Chapter 8 Missing – Day 9 – 12

Mycroft had arrived forty minutes after his phone call. To say that Mycroft had not been amused by Irene Adler's antics in bypassing the men he had put there to protect John Watson was an understatement to say the least. Words had been spoken and John had been privy to them, the men withering in front of the older Holmes' anger.

The end result was that two men now stayed on his person at all times. The illusion he had of privacy completely gone. Mycroft had sat down in Sherlock's chair, opening the file she had left and had read it through without saying a word. John had busied himself with making tea, bringing the set, and placing it by the side table next to Mycroft. The older man had not commented, in fact had added sugar and milk and took a sip all the while focusing on the file.

The silence had stretched while John waited.

"She's thorough." Mycroft stated, closing the file. "She would've made a very fine agent indeed."

John grunted, taking a sip of his own tea.

"Tell me exactly what she had said. Word for word."

He did as much of what he could remember. Mycroft grilled him and he answered as best he could until the older man was satisfied that he had gotten as much as he could out of John.

Mycroft stood up, the file still in his hand. "I have a few phone calls to make. I'll see myself out."

"Have you heard anything more?" John asked.

Mycroft paused at the doorway. John rose from his chair, focused on the other man. "You did, didn't you?"

"I received a package earlier. It contained Sherlock's scarf. Nothing but posturing."

"Postu…. bloody hell, Mycroft. I thought we're on the same team here. I want Sherlock found as much as you."

Mycroft turned, thumping his umbrella on the floor, looking at the indentation he made in the carpet. "I didn't see any value in letting you know, John. It was a warning to me, personally. Let it go."

John fisted his right hand. Took a warning step closer to the other man.

"Let's not be vulgar, John. I'm not my brother. I don't feel the need to impress you with my intellect. I'll keep you abreast as much as I can but you don't need to know everything. Am I clear?"

John visibly relaxed his hand. The inflection with which Mycroft had spoken was a clear warning and chillingly delivered. John understood then how the older Holmes had reached the position he currently occupied.

"You are still a vital part that will play out in this little game we're currently in. I'm almost seventy five percent sure that you are going to be a key part in helping us find my brother. It would do you well to practise some patience."

On that note, he left. John kicked the couch for good measure, cursing Mycroft Holmes and his bloody intellect.

Awareness had come back to Sherlock on the second day of his convalescence. The fever had still raged but he was more awake, every ache enhanced as the infection wrought havoc on his body. Molly had removed the blanket, his shirt and to his embarrassment, his trousers so that he was only clad in his underwear and had helped him off the mattress. She had used the tin and had poured the cold water from the well over him, ignoring his complaints as she had gone about the business of keeping him alive. The water had soaked into the hard packed floor as he had sat, shivering while heat radiated off him in waves.

He had gone back to sleep shortly after, curling into a tight ball on the mattress. He had asked for the blanket, feeling exposed and cold but she had not relented. Told him that he'd get it back when his fever had gone down and he was better.

That it served him right for not listening to her when she had asked him to rest when they had been in the hollow.

They had kept the ritual going until he had woken to find the blanket over him. Molly was fast asleep next to him but on the floor, her head resting on the mattress at an uncomfortable angle. He realised he felt better, watching as the antibiotics dripped from the bag on the stand down his arm.

He scanned her. She was clearly exhausted. Dark circles were under her eyes, her face lined and drawn out. Her jacket was streaked with dirt, her pants not much cleaner. Her hair was in disarray, her hair tie crunched in one hand that was held tight to her chest.

Molly Hooper, he thought. Who had given everything off herself without asking for anything in return. He blinked away the thoughts he didn't want to contemplate.

Something in his breathing must've changed because she awoke instinctively, sitting up and blinking away the sleep. Her hand automatically went to his forehead, testing. Took it away slowly and gathered her hair in the same movement, tying it with sharp jerky movements.

"You think you're up for some food?" she asked.

He gave a half smile. Remembered sitting by the fence and his last real awareness before he had passed out. "Truth?"

She sat back on her knees, inspecting him with a small frown creasing her eyebrows.

"That would be nice."

"Not very hungry. Just tired."

