Chapter 17

The hard part was finding a balance between too much and not enough. I rewrote the last two scenes at least three times. I'm hoping that I got it right. Enjoy the read.

Day 130

Oliver arrived just before sunrise. Sherlock had woken when the helicopter had settled outside and had slipped softly away from Molly. She had complained but he had given her some more pain meds, telling her to go back to sleep and that everything would be ok.

He met Oliver outside, waiting in the courtyard of the bothy, pulling the jacket tight around him in the early morning chill.

He had hoped to conclude their transaction away from Molly but Oliver had other ideas. He had no choice but to follow the man inside the bothy, Oliver's men right behind him. A hand on his arm brought him to a standstill just inside the hut. Oliver had stopped just short of Molly. Had called her name and she had stirred and then woken up. She sat up, blinking against the light of the fire. He could see her senses were dulled by the medicine he had given her. Had hoped it would be enough for her to not realise that he had gone. Could see now that it might've been a mistake. Molly reacted to Oliver, her eyes moving between the man who broke her arm and Sherlock fearfully. She was still seated on the mattress, the blanket had fallen off her shoulders, pooled around her lower body.

"Sherlock?" she questioned.

"It's fine, Molly," he said, willing her to believe him. He knew he failed when her gaze switched again between him and Oliver. She knew something was going on, he could see her thinking. Could well imagine what was going on in her mind. She shifted around, moved the blanket away. He shook his head slightly, but she ignored him.

"What's going on?" she asks.

"Did Mr Holmes fail to communicate the parameters of today, Ms Hooper?"

"What do you mean?"

"Oh, this is priceless. Even after all this time you still lie to her." Oliver stated.

"I didn't lie," Sherlock said, knowing the moment the words left his mouth that he'd made a mistake.

"Not telling is lying by omission, Mr Holmes. Surely you know this?" Sherlock didn't reply. The look of hurt in Molly's eyes was enough. There was nothing he could say that would make this any better.

"Jacket off." Oliver pulled a syringe out of his pocket, rolling it between his fingers while his gaze alternated between Sherlock and Molly. Sherlock's face tightened but he did as he was told. He didn't look at Molly. Couldn't.

"No! Sherlock. What is he doing?"

Oliver turned to her and Sherlock clenched his fist. He couldn't protect her. He was too far away and he knew if he intervened Oliver would make good on his promise of earlier and kill Molly. Goon 1 and 3 was standing behind him, a visible reminder that he had no control on what happened to him or Molly.

"When will you learn, Mr Holmes?" Oliver turned his head, smirking at the detective. "Do you want to tell her or should I?"

"Whaaa…what do you mean? Sherlock?"

"Go on, tell her. I insist."

Sherlock closed his eyes briefly and took a deep breath when he met Molly's gaze. "I had no choice. You needed the pain meds."

Molly stared at Sherlock, her mouth open. She closed it with a snap and despite the leaden feeling in her head, she snapped at him, "Are you insane? I won't let you do it. You can't."

"It's done. You can't change it, Molly."

"I didn't ask this of you. You know I wouldn't. You shouldn't have done it, Sherlock. This is wrong." She stated, turning to Oliver. "Please don't do this. His kidneys are bruised. You don't know what that will do to him. He can go into shock. You can kill him with this."

"Sorry my dear. It's happening."

He took a step to Sherlock and Molly surged upward, surprising everyone as she knocked the syringe from Oliver's hands. No-one had expected Molly to do what she did. Sherlock stared in shock as she stomped on the syringe, breaking the cylindrical tube into pieces. Oliver startled and then his face turned crimson as he grabbed her by her hair, pulling her head back and encircling her throat.

"You bitch."

Sherlock surged forward but the guards grabbed him, wrestling him to the floor of the bothy. The detective squirmed against the hold, managed to turn as hands struggled to get hold of him. He kicked upward, connecting solidly with goon 3. The man flew backward as a fist from goon 1 connected weakly to his jaw. He crossed his arms, catching the arm as it descended. Grunted when goon 3 joined the tussle again with a solid kick to his ribs.

