Chapter 18

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Day 131

Mycroft felt fatigue drag him down. His eyes were grainy from lack of sleep. He had found that he couldn't go to sleep. Every time he closed his eyes all he could see was Sherlock.

Sherlock being beaten by the three men.

Sherlock being forced to inject himself.

Sherlock crying and pleading in Molly's embrace, clearly in distress, the drug playing havoc with his body.

In the end he had gone to the kitchen in his pyjamas and blue robe. He found he wasn't alone. Lestrade was there already, the laptop open in front of him. He had walked past the systems analyst who had set up his gear in the dining room. Empty cups surrounded his workstation. He acknowledged Mycroft with a nod before focusing back on his code.

"How is he?" he asked Lestrade as he started the kettle for tea.

"Sleeping." Lestrade said, sitting back and running his hand through his hair. Met Mycroft's gaze. "You do realise we have no idea how many times they've done this, right? Messed with his head?"

"No. Not with Oliver. But I think this was the first time Moriarty has been there. The signs are all there."

"Ok. Granted. But he and Molly are going to need some help after all this is done. It's been almost five months, Mycroft. That is a very long time. They are clearly starving. Physical and mental abuse. Things like this don't usually have a very happy ending."

"He's Sherlock Holmes. He'll be fine. I'm sure that would be the case for Ms Hooper. They seem to have formed a bond. That might be their saving grace."

"Fine. I'm just saying it as it is. You need to go into this with your eyes wide open. I'm rooting for them, don't get me wrong. I just think we need to prepare for when we rescue them. Have things in place to make it easier on them."

"Very well, what would you suggest?"

"I don't know very well, now do I. Speak to a psychiatrist. They deal with this sort of thing, don't they? Offhand I can guess they'll be needing to be looked after medically. Get their weight back up. Fix them both up physically. Guess then they can work on their mental health."

"Yes, I can see what you mean, Lestrade. Fine. I know someone. I'll take this onboard and will get things organised."

Mycroft finished making his tea, joining the DI at the table. Sherlock was asleep on his side, Molly in his embrace. One arm held her close, protectively. There was no other way to describe the scene.

This was a far distant setting to the one they had witnessed a lot earlier when Sherlock had been actively fighting off the effects of the drug Moriarty had forced on him.

It almost looked peaceful.

Mycroft turned away, and couldn't watch anymore. The memories of finding Sherlock high in a drug den was all too real. All too familiar. Except this time, it wasn't his brother's own doing. He forced the familiar feelings of sentiment down that he felt for his brother. Sentiment wasn't going to help his brother and Ms Hooper get free from Oliver and Moriarty. He needed to be strong. Be the iceman that Moriarty claimed him to be. Lestrade closed the lid, pushed the laptop away.

"You all right, mate?" he asked softly.

"Mmmh. Just tired. I'll see you later today. Say 7?"

A hand came down on his shoulder for a second. Lestrade left then to his own room. Mycroft turned, eyed the laptop. His hand lingered on it as he couldn't decide whether he wanted to see any more of his brother's struggles.

Decided in the end that he'd give Molly and Sherlock their privacy as they slept.

He wiped his forehead with his hand, his thoughts on his brother. He knew that Sherlock detest psychiatry. Would not sit down and share his thoughts with anyone. Wondered at the feasibility of getting his brother help in a way that would be beneficial. Because despite the protestations that his brother will have, the bravado that he'd be fine – Sherlock was going to have to deal with his enforced incarceration. Deal with what Oliver and Moriarty had done. And if not for his benefit, then for Ms Hooper.

He took a sip of his tea. Grimaced, when he realised that it had gotten cold while he had been thinking. He put his cup back on the saucer, fingers tapping on the table before he got up and grabbed his stash he had hidden behind a bin on the shelf by the kitchen door. Made his way outside and lit his first cigarette while the stars blinked back at him.

Sherlock, let Molly Hooper share the load for a bit. He thought, as he stood outside dragging the smoke into his lungs. I know how you detest losing. Don't let Moriarty or Oliver win.

John had just finished his breakfast when the door opened and Moriarty sauntered in. The doctor knew immediately that the Criminal Consultant had been to see Sherlock. It was in the smirk, the way his whole body radiated satisfaction.

"Morning, John. Good night? I had a great day yesterday."

John grunted a reply, sitting back as he waited for the inevitable gloat.

"Ask me where I was. Go on."

"Where were you last night, Jim? I missed our nightly chat."

Moriarty chuckled and then laughed. Pointing a finger at John, he said, "That's good. Brilliant. No wonder Sherlock indulges you. I might keep you."

John ignored him. Stared at the man seated across from him.

"Oh. Relax John. I saw our favourite detective yesterday. Mols too. They were a bit shabby to be honest, but I so enjoyed my chat with Mols. I have to say that I missed her conversations. Not!"

"What did you do?"

"I had fun. Do you want to see?" Moriarty dropped his voice and John knew he'd have no choice. His face set into stoicism when the other man pulled a phone out of his pocket and started typing away. With glee he pushed the phone to John, watching as the doctor fumbled with the device.

"Just press play."

