma and she had been satisfied somewhat that they would be able to manage. Technically he was supposed to keep it easy for six weeks but there was obviously no way that Oliver would give that to them. They had a day before Sherlock's next challenge to try and prepare his body as much as possible.

Sherlock still hadn't said anything to Molly regarding the added drug complication to the challenge. He was busy trying to work out how he could slip out of the bothy without Molly's knowledge when Oliver came tomorrow. He'll deal with the fallout after his return. He knew he wouldn't be able to hide it from her then but figured that he'd be able to manage her a lot better when he was back then having that conversation now.

He felt a little guilt as his deception but reasoned that Molly would understand once he explains why. John's voice in his head was telling him what an idiot he was for believing that Molly would let it go. That it be better if he told the truth now.

He told John to sod off. That he knew what he was doing.

Molly had drunk two more of the pills in the morning. Her arm and hand were swollen, mottled in purple splotches coloured with green and dark blue. Sherlock had a look in the morning and both were satisfied that the break had been set properly. Her fingers, though swollen, were still warm, indicating that circulation was good.

Sherlock leaned back and took a last big gulp, finishing the last dregs from the bottle. He grimaced at the taste. He scrutinised the inside of the bottle but it was disappointingly empty. He placed it next to him on the ground. "Uhg. I don't think I'll ever get the taste of this out of my mouth," he complained. "Surely they could've made this a lot better tasting. Added some sugar. Anything sweet."

"Don't think that's the point of a meal replacement, is it?" Molly said, finishing the last of her drink.

"Steak. They could make it taste like steak and chips. Not whatever taste this is supposed to be. Strawberry my arse."

"Mmmh" Molly shifted. Suppressed a groan. "A good curry. With poppadoms and naan bread."

"Fish and chips. I know a good little shop that sells them. Owner gives me extra portions."

"Okay, stop." She laughed. "How but we think of something else. This is only making me hungrier."

"Clean underwear." Sherlock said with a wink.

"Oh, yes please. That would be nice. And laundered clothes."

"A shirt that fits and has no holes in it."

"You currently have no shirt, Sherlock." Molly said with a smile.

"Fine. A new shirt with no holes. And I'll make sure that the colour scheme fits in with this jacket," he says, nose in the air jauntily. "Starting a new trend, you know. Fake security jacket – must be at least two sizes too small." Sherlock pulled the lapels up of the borrowed jacket, "Latest in fashion."

Molly giggled. The silence settled comfortably after that as the sun crossed the zenith. Molly broke it after a while. "Do you think Mycroft did what they wanted?"

Sherlock sighed. Drew in the dirt with his finger. "Yes. Probably if it wasn't something he'd have to compromise too much at."

"Do you think they're still looking?"

"John won't give up. He'll make sure my brother and Lestrade won't either."

"He's a good friend."

Sherlock gave a wistful smile. "Yeah, he is." And so are you, Molly Hooper. He thought. The best kind there is.

Mycroft was at the Diogenes club in his private room when Irene sauntered in.

"News then?" he asked, folding the newspaper he had in hand and placing it next to him on the side table. She seated herself across from him.

"Yes. Lyle is here. Still in London. I have an address." She took out a piece of paper from her handbag, passing it on to Mycroft. "I'll assume you'll know what to do with this."

"Yes. Thank you. Excuse me," he said. Making a brief phone call, he relayed the address and instructions to his agent on the phone. When he was done, he focused his attention back on The Woman.

"You could've sent that to me via text. So why are you here, Irene?"

"Jim had sent me a photo of Sherlock."

"Why would he?"

"Jim would have his reasons. He's never dull. Maybe he thinks I'll appreciate the photo. The great Sherlock Holmes is vulnerable and at someone else's mercy."

"Ah. I assume it's the same one I received. By the lake?"

"Yes."

"I have analysts busy trying to find a location. But there are no discernible landmarks in the photograph to say where he is except probably somewhere in the Midlands."

"Are you not concerned?"

"About my brother? Why?"

"Fine. I'll be delicate then as someone who knows about these things. Sherlock is close to breaking. The man that has your little brother is very good at what he does. He and Jim have been friends for a long time. They both share the same goal regarding Sherlock. Can you guess what that is?"

