Chapter 6 Missing – Day 6

Waking was gradual. He remembered then. The three men and his brief struggle in the bothy. The prick of a needle. He groaned. The inside of his mouth felt like cotton wool. His brain was fuzzy, and he blinked against the morning light and then closed his eyes again.

No, no, no, no, no.

The ground was cold underneath him; the sun had risen past the horizon. The wind as ever present.

He was back out in the open.

He slowly sat up and shook his head to get rid of the last cobwebs that seemed to linger. He remembers the three men vaguely. They were darkened silhouettes against the fire. There had been no time for him to take them in. To deduce them. To use his skill and find out a bit more of who had him and why. It was an obvious tactic. Keep the captive disorientated. Assert dominance. He understood it. Understanding didn't make the feeling of helplessness any less real. Sherlock took a deep breath, settled himself as he tried to glean more information from his subconscious. Frustratingly their faces were blank canvases in his mind's eye. Heavy build. Common thugs he surmised.

But he was certain of one fact. These were not the same men who had been in the eatery or the warehouse.

He wondered what that meant. If there were more than one organisation involved in his kidnapping and incarceration. He thought about it, pulling on the threads until one came forward, bright and blinding in its implication. Oh, he thought. Off course. One team that specialises in kidnappings. Monetary reward given and work done. So, whoever was in charge now was the real threat. The reason why he had been taken.

They were under orders to make sure that he was looked after. They had gone to the effort of dressing him. His socks and shoes, his coat. They didn't want him dead yet, frozen out in the open. He wasn't entirely convinced if that was a good or bad thing yet. He was part of some sort of game and he wasn't certain yet what his role in it was.

Simple torture was easier, Sherlock thought. At least you knew why they wanted you. You had a goal. You could resist. Not knowing was something he didn't like. He could speculate all he wanted but he had no data. No rhyme or reason why he had been taken. No gloating men that wanted revenge.

He pondered what Mycroft was doing. Probably lifting rocks and kicking the underbelly of London to look for him. He wondered if his brother was any closer to where he was kept.

And John. He knew John would be looking for him. His only friend and the only one who really mattered. He hoped that John was safe. Wasn't sure if Mycroft would look out for John the way he would.

He sighed. He wasn't sure he wanted to go anywhere at the moment. Let them come fetch him then, he thought stubbornly. He leaned back and felt something warm against his back. He turned his head to look behind him, his eyes widening as he saw who it was.

"Molly, what the hell."

The wind snatched up his words as he completed his turn, hands reaching for Molly. She was out cold, stretched out on her side. He sighed in relief when his fingers met a strong pulse. She had a warm puffer jacket on with black pants and black sneakers. Her hair was tied in a ponytail he was so familiar with, a few strands out of place.

"Molly, wake up," he said, shaking her shoulders. She moaned but didn't respond. He tried again to be met by a swiping hand half heartedly pushing his hand away from her shoulder. "Five more minutes."

"No, Molly. You need to wake up now!" His baritone had a hint of annoyance in it now, mixed with alarm he couldn't suppress. Why her? And if she's here, where's John?

"Whaaat." Molly sat up, looked at Sherlock and frowned. He could see her thought processes as easily as reading an open book.

Not my flat.

Why am I here?

What is Sherlock doing here?

He allowed her what he thought was sufficient time to process. She squinted at him. He knew she had a headache. Was realising it as she said, "Ugh. I think I'm going to be sick."

"Ok, but do you mind not on me."

She turned away from him, dry heaving. He looked away, not entirely sure what he should be doing. This was John's department. Molly seemed to settle her stomach and she turned back to him, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. She grimaced at the action, turning her hand over and pulling her jacket sleeve up.

"What the hell?" she explained, looking at the burn on her wrist. Sherlock took her hand in his, long fingers tracing the wound. It was the same as his. Molly pulled her wrist from his hold, pulling her arm close to her own body in a defence gesture that didn't go unnoticed by Sherlock.

She didn't meet his gaze straight away, instead focusing on the vista around her. Sherlock noticed that she was trembling slightly when she refocused on him, brown eyes meeting blue. Probably adrenaline, he reasoned.

"What happened?"

"Do you remember anything?" he asked brusquely.

