Chapter 7

Day 6

It felt good to see single digits. He felt like he could breathe. Molly would be home in 9 days. He could do 9 days. He ate breakfast and then left, Mycroft having sent a car. It took him to his brother's residence, which was a surprise. He found Mycroft in his study, the unmistakable Shumukh scent of Irene Adler's perfume still hanging in the air.

"Why here?" he asked as he sat down in one of the comfy chairs in front of the empty fireplace.

"More privacy," his brother said grimly. Brought a file with him as he sat down across from Sherlock.

"I take it you found him," Sherlock stated. "The banker?"

"Yes. It seems he's been skimming money from some powerful crime families. His accident had been retribution of sorts. Hard to get evidence as he was cremated soon after the pathologist had signed off on the death."

"Oh." Sherlock felt relieved for some reason. This wasn't someone innocent that he'd condemned to death. This had been someone involved in the higher echelons of crime. Not that it made it very much better what he'd done but he felt with this, he could live with it.

"So far there are no commonalities between this death and the drug lord."

"Okay." He tented his fingers, his eyes half-lidded as he contemplated his options. The next memory felt distant. He knew it wasn't going to be easy. He dropped his hands to his lap and met his brother's eyes.

"I'll have to go into my mind palace. Try and find the memory of the next one. I'm not sure how much I'll remember. There was a …. difficult… time with Oliver. I," he cleared his throat and looked away. Tried again. "My memory is a little hazy."

"Very well. Do you want to be alone or do you want me here?"

Sherlock focused on the fireplace. The ornate steel bars that were curled into a design of a figure of eight. The bricks set neatly. The mantle is empty of knick-knacks that you would expect to find in most houses. His brother clearly wasn't prone to sentiment. The grounding helped to focus his thoughts. His brother was silent while he thought about what he was about to attempt. Knew it wasn't going to be easy and even if it was possible that any memories would have survived that particular time of his captivity with Oliver.

"I might need your help," he said softly.

"Fine. What do you want me to do?"

"If it looks like I'm struggling…just…can you pull me out?"

"Phrase word?"

"Vatican cameos"

Mycroft nodded. Leaned back in his seat, hands tented beneath his chin. Sherlock took a deep breath and then another. Settled comfortably in the full-grain studded leather chair and then he entered his mind palace.


Alex wasn't happy. The brothers had found the identity of the banker. He knew that they wouldn't have enough information to be able to trace it back to him. There is no link between the two men that had been murdered by him. Both had been jobs for different clients. The manner of death hadn't been the same. In fact, the banker had been signed off as an accident, so there was no evidence to trace.

He was good at his job. He knew that. And with Sherlock's input, it had just made everything …better.

Thought back to his meeting with Oliver when the topic of Sherlock Holmes had first come up.


"Alex, I have someone that would interest you in your day job." Oliver had said. Gave a secret smile as he took a sip of his wine. The fire was going and they were seated in front of it. Alex had come for a visit, always intrigued by Oliver's quest to find that perfect candidate that would survive his training. Be malleable but strong. Intelligent. He had always scoffed at the idea.

"Not another one." He'd taunted. Placed one leg over the other as he leaned back. Relaxed and enjoying the atmosphere. "How many have there been in the last year, Oliver? Five?"

"Scoff away. This one is promising. Jim Moriarty had come up with the suggestion, of all people. In all honesty, I was a bit hesitant at first."

"You, hesitant? Really, who is this man?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

He did a double take. Tilted his head as he scrutinised Oliver next to him. "Mycroft Holmes' little brother?"

"Yes."

"You're playing with fire, Oliver. Mycroft is not someone to be toyed with."

"He's focused on Moriarty. Has no idea where his brother is. And according to my sources, their relationship isn't that great."

Alex swirled the red in his glass before nosing the aromas. He took a sip and watched the dance of flames in front of him. "I'm assuming he's the one on your site that punters can bet against. Doing races?"

"Challenges…" Oliver stated.

"Excuse me."

"I call them challenges. He's quite agile. Good at finding ways to complete the tasks within the parameters I set. His intelligence combined with his physical athleticism and pure stubbornness and will to win has exceeded all of my expectations."

"Do I need to leave you two alone for a bit," Alex teased. But he was fascinated. "How did you manage to get him to comply?"

Oliver smirked. "Our Mr Holmes might think he's impervious but he is driven by passion. Pure and simple. And he has a protective side."