"Okay. Fair enough. But you're going to have to eat soon. It will help your body heal, Sherlock."

He shifted under the blanket, pulling it over his shoulders as he burrowed in, turning on his side. His coat was scratchy against his face but not too unpleasant. He realised that Molly must've placed it under his head at some point as a replacement pillow in lieu of the fact that there weren't any real ones lying around.

Her hand was soft on his head, murmuring something about the fever. He closed his eyes, too tired to respond.

His breathing deepened and he fell asleep soon after.

Did you like my gift?

The text had come in the early morning, after he had settled. It had been three days since he had seen John and had gotten the file that Irene Adler had left for him. He had switched on his side lamp and had read the message. Shortly thereafter another one came through.

He's not doing that well.

This had notched up the concern he had for his brother. He had leaned back against his headboard, dropping the phone on the bed. He knew there weren't going to be any more texts this night.

Moriarty clearly was asserting control. Setting the boundaries before he would come with his demands.

He had gone into the office early in the morning while most people were still asleep. Had set about getting ready for the day and the meetings he needed to attend. Read reports that were piled on his desk as he contemplated the Lyle Bowman conundrum.

He knew that the man had been involved in both Sherlock and Molly Hooper's abductions. Had read the forensic report from her flat. Had with interest noted the used syringe that he had found in her trash can. A common sedative that would've rendered her unconscious for at least 6 hours based on the amount that had been given. A deduction that had been made on leftover residue in the tube and how high the plunger had been pulled.

He wondered if they had used the same on Sherlock. Probability was high. He didn't think his brother would've gone willingly otherwise.

Based on that, they could be anywhere really. England or the continent. Somewhere private and out of the way. He considered the fact that Moriarty had multiple residences across Europe. It was more than likely that they had missed one or two.

His agents had not found any sign of Lyle Bowman. It seems that the man or his kidnapping ring had not been active for at least six months in Europe. He had directed them to focus their energies on finding the man in England. Was certain that Lyle was not too far away. John Watson would probably be next on the man's list.

Iren Adler might find Lyle before he does. She was dangerous and an unknown agent but she did have some vested interest in finding Sherlock for some reason he couldn't quite phantom. Maybe it was a thank you from her part for Sherlock saving her life in Karachi.

Mycroft knew that whatever Moriarty was playing at was long term. That much was evident by the amount of time that had passed since his brother had been taken and the slow drip feed that the consultant criminal had been feeding him.

He sighed.

He could only hope that his brother wasn't making things too hard for himself and that he'd for once let reason rule and not his heart.

"Sherlock. You promised."

He sighed and took the Ensure bottle from Molly. The drink was vile, the taste chalky at best. He had no idea how people could stand to drink it. There were two bottles left of the stash that had been left by their captors. He had seen the value in making sure that his body got sustenance but he didn't have to like it.

"Fine. You first."

Molly made a face, took a breath, and then downed her bottle. He followed suit, swallowing as fast as he could in the hopes that it would help disguise the horrid taste.

It didn't work.

They had been left alone now for four days. They had gotten into a somewhat of a routine. Drinking a bottle in the morning and in the evening. They shared the mattress. His body folded comfortably around Molly. There hadn't been much choice, really. It was a single mattress and not big enough to have other sleeping arrangements. During the day, Molly stacked firewood inside for the nights. Helped Sherlock in the initial phases of his recovery to get up and outside until he was strong enough to do it himself.

All the while he was thinking. Working on the problem of how he was going to get them out of there.

He was dressed in his shirt and trousers. His feet were now free of the bandages, healed to some extent. He still was recovering though, fatigue setting in easily. He had used the time to search the bothy in the daylight and had found four cameras in all. It didn't leave much for privacy and Molly had baulked when he had shown her in the end. He had debated keeping the surveillance from her. Had put the cons and pros next to each other. Had waited until this morning when he had felt that it might be more prudent to tell her.

For some reason he couldn't phantom she had taken offence at the fact that he hadn't told her earlier.

"Molly, don't be unreasonable. It doesn't matter, does it."

She stood with her mouth agape, staring at him like he was mad.

"If you're so worried about privacy, don't be. I'm the one who sat in front of the fireplace in my underwear. Think about that. It's not like it was you who were semi-naked and forced to take an ice bath. On multiple occasions I might add."