"Do you have more information?" Mycroft deflected smoothly. Meeting her gaze without flinching.

"Very well, then. A name, nothing more. A name that brings fear and no further information whenever he gets mentioned. It's been exceedingly frustrating and I'm very good at what I do, Mycroft. But any mention of his name and silence reigns."

"His name?"

"Oliver."

Mycroft was silent. Searched his memory palace but there was nothing.

"Yes, thank you Ms Adler. I'll get my people onto it. There might be something they can find."

"Oh, I doubt it, Mycroft. But you can try." She rose from her seat, getting ready to leave. "I think I might know someone but it will be very delicate and very expensive."

"Fine. I assume you'll send a bill."

"Oh no, Mycroft. Cash upfront."

"How much?"

She gave him a number that had him raise both eyebrows. In the end he authorised it. What else could he do?

After Irene Adler had left, Mycroft had made his way to the address she had provided. It had already been cleared by his agents. He had wanted to see the flat for himself. He exited the car, eyeing the building in front of him. It wasn't entirely what he had expected. The building was old but well maintained. He entered the building, making his way up the stairs until he was on the right floor. Lyle Bowman's flat was the one closest to the fire escape, which made logical sense. The flat was stark. In the living area there was only a table and a chair, the table strewn with photographs and random pieces of paper. A closed laptop. The bedroom held a bed, which looked barely slept in. Bathroom had a toothbrush and towel.

"Leave everything as it is," he said, eyeing the photographs. "Put a full surveillance team on the flat. He'll come back for the laptop. I want him alive; do you understand?"

He went back to the office after that. Moriarty was clearly ramping up to something big. He wasn't entirely sure what it was, but he was certain that the criminal consultant would engage him soon around it.

He hoped that he'd get Sherlock back before that happens because he wasn't entirely sure that he'd be able to deliver if the price was too high.

Night had come too swiftly. Sherlock was stacking the fireplace while Molly had gone outside, taking the towel and soap to wash. He had helped her remove the splint and makeshift sling. They had put the thin piece of soap leftover in the tin with water. It had dissolved into liquid soap that they used carefully to try and stretch it as much as possible. He was seated on the mattress in front of the fireplace while Molly was doing her ablutions. Sherlock found it disconcerting that he was thinking of what he could do to get another soap bar off Oliver. What he would need to do to get a shirt. It felt a little like giving in. Accepting their circumstances.

Just play the game. Oliver is human. He'll make a mistake. John was saying in his head. There's always hope, Sherlock. Don't give in.

He almost laughed out loud. Stopped himself just in time. That'd be bordering on insanity. So far Oliver hadn't made any mistakes. Had known exactly how to deal with each attempt that Sherlock had made to push the boundaries.

Had known how to set the rules that first day he had met Oliver.

Had known how to deal with his rebellion.

Had known how to force him to comply.

Had known and engineered their escape attempt, had made his displeasure clear when Sherlock hadn't followed the script.

He needed to lay low for a while. Follow Oliver's direction. The threat to Molly's life was just too real. Too close. Too high.

Maybe wait a month or two before they have another think about escaping. Despair at the thought of another two months under Oliver sat heavy on him. He wiped his eyes, clearing his vision. He wasn't about to show emotion on camera. Let Oliver think he'd won.

This had not been what he had envisioned to spend his days before his capture. And tomorrow was not something he was looking forward to. He wondered what Oliver was going to use. If he knew about Sherlock's past drug habits. Likely, he thought. Moriarty would probably come up with suggestions. He wondered if they had tea and discussed ways to make his life a misery.

He was interrupted by his thoughts when Molly called him. He opened the door immediately, concern heightened when he heard pain and tears in her voice.

"You okay?"

"I….uhm. I need some help." She said, her face drawn and white. She was sitting on the well wall, her broken arm held close to her body. The light from inside the bothy barely reached the well but it was enough for him to see that she was in pain and trying not to show it. "I can't ... .I uhm…" she trailed off. Her shirt was on the wall and Sherlock could see why she was distressed. He made his way over to her.

"Okay," he said, picking up the shirt. "How do you want to do this?"

"If I can get my broken arm through the sleeve first and then if you can help get my shirt over my head while I do my other arm?"