"You didn't…"

Oliver laughed. "One Molly Hooper. She's a pathologist at Barts. He's worked with her exclusively over the years. They are starting to make quite the pair. I give it three months and our dear Mr Holmes will be so full of sentiment, controlling him will be a piece of cake."

"Isn't there a doctor?"

"Doctor John Watson. They're quite close. But he's been to war. To control him would be harder. No. Molly Hooper was definitely the right way to go. I only had to prove my resolve once and I had Sherlock Holmes eating out of my hand the last few weeks. The threat of violence enough to get him to comply after my demonstration against the pathologist."

"Just threats?" Alex asked with a wink.

"Well, you know. Sometimes one has to indulge. Showcase the consequences of not listening. Make it a teachable moment." He chuckled. "Sherlock Holmes is starting to show all the signs of rebellion. I would say another few weeks and he'll get an introduction to my retraining sessions."

"Why not escalate it?"

Oliver stilled. Contemplated the words. "Mmmm. I'll have a think about that suggestion. It might be easier if I control all the variables."

"What are your plans for the long term? Or are you just going to do these challenges until he's used up and past his sell-by date?"

"Once he's mine, completely obedient and compliant, I'll utilise his intellect to build on my organisation. Expand, if you will."

"Becoming a rival to Jim Moriarty?" he asked. "You know that man is slightly insane. There's no telling what he'd do if he ever thought you'd be competition."

"I can handle Jim." Oliver said confidently. "After my retraining session is complete, do you want to try him out?" Oliver asked, a glint in his eyes that Alex knew well.

"Why? I've been doing this a long time and no-one knows who I am."

"Why not take him for a test drive. As a favour to me."

Alex was quiet. Gave a sinister smile when he realised what Oliver was planning. "Is this part of your retraining? Forcing him to be complicit and compromising his own sense of ethics." He swore. The word vulgar but this was just …beautiful in its simplicity. "You really do have a malevolent mind, Oliver."

"So?"

"Okay. I'll agree. There is a job I can think of that has come up. Could be a start."

"And if he's successful."

"If, Oliver. If I find his solution adequate and enhancing on my own skill, then I'll use him again." He laughed. "Oh. This is going to be brilliant. Using Mycroft Holmes' little brother in this way."

"I know, right." Oliver stated. Gave a grin and lifted his glass.

"Salut."


Alex watched the room. It was slowly filling up with conference delegates with breakfast trays. Ordinary, everyday people.

He focused back onto his conundrum of the Holmes brothers. If they continue along this path of finding the jobs Sherlock had worked on for him, they might eventually find something small he'd missed. They were smart enough to pick up on it that the police never would. Especially Mycroft Holmes.

What to do?

There were quite a few options open to him. One of them within his grasp if he chose to go that route.

No. Not yet. He thought. There will be time for that, later. He wanted to savour it. Not rush it.

Molly and Sue entered, breakfast tray in hand as they made their way to where he was sitting. He smiled at them as they sat down.

"Hi Alex. No breakfast?" Sue asked.

"No thanks. Fasting day today."

"Oh, I heard about those. One of my friends does it. That's the one where you skip a day, right?" Sue continued. Took a sip of her orange juice.

"Yep. Surprisingly works well for me."

Molly was quiet. Dug into her fruit bowl. "You think you'd be able to do that, Molly? Go a day without food," Sue continued. "I don't think I'll be able to. I'd starve…"

Molly seemed to shrink into herself. Alex knew the real reason why. He knew what Oliver had done to her. To Sherlock. They had gone days without food. Molly didn't need to imagine. She was perfectly aware of what starving was like.

"What's the plan for today, ladies," he said instead. Better to work on making himself amiable. Make Molly think he was nice. Protective. It wasn't that hard to pretend. He had gotten good at this part of his personality. Knew how to play the game. Molly's look was grateful and he gave her an encouraging smile.

This was just so easy. He thought. How did they ever manage to kill Oliver?

"Seeing that we have no lectures this afternoon, Molly and I are going shopping." Sue said, clapping her hands. "Maybe get a massage or do our nails."

"Sounds like …fun." Alex said. "Enjoy the pampering."

"What are you planning?"

"Oh, a bit of this or that. Visit a drug dealer."

Molly spluttered. Looked up at Alex's grinning face. "Just kidding ladies. I need to prepare for tomorrow night's project I have going on the side. Might spend the time researching it."

"You're all work, Alex and no play. Live a little." Sue said as she tucked into her muesli.

"Oh. Once this is done, I plan to."


