Chapter 24

A big chapter for Sherlock. Enjoy the read.

Day 137-138

How do you think you will protect Ms Hooper after your hospital stay? You know that I can get to her anytime, right?

Sherlock stared at the ceiling. Oliver's voice seemed to emanate from everywhere. It vibrated in his head, filled empty spaces, and infiltrated every nook and cranny of his mind palace. Especially after John had removed small trackers from both him and Molly's shoulders. John had told him that it was dormant and had not given off any signals but Sherlock had not been convinced. Oliver probably knew where they were. He didn't feel safe. Had not voiced his concerns to Molly or John. But he found that he was looking for egress points in case the other man strolled through the doors. Was hypervigilant to noise and anything that seemed new. And it had brought to the fore new nightmares. Different to the ones he had in the bothy but along a similar vein. The previous night had not been a good night.

And now it was the same again. Sleep brought nightmares. Sleeping wasn't safe. He glanced at the clock. It was three am. He shifted slightly and Molly stirred. She had climbed into his bed just after midnight. When her nightmares were too much and his own had kept him awake. Without thought their bodies had shifted into induced muscle memory. The only difference really was navigating the IV drip on his arm, but he had sorted it by removing it completely. His ribs twinged, the stitches pulling slightly when he turned on his side. He ignored the discomfort, pushed it to the back of his mind. It wasn't like he and pain were unfamiliar with each other. He knew John would have something to say about that in the morning but at least he could deal with John.

You know the rules, Mr Holmes. You shouldn't have scampered off. There will be consequences.

Sod off, Oliver, he thought vehemently. A shadow shifted in the corner of the room. And emerging from it, appeared an ethereal Oliver. Dressed in his usual attire of hunting shirt and khakis with hiking boots. He was definitely angry; Sherlock could see it in the way his ghostly gait approached. In the way the muscles on his face played against the light and dark. Haunted by every facet of the man's presentation hinting how much he and Molly would be hurting afterwards. Had studied it in depth in the last four months. Out of necessity. To survive.

He stiffened; his body viscerally triggered into a freeze response. Fear seeped from his pores as droplets of sweat beaded on his skin. His heart thumped, breaths rapid and shallow. His pupils dilated to anticipate the imminent threat. His arm around Molly tightened involuntarily.

"Sherlock?" Her voice was questioning. Soft and gravely with sleep. "You okay?"

He blinked and Oliver was gone. He nuzzled her hair, breathing in the smell of shampoo and Molly. The shampoo was new. Something he focused on. Molly. Molly was familiar. Molly, who had seen the worst of him, the vulnerable, broken him. Who had never said a word in judgement. Molly, whom he had come to know better than himself. He couldn't imagine his life going forward without her in it.

"Bad dream." He said. "Go back to sleep."

He could feel her frown. She shifted into a better position. He could hear her thoughts as clear as day. Knew what she was thinking.

"I just need a minute. I'll be fine, Molly. Promise. Go back to sleep." He said, placating her. Willing her to rest. To let it go. She gave a small sigh. "Fine. But you need to speak to someone, Sherlock. Maybe John…"

"No."

She turned her head, looking back at him. "You realise that you're human like the rest of us, right?"

He gave her a smirk. "Never noticed, Molly Hooper."

She snickered. "We might be in trouble when John walks in and finds us sleeping like this."

"I can handle John. Now go back to sleep."

"Fine. Only if you do too."

"Promise."

Soon he heard her breathing deepen. He closed his eyes. But his mind still didn't want to settle.

I'll be back, Mr Holmes. Don't make me come and fetch you.

He ignored the voice. Told himself that hearing and seeing Oliver was nothing more than his brain's attempt to reconcile the last few months of suffering. Flashbacks, recurring nightmares, hypervigilance. All of these classic symptoms he could logically pull apart and disassemble. But his body's remembered response was too ingrained and he felt frustrated that he couldn't seem to separate the imagined from the real.

The only thing or rather person, grounding him at the moment was in his arms. Safe. Warm. Fed. As far away from the bothy and Oliver and his goons as they possibly could get.

He will have to address sentiment later, he thought. When all of this was done and over and they were back to full strength. When Oliver had been dealt with. Because he had read his brother the moment he had stepped through the door. Had realised that Oliver was still out there. Still roaming free. A spectre haunting his thoughts and dreams. With the potential to strike at them again if he found them.

