Chapter 10

Day 17- 120

Sherlock stumbled into the yard of the bothy just after midday. He came to a standstill, heaving in great gulps of air. He wiped at the sweat that dripped off his face, the muscles in his legs quivering, his hands shaking.

The helicopter was parked to the side, the pilot seated inside and paging through a magazine. He was too far away for Sherlock to see the title but he imagined it probably had something to do with aviation.

The door to the hut opened and Oliver stepped outside with Molly and his three men. Sherlock scanned her, took another shuddering breath when he didn't see any noticeable bruises on her. It seems Oliver had kept his side of the bargain that Molly wouldn't be harmed.

"You did not disappoint, Mr Holmes." Oliver stated, clapping his hands slowly. "Unfortunately, you're late."

"You didn't play fair, did you Oliver," he stated, blinking against the drops of sweat that were still forming despite his best effort to wipe them away. Forcing his breaths slower, he said, "You knew I wouldn't make it in time when you dropped me off."

"You did come the closest to anyone else I had set the time limit and distance on. I'll take that into consideration."

Sherlock gave a derisive chuckle. "Really. How kind of you."

"I aim to please Mr Holmes. This is an important lesson that you unfortunately must learn. If it's any consolation, your predecessors went through the same establishment of boundaries. I found in the end it made for a better understanding of the working relationship we will cultivate over the next few months."

"What's the whole point?"

"Don't you get it yet, Mr Holmes. Your life is not your own anymore. It is mine. And I plan to make money out of you."

Sherlock swayed and with sheer force of will kept standing. His breathing had slowed but his heart was still pounding visibly. His throat burned and he dry swallowed as he took in the words the other man had said.

"So you're nothing more than a bookie?"

"A bit more than that, won't you say Mr Holmes?"

"Purveyor of pain and broker to the big bad world out there?"

"Just so," Oliver said. He seemed pleased that Sherlock had made the connection. "There are quite a few men who are very happy that you are in my hands, Mr Holmes. I intend to do what I can to provide - shall we say - entertainment to a curated audience at your expense. Within my parameters of course." Oliver chuckled, seeming to find his own words amusing.

He turned to Molly who had been standing silently beside one of the men. "If it's any consolation, I am sorry."

"No, wait," Sherlock's baritone boomed across the yard. "Don't…"

"You can't stop this, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock rose to his full height. He met Molly's eyes. Took a deep breath and settled within himself.

"We'll see, won't we?" he said confidently.

Irene was seated in his favourite chair, drinking his brandy. Mycroft entered his study and a look of disdain centred on his face as he took in the tableau in front of him.

"Comfortable are we?" he sneered, making his way to the decanter table. He poured a generous amount into a snifter and taking up the glass made his way to the other chair.

"Yes, perfectly adequate." Irene smiled.

"Please, Ms Adler, don't waste your wiles on me. I'm not my brother."

Irene took a small sip. "I wouldn't dream of it, Mycroft. I know what you like."

"So, I assume you have some news from your…friends." Mycroft leaned back in his seat, crossing one leg over the other.

"Some. It's not good, Mycroft."

"Well, we both know that Ms Adler. Why else would we be sitting here pretending to be domestic."

"Moriarty doesn't have Sherlock."

Mycroft raised his eyebrows as he looked at her with interest. "Oh? How would you know that?"

"Because I asked, that's why."

"And he would tell you the truth because…?"

"Jim Moriarty has never lied to me before. Don't get me wrong Mycroft. He is involved but he doesn't have Sherlock."

"Very well. Do you know who does?"

"We wouldn't be sitting here if I knew that. There are rumours that I'm following up on. Rumours of an agent that provides games and the ability to bet on them. That this agent is the one that has Sherlock. And Ms Hooper. It's obvious why they took her."

"Yes, well. I personally had thought John would've made a better hostage to Sherlock's good behaviour."

"That is true. But think about it, Mycroft. Sherlock, despite appearances and his own perceived belief does have a protective side to him. Do you not think it is more so with someone he feels as weak and needs his protection. Someone like Molly Hooper that he already has some relationship with. The man who decided on her knows something of human nature, I think."

"Yes, and that is my brother's weakness. The one you exploited."

"Don't be dull, Mycroft. We both know you pushed him onto my path. That is neither here nor there. Let's focus on what we both want. Sherlock back home playing detective."

"And Ms Hooper of course."

She smiled, took a sip of her brandy. "Of course."

It's been at least an hour since Oliver and his men had left. They had taken Sherlock's shoes with them. Sherlock had tried his best but in the end, he had simply been overpowered. They had made him watch as Goon 2 had taken his fists to Molly Hooper's body with anatomical precision to inflict optimal pain but denying her the brink of losing consciousness. He had protested vehemently, had strained against the hands that held him but it had all been in vain.