John swallowed, glancing from the screen to the sudden interest the other man was showing him. Analysing. Quiet. Too much like Sherlock.

John pressed down hard on the play button.

"What did he say to you?" Sherlock's voice was quiet. Soft. Rough around the edges from the previous day's experience. It was the first time he had said anything since he had woken up. Oliver had promised him a day of rest. Told him that he still owed him a challenge set. That the punters will be upset because of the delay. There had been a hint of annoyance in the man's voice when he had said it.

"Molly?" he asked gently when she didn't answer.

"It doesn't matter." She replied, her back to him. She pulled her legs up, hugging them.

"It matters to me."

"You don't want to know. Can we leave it please," she said, her voice thready, vulnerable.

He was quiet then. Shifted upwards into a seated position, the blanket dropping off him. He moved closer to her, tentatively.

"Molly," he said softly, his hand hovering just above her shoulder. He was suddenly unsure. A feeling he wasn't used to. He watched her body, took note of how tense she was. Realised with sudden clarity that she was barely keeping things together. She was the very essence of a frightened deer, ready to bolt at any movement. He knew that there were times that she grieved. Most of it done in private when she thought he wouldn't notice. When she went for a walk and left him to himself. He had given her her privacy. Had never said a word. What could he say? His experience is really very limited in how to deal with feelings and sentiment.

Not that hard, Sherlock. John's voice was soft in his head.

Stop thinking, brother mine. Mycroft stared at him with a penetrating gaze.

He pulled his hand back. Ran a hand through his hair as his body let him know that movement at the moment was not advisable. All his aches and pains from yesterday seemed to clamour for attention all at once. Molly didn't reply. She only pulled herself tighter, staring straight ahead. Sherlock couldn't see her face. Couldn't gauge anything from her except from what he could observe staring at her back. He shifted even closer and then he didn't really think about it anymore. He shifted his long legs around her, his chest against her back as he leaned into her, his arms around her. His hands found hers as he leaned his chin on her shoulder. He could just see her face in his peripheral vision. Her eyes were bright, her lips pressed into a thin line.

"I'm not going away." He said softly. "Please Molly. For me."

She swallowed and took a ragged breath. "Why won't you just let it go?"

He turned his head. Leaned his forehead against the side of her face. "Molly," he said again. She gave a sob. And then it was as if a dam broke loose and Molly Hooper turned in his embrace, her arms held close to her chest as she grieved. He held her as she cried, her shoulders heaving. He held her for a long time, allowing her to get rid of all of her anger and sadness and loss. She finally quieted, stilled in his arms. Wiped at her eyes and cheeks.

He was content to sit with her but his aches and pains were letting him know that he was still very much recovering from the past week. He shifted slightly and couldn't help the hitched breath he took when his ribs told him quite clearly that they didn't like it.

"You okay," she asked, her head still on his chest.

"That was very impressive." He said instead, "The way you stood up to Oliver. I don't think he expected you to do what you did." He chuckled. "You are surprising, Molly Hooper."

"The look on his face…" she said with a faint smile.

"I never knew a person could turn that shade of red. As I said, very impressive Molly Hooper."

"Well, you live and learn." She said, parroting Oliver's words to Moriarty. She even managed to get his inflection just right. Sherlock started to laugh. Stopped when his ribs flared into agony. Molly pushed away from him, concern very evident on her face.

"Sherlock?"

He grinned when she met his gaze. "Don't think Oliver will ever live it down." He said, deflecting her question. She smiled and then it turned into a giggle. Her hand flew to her mouth and she stopped as the reality of their situation settled. But she still couldn't stop the grin despite the conditions of the captivity. Molly moved away, onto her knees in front of him.

"Okay, Sherlock. I think I need to have a good look at you. See what they managed to do to you yesterday."

He let her fuss. Allowed her to prod and poke. When she was done, she sat back and sighed.

"Will I live, doctor," he joked, his voice rough.

"Truth?"

Sherlock tilted his head as he thought about her question. After yesterday there was not much more that Molly wasn't privy to. She had been there through it all. At his most vulnerable she had been a rock that he had clung too. She had stopped him drowning in the insanity of the drug that Moriarty had given him.

He had experienced a side of her he had not seen before. Fiercely protective. Strong. Compassionate. He was even more intrigued. More spellbound by Molly Hooper.

"Always." He said and meant it.

"Two ribs with what feels like hairline fractures. They should be fine if you don't strain yourself. Bruised kidneys that you must be a bit more careful of. Some subcutaneous and intramuscular bruises. They will hurt. Probably be worse tomorrow. Cuts and abrasions that should heal with minimal scarring." She rattled off, ticking them off in her head the same when she did an autopsy. Knew he'd understand the implications.

He nodded. It confirmed his own suspicions. The men had been professional. Had known how to use their fists and feet to hurt. He slowly and painfully got to his feet, grunted with the effort. He extended his hand and Molly took it.

"Shall we go outside and enjoy some sun?" he said with a smile.

They sat at their usual spot by the bothy wall. Shoulder to shoulder, comfortable in each other's presence.