It had brought feelings of anxiety that he had failed to hide from Mycroft. It had brought on the panic attack when he had momentarily forgotten where he was. For that moment convinced he was back at the bothy. Back under Oliver's control.

"Sherlock, I can hear you thinking."

Molly sat up. Switched on the night light. Moved to the foot end of his bed, pulled up her legs and hugged them. A self-defence mechanism he had come to know well. He shifted upwards, his face granite. It hurt to do it but he didn't show it.

"Stop reading my thoughts." He said, the words harsh. "I just need to process a few things."

"Don't let Oliver win." She said simply.

That floored him. He had been ready with retorts. Had mapped out this conversation and what both of them would say. Was ready with his defence. Was ready to let her know that he was in fact doing fine.

That Oliver was not in his head.

He stuttered. Molly smirked. He could read her. Honesty. Pain. Knowledge. Shared trauma.

"I'm not." He said, plaintively.

"Okay. Have you slept at all so far tonight?"

"You're awake." He said petulantly. "I don't see how my being awake has any bearing on you not sleeping, Molly Hooper. I'm used to going days without sleep when I'm on a case."

Molly sighed. Her chin resting on her knees. She gripped her legs tighter. "You're not on a case, are you Sherlock?"

"No," he started. "That's not the point." He popped the p. Emphasised the last word.

"At the bothy…" she started. Met his gaze. "…we had nightmares too. But we still managed to sleep. Because you were exhausted from Oliver's challenges. Because our bodies were starving. Especially on the days when Oliver decided one of us needed punishment. We were hurting, Sherlock. We were forced into compliance. Forced to take the necessary step of making sure that at least we got a few good hours of sleep in so you could cope with the physical exertions that he made you do."

He didn't reply. Stared at her as she spoke. "You have just come out of major surgery, Sherlock. If you're not careful your noncompliance with medical advice will lead to you having a mental or physical breakdown. Please don't do that to yourself or to me." She said softly. "We got out. Barely. John is right. We owe it to ourselves to let others carry the load for a little bit. To heal."

He wanted to tell her that he was fine. But Oliver seemed to be standing right behind her "You think you're safe? I'll be back. It's just a matter of time." Oliver crooned.

"I'm not most people, Molly."

"No. No you're not, are you. This…" she swung an arm wide, frustration evident. "This is like the hollow all over again. The great Sherlock Holmes who doesn't listen. Who never thinks of the people around him that end up in harm's way because he can't be bothered to listen. I can't do that again, Sherlock. I watched you almost die. Do you have any idea what it was like?"

"It's not my fault you were taken. I didn't want you there." he said. Heard himself then and realised that he hadn't meant to say it.

Molly's eyes shimmered. Silence stretched and Sherlock saw Oliver grin behind Molly. He was giving a slow clap. Bravo. Well done, Mr Holmes.

"Molly, I…" he started.

Her face set. He knew that look. Have come to understand it. This was so not good. He thought. She moved then, got off his bed. Made her way to the bathroom. The door slammed shut.

Just perfect, Mr Holmes. You're doing a splendid job with Ms Hooper. Just give up and join me already. I've got your room ready for you.

"Leave me alone!" Only realised he had voiced it out loud when the door to their room opened, a nurse looking in. Molly didn't come out of the bathroom, which was more telling. She must be really angry, he thought.

"You alright, Mr Holmes."

"Fine." He growled. "You can leave now."

"You're IV seemed to be unattached."

"Only noticing that now? Maybe you need to go see the optometrist. Your wife has been complaining about your driving, yes. Afraid you'll get into an accident. Maybe spend more time with her than your mates at the pub." The nurse didn't budge. Sherlock could see his words had some impact but he seemed to shrug it off.

"Where's Ms Hooper."

"Don't be an imbecile. It's obvious she's in the bathroom, you moron. Now leave me alone."

The nurse came in fully. Made for the table that was between their beds. Sherlock glared at him, wishing he'd just leave. The man took the water carafe and poured some into a glass.

"Here, this should help," he said, offering the water to him. Oliver continued to smirk, eyebrow raised at the foot end of the bed, daring Sherlock to take the water.