"I think we can manage that," he said softly. "You ready?"

She nodded, steeled herself. There was a small gasp as she pushed her arm through. Sherlock was gentle and patient, waiting for her to settle before pulling the shirt over her head. "Better?" he said and gave her a small smile.

"Yeah. Thanks." She said, not looking at him. Stood up. "Sorry."

"Molly," Sherlock said, his hands on either side of her face, forcing her gently to look at him. "You have nothing to be sorry for. You don't ever have to feel the need to apologise to me when you need my help."

Sherlock could see tears film across her eyes. She gave him a weak smile. "Ever is a very long time, Sherlock."

"I know," he said. And then he kissed her forehead, a chaste kiss but the promise was there. She leaned into him, her head against his chest. His arms went around her, holding her close. His head rested on top of hers and they stood like that for a while, enjoying the comfort that the hug brought. It was far removed from Oliver and his men. For a moment they could try and forget where they were. For a moment it was just them, under the stars. In the end, they stepped away from each other, returning to reality when both started to shiver from the cold. They went back inside the bothy. Something seemed to have settled in Molly. Sherlock could see it.

There was an assurance and peace in her.

He put the splint on her arm again and rejigged the sling. Gave her two more of the pain meds and helped her get settled before he went outside to do his own ablutions.

He didn't care what Oliver gave him tomorrow, he decided. He'll do what is necessary to win the race.

And he'll do what is necessary to get them home.

John had pushed a chair against the doorknob of his bedroom and Moriarty hadn't liked it. The criminal had swooped in, rattled the door, and then complained loudly and with threats until John had opened the door. He had waved him back to bed and John had thought about ignoring the other man and going out into the sitting room where he would be more comfortable defending himself. But Moriarty had insisted and John had wisely chosen not to infuriate the other any further. He sat down on the bed, watching the other man sprawling very much like Sherlock would onto the chair.

"Mols broke her arm yesterday. You can blame Sherlock for that one. It's all on him. She's in pain, you know. Sherlock negotiated a perfect deal to get some pain meds for her. I really look forward to seeing the result tomorrow." The criminal took out his phone, swiped through some photos. Choosing one he held it out for John to see.

It was Sherlock spooned against Molly, fast asleep.

"Took it last night. Was a bit of a tough day for them.I think our dear consultant is letting sentiment get the better of him. What would Mycroft say." Moriarty dramatically covered his lips, eyes wide in perceived shock. "You're being replaced, Dr Watson. Sherlock has a new pet," he sang the last sentence.

John swallowed but didn't reply. What could he say?

"Cat got your tongue." Moriarty giggled and then he refocused on John, eyes dark and malevolent. "Dialogue goes two ways, Doctor. Don't bore me. Sherlock will get hurt."

"More than he's hurting already?"

"A lot more. Tell me, how was your day, pet."

"Went for a walk. Cleaned the kitchen."

"How mundane. I think I need to find something for you to do. That would make our chats more interesting. Sherlock loves to experiment. I think I can indulge, don't you."

"This is your home and I'm your guest. I don't have much choice, now do I?"

"It'll do you well to remember, my pet. Well, I'll be off now. Have to go brew something special for Sherlock. Wouldn't want to disappoint him with his request. Tootle do."

John watched the other man leave. He wondered what Moriarty meant when he had said that Sherlock had negotiated for pain meds. Knew that it was something he wouldn't like.

He got up then, too wired to sleep.

The front door was locked.

Right then. He was allowed to roam at day. Not at night.

He sat in the dark in the living room then, trying not to think about how Sherlock and Molly had looked, sleeping together. How thin Sherlock seemed, how deep the bruises were. How Molly's face had tear streaks through the grime on her skin. How pale she was and the grimace she had even in sleep, her arm cradled by what had seemed remnants of Sherlock's shirt against her body.

Sherlock would die for his friends.

And it was clear from that one glimpse that John had gotten was that Molly Hooper had fallen deep into that category.

He just hoped Sherlock wouldn't need to prove it to her just yet.

Thank you for the reviews. Greatly appreciated. The next chapter is a biggie. I'll work on editing it as fast as I can. Let me know what you think. :-)