Molly screamed and then it was cut off abruptly.

He couldn't see her. He scrambled forward on all fours. One of the men jumped on him and he went down, his breath knocked out of him. He managed to turn, jabbing an elbow in the guy's throat. Pushed him off him as he rolled back onto his feet. But both were on him again, hands scrambling and the fight was ugly and dirty but he wouldn't let up. Desperation added to his strength. He was fighting not only for himself, but for Molly. He couldn't let Oliver kill her. Not now.

A fist connected with the side of his head, reopening the cut above his eyebrow and he saw stars briefly. Someone's hand was in his hair, pulling his head back and he grunted, his fingers closing around the wrist of the man he recognised as Goon 1. He was leaning at an awkward angle, off balance and had no leverage. A fist landed in his stomach and because of the way he was held, he had no way to protect himself. He twisted and turned and tried to get out of the hold they had him in. They had managed to pull him to his knees when he finally had enough leverage and he twisted the wrist and abruptly the hand in his hair was gone. The man behind him swore viciously but Sherlock was already moving, focused on getting to Molly and Oliver.

"Enough!"

He stopped immediately. Knew that voice. Had heard it enough times in nightmares to know who it belonged to.

His breaths intermingled with the men behind him were loud in the silence. Molly was whimpering, tears in her eyes but Sherlock also saw defiance. An ugly handprint was on her throat. Her lip was split. He knew that he was probably more of a mess then she was. Could feel the blood drip down the side of his face from the reopened cut above his eyebrow. It was maddening but there was nothing he could do about it right now. He waited as footsteps sounded and then looked up as Moriarty came into view. The criminal consultant smirked as he made his way to Molly and pecked her on the cheek. He inspected her lip, holding her chin. Fingered her neck while raising his eyebrows at Oliver.

"I'm assuming she didn't like the idea of drugs?"

Oliver wiped a speck of blood off his lapel. "Well, her response wasn't really anticipated."

"Oh my. This is a new development." Moriarty said softly. Chuckled. "It's not often that anyone manages to one-up Oliver. You are in a rare minority, Mols."

"You live and learn," Oliver said, his eyes on Molly with a hint of respect. "I won't make that mistake again."

"You're a little vixen aren't you. Who knew?" Moriarty let go of Molly's chin and moved to stand next to her. He put an arm around her waist, pulling her close to him.

"I missed you, Mols. Did you miss me?"

Sherlock growled and started to rise.

"Don't move, don't say a word Sherlock or Molly will die." The underlying threat was clear and Sherlock heeded the warning. He clenched his hands and then looked away when Moriarty turned his attention back to Molly again, tucking a stray hair behind her ear.

"Say you missed me, Mols."

The slap sounded loud in the tense atmosphere. Moriarty held his hand over his left cheek, rubbing it as he took a step back. Turning to Sherlock he gave an exaggerated wink when the detectives' head had come up at the sound of Molly hitting the other man. "I guess that's a no then. Interesting. Why didn't I see this side of you Mols when we dated?" he said, shifting his attention back to the pathologist. "You were a lot less…what's the word I'm looking for, uhm. Protective? Feisty? But then again, I wasn't the one you were really in love with. Was it?" He growled the question, moving into her personal space, his hand on her arm dragging her closer. Molly resisted, pulling against his hold.

"Leave me alone. Let go."

"Nooooo. I don't think so, Mols. You did something very naughty when you stopped Sherlock from getting his medicine. I think there should be some consequences, don't you? Otherwise, how would you learn?"

"You're insane."

The Consulting Criminal leaned in towards Molly in a mockery of tenderness. He brushed his lips against her cheek and then dragging it to her left ear, he started to whisper in Molly's ear. Her eyes widened and then she stilled. She met Sherlock's gaze briefly, then closed her eyes as Moriarty continued to whisper. Tears started to flow silently and she wiped at them angrily.