"Mr Holmes…"

All Sherlock heard in that moment was Oliver's voice. Oliver was the one who always addressed him formally. Addressed Molly formally. In those two words the nurse managed to unintentionally copy Oliver's tone exactly. His breathing hitched. His one hand clenched into a fist and with the other he pushed the hand with the water away. The glass tipped and then the water splashed over him, soaking his shirt and he gasped in air at the coldness of it. And just like that, a switch in his brain flipped and it brought him back to the lake. Back to Oliver and his challenges. Back to the place where he had almost drowned.

The water was cold. He was struggling to keep his head above the water. Struggling to keep his limbs moving.

"Two more minutes, Mr Holmes."

He didn't acknowledge Oliver. Could barely keep his body functioning. He dipped below the surface. Breathed in water. Came up, spluttering.

"Mr Holmes, one minute thirty."

He thought about letting go. Sinking down. Let oblivion take him. He couldn't do it. Molly would be hurt if he gave in. His vow was broken into a million pieces. He pushed upwards again, breathing in air. Then John was there.

"Come on, Sherlock. What is a minute? Sixty seconds. Count it down. Think of Molly. Come on mate."

Overlayed over John's voice in his head, his ailing limbs and cold and drowning was Oliver sitting in the boat, telling him exactly what would happen if he failed to stay the course. He went down again, his head submerging and this time it was harder to come up. To see hope. To see the end.

"Thirty seconds, Mr Holmes."

He tried to go on his back, trying to find a way to not drown. But Oliver was there, telling him off, that he needed to keep his body vertical. That was the parameters of this particular game. John was counting in his head, backwards from ten.

And then it was done. Goon 3 reached down, effortlessly pulled him inside the boat. He shivered. Curled into a ball. Coughed up lake water. All the while Oliver was humming with pleasure. A towel was dropped on his body.

"You did good, Mr Holmes. Want to go for round 2?"

His eyes slammed open. He shook his head. Protested. Oliver waited him out. Brought his phone out and made a phone call.

"Mr Holmes is a bit slow on the uptake today."

He heard Molly protest. Heard her scream. Words he normally didn't say, left his lips. He rose to hurt Oliver. To kill if he could. But Goon 3 was there, an arm around his throat. He clawed at the obstruction. Heard Molly again.

"Stop. I'll do it." He snapped. Hot tears made their way down his face. He blinked furiously. Felt gratified when the tears stopped.

Oliver met his eyes. Gave instructions and closed the phone.

"This is a rule, Mr Holmes. You do as you're told when the game is on. Nothing more. Nothing less. Am I clear?"

He nodded as best he could with the arm still around his throat.

"Good. Now, Mr Holmes, ready for round 2?"

His head dropped. He swallowed a sob. The thought of going back into the water, back into the cold, back into potentially drowning was almost too much. Goon 3 let him go and he sat down, pulling his legs up and dropping his head on his knees. Pulled the towel around his shoulders. Tried to ignore muscles that trembled.

"We start in five minutes."

A foot pushed against his leg. He acknowledged Oliver. Got back into the water when it was time. It was the first time he deliberately disassociated. He went into his mind palace. Went into the sitting room of 221B Baker Street. Sat down in his chair and spoke to John. Sipped tea. Mrs Hudson was there. She was fussing. On some level he was aware of his body outside of his mind palace, treading water. Cramping. Of being cold right into his core. But inside his mind he was warm. Safe. Not hungry. Not drowning.

It scared him. But he couldn't seem to stop. He knew that if he was to survive, he would need to find ways to get around what Oliver required of him. Needed to find ways to protect his mind. His being. John told him to be careful. That he could so easily lose himself. He made a pact then with John, sitting there in his mind palace. That he'd only come into this room when it was too much. When Oliver required the impossible.

Oliver was pleased afterwards. Sherlock barely acknowledged the other man. He had no energy left. Both of Oliver's men were needed to drag him from the helicopter into the bothy, his limbs completely useless. They had dropped him on the floor, dropped his clothes on top of him and had left. Oliver had promised him a three-day rest period. Molly had helped him onto the mattress, had placed both blankets over his body as he shivered, his teeth chattering. Had stoked the fire until its warmth spread over and through him. Had climbed under the blankets with him as he folded his body around her and tried to leech some more heat. And he had fallen asleep, exhausted beyond measure.