"You should negotiate." Molly said, breaking the silence. "Oliver should give you a chance to heal. For your ribs to settle. Your kidneys need at least a week. Tomorrow is too quick." She turned her head, watched him. "He did it last time. When he took you away."

Sherlock leaned his head back against the wall. Closed his eyes and put his face to the sun as he banished the memory of those three days back down the staircase of his mind.

You will learn, Mr Holmes, what despair really is. And once you have learned despair, we will truly delph into the depths of it until understanding comes.

Oliver's voice grated in his head. He sighed. Wiped his face and with it everything he hoped to forget of his time alone with Oliver.

"I don't think we have much say, Molly." He replied, stretching out his legs. "We have nothing to bargain with."

"Sherlock, you realise that you can die, right. If you're not careful, your ribs can shift. Puncture a lung. With your kidneys as it is, you can go into shock." She sighed. "Maybe if we explain, Oliver will listen."

"We'll see." He was quiet, thoughtful. He turned his head, so he was looking at Molly, "How's your arm?"

She wiggled her fingers. Grimaced. "Blood flow is still good. Painful but I'll survive."

"Have you ever broken anything before?"

She looked at him in surprise. "I thought you could deduce everything once you had a good scan, Sherlock. Surely you'd know."

He laughed, stopped, and scowled, holding onto his ribs. "I can only deduce what I see. And although I've seen a few scars – for example the small little one on your knee. Scrape from a fall when you were out …bike riding with your brother? Yes. Good. But unless there is a definite deformity or scar, it's not always an easy thing to pick up. And some things are best left to questions, don't you think?" He said with a wink.

She blushed. Wondered when Sherlock had noticed her little scar. "Oh. Yeah okay. That makes sense."

"So have you?"

She shook her head. "No, this is a first. Not the greatest experience. And you?"

He shook his head. "Nope. Are broken ribs always this uncomfortable," he asked, shifting again. "Breathing too deep is sore."

"Yeah. Has to do with the intercostal muscles. They are probably bruised as well. You should be resting."

"So, no swimming?"

She laughed. "Stop it. No. No swimming."

Sherlock leaned his head back against the wall, closed his eyes and soaked in the sun. Molly leaned her head on his shoulder.

"Sherlock," she said softly.

"Mmmh."

"I have a craving for coffee."

He smiled. "That would be nice. Black with two sugars, thank you." He felt her smile.

They didn't need to say anything after that.

John's breaths were coming fast. He had started on his walk in the forest, slow and sure but the screams and begging from his friend as he battled the drug was too much. His pace increased as he tried to get rid of the memory. He pushed forward, ever faster but it didn't go away. Through it all Moriarty had analysed him. Studied his reactions.

Had smiled.

"You utter bloody bastard!"

He had scrambled for the Consulting Criminal over the table, hands outstretched. Entirely willing to choke the life out of the man. The door had opened, two guards must've waited just outside and he had found himself restrained, arms pushed up behind his back as he screamed obscenities at the other man.

Moriarty had signalled and he was put into a choke hold. He stopped then. Breathing became hard and for a moment he had feared that the other man was going to kill him.

"You're starting to bore me, John. This tirade is growing tiresome. Daddy's had enough now." He sang the last sentence, eyes dark and malevolent.

John had stopped his struggle. He closed his eyes briefly, and relaxed his muscles as best he could. The two men let him go, stepping back but still hovering.

"Don't fret, pet. You'll see them soon enough. Sherlock has one more big test coming up. I'll be very interested to see the outcome." He placed his hands on his lips in mock contemplation. "Sherlock doesn't have far to go before his big fall. And you are going to play a major part in it, my dear."

He took a new route today. Stomped a path that would be obvious to Mycroft's people.

Muttered it under his breath.

Soon.

Mycroft's phone buzzed again. He deleted the text without reading it.

"Moriarty again?" Lestrade asked, sipping from his coffee cup. "That's number seven, right?"

"Didn't realise you were counting," Mycroft said, closing the folder he was reading.

"So, you're just going to keep ignoring him?"

"For the time being."

"Why?"

Mycroft sighed. Leaned back in his chair. "Think of it as chess, Lestrade. Moriarty made a strong opening, dominating the middle game. We're in the end game now. Every move counts. A blunder now will lead to defeat."

"Sherlock and Molly aren't chess pieces, Mycroft."

"No, they're not. But they are the prize. Don't you see, Lestrade. It's all coming together."

"Fine. How long does this 'end game' of yours last?"

They were interrupted by Mycroft's phone. It was ringing this time, not just a text alert. The older Holmes looked at the number and then answered the phone.

"Yes."

"Target acquired. Full debrief in two hours."

"Very well. Thank you."

He closed the connection, dropping his phone back on the table. "We have Lyle Bowman in custody."

Lestrade smiled. "Yes, some good news for a change." He turns back to the laptop, clicking from the empty bothy room to the map where John's tracker was showing. His eyes widened. "Hello." He turns the laptop so that the older man can see. John's tracker was tracing a different route on the map.

Mycroft got to his feet. For the first time that Lestrade had known him, the man smiled.

"And you are in check, Jim Moriarty," he murmured. Picked up his phone and made a call.

"Dover is in motion. 48 hours."