Sherlock clenched his jaw. Pushed all the emotions that were threatening to overwhelm him down. Logic was needed. Moriarty doesn't want him dead. Not yet anyway and he knew that Molly would be safe if he did what the other man wanted.

It wasn't hard to figure out the next steps in this little scene. Moriarty wore a smug smile when he stepped away from Molly, his attention now focused on Sherlock.

He prepared himself mentally. Knew that he wasn't going to like the next little bit.

He was right.

Mycroft was in the kitchen with Lestrade, getting ready for the day. He had tea in hand, reading a report that had come in that morning. Lyle had not yet been back to his flat. He was inclined to give it another day or two and then call it a bust. He was of the mind to let the team look at the laptop in the meantime and replace it with a similar make as a decoy. The door to the kitchen opened and Irene strolled in.

Mycroft observed how tired she looked. Took note of the fact that she hadn't changed her clothes from the last time he had seen her.

"I assume you have something?" he said as a way of greeting.

"It wasn't easy. But I got a website address that could prove useful. My informant was adamant that it would help. I'm assuming you have people that are capable of tracing it to its source?" She gave a piece of paper to Lestrade. Watched him enter the URL in the browser's address bar.

It opened with a video screen. The underlying software was like what Mycroft used when he utilised CCTV cameras around the city. The clarity of the video was high, the definition crisp and clear. There was no sound. "Bloody hell!" The DI exclaimed. Lestrade's nostrils flared when he saw what was on the live stream. Mycroft swallowed but didn't say anything. He carefully put his cup of tea down. Pretended not to notice the tremor of his hand. Irene's eyes narrowed but she stayed quiet.

Mycroft turned the laptop, typing a command to start recording the screen. He didn't meet the gaze of the other two. Ignored Lestrade's vague protest. Opened his phone and called Anthea. Gave her the address, cautioning utmost secrecy. Gave her the name of a systems analyst that he trusted completely. Told her to bring him and whatever tools he'd need to backtrace an IP to his house immediately.

He returned to the scene on the laptop.

It was the inside of the bothy. He recognised it as the same place where they had shot the scene of Sherlock in the DVD Moriarty had sent to him. He counted five men besides Sherlock and Molly. The angle of the camera was focused on his brother, who was on his knees, three men surrounding him. He was shirtless. A cut above his eye was bleeding. It seemed to be the same side that Mycroft had observed in the photo that Moriarty had sent him earlier. He could see a motley of old and new bruises crisscrossing Sherlock's body. He could count his brother's ribs. Molly had her back to the camera, Moriarty was easily recognizable. Off to the side with his back to the camera stood another man. Mycroft knew then that it was Oliver. The man that had been successful in keeping his brother in check all this time.

"I'll bloody kill him," Lestrade growled softly when Moriarty leaned in and gave Molly what looked like a kiss. The man was holding on to her arm, whispering in her ear. Molly stiffened and they could see whatever it was, it was upsetting because it was clear that she was crying.

Moriarty was apparently satisfied because he turned his attention to Sherlock. Mycroft blanched, turned away from the screen. Gathered himself and turned back to watch. Irene stepped away from the laptop, her eyes suspiciously bright. Lestrade just stared, his lips pulled back in a snarl.

Moriarty stood by and watched as the three men systematically assaulted Sherlock. Fists and feet used with precision, until Sherlock was nothing more than a limp body hanging between two men, blood dripping freely. Molly was held back by Oliver. It was evident that she was upset. Had tried to intervene but had been brought short by Oliver. His grip on her arm clearly hurt her. Mycroft knew that it would leave a bruise.

They dropped the consultant detective on the floor. He lay where he had fallen, crumbled on his stomach. The fact that he had not lost consciousness was evidence of the skill the men had in their craft. Mycroft made a special note to make sure that the men will never see the light of day again. Moriarty went down on his haunches by Sherlock. He said something that had Sherlock shake his head. Moriarty talked then at length, a full two minutes at least. When he was done, he looked back at Oliver and smiled. Molly quieted in the process, horror replacing fear; they could see her take big shuddering breaths.