"Sherlock! Come on, mate. You're scaring me."

He could hear John. Understood that his friend was there. But it was hard to exit his mind palace. To exit the memory. He didn't want to deal with Molly being angry. Didn't want to deal with his own fear and anxiety. Things he thought beneath him. He was Sherlock Holmes, a high functioning sociopath. He wasn't supposed to feel. He wasn't supposed to care. Sentiment was for the weak. The losing side. But his body betrayed him. His mind was in turmoil. Because he had learned that sentiment can be strength. Can be for the winning side. Can bring hope where there was none.

Molly Hooper had shown him all of that.

"Breathe for me Sherlock. Focus."

He blinked. Realised for the first time that he was sitting upright, feet hanging over the side of the bed. That Molly was there on one side. John on the other. Supporting him.

"That's it, Sherlock. You're doing good."

"C…c…c…cold." He managed to say, his teeth chattering. He started to slip back into his memory. The bothy and fire and Molly and blankets were nice and warm. He wanted to be warm above all else. He didn't want to feel. Didn't want to deal with cold and wet and Oliver.

"No Sherlock. Don't go back there. Sherlock!"

Someone rubbed something hard on his sternum. It hurt. He blinked and the bothy seemed to go out of focus and he was back with John and Molly in the hospital room.

"That hurt," he managed to say. Leaned forward a bit as his mind tried to reset itself to the present. It was bloody hard.

"You back?" John asked. He was leaning in, his face close to Sherlock as he looked into his eyes.

"Still cold." He stuttered. "Molly needs to get the fire going…"

"Hey, no fires in the room, Sherlock."

"Oh." Sherlock blinked and then it was as if the switch was flipped and he was back in the hospital room, the bothy gone. He felt nauseous. Unsettled.

"You feel up to moving to the chair?" John asked as he took a slow breath. He nodded. Molly and John moved him off the bed and then into a chair that had been brought close. He sat back against the back, his eyes closed. His wet shirt still clung to his chest. He pulled on the material and it made a slight sucking sound as it let go of his skin.

"Get it off," he said. Suddenly frantic. Another memory surfaced. Of Oliver and his time alone with the man. His movements chaotic; he tore at the material, pulling it over his head and flinging it from him. His skin prickled. Goosebumps rose and he hugged himself as he pulled his legs up the chair. Leaning his head onto his knees he took a ragged breath.

"Too cold." He managed to say before he could stop himself. Something soft was draped over him and he realised it was a blanket. Nice and hot, like it had just come out of the dryer. He took it and folded it around his whole body and created a little cocoon for himself. John and Molly didn't say anything. Left him alone and he heard movement. The stripping of bedding. Soft murmurs. A bed being remade. A short time later, he felt a presence in front of his cocoon.

"Sherlock?"

"Mmmmh."

"Got some new pj's here for you. Nice and warm."

He reluctantly lifted his head from his knees. John was kneeling in front of him. He showed the package in his hands. "You want me to help you?"

"I can dress myself, John," he said but still stayed where he was. Not moving.

"Hey mate. I know that. Might be a bit hard with the broken ribs, right?"

"Oh. Right." John waited patiently as Sherlock processed his own thoughts. Processed his transport and its needs. "Fine." He reluctantly let go of the blanket, shivering as the air of the room hit his skin.

His side hurt. He pressed an arm tight, pretended to not be sore but John saw. Helped him onto the bed after changing his pyjama pants. Muttered about idiot consulting detectives and pulled stitches. Sherlock let him mother. Leaned his head back, closed his eyes and tried to come to terms with what had just happened. John was gentle and quick, redressing his wound. He helped Sherlock into his pyjama top afterwards, the material soft and thick against his body. He sighed, hugging himself. Liked the feel of the material against his skin. John pulled a thick blanket over him.

"Warm?" he asked as he stepped back.

Sherlock nodded. Relished the feel of the heat that seemed to be coming from inside him. A warm glow that made him drowsy.

Mr Holmes, don't fall asleep.

He jerked awake at the voice. Suppressed a groan. Oliver was standing behind John, arms folded. Clearly angry.

"Sherlock," Molly said, her hand gentle on his forehead as she smoothed his hair back. "What's going on?"