Had closed his eyes when her screams and pleading had centred into his being. Had opened his eyes again when Oliver had demanded that he watch. Oliver had let it go on long enough until he had gauged that Sherlock had understood the message clearly and had then indicated to his men that they were leaving. He had promised Sherlock that he would allow them a little time to recover before he'll return.

Sherlock had watched them leave and then had crawled over to Molly. He kneeled by her side. He didn't know where to start, how to go about making it all hurt less. She was crying silently, her eyes closed as she curled in on herself.

"Molly," he said softly. His hands hovered over her, unsure what to do. In the end, he wiped her hair away from her face with gentle fingers. "Let me see, okay."

Her face was a mass of bruises, a cut above her left eye was bleeding profusely. Her lip was split and a hand mark displayed prominent on her right cheekbone. He knew that bruises were forming on her back and stomach. Understood how much it hurt.

He tore a piece of material from his shirt and went over to the well. Pulling up a full pail of water, he wetted the material. He went back to her and gently started to wash her face. The cut above her eyebrow didn't let up, and apologising, he put pressure on the wound.

She stiffened visibly. Her hand went up to his, trying to pull his hand away. "It hurts, Sherlock." She said, her voice quivering with emotion. "Please stop."

"We need to stop the bleeding, Molly. Just be brave a little while longer, okay." He said, talking to her like he would a frightened and hurt child. "Look, it's already congealing. Remember in the lab when we tested how long blood takes to make platelets under different sets of circumstances. Do you remember, Molly?"

"Yes. I remember."

"Good. What did we find was the average time it took, Molly?"

He could see Molly focusing on the science of haematology. She grimaced but in the end said, "About 5 minutes should do it."

"See, it's almost there."

"Facial wounds bleed more than the average, Sherlock," she stated softly.

"Yes, I know. About ten minutes then? Shall we do a little experiment?"

She was silent then, her eyes shut as her tears dried. She took a small deeper breath and then stilled almost immediately. "Ow, that bloody hurts."

"Where?" Sherlock asked. He lifted his hand slowly, pleased at the result. The wound had almost sealed and was now only mildly seeping. He got up and washed the piece of material he had been using as best he could until it ran almost clear. He proceeded to clean away the excess blood that had run down her face.

"My stomach and back."

"Ok. Can I look?"

She took a long time to answer him, so he asked again, softer. "Molly?"

"Okay."

He lifted her jacket and shirt, shifting around her as he inspected her back. He could see where Goon 2 had utilised his skill to hit Molly where it would hurt the most. Angry red skin was already forming bruises over her liver and kidneys. He traced the bruises around to her stomach. He pulled her jacket and shirt back down.

"It will hurt but it doesn't look like there is any internal bleeding." He said smoothly, busying himself with the water again. Not looking at her, he said softly, "I'm sorry, Molly Hooper."

"Not your fault this time, Sherlock."

He chuckled. "Glad to hear that." He turned serious, shifting onto his feet. His leg muscles protested and he was acutely aware how stiff they were becoming. The sweat had dried on his body, leaving an uncomfortable residue he didn't like. Grit and desperation all mixed in with the dirt and blood of his fight to get to the bothy on time and then the fight against Oliver's men.

He desperately wanted to rid himself of the feeling of failure.

"Do you think we can get you inside?"

"Okay. I'll try."

It took them thirty minutes to get Molly settled on the mattress. He had made sure she was comfortable before he made his way outside again. Ridding himself of his clothes, he took an impromptu shower, washing away what felt like his humiliation at not being able to protect her.

He ignored John in his head that was telling him that there was nothing much else he could've done. Ignored his own logic explaining to him that Oliver wanted to prove a point and what had happened was always going to happen, no matter what he did.

Afterwards, he sat on the well wall, watching the sun go down on the horizon.

He made a vow then, something he didn't take lightly.

To protect Molly Hooper at all costs.

The next three months were quiet. Irene had settled in Mycroft's guest house, quietly working away at the mystery agent. Mycroft left her to it. They barely interacted except for the occasional brandy in the evening. John chafed but there was nothing to be done. Mrs Hudson returned to her flat. Toby, Molly's cat, was living in the flat with John. He found it comforting to have another living being staying with him. The emptiness of Sherlock's chair and presence was at times too much.

Moriarty hadn't contacted Mycroft in that intervening time. No packages. No text messages. Just nothing.

Mycroft understood what the other man was doing.

John understood but protested until Mycroft had enough and sent him away to spend his time with Lestrade.

Lestrade had hit a wall in his investigation. Sherlock and Molly's photos were now relegated to late night police shows, their faces on screen for barely a minute while police were asking the public for help locating these missing persons.

It was as if Sherlock and Molly had disappeared off the face of the earth.

Oliver had been true to his word. He had left Molly and Sherlock alone for two days before he had returned with another challenge run for Sherlock. In the last three months, Sherlock had done on average a challenge run every two days, all with different time aspects and difficulty to it. On the harder ones that had been mentally and physically draining, leaving him with trembling muscles that would cramp painfully in protest, Oliver had allowed him three-day rest periods. Sherlock climbed mountains, swam in lakes, and ran the clock across hills and valleys.