Molly closed her eyes, reminding herself that this was Sherlock. That he wasn't being deliberately insensitive to her needs.

"No. I uh," she mumbled, thinking back to last night. She was pretty sure she did her usual routine. Nothing out of the ordinary. She had gone to bed as usual with her cat curled next to her legs.

Sherlock just looked at her, his patience thin.

"What's going on?" Molly said frustrated, her memory hazy and full of holes she couldn't seem to fill. "Because it's not funny, Sherlock. Is…is this one of your games?"

Sherlock sat back, arms resting on his knees as he stared at her. He didn't know what to tell her. Didn't have the words to say that he had no data and therefore no idea, really on what was going on.

"It's not a game, Molly. I don't know why but you were taken by the same men that kidnapped me." he started, testing the waters. Watched her eyes grow wide at the implication. He debated for a moment in his head and then made a decision. He pulled up his own sleeve. Molly gasped. Pushed her own hand against his as she compared the brand on both their wrists.

"They're the same…" Her voice trailed off and she pulled her hand away, dropping it by her side. "Why me? I'm not important."

Sherlock gazed off into the distance, focusing on a bird dancing on the wind. Feathers spread out wide, swirling and diving.

You are important, Molly, he thought but didn't say.

"Is this where you've been all this time?" she asked instead when the silence had spread its cloak around them. He nodded, still trying to process his current situation. Trying to process why Molly was here and not John.

Sherlock closed his eyes. He didn't say but he had what he suspects was the same drug induced headache that she had. So, no progress. He had a long time to think about things while walking the last five days. The fact that he was taken must mean something. Maybe he was leverage against Mycroft although if they really thought that would work, they'd be in for a surprise. His brother would let him die before compromising the British government. Sentiment was not something he indulged in.

"Are you ok?"

He sighed and drove the heels of his hands into his eyes. "I'm fine." Beads of sweat had started to form on his forehead. He made an effort to even out his breathing. He was feeling exposed before Molly. She'd always seem to see more than any other person.

"Only you look like death warmed over, Sherlock." She continued to question, to prod and he hated feeling vulnerable. He pressed his lips together, meeting her gaze clearly as she continued, "I know you. You haven't been sleeping or eating, have you?"

He chuckled derisively. How does he explain eating or sleeping wasn't due to choice. That his abstinence was enforced by his environment. By the men that had left him here with no recourse to either.

"I'm fine." He stated again, a look warning her not to ask again. But where John would've let him get away with it, Molly didn't.

"I know you're not."

He huffed and stood up. Straightened the lapels of his coat and turned his back on her. The wind caressed his face softly, lingering touches that were now familiar. He heard Molly shift, her clothing rustling briefly.

"Where are we?"

"Rural England." He replied glibly, focused on what he was going to do next.

"Sherlock. Be kind." John said in his head. He told his friend to sod off. Molly looked at him funny and turned away and he realised that he must've told John off aloud and Molly had probably thought he was talking to her.

"Make it right, you git."

Fine. He thought. Only for you John.

"Molly. I, uhm." He trailed off, unsure what to say next.

She sighed. "It's fine."

Silence settled. Sherlock stared off into the distance, his hands behind his back, thinking. Molly hugged her knees, laying her head on them as she waited. Had enough experience working with Sherlock to know when he was thinking and needed quiet.

He broke the silence a while later, looking down at her. "Why did they take you? What is so special about you?"

Molly chose that moment to not be insulted. She realised that this was Sherlock thinking out loud. She had to be honest. She wasn't entirely sure why her either. John seemed a more logical choice. She stood up, looking around her at the open grassland and outcroppings of rock that dotted the land.

"Sherlock, what are we going to do? We can't stay here, can we?"

He shook his head, the wind ruffling his hair. "I don't know," he admitted, not meeting her gaze. It was a hard admission and he hated not knowing. "Molly, we have two choices. Either stay here and hope they come fetch us or leave and try and make it to civilization before they catch up to us."

"I vote we try to walk out of here. I just can't…." she trailed off, her left hand indicating the barrenness of the land around them, "Where do we go, Sherlock."