"I'm fine…" he started to say.

"No. You're not fine. Stop saying that." Molly interjected. You're not sleeping. You're not okay."

"You're not sleeping either," he said. Glared at her. "I told you. I just need to process a few things."

"So this is how you process things?" she asked, meeting his glare with one of her own.

"What do you mean?" he said petulantly.

"You had a flashback." John said, drawing Sherlock's attention back to his friend.

"What?"

"You heard me, you clot."

"I don't have flashbacks, John. You must be mistaken."

"What do you call this, then?"

"Momentary loss of faculties brought on by idiot nurses."

John gave a dry chuckle. Threw Molly a knowing glance. "Oh really," he said. "I must be mistaken then." He was silent for a moment. "I need to reattach your IV. Can I have your arm please."

Sherlock reluctantly removed his arm from under the blanket. Watched as John worked efficiently and quickly, inserting the line, and getting it flowing again. He left it lying on the blanket, fingers unconsciously pulling and tugging on the blanket, wary now of falling back asleep. He was still in shock at how easy it had been for his mind to flip between reality and the memory.

"Why did you take it out?" John asked casually.

"I don't need morphine. Addictive tendencies, you know." he said by way of explanation. Silently looked at Molly as he avoided John's gaze of disapproval. Apologised inside his head. Her lips thinned as she pressed them together. He knew that she understood what he was saying. But she was still angry. He'll need to do some work to get back into her good graces. He understood it. Understood her.

"Sherlock. It's not just morphine you're getting through your IV line. Did you notice the antibiotics by the way? Which will stop nasty infections."

"Oh, stop being so dramatic, John. It's not like I'm going to pick any of those up in a sterile environment."

John frowned. Sherlock could clearly see he was not happy about what he'd done.

"You're a moron, you know that." John said.

Sherlock gave John a fleeting smile. "Still smarter than you, by the way."

"Please don't remove your IV line until I say so. Agreed."

"Fine." Tried to avoid looking at Oliver who was still standing behind John, looking pointedly at his watch.

"What time is it?" He asked.

"Way too early to be here, awake." John answered. Sherlock frowned. "Where were you?"

"Sleeping next door, thank you very much. That was until I got woken by the nurse because you decided to not have a flashback and scare the living daylights out of him when he couldn't get you to respond."

"Oh." He was silent then. Took a breath. "Sorry."

"All good. You're going to make it up to me."

"What do you mean make it up to you?"

"Oh. Definitely. This comes under the friendship rules, Sherlock. You owe me."

"You're joking, right."

"Nope." John popped the p. Sherlock knew he was emulating him when he'd done it earlier. John seemed to find some enjoyment from the look of consternation on his face.

"Stop being childish." He said, sulking. "Molly, John is not being fair."

"Oh, I'm with John all the way," she said. "You were a real bastard earlier."

Blue eyes met brown. "I know. I'm sorry, Molly Hooper."

"As you should be. What you said was really mean."

He wiped his face. Rolled his shoulders. Shifted on the bed. He felt exposed. Wanted to walk away and disappear into the bathroom but knew that he would probably fall on his face the moment he stepped out of bed. His legs felt decidedly rubbery.

"Granted. But there were extenuating circumstances."

She lifted an eyebrow. "Really?"

He was reminded of the time, well the four times her eyebrow has raised exactly like that at the bothy. He glanced at John. "Can we discuss this without John?"

"Nope." She popped the p the same way John had. He was now convinced that they had conspired.

He swallowed. Played with the blanket, his fingers bunching and pulling at the material.

"I'm waiting, Sherlock." Molly wasn't letting up. He knew what she was like when she got like this. He didn't look at her. Ran a hand through his hair and then ruffled it in the end. Debated how much he was willing to share. But this was Molly. She would figure it out eventually and then she'd even be angrier at him for not having said anything. He sighed. Decided it better get it out of the way. "Because I see Oliver."

Molly gasped. Took a step back and looked towards the door. "He's here?"

He shook his head. "What do you mean you see Oliver, Sherlock?" John asked softly.

"He..." he stopped. Uncertain because Oliver dissipated before his eyes, his body fading into nothingness. He blinked and the other man was gone. He sat up, frowning at the space that Oliver had occupied. Tried to make sense of what was happening with his transport. Why his mind was conjuring up the other man. He ignored John and Molly. Closed his eyes and entered his mind palace.