She had made a point of ignoring him, exiting the room. He had gone looking for her, finding her by the well.

"Molly."

"I'm not talking to you right now, Sherlock. Just leave me alone."

He had sat down next to her on the wall well and wished with all his being that John was there to help him. Human emotion and response were a mystery to him and he wasn't sure on his next move. Surely she could see that his logic was sound.

"See, this is exactly why I didn't tell you earlier, Molly. You're being unfair."

She looked up at him, brown meeting blue eyes. In a voice gone dangerously soft, she said, "Unfair? Really, that's your argument?"

He frowned. Molly seemed angry.

Why?

"I'm…sorry." He tried, feeling out the words hesitantly. That's what people do, right. Apologise.

"Not a good time, Sherlock."

"Molly, please."

She sighed. "Sherlock. I need time to process, okay. Now would be a good time to just leave me alone for a bit. I, uhm. I'll be okay. You just need to give me time to think this through, please."

Sherlock got up. He was unsure if she in fact wanted to be alone or not. Vaguely remember John telling him once that women sometimes just needed you to be there. To be present in the body. He had no idea whether Molly would be part of that group or if she was different.

"Molly, uhm, do you want me to stay?"

"Sherlock. Please leave."

He visibly relaxed. At least Molly understood him in a way that most people didn't. Instructions clear, he went back inside the hut. He sat down on the mattress and went into his mind palace. This time it was to just sit down and pretend John was there. That he was sitting in his chair, John across from him. Mrs Hudson would come in with tea. John would read his paper.

His head dipped and he startled awake. Realised that he had started to drift off. Molly still hadn't returned but imaginary John told him to let her be so he settled on the mattress, pulled the blanket over himself and fell asleep, despite telling himself that he'd wait for her.

Later he felt the mattress dip and she settled next to him. Relaxing finally, he fell asleep, his arm curling around her unconsciously.

Sherlock woke abruptly when Molly stiffened in his arms. They both listened, holding their breaths. They could hear the crunch of feet on the ground outside the door.

"Sherlock" she whispered, looking back at him, her eyes dark with fear.

"It will be ok." He whispered back but he didn't believe it. They sat up as the door opened. Three men entered the bothy, spreading out. They were dressed in slacks and jackets with hiking boots. Sherlock noticed the guns hidden in shoulder holsters. As he had thought previously, common thugs for hire. Professional. He dubbed them Goon one, two and three. Goon one exited and returned with two camping chairs that he set up by the fireplace.

Apparently satisfied that they were not going to try anything, they indicated for them to stand up. One of the men took the mattress and dragged it up against the wall, out of the way. Sherlock watched a man enter the bothy. He carried a subtle arrogance in his mannerism, hidden violence in the way he walked. He was older, dark hair coloured with grey. Brown eyes met Sherlock's gaze clearly. He was a man used to authority and used to obedience. He was dressed for the outdoors and clearly in his element. He smirked when he noticed Sherlock appraising him.

Turning full circle, his arms spread wide he said, "Like what you see, Mr Holmes?"

Sherlock shrugged. He pulled Molly slightly behind him when the man started to circle them, hands behind his back. Sherlock almost rolled his eyes at the intimidation tactics the man was employing.

Moron, he thought but didn't say.

When he was behind Sherlock he grabbed Molly by the arm, pulling her in towards him and away from Sherlock. He took a step towards the man in warning, ignoring the guards, his breaths deep and his eyes fixed on him.

"Let her go," Sherlock said, his voice taking on a low warning tone. He had taken note of where the guards stood around the bothy. Had catalogued all the vital points on the man in front of him. He calculated the odds at hurting the man and taking out the three guards

There was a five percent chance he would be successful. Realised with regret that now was not the time to fight.

"Protective of her, are you?" The man released Molly and stepped back. "But then again. That was rather the point of bringing her here."

The man watched with interest Sherlock's anger percolate.

"She's not the one you're here for," Sherlock responded, positioning himself slightly in front of the pathologist.

"That depends on how you look at it." His gaze slipped from Sherlock to Molly. "Tell me Sherlock, are you willing to play the game now?"

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