Chapter 14

Day 126

He was at a traffic stop when the car door opened and Moriarty entered.

"You don't text or return any of my calls. How naughty of you Mycroft."

Mycroft stared at the other man, couldn't believe the audacity he had to enter his car. Agent Pierson turned in his front seat, his hand on the Glock in his shoulder holster. The criminal rolled his eyes and giggled and Mycroft was suddenly aware of a gun barrel digging into his side.

"Really?" he sneered as he waved the agent off. "Do we have to go down this childish route? You threaten, I threaten…"

"But it's fun, isn't it?"

Mycroft didn't dain to discuss the point any further.

"Where's my brother and Ms Hooper?"

"As I told Irene, I don't have them."

The older Holmes raised an eyebrow, meeting the consulting criminal's gaze. "And I should believe you because…"

Moriarty smiled as the car started to move again when the lights turned green. "No, seriously. I don't have them. I promised Dr Watson – who is quite comfortable in the little cottage I put him – that I'd let him see Sherlock." He giggled and sat back, still training his .45 on Mycroft as a warning. "I am so looking forward to seeing how he'd react when Dr Watson realises that's not going to happen. I wonder if he'd cry…" Moriarty said introspectively. "…big fat tears over not seeing him."

Mycroft sighed, looking bored.

"I have people who can make you talk, you know. What is to stop me from taking you in right now?"

"Duh. My big gun, dummy. And you couldn't make me talk last time. How do you think it will go this time?

"What do you want?"

"You know what I want, my dear. Time is running out, Mycroft. Stop stalling and give the codes to Lord Marsden."

"I'm not stalling. The codes only get generated on Friday morning. Patience is a virtue you would be well versed to invest in."

Moriarty stared at the other man and pursed his lips then. When the car slowed down to stop at the next traffic light, he opened the door and got out, leaving a last parting remark. "Tomorrow then. Don't play me, Mycroft. You know what I can do. People will die."

Sherlock and Molly made their way down the stone wall on the paddock side. The farm road on the other side was quiet and they hadn't seen any cars or trucks since they started following the road. Sherlock was convinced it would lead them to either a farmhouse or a secondary road that could have more traffic. Would have the potential of phones and rescue. Since escaping the compound, they have been steadily making their way, resting, and hiding when they could. Oliver's helicopter was visible at times, flying in a definite search pattern. Sherlock had been careful, working out where Oliver was focusing his attention on the search and had gone the other way. At one stage they had to double back, when two pickup trucks had stopped at the end of the road and men had exited the vehicle, spreading into the surrounding land.

The stone wall started to bend away from the road and Sherlock had to decide. Follow the road and risk exposure or stay with the wall and potentially move further away from civilization. He spoke to Molly and they debated the pros and cons of both options, seated against the wall. Hunger was a constant companion now. They haven't eaten anything since their escape. Had shared the water bottle he had, refilled it at streams that they had found. The jacket Sherlock had taken off the guard had helped but both were over the cold nights spent walking. They had bruises on their shins from walking into things they couldn't see in the dark. Scraped hands from scrabbling up and down the hills. Sherlock sported a long thin line across his forehead when he had slipped and banged his head on a shed door after he had lost his grip on a hay bale.

They were still discussing which way to go when the sound of a truck engine was heard. It stopped on the other side of where they were sitting and Sherlock heard car doors open and shut. The rustle of clothes and the scrunch of boots on the gravel.

"It's over, Mr Holmes. You both can come out now."

Time stood still right at that moment. Dread spread its fingers over Sherlock. Molly shook her head, eyes wide with fear. Sherlock didn't move. Couldn't. How? How did Oliver find them? He had been careful. He closed his eyes, the map he had been following in his head, an overlay of the search patterns he had put on it whenever he had seen the helicopter or one of the pickup trucks. He knew the potential had been there that their escape attempt might be engineered. They had still taken the chance that had presented itself. He had been certain that once they made it out the estate that they would be able to outsmart Oliver. Get to a phone or people before he found them. What he had not envisioned was the man knowing exactly where they'd be.

He blinked. He's been an idiot. He thought. He looked down at the hiking boots that had always been provided courtesy of Oliver. The boots he had inspected and had found no flaw in. Obvious really.

