Chapter 7

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Missing – Day 6 – 8

The cold had been unbearable early morning just before dawn. Despite the fact that they had managed to get some sleep, the cold was unrelenting that radiated from the ground through Molly's jacket that had played the part of a sleeping mat.

They had held out as long as they could but in the end had gotten up, pulling their coats back on. Sherlock had directed her, his exercises slow and painful while their teeth chattered and their breaths misted in front of the faces.

She had teared up, wondering how she would be able to do this for another night. Molly was tired. She was cold. She was hungry. She didn't let Sherlock see her tears, blinking them away while her back was to him.

The light started to turn as the sun started to push over the horizon. She stood still, watching the clouds as they lightened, grey and unforgiving against the sky. It had rained most of the night. Sherlock's coat had provided a buffer to her upper body and part of her lower body but her pants from her knees down and shoes were wet and uncomfortable. The material clung to her legs, cold and clammy.

"Breakfast?"

She looked up at him. It reminded her of her own attempts to invite him to coffee and the way he had always dismissed her fluently and without thought. He obviously was trying for some light-hearted jest.

"Sounds good." She replied, trying to match his mood. "What did you have in mind?"

"Mrs Hudson full English."

Dammit, she realised. He was missing for what, seven days now. She wondered if he had any food during that period. Looking at the way he was swaying on his feet and the gauntness he obviously hasn't eaten anything.

"When we get home, how but no obligation full English with muffins and coffee."

Sherlock nodded, sat back down. She could see the effort he took to not let her see how weak he had become. She sat down beside him, pulling the sleeve up on her wrist where they had branded her. The wound was weeping slightly. She wondered what the meaning was behind the branding. Ownership? She didn't want to think any further on the darker meaning behind the wound on her wrist. As always, Sherlock seemed to be reading her, because his next question didn't really surprise her.

"Have you ever seen this on any of the bodies coming in?"

She thought about it then, taking her time as she focused.

"No. I think I'll remember something like this."

He nodded. "I thought as much. We're not close to London in any way. I think this place is big enough to disappear bodies in, don't you agree?"

"Are we still in England?" she asked, her fears evident and so easy to spot.

He was silent. Stared off into the distance. "I don't know." He stated softly. "If we are, then this is a large estate. Much bigger than any I know."

"But isn't there a rule or something that you are allowed to roam? Surely with nature as unspoiled as this, there would be hikers?"

He gave a dark smile. "I guess any hikers that find their way here probably disappear."

It was a sobering thought. She didn't want to dwell on it. She stood up and put a fake smile on her face. "I guess it's time for us to get going?"

Sherlock didn't say anything and she pretended to not see how hard it was for him to get up. They set off slowly and she adjusted her speed to his pace.

Sometime during mid-morning, she slipped under his shoulder without a word. He leaned on her as he limped along, saying nothing as she gave him some of her strength as they trekked slowly towards what she hoped was freedom.

Mycroft snapped his phone shut, dropping it in his pocket. He was at home in his study, a brandy glass next to his chair. He tapped his fingers on the table as he thought about the past week. It has been hard in so many ways. There was just not enough data available to him to make concrete leaps of deductive reasoning. It was frustrating to say the least.

The man that they had picked up had finally caved. He was a low key operative in Moriarty's organisation. He had no knowledge whatsoever that was helpful in finding his brother.

And why did they take Molly Hooper. That was the other big unknown variable in his thoughts. Surely John would've been a more logical choice if they were trying to force his brother to give up information or just to control him. He was very aware how stubborn Sherlock could be when he wanted to.

The only positive in all this was that the text that he had gotten to tell him that Sherlock was still alive.

His door opened and he looked up, irritated that his thoughts were being interrupted. Anthea slipped into the room, closing the door quietly behind her. "Sorry sir, but I thought you should know. You got a package. It was delivered to the front door. No return address."

She handed it to him, a nondescript brown envelope. He inspected it but it was standard paper, standard penmanship. Nothing stood out. He opened it. Inside was Sherlock's scarf. He took it out. It unfolded, hanging from his hand as a taunt that he had no control over his brother and his whereabouts.

He got the message loud and clear.

They found a small tributary stream, crisscrossing its way down a hollow valley. They had sat down and Sherlock and Molly had drunk their fill. Sherlock had then taken off his shoes and socks and had placed his feet in the water. He leaned back, allowing the soothing cold to flow over and around his feet. Molly shifted next to him, lying down with her hands behind her head. If it weren't for the fact that they were in survival mode he might have thought it all together not unpleasant.

His eyes started to drift close. He was tired all the time now. He knew it was because he was starving and his body was consuming itself. It didn't take long for his breathing to deepen, and his body to relax completely as sleep took hold.