Moriarty seemed to wait for something. He was patient. It was a full five minutes and then Sherlock slowly moved. They could see the effort involved; the pain etched onto his face. His head hung; he didn't look at Moriarty as he got onto his knees in front of the other man. Moriarty took out a syringe from his jacket pocket, laid it down in front of Sherlock. Molly reacted, shaking her head. She said something, taking a step towards Sherlock but was held back by Oliver. Moriarty in one smooth movement, rose and made his way to her.

Mycroft clearly saw Sherlock voice his disapproval. Moriarty had an arm over Molly's shoulder in a familiar way that creeped Mycroft out. He said something to her and she stopped trying to move away. Sherlock's eyes were pleading and then his shoulders slumped and his head dropped.

He picked up the syringe, his fingers white around the object. Moriarty gave Molly another kiss, pulling her closer to his own body. Sherlock shuddered. He laid his left arm down on his lap, pumped his fist and then proceeded to inject himself. Moriarty let the pathologist go, made his way over to Sherlock and patted him on his shoulder while bending down and taking the empty syringe from his hands.

Sherlock didn't move. Moriarty seemed satisfied. Oliver smirked. They all left shortly after. Molly moved over to Sherlock almost immediately.

Mycroft looked up when the door to his kitchen opened. Anthea and the systems analyst were standing in the doorway.

"Trace the IP. I want a location as soon as possible. I made a recording." He cleared his throat. Didn't look at Lestrade who stomped out the kitchen, slamming the door behind him. "There are five men on the video with Sherlock and Molly. One of them is Moriarty. That man…" he indicated on the screen "…is named Oliver. Have facial recognition run on him. And the three men who are clearly the help." He was terse. His emotions that he has always prided himself with to be under wraps were warring for release. He sneered, turned away and made his way out of the kitchen. Irene found him in his study, a glass in his hand. He took a big gulp, the liquid burning down his throat.

"Are you okay?" she asked softly. He gave a low chuckle. "Why shouldn't I be? What was it Moriarty called me? The Iceman?"

"Whatever that was…" she seemed to falter. "However hard that was…You are human, Mycroft. You're allowed to be angry. You're allowed to care."

"Caring is not an advantage, Ms Adler."

"I find that sometimes it's the only advantage we get in this life, Mycroft."

He turned away from her, placing his drink on the table above the mantle. "When he was little, Sherlock was … an emotional child. He struggled especially after Redbeard. I …helped him. Taught him how to cope when everything seemed too much. To separate his emotions from logic and intellect. I'm afraid my little brother's coping mechanisms weren't always very good. There was a time when he got very destructive. If it wasn't for Lestrade…I might've lost him. He found a new high in solving cases. Playing detective. And despite his protestations to me that it wasn't so, making friends." Mycroft said the last word softly, contemplative. He sighed. "I'm terrified that Moriarty is determined to break Sherlock. That he might succeed."

He swallowed. Turned so he faced her. "I'm…uhm. Apologies. Train of thought, you know. Didn't mean to say it out loud."

She gave a small smile in understanding. "We'll find them, Mycroft."

"Yes."

She left him, allowing him the time alone. He appreciated the gesture.

The fear he didn't voice, hadn't said. What if Moriarty succeeds and they are too late.

He shook his head, banished the thought.

Hold on brother mine. He thought.

Don't give up. I'm coming.

I promise.

Soon.

John was walking in the forest that was close to the cottage he stayed in. It was part of the grounds and he had free reign if he stayed within the confines of the fence. He gave a small smile when he looked up briefly. Taking five more steps, he turned to his left and started a new trail. Each morning so far, he had walked the same route. Knew that the guards were starting to get complacent as he followed a set routine, not deviating from it enough to warrant suspicion.