Sherlock entered the foyer of his mind palace. He wasn't sure where to go from here. He took a moment to think. To focus on the memories, he wanted to access. Maybe the reason why he remembered the fall and his time afterwards were an unconscious clue his mind was sending him. He walked down to the cellar. A lot of his memories he had buried here. They were just too painful to air upstairs where they'd be easily accessible. He skipped past the chained chest that contained his memories of those three days with Oliver. He'd never open that if he could help it. He shifted through files, skipping whole sections until he finally found the one he was looking for.

He pulled it out, looked at the folder. The words inside were vague, blunted somehow. He squinted, trying to make out what was written.

There still wasn't any clarity. He took a breath. Steadied himself. Maybe something inside him was preventing him from accessing the memory. Forcing him to not remember.

In all honesty, he had been in so much pain…

Sudden clarity came.

Pain.

He had been in so much pain, he had blotted out most of the time. Had tried his best to delete so that his transport could cope.

Pain was the key to unlocking these memories.

He wasn't sure how he was going to go about achieving that. He sat down in a chair in the corner, fingers drumming on his leg as he worked his way steadily through the problem. Mycroft would obviously object if he did something to his transport to remember. Molly would be mad. John…John wouldn't be happy.

So, not physical pain then.

He eyed the chest, chained and locked. His hands were sweating as he thought about the memories in there he'd hidden away.

Maybe…

"Sherlock, you okay?"

Mycroft's voice entered his mind palace and he knew that something of his torment must be evident to his brother. He slowed his breathing, willed his transport to go back to calm. Eyed the chest again.

How much did he really want to access that third memory?

Was it worth it to open the chest for it? Did he really want to know?

Do you really want to defy me, Mr Holmes? You know what will happen to Ms Hooper if you do.

Oliver was there. Standing by the chest, eyes malevolent as they gleamed in the dark of the cellar.

"You're dead. Get out of my head." He said, waving at the mirage before him. Oliver didn't disappear. Smirked.

Not going anywhere, Mr Holmes. You'll never get rid of me.

"No. You're dead." He said again. Waved his hand again and this time Oliver faded. A smile was left hanging in the air, like the Cheshire cat. Then it popped out of existence.

Okay. Maybe this wasn't such a good idea, he thought. Some memories might be best left buried.

But despite his thoughts he went back to the file. Opened it again. There was a photograph, fuzzy in black and white. He focused on the pixels, willed them to colour.

To life.

To meaning.

And just like that, a switch was thrown and he remembered.


Everything was still hurting. He couldn't make the trip from the helicopter to the cottage on his own. He stumbled between the two men as they manoeuvred him to the table and into the chair. His hair was matted from sweat, his body trembling. Pain flared and radiated down his left side where he'd hit the ledge four days earlier. His shoulder ached. His arm was still tightly strapped to his chest, held immobile while his joint was healing. The cut on his forearm was tender, the pull of the stitches on it itchy and tight. He couldn't find a comfortable way to sit, his hip and thigh muscles swollen and too sore as he shifted slightly and tried to find some way to deal with all of his transport's signals.

It was too much input.

His vision greyed out, grew fuzzy on the edges. Voices sounded like it came from a long way off and he couldn't make sense of them. He swallowed, tried to bring himself back from the edge but it was too hard. The pain is too much. He felt himself losing control. He was starting to lose consciousness.

A glass was pushed against his lips. Water sloshed into his mouth and then he had to swallow or choke. It had a vague metallic taste. Some spilled down his mouth, dripping onto his shirt. But it made the pain…less. It was …good? Another push of the glass against his lips and this time he willingly swallowed a bigger gulp. He finished all of it. Didn't care what it was. Only that it made the red- and white-hot angles of pain fade to pastel pinks and yellows. It was …better. Oblivion.

Mycroft won't be happy. He thought. He'll be angry.

And then he thought. I don't care.

"More please," he whispered.

"After," Oliver stated. A hand in his hair, pulling his head back. "Open your eyes, Mr Holmes."

He obliged. Maybe if he was really really good, Oliver would give him some more of the dulling drugs. "Can you focus?"

He met Oliver's gaze. Frowned briefly before setting his face into a neutral expression. Oliver wasn't his friend. He didn't play nice…

He giggled.

Tried to get control again of his transport but failed.

Oliver slapped him. Hard. "Mr Holmes!"

Reality came back with a vengeance. He reset his transport. Reset his mind. "Fine…" he managed to say. "W…what do you want?"

Oliver pushed his head down so he was staring at a folder on the table. Waited until he reached out with his right hand, opened it. The face of a woman in her twenties stared back at him.