"It's ok, Sherlock," Molly said softly. "You can sleep for a little bit. I'll be here."

She took the time to give his feet a cursory examination. Her lips pressed together when she saw what they looked like. No wonder he was limping, and was in fact having trouble walking. She wondered what compelled him to keep going even when he was obviously hurting. She looked for signs of infection, and could see the beginnings of it.

There was nothing she could do to stem the tide of sickness. Knew that what they should be doing is staying where they were and let him rest. Let his feet rest. She was almost certain that Sherlock would have something to say against it. She washed his socks, wringing them as dry as she could and hanging them over some rocks. Keeping things clean will help but it won't be enough.

She cried a little then, moving away from him so that she could have a little privacy. She allowed herself a little time to feel sorry for herself, for the situation she was in.

"Molly," his voice was soft and raspy from sleep. She took a deep breath and dipped her hands in the stream and washed her face. Wiped away any of the evidence that she had cried.

"I'm ok. Just give me a minute."

He didn't say anything. Shifted upwards into a sitting position. The clouds were drifting apart, the sun slowly strengthening while he waited patiently for her to settle herself.

"Can we stay here for just today," she asked him softly. Behind her eyes blazed something more than just asking for permission. A stubbornness that she was hiding from him that she knew that he needed. Needed to give himself a little time to rest.

"They will be looking for us," he started to say.

"Please," she begged. "Just for today."

He was silent. He was gazing at her openly, a small frown forming as he tried to read her. "Molly," he admonished softly, "we don't have a choice."

"We do. We always have a choice, Sherlock."

He gave a small sigh. Shook his head. "No, not really. Not now."

"Fine. I know you don't." She stood up and walked away, her frustration boiling over. Sherlock who couldn't see how his actions affected others. How it impacted those around him.

She stomped up the hill, away from him until she reached the zenith. All that met her eyes were just more hills and valleys. No convenient national road with cars and people and safety. Unless it was tucked away behind one of the rolling hills and she just couldn't see it.

She listened to him labour up the hill. Knew the effort it involved on his starving body with his bad feet. He came to a standstill next to her.

"Okay?" he asked.

She huffed, and didn't look at him. He set off and she followed.

What else could she do?

John inserted the key into 221B, turning the lock and entering the door. The black car with agents that Mycroft had assigned to him had settled outside his door. He thought he saw a man across the street photograph him. Turned away and hurried off when John noticed him. Mrs Hudson's door was closed, locked. Mycroft had sent her off under protest to her sister. Had argued the point that she would be safer and out of the way in case Sherlock's kidnappers decided that John was a viable option.

He didn't want her in the crossfire.

Things would've been different if Sherlock was here, John thought. He would never have sent her off, out of the way. Sherlock needed her as much as he needed everyone else that was in his sphere of influence.

He pushed open the door to the flat to realise he wasn't alone. He stopped in the doorway, heart thumping in his chest as he looked at the figure waiting for him in Sherlock's chair.

"Hello John."

Her voice was throaty, her makeup perfect. Her hair coiffed up, elegantly curled to accentuate the features of her face. He cleared his throat, glancing down the stairs at the closed front door.

"How did you get in?"

"Really, that's the question you start with?" she said, eyebrows rising in surprise.

John put his hands on his hips, pursing his lips in frustration. Of course she would be here, find a way in that would bypass the security Mycroft had put in place.

"You and Sherlock then…"

She smiled. "He's still not returning any of my texts."

"Ah, okay," He dropped his hands. "So, you two are not…."

"No, we're not having dinner. Satisfied?" she asked, leaning back in Sherlock's chair and crossing one leg over the other in a manner that John found very provocative. She was watching him, gauging his reaction.

He went and sat down in his own chair, fingers drumming on the arm rest. He knew what she was doing. Had enough experience with Sherlock to not let her mind games get to him.

"It was him then that saved your life in Pakistan and managed to fool Mycroft into thinking you were dead?"

"Yes. It was Sherlock."

"Why?"

She didn't reply. He was hoping for an answer but saw that she wasn't willing to divulge any more on that chapter of her life.

I'm assuming that you have some news. The reason you're here."

She leaned forward, pulling a file from the side table beside Sherlock's chair. Handed it over to him. "It wasn't easy but I have found the man you're looking for."

John opened the file, taking out the full head photo of the man that had been responsible for Sherlock's kidnapping.

"His name is Lyle Bowman. He is a professional for hire, specialty is kidnappings. Especially the more difficult ones. Jim Moriarty has used him in the past. I've had…dealings with him on a personal matter." Irene almost looked embarrassed at the admission. John looked up from the file.

"How personal?"

"Let's not be indelicate."

John gave a dry chuckle. "Ah. Okay. Has he ever asked you about Sherlock?"