Half an hour later he was back in the cottage as he made himself a cup of tea. Someone had left a newspaper by the small table in the sitting room. He read it front to back, sipping his tea. He made a simple lunch with the ingredients in the cupboard. Beans on toast.

He went for another walk in the afternoon. Same route again and the guards hardly blinked.

Moriarty didn't bother him that night.

He wondered if Sherlock was okay. If the reason the Criminal Consultant was not visiting had anything to do with his friend.

He didn't like where his thoughts were going.

Remembered the menace and underlying hint of violence when Moriarty had strapped the bomb on him at the pool.

Remembered the fear.

He huffed, turned on his side and willed his memories to happier times at 221B Baker Street. To Mrs Hudson making tea. To Sherlock playing the violin. To his friend's crazy experiments. To Molly's professionalism and her endearing stutter every time she was around Sherlock. He wondered if the last four months had cured her of it. If she had come to realise how human Sherlock really could be. That he made mistakes. He thought of the plan Mycroft had come up with and he had willingly agreed too.

Somewhere in those moments he fell asleep.

"Molly, I'm sorry." Sherlock managed to say, gritting his teeth. Wide blue eyes met Molly's. He was afraid. Afraid that she wouldn't forgive him. Afraid that Molly would be angry. More afraid of her response then what Moriarty had described to him in great detail what the drug was going to do.

"You should've trusted me, Sherlock." She said softly. "After all we've been through…all of this…"

Her hand was on his arm, helping him crawl to the mattress. It was less than four metres that he had to go but it felt like a marathon distance in his current state. He stopped, indicating that he needed to take a minute. Knew that he might not have much time before the drug's effects would start to incapacitate him.

"I know. I should've said something."

She leaned back, her face clouded with something more than just anger. "You think?"

His head dropped and he grimaced. A stomach cramp flared at that moment and he bent over, groaning. He knew it was just beginning.

"It was my fault. I wanted to fix it."

"What was your fault, Sherlock?"

"If I kept my mouth…" he stopped abruptly. Both arms went around his stomach. He gave another deeper groan. It felt like someone was twisting a knife in his gut. The cramp finally released and he leaned forward on his hands, rocking slightly in a vague sense of self comfort. He looked up at her, "Oliver hurt you because of me."

"You are an idiot, you know that, right?"

He frowned. Couldn't for the life of him think why Molly was saying it. "I…"

"Sherlock, look at me. Am I angry? Yes. Disappointed. Yes. Hurt. Yes. But not because of this…" she indicated her broken arm and the bothy. "It's because you thought that it's okay to allow Oliver to drug you for a few lousy pain meds. If you had thought it through you would've realised that I'd never trade one day of pain relief for your wellbeing."

Another stomach cramp made itself felt and he gave up on moving closer to the mattress. The discomfort escalated to white hot agony. Instead, he went down on the ground, pulling his legs up as he curled around his stomach into a foetal position. Molly's hand was there, smoothing back his hair.

"You're an idiot, Sherlock. But you're my idiot, you understand. Don't ever do that to me again. I don't think I'll be able to forgive you."

He nodded. Couldn't do much more than that to acknowledge her. He was aware of her moving away, of doing things. Nausea was starting to make its presence felt. He swallowed the bile. Held it in as long as he could but then he couldn't contain anything anymore.

He shifted onto an elbow, pushing himself up. Molly was there, the old, rusted pan pushed under his face as he vomited. His hands shook when he wiped his mouth. The light coming in from the doorway was bright. It hurt his eyes and he closed them in response. He heard Molly move and then she closed the door. He opened his eyes, failing to hide his fear of what was to come.

"Molly," he said plaintively. "I…" but he couldn't get the words out that he was scared. Saying it would give it a foothold in his mind and he wasn't willing to take that step. He feared what Moriarty had described would come. Until four months ago he hadn't known the feeling. Had scoffed at it. He had learned under Oliver what fear meant.

"I'm not going anywhere, Sherlock. You fight, okay. I'll be here with you."