Inside everything was still in chaos. Emotions he had thought he'd dealt with especially after his time over the 3 days with Oliver were running rampant. He recognised a few. Fear. Shame. Anger. He pushed and prodded at them, pulling them back down the stairs to the dungeon he had created for them. Closed the door on them to only watch horrified as they seemed to ooze through the door. He opened the door again, pushed them back and slammed the door shut. But it didn't matter how many times he did it, the result was always the same. With an incoherent scream, he slammed the door shut a final time and barricaded it with the solid mahogany dresser. It seemed to hold for a moment and then he was jerked from his mind palace and John's hand was on his arm. Concern was etched into his face and radiated off him in big waves. It was overwhelming for Sherlock who just felt like he wanted to be left alone.

"You with us, Sherlock?"

"I'm fi…" he started to say. Saw Molly's face and stuttered to a stop. Leaned back onto his pillow, staring up at the ceiling. Started to count the tiles.

"You're having hallucinations?" John paused, dropping his hand from Sherlock's arm. Narrowed his eyes. "Auditory and visual?"

Sherlock dropped his gaze from the ceiling and renewed his focus on the blanket. His fingers are making a mess of it. "Yes." He said succinctly. "Morphine can cause hallucinations as a side effect. The d-receptors can be affected causing delusions and hallucinations. You should be aware of this, Doctor Watson." He rushed his words, rambling through the science.

He didn't believe his own words. Knew that morphine wasn't the reason.

"Right. Okay. Not the morphine, and you know that Sherlock." He pursued his lips, hands on his hips as he rode on the balls of his feet, thinking. Came to a decision. "Your brother has someone here who can help you deal with this, Sherlock. Would you mind just speaking to him? I know you detest counselling. You don't have to do that. But just speak to him about this, mate. Just to get you past the hallucinations. What do you think?"

Silence met John's words. It stretched, taking up time. Molly moved then. She put her hand over his. Stilled the tug on the blanket with that one move. He gave another sigh.

"I'm assuming that you'd want me to follow John's direction?" He met her gaze completely. Searched her face. Read her like an open book. Understood what she was implying.

"That is mean." Sherlock said. He gave a pout. She still didn't say anything. He turned his hand, folded hers in his. Thought about her words from earlier. That he and Molly owed it to themselves to let others carry the load. To heal. More than anything, if anyone deserved it – it was her. For her he'd take the step.

"Fine." Ignored the surprised look on John's face. He lifted his hand from hers, dropped it on his lap. "Can we get some sleep now that everyone has gotten what they want?"

He turned on his side. Patted the spot where for the past four months Molly had slept by his side. It was his way of making it up to her. Maybe this way they would get some sleep tonight. Molly smiled. Without a word she got onto his bed and he lifted the blanket so she'd settle under it and he knew she had forgiven him for his earlier words. John's mouth gaped open as he slowly and with care moved into position with the IV line attached, his arm draping over her body.

"Good night, John," he said. Smirked. "Switch the light off when you leave." Breathed in the scent of shampoo and Molly. His body relaxed for the first time that night. His breathing deepened. He closed his eyes and something inside him seemed to release. It felt…good. Right. Maybe there was something to sentiment and to allow others to help carry the load. Because inside his mind palace he was at 221B Baker Street. But it was different to the room he'd always gone to when everything had been too much with Oliver. This one was new. In it was Molly, John, Lestrade, Mrs Hudson. Even his brother. His parents. There were lights. Warmth. Laughter. Music flowed, a soft melody of hope. Glasses clinked. A soft yellow glow surrounded everyone as they stood around him. It wasn't suffocating. He didn't feel overwhelmed. It took him a moment to recognise what he was seeing. To experience the sentiment for what it was. Love. He was loved. Protected. The room was secure and he knew that Oliver would never be able to come in here. He gave a soft sigh as his arm tightened automatically around Molly.

"Sleep well, Molly Hooper," he breathed.

She relaxed fully. He knew she had felt the change in him. Felt her smile. "Night Sherlock."

He promptly and without much fanfare fell asleep a short time later.

Reviews welcome. ;-)