"Come now, Mr Holmes. Please don't make me come get you."

There was an inflection on Oliver's voice that made it clear he wasn't going to ask again. He knew that tone well. Had learned over the last four months exactly what would happen if he didn't listen. If he chose to ignore it. He and Molly looked at each other. He gave her his hand. She nodded wearily. They stood up on legs gone numb and turned, facing Oliver and his men. Inside, hope died a little. Oliver stood between his men, smirking.

"How nice to see you again, Mr Holmes. Ms Hooper. You gave quite a good performance. Well done." He curled a finger, indicating that they climb over the wall. Sherlock let go of Molly's hand. He scrambled over the wall and helped Molly over. Sherlock pulled Molly to stand slightly behind him, his back to the wall. He scanned Oliver. Scanned his men. He didn't like what he saw.

"Nothing to say, Mr Holmes?"

"Surely you would've realised that given the opportunity we would take it to escape," he said, swallowing against the dryness in his throat.

"Oh, I was counting on it." Oliver said, grinning. "It was a master class to watch my men fumble around the edges, looking for you. Thanks for the education. You managed to get the furthest away from the bothy than anyone else before you. We will re-enact your attempt and teach my men to better anticipate although I think it will be a long time before we get anyone of your calibre again."

"What do you mean?" Sherlock asked, frowning.

"Oh, don't be coy, Mr Holmes. You're a lot smarter than that. Work it out."

A small tick appeared on Sherlock's cheek. His jaw clenched. He shook his head.

"Come now, Mr Holmes. Share with the class."

Sherlock glanced at Molly. His hand brushed her arm. He could see disappointment in her eyes. Tears were close, threatening but she took a breath and steadied herself.

"This was a test."

"Just so," Oliver said. The three men that were with Oliver spread out, coming to a standstill beside Molly and Sherlock.

"And…" Oliver drawled.

"We failed."

"Excellent. Do you get that it's about trust? A lesson you still must learn. Because once I deem you trustworthy, things will get better."

Sherlock's gaze met the other man. He saw no mercy. Just what is to come. Fear, raw and unfettered, centred on his stomach, and spread out. He remembered his three days with Oliver when he had dared to rebel. His body reacted to his fear. His heart rate increased. Sweat started to form on his brow. His hands went clammy.

"Yes." He pauses. Gather his courage. "What happens now?" he asks, his voice cracking. He hated himself at that moment for his fear response. Hated that Oliver had this much control over him.

"Well, surely even you would understand that actions have consequences, Mr Holmes." Next to Sherlock, Molly moaned, shifting closer. Her hand clenched the back on his shirt. He didn't have to think too hard to remember Molly lying in the dirt, bloodied and bruised. To remember his own trauma at Oliver's hands.

"You never made it a rule," he said strongly, trying to banish the thought of Molly being the recipient of another assault. Of his own experience. His fear for what Oliver will do increased.

"Excuse me."

"You never said that we're not allowed to escape. It wasn't a rule."

"It was implied."

Sherlock clenched his hands repetitively. His thoughts raced through his mind, trying and disregarding pathways that would be successful. Ones that would placate the man in front of him. Ones that would please Oliver and minimise the damage he was certain to come. It was a decision tree multiplied, the threads he followed blinding against his mind's eye. Dizzying. He closed his eyes to focus. To hone in. Realised with horror that none of the paths led anywhere good.

He and Molly were going to get hurt, no matter what he did.

Anger replaced the horror. Fear morphed into false bravado. His emotions couldn't be contained anymore. His eyes opened. He straightened. Took a step towards Oliver.

"You didn't make it an absolute rule. You didn't specify the parameters, as you so aptly like to use when setting my challenges. Therefore, logic dictates that consequences would be minimal. You were planning this. Planning for us to fail. Planning for us to do your little dance. Run the maze. You cannot therefore exact your 'consequences' when we didn't know the rules. That is unfair."

"Sherlock," Molly admonished softly but he was fed up. His emotions that he had been suppressing for the last four months had finally exploded from the confinement in his mind palace he had pushed and later forced in. The door in the basement he had thought to have latched properly. The door was broken and it was like a physical force on his body, pushing and pulling to escape. A ball of fury and shame and fear and disappointment he couldn't contain even if he tried.