He nodded. Tears pricked his eyes and then he saw the first hallucination. It was out of a horror movie and it was worse than anything he'd experienced before. His eyes widened in response and he actually managed to scramble backwards, his hands raised before the logical part of him took over and told him it wasn't real. Molly was there, her hand on his shoulder grounding him. His heart was thudding in his chest, sweat had started to form and his breathing was heightened.

"Sherlock, look at me." Molly said. She moved into his vision, forced him to refocus away from the apparition that was hovering in the corner onto her. "I'm here. Do you see me?"

He slowed his breathing. Focused on her face. Her eyes. Her nose. Her lips. The hallucination was still hovering but was less pronounced. His fear response was heightened. He knew it was one of the side effects Moriarty had added into the mix. A chemical compound that would play havoc with his senses, his emotions.

"You see me?"

He swallowed against the tightness in his throat. "Yes." His eyes drifted behind her and his breathing hitched.

"Sherlock!"

A sob escaped. He collapsed back on the ground as another cramp took hold of him. He burrowed his face into the ground in an effort to keep from screaming. He bit his lip and then he was dry heaving. It was too much. Tears escaped freely, flowing down his face. He turned on his back, his arm over his eyes as sobs tore from him.

He didn't know how he was going to survive this. He's had bad trips before, back in the days when he used to get high. But none of them seemed to compare to this. And according to Moriarty it would last half the day. This was just the beginning and he was already struggling to cope. The physical and mental input was just too much.

Then Molly was there.

Her hand was soft on his face, wiping at the tears. Shushing and talking to him. Her voice was soothing and he allowed it to give him a false sense of peace as his body relaxed. It didn't last long before the next cramp started and then he turned on his side and vomited again. This time it was tinged with blood. He stared at the streaks of red in the bile, his stomach threatening to heave again. He rolled away and managed to get to his feet after two tries. Stumbled his way to the door in a vague flight response that told him he had to get out of there after Moriarty's drug sent a boost of adrenaline flooding his system. He panicked when he felt a hand on his back, turned and lashed out but Molly was quicker. Had anticipated his response somehow.

He stopped when he saw her standing there, backlit by the fire. She held out her hand, waited patiently for him to see her and make a decision. He stood in front of the door, one hand already on the handle. His breathing was harsh in the stillness of the bothy. His eyes were focused on Molly.

Molly who had carried him these past four months and had kept him sane.

Molly who has always given all that she had for him without regard for herself.

Molly who has crept into his whole being and permeated every living cell in him until he couldn't imagine a life where she wouldn't be present.

And he realised the question Oliver had asked him about human nature which seemed a lifetime ago, finally made sense. He finally understood.

That John Watson was in his head but Molly Hooper was his heart.

His hand dropped from the door handle. He took a step to her and allowed her to lead him to the mattress that they shared.

In the end, he screamed. Anguish and pain took turns. Horror and desperation and fear interchanged. Cramps pulled his body into tight contortions. Stiff and abused muscles made their presence known.

It all became too much at one stage. He was desperate to lose consciousness. Begged Molly to find some way to get him to slip quietly into the night.

But the drug kept him conscious. Aware. Hyper.

She sang then. A child's lullaby while she rocked him in her arms. On some level he was aware that this must've hurt her. Her broken arm now free of the sling was around him. He wasn't aware how that had happened. How he had come to be in her embrace. He held onto her, his only lifeline as the hallucinations continued to taunt him and tear into him. Bringing fear. As the cramps and nausea didn't abate. His body was wrung dry at the end of it but he kept his sanity.

Because of Molly.

Later the drug finally worked its way out of his system and he fell asleep. He wasn't aware of the blanket that was pulled softly around his body. Wasn't aware as Molly left then or when she came back a while later, her eyes bright with tears that'd been shed.

Wasn't aware when she cleaned the bothy. Wiped all traces of the drug's effects away. Wasn't aware as she kept vigil by his side.

He slept through it all.

Reviews welcome :-)