"Yeah. Ok." He agreed. He turned full circle, orientating himself. He could gauge where the bothy was. There was an outcropping off in the distance. If he squinted, he could see it in the shape of Mycroft's face, the nose a prominent feature. He knew that the bothy lay to the west of the landmark. Reasoning that it might be better to go the opposite way, he turned his back on the outcrop, and set his gaze on a marker.

He set off, adjusting his speed but it wasn't by much as his feet didn't want to play ball. They hurt.

Molly said nothing. Probably guessed by the tension in his face that he wasn't ready to discuss his injuries just yet.

It didn't matter in any case.

It wasn't like they had much choice but to hike their way out.

If their captors will allow them.

John was with Lestrade in Molly's flat. The DI was supervising the chaos of forensics and men moving through the rooms. Greg ran a hand through his hair, turning to John. "If it wasn't for the fact that she had an appointment this morning with her department head, we would've never guessed she was missing. She has never missed one before and when he couldn't get hold of her, he phoned me to do a welfare check. The lock was broken," he stated, indicating the front door.

"You think this is related to Sherlock's kidnapping?"

"It must be," the older man said, "why else would someone take Molly Hooper. I mean she's…"

"Molly Hooper. I know," John finished. Didn't want to speculate over the choices Sherlock's kidnappers made. They are probably going to be in for a rude surprise. He ruefully gave a small smile. She was very much in love with his friend, anyone with half a brain could see the infatuation. But Sherlock didn't always treat her very well. She was a means to an end for him, John thought. He used her as he pleased when he needed her and pretty much ignored her otherwise. There might be some affection on Sherlock's part, but it was platonic and fell very much into the brother sister category.

John narrowed his eyes as a thought took hold. Unless there was something much deeper going on in Sherlock's heart around Molly Hooper that he kept anyone from seeing.

A cat meowed and he looked down as the feline rubbed against his leg. He picked up the cat and made his way to the kitchen, opening cupboards until he found the cat food. Looking around, he found the bowl by the kitchen sink. Feeding the cat gave him a chance to settle his own thoughts. He wondered briefly if this had been one of the scenarios that Mycroft had planned for.

He opened his phone at the thought, dialling the older Holmes. Mycroft had anticipated his phone call and was terse, "I know, John. This changes things. Stay with Lestrade. I'll come back to you when I'm ready."

Mycroft was in his office today. He had to come in for a meeting with the prime minister that he couldn't defer. It had gone reasonably well when he had felt his phone vibrate in his pocket while the meeting was in full swing. He had excused himself as soon as it was reasonable to do so and had opened his phone the minute he had stepped out the door. The past six days had been a frantic and frustrating exercise of chasing phantom leads, dead ends and what felt to him, their own tails.

This list of people that Sherlock had locked away over the years or simply would love to see his brother disappear was long. This list of people who could make his brother disappear completely like this was a lot shorter.

The fact that Moriarty was in the wind was another big concern.

Mycroft knew that he was well protected but the people that Sherlock cared about weren't. What he hadn't anticipated was the fact that they would care to take Molly Hooper. In the grand scheme of Sherlock's known acquaintances, she wasn't that important. He had estimated a seventy percent chance that they would make an attempt at John next. Had planned for this eventuality. Had said as much to John the other night.

He made a phone call. "It's me. Upgrade the surveillance. Grade 1 active."

"Sir?"

Anthea was standing by his side. "Send two agents to Molly Hooper's apartment. I want to see the report from forensics as soon as it's available. Tell the agents I want a full detail at all times on John Watson."

Anthea was already on the phone, her fingers typing away as she moved off. The door behind him opened and the meeting recipients spilled out. One man steered right for him and Mycroft gave a small smile politely.

"Mycroft, how is the search for your brother going?"

He detested the man in front him. Lord Marsden was a pompous fool that didn't understand the first thing about reading a room or people. He was in a position of power because of his family name and old money.

"As well as can be expected, I'm sure," he replied conversationally. "If you'll excuse me, I do need to make a few phone calls."

"Oh yes, certainly."

Mycroft turned his back on the man and left the room. He didn't notice the way that Lord Marsden stared after him, a small sneer on his face that was quickly replaced when another man approached him.

"Sherlock, can we please stop. I, uhm…." She stuttered to silence. Sherlock rolled his eyes, knowing Molly couldn't see him. It was hard to just stop. His feet hurt and he knew that if he allowed himself the indulgence of rest, he wouldn't very easily get started again.