"No. I knew him a long time ago. Before Sherlock. Before Jim Moriarty."

"Okay," he drawled, flicking through the file.

"Lyle is a very dangerous man, John. He is not to be crossed. He operates mostly out of Europe. The fact that he was willing to be here on Mycroft's turf is telling. Whoever has Sherlock has paid a lot of money to have Lyle risk coming to the attention of Sherlock's brother. A risk he wouldn't have taken lightly."

"Do you know where he's now?"

She shook her head. "He's gone to ground. Rightly so. He will be very aware of what Mycroft would do to him if he found him. In that file you have enough to go on. Give it to Mycroft." She stood up, indicating for John to stay where he was when he started to rise.

She made her way to Sherlock's bedroom. Her hand lingered on the lintel and she looked back at John. "I'll see what else I can find. I'll let you know when I have more information."

And then she was gone. Her perfume still lingered in the air, a hint of jasmine in the air. John sat for a minute, his hand in front of his mouth. He gave himself some time to compose himself, to figure out what to say to the older Holmes.

How he was going to explain that Irene had somehow managed to evade the agents Mycroft had assigned to look after him.

When he was ready, he pulled his phone from his jacket and phoned Mycroft.

"This was your worst mistake," Lyle lectured, tossing the photos at the other man.

"I did as I was instructed. They didn't see me. You got results, didn't you?"

"I wouldn't use that excuse on Mycroft. He's smarter than Sherlock."

"He didn't see me. He won't know where to start looking."

Letting out a disgusted sigh, he turned to the younger man with growing annoyance. "Do not underestimate the Holmes brothers. They are not stupid." He pushed Jason into the wall, bringing his face close enough to feel the other man's rapid breaths. "If I see you again, you're dead. Disappear now. Visit Africa. Go to South America. I don't care." He stood back and waved a hand in the air, "Now go away."

He watched the younger man hurry away. Lyle straightened his jacket as he turned back to the table setup in the corner of the room. Starting a program on the laptop in front of him, he logged onto the MI5 secure server. The chatter was benign.

He tugged at the glove on his right hand before grabbing his phone and punching in numbers.

"It's me. I need you to get a team together to report to me in London. No, I don't care that you just got back to Dunedin."

"Who's the target?"

Lyle looked at the photos in front of him, spread out on the table. They were duplicates of the ones he had shoved into Jason's chest five minutes ago.

"I'll let you know," he said as he caressed one of the faces. He shut his phone as he picked up the photo of Irene Adler.

Pity really.

She knows what he likes.

They had spent the night underneath another outcropping. Sherlock had held her close, the shared warmth comforting. It hadn't rained and although the night had been cold, they were fairly comfortable compared to the previous times.

He knew that he was getting sick. Could feel it in the ache of his muscles, his exhaustion, the fever that threatened. He was afraid. He didn't want to tell Molly his fears. Of dying out here in the middle of nowhere. Of leaving her alone to a fate that wasn't deserved.

So, when she had asked him in the morning if he was all right, he had lied. It was easy to allay her fears, to put the right inflection on his voice and let her know that he in fact was fine.

She didn't believe him. Had seen straight through his attempt at deception. But she hadn't pushed back either. Probably realising that in the end it wouldn't make a difference.

It was now almost midday when they came upon the fence. It was high, at least three metres. He could hear the hum of electricity, and didn't need to inspect it any further to realise that they were not going anywhere over or through it without a plan.

It was gratifying to know that the estate had a boundary. It meant that there was a way out.

"What do we do now, Sherlock?"

He had sat down; energy spent as eyes dark with fever had stared at the barrier in front of him. He had looked to the left and right where it stretched off into the distance before curling slightly inward.

"There has to be a gate somewhere." He murmured, more a means of voicing his thoughts out loud then to answer her question. "A gate means a road. Means a car. Means a way to escape."

He closed his eyes, leaning slightly forward, his head on his knees as long fingers massaged his temples. He went into his mind palace, searching for answers.

Frustrated at the lack of resolutions, he voiced his disapproval in a drawn-out groan, slamming his fists on the ground. It was the first outward expression he had voiced in front of Molly. His body needed release.

He blamed the fever for his lack of self-control. For throwing a tantrum like a two year old. Noticed the way it affected her. He took a shuddering breath and then another deeper one, trying to bring his emotions under control. She hesitantly stepped closer to him and then into his personal space. She laid the back of her hand on his forehead.

"You have a fever, though I don't have to tell you, do I?" she said, taking her hand away and sitting next to him.

He looked away, saying nothing.

"How long?" she asked.

He played with a tussle of grass, focused on the way the blades of grass were feeling between his fingers. "This morning probably."

"Sherlock, I know I'm not John. But if we're going to survive whatever this is, I think it best if we're truthful, don't you think?"