Left home when she was 16? Rebellious. Living on her own. No relationships. Lonely. Intelligent. Definitely not naïve to the world. Does something in ….IT. Coding? Scratch that…Hacker.

He blinked, pushed the photo out of the way. His brain was definitely playing catchup to his thoughts.

"Brain too fast…slow down," he mumbled. He widened his eyes slightly as he tried to focus. Bring everything back into perspective.

"Can you manage, Mr Holmes?" Oliver asked, his hand still in his hair. Tightened painfully.

"Yes." He managed to say. Shifted in the chair. The pain in his hip flared but was definitely dulled by whatever had been in the glass of water. "I can manage."

"Good. You have three hours. I'll check back here in an hour; see how you are doing."

"Okay," he said. Focused on the first page. The words scrambled. His headache flared. He groaned. Leaned back in the chair, eyes closed.

"I…I need help," he managed to say, convulsively swallowing down the threat of bile that was making its way up. Aware that Oliver hadn't left yet. He heard annoyance in the other man's voice when he said, "What do you need?"

He took a shuddering breath, willing his transport to behave. Knew it was the aftermath of his concussion, that still hasn't settled a hundred percent yet.

"Can…can someone read, please."

"Fine." Oliver left his side and then he heard murmurs. Movement and when he opened his eyes, Goon 1 was there, seated at the table, the file in front of him.

"First page, the subject is a 24-year-old female…"

Goon 1's voice droned on as he read the file, front to back. It took a while. Sherlock would ask him to repeat certain paragraphs when his mind wandered. Some pages were read again. It took longer than the three hours Oliver had given him but the man for once hadn't said anything. He must've realised that Sherlock was barely keeping it together. That if he'd wanted any form of success, he had to give him time.

At the end of three hours, they gave him more of the water. It had brought a relief from the burgeoning pain that had started to flare again anew. His mind is a bit clearer. The pain is distancing.

It took him an hour to come up with a viable plan. Not his best idea but it would have to do. He just couldn't do more than what he did. Afterwards, Oliver had given him some more of the water as a reward and it had brought a little oblivion for his flight back to the bothy. He had stumbled his way to the mattress between the two men and without a word to Molly, had closed his eyes and had passed out into a drug-induced stupor.

For that brief moment until he woke later to reawakened pain, it had been bliss.


Sherlock opened his eyes as he came to awareness. Mycroft was still seated on the chair across from him.

"Success?" he queried; eyebrows raised.

Sherlock nodded. "She was a hacker. Young, early twenties. Lived in London. Died by drowning in the Thames."

"Very well. I'll get my team onto it."

Sherlock was quiet. Stayed where he was while his brother left to make a phone call. Came to himself when Mycroft pressed a warm cup of tea in his hand. His hand automatically folded around the cup and he mechanically took a sip. It grounded him and he relaxed.

"Okay?" Mycroft asked, taking a sip of his own tea.

"Yeah. Just…not easy," he said.

"Sherlock, if you ever want to talk…" Mycroft paused, gauged his brother. "Please phone Giles," he said with a small smile.

"Like I'd talk to you," Sherlock said, relief flooding through him. This was more familiar territory with his sibling. "You're a rubbish big brother."

"And you're infuriating, little brother." Mycroft stood up. "Lunch?"

"John?"

"The doctor was rather insistent that you eat."

Sherlock stood up, placed his cup on the side table. "Fine." He grinned suddenly mischievous. "Pizza?"

"Heaven help us…that is not a very dignified food to eat, Sherlock." He sighed. "Very well."


The afternoon was good. He had gone for another long walk. The smell and taste of London managed to get rid of the last vestiges of Oliver and his memories that had still lingered after he had left Mycroft. John was waiting for him, food in hand when he got back. They ate supper and watched crap telly again.

It was familiar. Grounding. Good.

He went to bed later, waiting for Molly's text to let him know she was back in her room. That she was safe. It took a while but she did message in the end.

Door locked. Safe. MH

How was the afternoon? SH

Massage was good. Think I'd do it more when back in London. You should try it. MH

Yeah…no. But glad you liked it. 9 days to go. SH

You good? MH

Yeah. I got pizza for lunch. Mycroft tried to eat it with a knife and fork! SH

He didn't…MH

that was mean, Sherlock. MH

I bet he did that nose scrunch thing he does when he's not happy. MH

It was hilarious. SH

Going to call it a night. Have a full day tomorrow. MH

Okay. Love you. Sleep well, Molly Hooper. SH

Love you. Night Sherlock. MH