He hurt.

He was tired.

He was hungry.

Hated the cold.

Hated wearing the same clothes day in and day out.

Hated that Molly had been pulled into this game with Oliver.

Hated that all it took in the end was the thought of Molly being hurt for Oliver to force compliance on him.

Hated with all his being what Oliver and his men had done to him during those three days they had taken him away from Molly to teach him what happened when he had deliberately chosen to fail one of the challenges as rebellion for all Oliver had asked of him. And had learned his lesson. He wished with all his heart he could delete and never revisit those memories again.

Not that he hadn't tried. They just kept coming back.

He wished he had never understood what giving in looked like.

What brokenness and desperation felt like.

Hated that his careful constructed world of intellectual pursuit had been completely shattered by the men in front of him.

That he was forced to confront his baser needs. To acknowledge their existence.

He wanted to be back in his flat, drinking his tea and solving cases. He missed John. Mrs Hudson. Lestrade. Even Mycroft.

Missed going to Barts. Missed doing his experiments.

And in the end, he knew it was all about control. He had no control over his life anymore. Everything was dictated by the man in front of him.

And he had no choice.

His eyes didn't see Molly anymore. He didn't see anything except for the men he was about to lash out on.

He deliberately scanned the men in front of him, sneering as he did so. The facts he had from all his interactions with them before, facts he had carefully crafted and honed and packed away to be used against them. Had never envisioned that anger would dictate the words or actually verbalise any of it.

It was supposed to be used in a carefully crafted trap that would help him and Molly escape. The trap got blown away and was trampled on as he eviscerated the men before him with his tongue.

"I'm just going to call them goon 1, 2 and 3 as I can't be bothered with names and you have never bothered to provide them. Goon 1 grew up with a fisherman for a dad. I can see the old hook scars on your hands. There is a small scar under your left eye. I guess daddy was alcoholic because he didn't care that you nearly impaled yourself when you tried to cast. You had a hamburger for lunch. You love meat, don't you? Veggies wouldn't harm you once in a while. But lifestyle choices, hey. You don't care for personal hygiene. You shower every other day if you do bother. Which is concerning because I'm almost certain you are sleeping with Goon 3's wife. Noooo, make that his partner. Job doesn't scream stability for domestic bliss, now does it. As for you," Sherlock sneered, turning to the man he had dubbed goon 3, "you regret your life choices. Hate that you were nothing more than a bully boy for Oliver. You have ambition. You want more but you have the brain cells of a mouse. Can't think further than the nose on your face so you will never become more than you are now. You resent it. Try to make up for it by perfecting your 'craft'. The science of hitting a body where it would hurt most without actual permanent injury. Let me tell you as a recipient of your 'craft'. You suck at it. Especially when you take out your frustration on those you are asked to 'retrain'. But deep inside you hate Oliver. And you want to leave but know that you won't get anything better out there with any other criminal organisation. So, you stay. And nurture your little pathetic grudges." Sherlock gave a derive chuckle. His focus reshifting to the last of the men. The one that had always stayed with Molly. The one that had hurt Molly. The one he hated with everything inside him. The one he would kill if he had a chance more than any of the others.

For he had made Molly cry.

"You are secretly vegan. You hide behind the façade of brutality but you hate the sight of blood. Go figure. An enforcer who gets nauseated by blood. You stay because you love the violence. You hide from your work mates the fact that you have two cats. That you adore them. I guess even evil henchmen need pets, right. Did you really buy them little outfits and dress them up? I guess that would do wonders for your reputation now."

"Sherlock…"

The consulting detective ignored Molly's small voice behind him as he turned on Oliver.

"As for you Oliver," he emphasised the last word, drawing out his name in derision, "you are something else, aren't you. Highly educated, is my guess. But there must've been something off with you because your colleagues never liked you, did they. Neither did mommy and daddy. Did they take you to see a shrink? Trying to figure out why you were pulling wings of insects, the firesetting, your callous disregard for anything breathing. I guess that's where you learned how to lock those dark little thoughts away behind a veneer of normality, only to inflict their hideous designs on unsuspecting victims later. The choice of field was obvious really when it came to further studies. Something in the medical field is my guess. Psychiatry? Yes. Because you got to toy with your patients' emotions under a charade of care. Sanctioned mental torture hidden in plain sight, where you could hone your craft of weaponized manipulation. You must've revelled in your power. Is that when Jim Moriarty found you? Oh, I know he's involved. He was the one that suggested me. You've been doing this for the last…what…five years. Never had anyone challenging enough, right? All those boring, normal people with their trivial, sad lives. So when Jim suggested me, you did your research. Decided that I could become your new benchmark. What is your plan, Oliver? Are you relishing playing out your dark little delusions of grandeur?

He missed the cue from Oliver. His focus that was pinpoint to the exclusion of any other external stimuli suddenly widened when there was a shriek from Molly and when he turned to look, a fist landed solidly on his liver. He grunted in pain, lashing back with an elbow and felt slightly satisfied when he felt it connect but his eyes were on Molly as she was dragged back by goon 3 and then Oliver had her. He lashed out then, letting anger guide his hands and fists. He danced and flowed between the three men, trying to make his way to Oliver and Molly. Grunts and swear words followed his dance. Goon 2's eyebrow split from a well-aimed punch by him. Goon 1 doubled over when he kicked back, hitting him square in the solar plexus. He managed to avoid some punches but one of the men tackled him to the ground. He rose, flinging the man off but then the blows landed on his face and body from the other two. They weren't holding back anymore and neither was he and it became an ugly brawl.

Through it all, on a distant plane he was aware of Oliver watching everything with clinical detachment. And there came a point where he must've had enough because Sherlock heard a loud crack and Molly scream. It was primal, full of pain and his heart stopped. He ceased fighting and finally submitted. Blood was dripping from his mouth and nose; from a cut above his eye; his shirt was torn, bruises red on his skin but his attention was completely focused on Molly.

Molly who was cradling her arm. Oliver had his grip on the back of her neck, keeping her close to his own body.

Clean break. Probably used leverage to do it. Will be easy to set. Shouldn't have long term problems with full motion. Shock to settle within the next five minutes. Arm numb but pain will flare in the next ten seconds. Breathing shallow and fast. Pale skin. Tears starting…

He couldn't scan her anymore. It was too much input. His senses were overwhelmed. One thought took hold.

Oliver will die for what he did to Molly.

Goon 1 and 2 pulled him upright, hands on his wrists pulling them uncomfortably high up his back and he grunted.

Oliver smirked.

"Say you're sorry."

He placed his other hand on her broken arm and Molly whimpered.

"Stop it!" Sherlock shouted, straining against the men who held him.

Oliver squeezed lightly and tears now flowed freely down her cheeks. She bit her lip and Sherlock could clearly see the effort it took for her not to scream again.

"Say it."

"I'm sorry." He said softly, "Now back off." He growled dangerously low. Oliver wisely let go of Molly's arm but kept his hand on her neck, silently warning her not to move.

"I think it's time we got back to your lesson, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock felt his breathing hitch. "Leave her alone. You touch her and I'll kill you."

He felt cuffs slip around his wrists and he was pushed onto his knees. Hands on his shoulders kept him down.

"You should've thought about this before you mouthed off. But you always think you're so smart, don't you Mr Holmes. High and mighty. Mr Clever. Well, not this time." Oliver stated viciously. "I wonder if she can outrun a bullet?"

"No…" Sherlock breathed. The anger that had driven him up till this point suddenly left. A dark hole opened inside him and fear made his appearance felt. The hands on his shoulders were heavy but he tried surging forward only to land face down in the road, a knee between his shoulder blades.

"Please." He pleaded, unashamedly. Because he suddenly realised that Oliver was prepared to go through with his threat. That he had underestimated the man before him once again. He wasn't prepared for Molly to pay the price of his mistake.

This was the second time he had begged Oliver. The first time Oliver had him for three days after his attempt at rebellion had gone horribly sideways and had rearranged everything that he thought he was. When he learned that to please Oliver was better than fighting him. His eyes were closed as he finally submitted completely, deflating visibly.