He turned his head, brown eyes meeting blue. This Molly was different but still the same to the one in the lab. More assured somehow. He could see fatigue in the lines of her face. Could see hunger. Could see discomfort and aches in the way she held her body. But she was strong. Stronger than he would've imagined her to be.

Even though John would berate him for his thoughts, he was suddenly very glad that he wasn't doing this alone.

"Truth?"

She chuckled wryly, the wind pushing a strand of hair into her face. She wiped it away.

"That would be nice."

He shifted slightly and swallowed. Took a deep breath and felt a wave of heat radiate off his body. It pulsed off him, his eyes burned and his headache increased.

"Sherlock?"

Her voice held concern and her hand was back on his forehead.

"Let's get your coat off, okay."

He shivered when his coat was removed, the breeze pulling on his shirt, cooling his body down in a way that was not unpleasant.

"Molly," he said, as his vision blurred. "I don't feel so good."

He heard her say his name and then it all became a haze. He lost sense of time and then even that awareness was gone.

Molly had tried her best, on that grassy knoll next to the fence that beckoned freedom. She had watched with concern as the infection had attacked Sherlock's body. She had done as much as she could but in the end, Sherlock was too sick to move. He was shivering, beads of sweat on his forehead, semi-conscious and barely aware of his surroundings. She had tried to make him as comfortable as possible, raging against the lack of medical resources that she knew she needed to save his life. Had taken his shoes and socks off and had looked at the bloody mess that were his feet and knew where the infection was coming from. But knowledge without resources was poor as there was nothing she could do.

Late afternoon when she had despaired that she was going to watch him die, the men had come in a helicopter. For a moment she had been ecstatic, looking for Mycroft or John as she was sure that they had found them. They weren't there and when the helicopter landed at the bothy Sherlock had described to her, she knew that this was no rescue from the British Government. That their kidnappers were still in control.

She had followed them inside, Sherlock's coat in her arms. A swarthy man entered, small in height and almost rat like in his appearance and mannerisms. Small round glasses were perched on his nose as he tutted around Sherlock. He pushed up the sleeve of Sherlock's shirt, rough in his handling and not caring to be gentle. The man had started an intravenous drip expertly, setting up the bag on a pole by the mouldy mattress Sherlock was lying on. She watched from the side, having been told by one of the men to stay quiet and out of the way as the doctor cleaned her friends' feet and added antibiotic cream before wrapping them in bandages. Sherlock groaned during the procedure but didn't wake up.

He motioned her closed. "You know what to do, yes?"

She nodded as he gave her a blanket and medical supplies. She did a quick take, more bandages and antibiotic cream. Six more bags of antibiotics and saline.

"Antibiotics every eight hours. Keep the saline going. He's obviously dehydrated. If he dies, so do you."

And he had left, taking the men with him. She had heard the helicopter take off a moment later. She took a deep breath, looking around the room for the first time. She put the supplies on the floor next to the mattress and slipped the thin blanket over Sherlock, gently positioning his arm above it. The fireplace had been started by one of the nameless men that had brought them here and Molly was grateful that there was one less thing to worry about. A six pack of water bottles were placed beside the wall with some Ensure bottles. She had been instructed on feeding Sherlock when he was better. Wiping her eyes, Molly turned back to Sherlock. His breathing was shallow and fast. Lightly wiping his stubbled face, she wondered again at the strength she saw in him.

"Hey, you think you can wake up a bit for me, Sherlock?"

He didn't respond to her soft question and she had expected as much though inwardly she had hoped for some movement.

Sighing, she wiped her eyes again, her hand resting on his chest as he moaned briefly before settling back into sleep.

She fell asleep a short time later, her hand still on his chest so that she was sure he was breathing, unaware of the cameras in the room pointed right at them.

He watched the screen with interest. He had not anticipated how sick Sherlock would get. He attributed it to the man's stubbornness. Some of the others he had put in the same situation had rested. Had not pushed their bodies beyond endurance in the initial phases of their capture. Made a mental note to take that into consideration when he moved on to the next phase of his plan for the consulting detective.

His phone rang and he answered when he saw the number.

"What the hell are you doing? I told you I want him alive."

"He'll be fine. Some rest, some antibiotics and we can get back to it in a few days' time."

"I have a timeline that is sensitive. This wasn't part of the plan."

"He'll be ready."

"I'm still not sure that I approve of your methods. But I do like the game and this one is fun so far. Don't make me regret choosing you."

He closed his phone, dropping it on the table beside the screen that showed the inside of the bothy. Sherlock was clearly uncomfortable, moaning in sleep that had the girl up and checking the IV bag. He'll give them a few days, allow the detective to heal before he'll visit them.

It was time he introduced himself.