"What is it, Molly?" He asked testily, turning to her wondering why she was blushing. She looked away from him, focusing on the surrounding vista.

"Sherlock, I need to go."

He frowned, was for a moment perplexed and then it hit him between the eyes. He wasn't sure how to respond to her, his usual quip remarks hiding away in his brain.

Of course.

"What do you want me to do?"

"Okay, uhm. Can you maybe just keep your back turned, and I'll let you know when I'm done."

He tried hard not to listen as he went into his mind palace. He opened the door to his music room and heard Bach flow out, soft and melancholy. He lost himself there for a moment until he was startled awake by her hand on his arm.

"Sorry. Didn't mean to startle you."

"It's fine."

"I'll turn my back now, ok."

He thought about refusing but the most basic need took that moment to let him know that he in fact did need to go too. He finished his business, and they didn't look at each other as they set off again. They got into a rhythm that day. Molly was quiet, determined, and focused next to him. They didn't talk much, and he was grateful as their energies were on trekking the distance he had set for himself.

The silence was familiar. In the lab she had been his companion, anticipating his needs and wants in a way that made her someone he wanted to work with. Her competency outranked the other techs and she was the only one really who would put up with his demands for perfection. He felt comfortable with Molly Hooper, quirks and all.

Midday they had taken a short break. He had loosened his shoes, removing them but keeping his socks on as he let his feet breath. He had tried his best but had not been able to completely hide the fact that his actions hurt and that his feet were swollen. Molly had wisely not said anything, his earlier warnings not to pry probably still in the forefront of her mind. He couldn't do anything around water and he knew that she was as thirsty as he was. Mid-afternoon clouds had started to gather and he eyed them with hope. Just before sunset the rain came down and they stood under it with their mouths open, drinking in as much as they could.

They sat down afterwards under a small overhanging lip of shale, spent from the day's walk. Sherlock picked at the scab on his wrist. He was pleased to see it was healing. Rain still fell around them, but they were fairly protected in their little hole. He looked at Molly out of the corner of his eye, frowning when he noticed her pulling her legs up and shivering.

"Molly, are you okay?"

"Yeah. Just tired, you know."

The wet and cold was seeping in, tiny rivulets of water dripping from his hair down his back from where he had stood in the rain earlier.

He cleared his throat, "I don't want you to misunderstand me, but I think it would be prudent if we shared body heat."

She took a deep breath. She knew him well enough to know how difficult this was for him. "Ok, how do you want to do it?"

He thought about it, closing his eyes and imagining the different body positions that would best be utilised that would keep both of them reasonably warm. Molly waited for him patiently, having worked long enough with him to know how he processed and came to solutions.

Ten minutes later they had settled into position. Her jacket was on the ground beneath them, creating a small buffer against the wet and cold from the soil. He was spooning her, enfolding her in his body, his coat over both of them and tucked in as best they could. Her body was still cold and he shivered against her. His arm tightened, pulling her closer. For a brief moment she wondered if this had been such a good idea to take their jackets off. Knew the danger of hypothermia. Had seen first-hand the result of cold nights and no shelter when the bodies were on her slab at the morgue. His breath was hot against her hair, creating a little pocket of warmth.

"Tell me something I don't know, Molly," he breathed, his voice shaky.

"I have a cat." She started, her teeth chattering. Took a deeper breath as she tried to relax and not tense up, her muscles stiff in his arms. Her body still felt mind numbing cold.

"I know that. Cat hair on your pants most days," he said.

"Oh." She didn't know what to say. Hadn't thought that Sherlock would care to notice.

"I have a grandmother who is still alive. She's 90 and still lives in her cottage up north."

"She must be spry for age."

Molly chuckled. Despite her misgivings that spooning like this would work, her back was starting to warm where it was juxtaposed to his chest. "My dad tried to get her to a retirement village, telling her she was too old to live alone. She absconded and then told him she wasn't having any of it. It created a bit of family troubles."

Sherlock didn't reply. His breathing was deeper and his arm was starting to relax.

"Sherlock?"

"Go to sleep, Molly."

"Okay."

Her own breathing slowed as her body warmed under the coat and Sherlock's body heat. She closed her eyes and fell asleep.