Oliver would take Sherlock's shoes when he had rest time. Had explained to him that he had nowhere to go and therefore wouldn't need the footwear.

As for the physical challenges, Sherlock had the sneaky suspicion that some of the punters had the ability to set the terms of his challenge if they paid a high enough premium.

Spring turned into early summer. The nights were still cold but the days were getting longer. Warmer.

Sherlock's muscles were lean, honed by the exercise that was enforced on it and the lack of adequate sustenance. His hair curled around his shoulders, long and unkempt. His beard was fully grown. His skin had a light tan. He had notched his belt two turns in that time, his hips narrowing as starvation took its toll. Molly's clothes hung on her, two sizes too big now. Sherlock tried to encourage her to drink more of the Ensure that Oliver periodically provided but she insisted they share what Oliver gave them equally. He didn't challenge her on it. Knew it for the lost cause it was. He hated Ensure with all his heart but drank it because Molly asked him too. He had once asked Oliver if they could have some other type of food which had led to Oliver removing all the remaining bottles. The next time Oliver had come to take him for a new challenge set, he had apologised. Oliver had returned some of the bottles after his run and he had learned that asking for change was not acceptable.

As incentive when Sherlock beat the challenge sets, Oliver would provide them with different rewards. The first run he had given them some more Ensure. The second run he had given them a choice and they had taken the towel and soap that was offered. They had taken turns to wash. Sherlock had given Molly her privacy, staying inside the bothy while she sorted herself out. It had taken a while and at one point he had knocked on the door asking her if she was okay to be met with a very distinct yes. He had left her to it then, playing the waiting game by going inside his mind palace and sorting out the facts he knew of Oliver and his men.

Molly had smelled of soap when she had entered, her face flushed and clean. He had taken his turn then, trying his best with his shirt as well, giving it a good scrub. It was partway in tatters but it was the only covering he had besides his coat, so he gave it a good go. It hadn't been entirely successful but he had hung it in front of the fireplace to dry, glad to be clean.

Another blanket was followed by more Ensure and then a toothbrush and toothpaste. He had given it to Molly and she had protested. They ended with carefully washing the toothbrush between uses, sharing it. A scenario Sherlock had never envisioned in his life would happen.

When their bar of soap had run out, Sherlock had gone to great lengths on his next run to exceed Oliver's expectations. Their captor had been pleased. Sherlock had asked for another towel and soap. Had been gratified when Oliver had not only provided the second towel and soap but had added another soap bar as reward for his effort.

Afterwards, he sat outside on the well wall and dissected what he had done. Had realised with horror that he was actively looking for ways to please Oliver so that he and Molly could get treats. So that things could be more bearable.

This isn't forever, Sherlock. John said in his head at that moment. Play the game. Follow the rules. Do what you have to to survive. If it means kissing Oliver's arse, then do it. Do this for Molly.

The only visible reminder Molly kept from her beating was a faint scar above her eyebrow and her fear she couldn't hide whenever Oliver and his men were around. Oliver would assert his power on and off. The result of it was another set of bruises to either Molly or Sherlock when they did something he didn't like. They learned in the process what pleased Oliver. What was acceptable behaviour. Overall, as long as Sherlock did as he was told and followed directions, Oliver pretty much left them to it, to do as they pleased when he wasn't around.

They got into a routine. Had household tasks they performed. When it wasn't raining, they would sit outside the bothy, against the wall and soak in the sun and heat, away from the ever-present cameras. Sherlock had Molly go for walks in the immediate surrounds of the bothy. Told her that she needed to be fit for the day they would escape. They washed their clothes at least once a week on separate days. They would hang it out to dry either outside by the well or in front of the fireplace, a towel around them for modesty. Underwear was challenging. The first time he had walked out to find Molly's bra and panty hanging on the broken chair had been mortifying for both. They had learned to adjust. It didn't faze him anymore.

He and Molly bantered. They argued. They talked about things they'd do when they were back home. The food they'd eat. Sleeping in a warm bed. Taking hot showers. Being back at the lab and experimenting. Then Sherlock had spent one evening stomping up and down the yard, having been kicked out by Molly, muttering about damn women and their hidden messages when he put his foot into it and it had turned out what he thought was a compliment was not perceived as such at all.

John in his head laughed at him. Told him he deserved it.

They had made him more obstinate and angrier and he had taken the time to unravel his own feelings until he had felt he had an answer. He had returned inside late to tell Molly exactly why she was wrong to find her fast asleep, curled on her side her hair tie clutched in her hand to her chest, reminiscent of the first time he had seen her like that after he had woken from his fever.

The scene had put a stop to what he had wanted to say. Her vulnerability had pulled at his heart and he had pushed it away with effort.

Sentiment was going to get them killed.

All the time he was looking and watching and waiting for Oliver to make a mistake.

It was the day they came to take Molly away.

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