Chapter 8

This chapter is long. Has lots of information that's important. So read with care. There are one scene that borders on M but I think I'm still safe with my T rating. If anyone disagrees let me know.

Would really love feedback on this chapter as it's a pivotal one that leads into the more angsty, action bits.

And without further adieu...let it begin

Day 7

"The art to conditioning is trigger words established through subliminal persuasion." Oliver said. "You need to make sure they are embedded in the subject."

"Really."

"There are quite a few phrases I had taught Sherlock Holmes over the course of my retraining session with him." Oliver chuckled. "I don't think even he's aware of them or their potency."

"How do you enforce them, then? I thought your retraining is only for 'extreme' events like his rebellion phase."

"That's the fun part. When he's doing challenges, I'll throw them in during conversation. Measure his reactions. There are at least three of them that he'd disassociate on. Two others that bring on the beginnings of a panic attack. And a few that his body has been conditioned to absolutely obey."

Alex swore.

"Exactly. All it takes is persistence, reinforcement, and consistency." Oliver stated.

"What if he fights it? Surely he'll be aware?"

"Oh, I don't think he was aware of much during his time with me. He was very much in survival mode. I broke him down physically first. Then introduced emotional turmoil into the mix and finally when his vulnerability was fully exploited, he became more susceptible to subliminal messaging and programming. All throughout I was meticulously using intentional phrases to enhance his suggestibility. Just saying any of those words now is enough to kick off conditioned responses. He thinks it's because of the trauma. It's hilarious to watch his face. The confusion and anger while his body responds."

"Bloody brilliant."

"Isn't it." Oliver grinned.

"So how long before you will have complete control of the man?"

"He is stubborn. And has a strong sense of self awareness and emotional resilience. But he is definitely more malleable now. Compliant. Obedient. All it takes is just the hint of threat that I will do the same to Molly Hooper as I did to him during his three days with me, and he complies without complaint." Oliver paused. "I estimate less than a year and I will have full control."

"You control him through fear alone?"

"Not just fear. I reward him when he does what I want and does it well."

"Ah, good old carrot and stick approach."

"There's a reason it works."

"What about Molly Hooper?"

"What about her?"

"Is she …difficult?"

Oliver looked surprised. "She's just a tool. A teachable moment for Sherlock on human nature."

Alex smirked. Molly wasn't just a tool, he thought. He knew her now a bit better than Oliver. She was strong. Had a core of steel that Oliver had failed to see. He could see why Sherlock was enamoured by her. There was just something of her quiet nature, that ability to carry on regardless of her circumstances that was fascinating. She may look weak. Compliant. Easily controlled.

Oliver had clearly dismissed her. Underestimated her. He wondered how much of Sherlock's survival and sanity was attributed to her quiet fortitude and will to help the consulting detective through the turmoil of Oliver.

How much of the man's conditioning was still intact.

He again considered his options. Yesterday afternoon had been fruitful. He hadn't been lying to Molly. He did in fact go and see an old acquaintance of his. One who was quite skillful in chemistry. Had listened as he explained what he wanted. And had provided him with a syringe and a full vial.

And then late last night his contact in Mycroft's office had messaged him.

Somehow, he had no idea how; Sherlock had managed to remember the third victim. Oliver had been adamant that the consulting detective had been so out of his mind on drugs and pain that he wouldn't remember a thing.

Well, that obviously had been a very big fat lie.

It had to be the mind palace. Sherlock could access memories that would be addled in any other normal person.

This just wouldn't do.

His options were shrinking. He didn't like rushing. He needed to take steps to make sure the Holmes brothers were focused away from the third victim. Because she had come closest to ever finding him. To tying his activities together. She might've left clues that Mycroft Holmes would be able to find. That man was not an idiot. At all.

He eyed the pouch that was lying on the bed. It had been expensive. But it will have to do for now. It should buy him a little time while he gets everything ready for the next phase of his plan. He added a few more things to his small carry-on. A wig. Makeup. Contact lenses. Aftershave. It was all rough but he was good at what he did. He zipped up the bag after he had packed.

He sat down at a small study table and opened his laptop. He clicked on the hidden folder that contained Oliver's notes on Sherlock Holmes. Read with interest the detail Oliver had written down of Sherlock's retraining sessions. The key words he had used to control Sherlock. Studied the sentences in depth.

Practised Oliver's voice.

Practised the inflection as he said the words.

It took half the morning but by the end of it, he had gotten the voice near perfect. He left lunch time, gave his apologies to Molly and Sue and then the organisers. Told them he'd be back in class tomorrow. That an unexpected family emergency had come up.

It was time he intervened.

Sherlock changed the 9 to an 8. Mrs Hudson brought up breakfast. A full English and he and John ate with relish. At least there was no fruit that he had to force himself to eat. Lestrade phoned and they had gone out on a case, the first one in two weeks.

"Not sure how they got in, frankly. As you can see, fully locked panic room." Lestrade said as he led the way into the house. "Never seen anything like it."

"Yes, well. Obviously there's a secret entrance," Sherlock said, rolling his eyes. "Frankly, how you managed to solve any cases while I was gone is a near miracle."

He didn't see the grin John and Lestrade gave each other. How happy they were that he was a little more himself today. A little less melancholy.

John and Sherlock spend half the morning on site until the consulting detective with a flourish, found the hidden door set there by the guy who had built the panic room. