Chapter 15

Day 126-127

"We need to set the bone, Molly."

"I know. It hurts too much. Can we wait?" She was sobbing now, tears flowing freely.

"No."

She winced as Sherlock grabbed her hand, his other on her elbow. He took a deep breath telling her he'll go on three.

He pulled her arm straight on one. She screamed and then tried to pull her arm away but he held on as he laced two pieces of wood tightly to her arm with strips from his shirt. He tucked her arm against her chest and jury rigged a sling with the rest of his shirt. He felt exposed but there had been no choice really.

To set the bone and create the sling he needed material. His shirt was the only logical choice. It was already in tatters. It was easy to tear into strips.

He was shirtless for the moment. Had thought about putting the ill-fitting jacket back on and then decided against it.

"Sherlock, let me see."

He sighed. Stood quietly as Molly inspected his torso, palpitating the bruises lightly. The three men had clearly not held back when they had fought earlier today. It felt like a lifetime ago. Deep bruises were spread out haphazardly across his front and back. He hissed when she pressed on one particular one on his lower back.

"These contusions are pretty deep, Sherlock. Is your urine still clear?"

Sherlock shook his head.

"Sherlock…" she started, stepping away, her arm automatically shielding her broken arm. He could see pain and worry etched into her face. She closed her eyes for a moment and he knew she was just barely keeping things together.

"It'll be fine, Molly. I've had worse. It is what it is."

A sob escaped from Molly and her hand flew to her mouth. He stepped closer, pulled her in. Her forehead rested on his chest as his one hand settled on the back of her head, his other hanging by his side. "Remember what you said to me after Oliver's three-day retraining session." He said the last two words softly, the memory still too fresh. His despair over that three-day period forever etched into his mind. "You were very clear that this was a little hitch on our journey home. So, Molly Hooper. A bit of a bigger hitch. But we'll make it home. I promise."

"It sucks."

"I know. I'm sorry."

She seemed to gather herself. Pushed away from his chest. Looked up at him. "How long?" Molly asked, face drawn with pain, eyes shimmering in the light of the fire.

"Hmmm." Sherlock murmured, pretending he didn't understand her. Busied himself with fetching one of the water bottles and the sheet of pills.

"Don't you dare do this to me, Sherlock Holmes. How long?"

He sighed. Turned to her. "A day."

"Okay," she said, sitting down. "You need to rest. He's not going to make it easy this time, Sherlock. I just…I can't…if you fail…" she stumbled over her words. They faded away in the air between them but loud were the words she didn't say.

"I know." He said, plopping down next to her. Passed her the water and two of the hard-won pain meds. "I'll be ready, I promise." What he didn't say was the fear gnawing in his gut. He knew he had a high tolerance for drugs due to his past but he had no idea what Oliver was going to give him and whether it would incapacitate him in such a way that he'd fail. How it will affect already bruised kidneys. And whether Oliver would see it as another opportunity to teach Sherlock just how much he wasn't in control.

Molly leaned into him and his arm went around her, supporting her against his chest. "I'm sorry, Sherlock."

He frowned, looked down at her. Her eyes were closed. "Why?"

"At the lake. What he did to you. That wasn't right. He didn't have to do that."

He swallowed hard; his eyes focused on the fire. "Yes, well. You've seen pretty much all of me, Molly Hooper. There's nothing much more to hide, is there. And it was particularly cold."

He felt her shake. Looked down at her in concern to see that she was laughing. He grinned and joined in.

"Thanks. I needed that." She said, wiping her eyes that were starting to droop. He fussed over her, helping her lie down on the mattress. He tucked one of the blankets around her, careful of her arm.

"I'm sorry," he said softly as her eyes closed. There had been only a handful of times he had said those words with sincerity. And always to her.

Her breathing deepened as she slipped into sleep.

He stoked the fire then, his actions automatic as he opened the door to his mind palace.

It was in chaos.

He couldn't see past the turbulence. Couldn't find the doors to open, the files to extract. Emotions were running rampant in his house and he didn't know how to contain them.

Disgusted, he threw the fire poker down, grabbed the jacket and stalked out the bothy. The air was chill and he shivered, pulling the jacket on. He tried to button it but failed miserably. The jacket was just too small. He let it go and stalked over to the well. Pulled water and washed his face, cleaning the last remnants of the day's activities under Oliver and his men. He fingered the congealed cut above his eyebrow. It seemed to have settled. Another little scar to join all the others.

A death by a thousand cuts, he thought morosely. That was what Oliver was doing. Chipping away and exposing all his flaws. Remaking Sherlock into what he wanted.

He had made a second video for Mycroft not so long ago, under direction of Oliver. Telling his brother to stop looking. That he and Molly were still with Oliver. Was not going anywhere. But it had been the timeline that had thrown him. His words still echoing back at him.

A year has passed since the last video. It is to let you know to stop looking. That Molly and I have moved on..

A whole year. That had been disturbing. That Oliver was confident enough that he and Molly would still be in his hands after all that time. The shock had been a physical force that had brought nausea and hopelessness when he had read the script that Oliver had given him. Oliver had promised him then that once he was trustworthy everything would get better. That he and Molly would get more privileges. He didn't know how to respond. Couldn't at that point in time. The realisation that it wasn't going to end any time soon was almost too much to bear.

He'd determined in the end, after he had a chance to process all of it, that it wouldn't matter. That he would do what he could to get them home. That because of Molly he wasn't about to give in. She deserved more than this. More than what Oliver was giving them.

Clouds were drifting in, obscuring the stars. It would be raining before midnight, he knew. Had become accustomed to the weather patterns where they were.

He needed to sort through his inner turmoil.

You're human, Sherlock. Deal with it.

John's voice settled inside him. He analysed himself then, plucking at strings until he felt the knot in his stomach untangle.

He recognised fear and anger. The new one was guilt. He pulled at them, moving them down to the basement where emotions were kept in chains. They resisted but he knew that if he gave in, he and Molly would die in the bothy.

He couldn't let that happen.

When he got back into his main foyer of his mind palace, the chaos had settled. One emotion stayed, hiding from him and he couldn't get a grasp on it. It eluded him and he huffed in frustration. He became aware of his own discomfort and came to his current reality with a start.

He was still standing in the same spot outside; his body temperature had dropped and he could feel rain starting to spit down. He entered the hut, stirred the fire again after adding more wood. He settled himself behind Molly, folding his body around her, careful of her arm.

He told himself that he was keeping her warm and safe. That sleeping like this with her had not become a habit that he somehow looked forward to.

He almost believed it.

John woke up with a start. Something had changed and it was unsure what it was when he realised that he wasn't alone in the room anymore. Moriarty was seated in a chair by his bed, his gaze fixed on him and it creeped him out.

"Good morning, Dr Watson. I can see why Sherlock's been keeping you around. You look so sweet when you're asleep."

"Do you mind?"

"Oh, no. Not at all. You can get up if you want. I won't stop you."

John sighed but having shared a flat with Sherlock Holmes meant that he was somewhat immune to what the other man was doing although it still felt very wrong. Finding a head in the fridge, eyeballs in the microwave and his bedroom door being opened at ungodly hours because his friend had an epiphany was not much worse than waking up with Moriarty watching him.

"When will I see Sherlock?"

"Straight to business. How rude, my dear. You should have breakfast first." Moriarty said and then he wrinkles his nose, "and definitely a shower beforehand."

John got up and showered. He knew that it wasn't a suggestion and it wasn't in the mood to find out if the other man would actually use force to get him to take a shower. Breakfast was laid out on the small table, Moriarty already seated when he entered the open living area. He sat across from the other man and despite himself, his mouth watered at the smell. The criminal smiled at him and took a bite of his toast as he leaned back in his chair, one arm nonchalantly draped over the back.

"You should be grateful. You're getting fed well. Have hot water. A nice bed."

"You want me to thank you?"

"Well, things can change. Sherlock and Molly have had four months of learning just how much things get taken for granted. I can take all of this away if you want."

"Uh, I'm good. Thank you."

Moriarty laughed. "You're definitely not boring, are you? What's your plans for today, my pet?"

John ignored him as he took a bite of the bacon. He focused on his plate, trying to ignore the other man.

"Come on, pet. Tell daddy." Moriarty pouted when John ignored him. "You will do good not to ignore me, my dear," he warned dangerously, his voice deep and dark in the silence.

John sat back and met the gaze of the other man that had threatened to blow him up. Had strapped him in the bomb jacket. "You're insane, you know that right."

"Insanity is soooo subjective, don't you think?" Moriarty smirked. "Who's really sane in this world? You?"

John took a sip of his tea, unsure if the other man was expecting an answer or not.

"I want to see Sherlock and Molly."

"Why?"

"Oh, for heaven's sake. You know why."

"Tell me anyway."

"Because they're my friends. Because I need to know that they're okay."

"You're no fun, Dr Watson. I'm getting bored." Moriarty stood up, wiping the crumbs from his hands. Patting his pockets, he gave a little frown and then a big grin as he took out a photo. Studied it, turning it over and back.

"I'm not convinced yet that you should see it. It might be…upsetting." Moriarty said, holding the photo close to his chess while meeting John's gaze full on. "Can't have my favourite pet upset, now can I?"

John sat back in his chair. Waited while the other man tapped the photo against his lips, pretending to think about giving it. Because it was all a game. He could see it clearly. At least living with Sherlock had taught him a thing or two.

"Fine. You convinced me. I'll let you have a look. Don't blame me if you're not happy afterwards."

Moriarty sends the photo skimming across the table. John stopped its track, his hand on top of it. Picking it up and moving his gaze from the criminal consultant, he focused on the photo.

Sherlock was standing on a lake shore. Behind him the water was choppy and coloured grey blue. The distant shore was covered in shale and grass. It looked wild. Inhospitable. His concern notched higher at the thought that Sherlock and Molly were exposed to the elements.

He focused on Sherlock. His friend's hair had grown out, curled around his shoulders. His beard was fully grown. He could see blood congealed on the left side of his face, from an obvious cut above his eyebrow. It had run into his beard, matting it, and shading it a ruddy dark brown. It joined a bloody nose and lip and John wondered what had happened just before the photo was taken. No, make that around an hour, he thought looking at the congealed blood. It wasn't that fresh anymore. Sherlock stared offside to the camera; his gaze focused on something in the distance. John wondered if it was Molly. Sherlock looked numb; his facial features blank but his eyes clearly showed his emotional turmoil. John had seen the same look on soldiers who had been POW's and had survived inhumane treatment and torture.

Bloody hell, Sherlock. He thought. What did they do to you?

Sherlock's skin was marbled from the cold, his lips blue. Despite this, John could see a kaleidoscope of fresh bruises over his friend's body. He was obviously malnourished. John could count his ribs, see the planes on his face edged in straight lines.

And he was completely naked, his hands covering what was necessary. He looked in that moment that the photo had been taken incredibly vulnerable. John didn't want to think about the meaning behind the lack of clothes. Refused to take his mind to places that were just too horrible to contemplate.

His hand closed into a fist. He placed the photo carefully on the table upside down. A hand on top of it, holding it in place.

"I told you it would be upsetting, my dear." Moriarty said, his eyebrow raised. John pursed his lips, his face darkening and then he couldn't contain his anger anymore and he rose from his chair, intent on reaching the other man. Moriarty had anticipated him and had taken a few steps back, his hands in the air in mock surrender. "Be very careful how you proceed, Dr Watson. You want to see Sherlock and Molly don't you. Touch me and that will never happen."

"What have you done to him?"

"Me," the criminal looked innocent when he replied, "I haven't done anything to him."

"So, what is this, then mmm?" John asked as he gestured to the photo. "And I don't see Molly Hooper. Where is she? How do I know she's still alive?"

"Well, sorry. No photos of my former girlfriend. Office romance, you know…" Moriarty giggled, as if finding it hilarious, then in the same instant he turned serious again. " Molls are fine, by the way. Well, she was fine up until that morning. Some things happened, not entirely sure about the story yet but you know. Will probably hear all about it later. And as for Sherlock. He's learning a few things about himself. It's entertaining to watch."

John hit the table with his fist and Moriarty didn't react. "You utter bastard. You had no intention of letting me see them, did you?"

"It took you long enough to figure that out. Well, maybe later but not today. Obviously." Moriarty sneered. "Guess what. Sherlock has not mentioned you once since he was taken. Don't you find that infuriating. Makes you wonder how important you are to his world. I'll be off now. See ya later. Tootle doo."

The criminal exited the cottage, winking as he closed the door. John swept the plates from the table, his anger finally boiling over.

Ignoring the mess he made, he exited the cottage, slamming the front door behind him. Moriarty was gone. John closed his eyes and took several deep breaths as he tried to regulate himself, trying to get his anger under control. Fear still lingered now but it was squashed in the back behind concern for Sherlock and Molly and behind the anger that was percolating in his gut.

He knew he wasn't Sherlock. But he had a brain. He'd been to war.

That counts for something, right.

He took another deep breath, finally finding the calm within himself to think. Mycroft had a plan. He was an integral part of that plan. Moriarty was underestimating him, just as the older Holmes had predicted.

Sherlock and Molly would need his help when they found them. He needed to make sure that he would be able to provide it. Give them what they need. He could do it. Could play Moriarty's game. What the other man didn't know was that the game was rigged. And he, John, was Mycroft's hidden ace. He smiled at the thought. He'll play his part. Let Moriarty think he's in control.

For Sherlock and Molly, he thought, he'll deal with Moriarty's insanity.

Feeling better, he stepped off the porch and went for a walk.

Knew it wouldn't be too long before Moriarty would bring him into play with Sherlock. He could wait a day or two. Hoped Mycroft would have everything in place once that happens.

Because if he had any say in it, Moriarty would never see the light of day for what he'd done to his friends.

Any news? MH

No movement. Looks like a bust. GL

Mycroft looked up irritably when his door opened unannounced. Lord Marsden was smiling and the older Holmes squashed the feeling of violence that seemed to bubble to the surface. Sentiment was going to get a lot of people killed.

"Morning, Mycroft."

"Lord Marsden."

It was petty, but Mycroft waited as Lord Marsden stood in front of his desk. Annoyance flashed across the other man's features and the older Holmes took note, deducing the man.

Sharply dressed. Expecting an interview with the press later today. Nails newly done. Shoes shined. Still an idiot. Pretending to be sophisticated. Failing miserably. Birthright can't buy brains or class. Conclusion: Moriarty's puppet for the government.

But why. That was the question still alluding him. The consultant criminal never did anything that wouldn't add to his reputation or bring in cash. Lord Marsden is a minor lord, barely active in the house. And until this week had not been someone that had been on his radar at all.

He regretted his oversight briefly but had concluded that there had not been any indications of the potential for Lord Marsden to stray and do something illegal.

"I need the codes, Mycroft."

Mycroft took a memory stick from his pocket and slid it across his desk with a slight sneer. Marsden picked up and walked out without another word, leaving the door open. Anthea entered as her phone buzzed. Reading the message, she said, "It's done."

Mycroft nodded, steepling his fingers in front of his lips much like Sherlock. Anthea left him to his thoughts, closing the door softly behind her.

His phone buzzed.

He opened it briefly, read the message and snapped it shut again.

Thanks for your service. Till next time. Enjoy!

A photo had been attached. It was off Sherlock.

Despite his fervent assertions to sentiment and familial bonds, he couldn't help the feeling of concern that came over him when he glanced at the photo.

Sherlock looked like death warmed over.

His phone buzzed again.

Like what you see? I so enjoy a vulnerable Sherlock. He's just perfect, don't you think?"

Mycroft swore uncharacteristically, a vulgar word that seldom left his lips as he threw the phone across the room to watch it clatter against the wall. It broke into pieces and the door to his office opened, Anthea for once not looking at her phone. She took in the broken phone and Mycroft straightened his undercoat as he grabbed his jacket.

"Please send a replacement phone to my home. I need to sort out one or two things."

"Sir?"

"And send the boys in to do a sweep. I'm almost a hundred percent convinced that my office has been bugged."

She acknowledged his commands, typing away as he swept past her.

He finally managed to get his emotions in check when he seated himself in the car.

"Anything."

Lestrade wiped his eyes. He knew they were bloodshot from staring too long at the screen. He shook his head tiredly and moved back into his seat.

"I think we should call this a bust. Obviously, Moriarty doesn't have Sherlock. He spoke the truth."

Mycroft turns the laptop, the screen still focused on where he knew John was being kept. He had hoped that the criminal consultant would've indulged in a bit of comeuppance with John and reveal where his brother and Ms Hooper was being held.

Moriarty was craftier than he gave him credit for and he adjusted some parameters inside his own mind palace regarding the man that was the bane of the Holmes brothers.

He knew that it wouldn't be long before Moriarty would make his next request.

He needed to find his brother before then. And Ms Hooper, he added. She apparently has some importance in his brother's life, although why his brother would indulge her, he had no idea.

"Doctor Watson had indicated that we should not extradite him until he gave us the signal. I think I'll trust the good doctor to make that decision."

"You're playing a dangerous game, Mycroft. John has willingly agreed but I think you have underestimated Moriarty."

"I disagree. This is the only plan that has any chance of success. We follow through."

"Yeah. Let's hope Sherlock sees it that way when he's back. He might have a word or two to say about your tactics."

"I'm sure my brother dearest would agree with my plan. It's the only one that we can play with some degree of success." Mycroft wrinkled his nose in barely contained disgust and slammed the lid shut. Nothing more was going to change tonight regarding the good doctor. Telling Lestrade to get some sleep, he turned in himself.

His thoughts settled on Sherlock. His infuriating, annoying, stubborn little brother. His only vice.

Sleep well, dear brother.

It was his last thought before he fell asleep.

Reviews welcome :-)