He jumped when he heard a gunshot. Desperately, his eyes flared open to see Molly still alive, still standing, the smoking gun in Oliver's hand pointed to the side, away from his body. The warning was clear. He understood that there won't be a next time.

The pressure on his back moved off. He blinked against tears, willing them away as emotions he was unaware of how to handle surged through his body. The thought of Molly not being in his life was not something he could bear.

He took a breath. Groaned when they pulled him upright. He was silent when they bundled him into the back of the pickup, his face all angles, his lips pressed together.

You bloody idiot. You should've kept your mouth shut. This is your fault that Molly got hurt. John's voice was loud in his head and he couldn't shut it down. He argued with John. Told him that Oliver was going to hurt her anyways. His argument fell flat against John's stare. He realised that he couldn't argue his way out of the fact that it really was his fault. That he had allowed the storm of his emotions to build up until this point where they couldn't be contained anymore. Guilt joined everything else raging inside him, heavy and unfamiliar.

He looked up as Molly hissed and then whimpered. She was squished between goon 2 and 3 in the back seat of the double cab.

Oliver looked behind him and met his gaze and seemed satisfied by what he was seeing before turning back.

Sherlock was silent at Oliver's triumph.

He should've seen this coming. Should've anticipated the impact Moriarty would have on the parameters of their escape. On the fact that Oliver had done this multiple times.

Should've anticipated that it would all be a ruse.

But foremost in his mind was the fact that he had broken his vow.

He had failed to protect Molly Hooper.

"Strip."

Sherlock was standing in front of a lake, the helicopter parked to the side on a small rise. The pickup was right behind Oliver, the men and Molly standing in front of the truck. He took off the jacket, his shirt and shoes and trousers. Stood in his pants on the lake shore, the wind ruffling his hair.

"All of it."

He swallowed but did as he was ordered, shivering in the cold air and water spray that was whipped up by the wind. He covered himself with his hands while Oliver took photos, explaining that Mycroft and John had wanted proof of life. Molly had averted her gaze, giving him a semblance of privacy. Not that it mattered. Oliver got what he wanted. Sherlock was embarrassed. Felt incredibly vulnerable.

"Good. You have thirty minutes to swim to the other side and back. I'll be timing you, Mr Holmes. Don't disappoint." The threat was clear. Sherlock did as he was ordered, made it with a minute to spare. Oliver allowed him to get dressed afterwards and they spent the rest of the day doing various challenges, pushing Sherlock to breaking point physically and mentally. Oliver never led up. Never gave him a break. The underlying threat is like a neon light, flashing bright above Molly Hooper. That any sign of resistance, any sign that Sherlock would give nothing but absolutely everything would end her life.

The consultant detective understood intellectually what the other man was doing. Could applaud in his head the brilliance of it. It didn't make it any easier.

He finally broke down, heaving tired gulps as his muscles just didn't want to respond anymore. Tears come soon after. He seemed incapable of stopping them. The thought that he had failed, that Molly would suffer again because of him was too much.

But it seemed to satisfy Oliver.

They were dropped off at the bothy soon after. Molly had gone into the hut and he had turned to Oliver.

"She needs pain meds."

"Nothing is for free; you know that Mr Holmes."

"I'll do whatever you want."

"You'll do that anyways. Come now, Mr Holmes. Can you not think of anything you can give that would cover the cost of the meds."

Sherlock looked away, his head down. He was too tired to think. Couldn't seem to get any semblance of thought organised in his head. Bit his bottom lip. "What if I did a race while under the influence. Heroin. Amphetamine. Your pick. That could up the stakes for your betting site?"

Oliver inspected him. "Very well. Agreed." He indicated to one of the men, who rummaged around the interior of the helicopter and came back with a sheet of pills. Sherlock took it, fingers closing around it.

It was a treasure beyond measure for him. He didn't care about the cost.

"Thank you." He said softly, still not meeting the gaze of Oliver.

"Good. You're learning Mr Holmes. I'll give you a day to recover as a reward."

Sherlock watched them leave before entering the bothy. Molly didn't need to know, he thought. This will be his gift to her. To make up for the mistake he'd made in underestimating Oliver.

For his words spoken unwisely that had led to her broken arm.

He'll fix this, no matter what.

Reviews welcome :-)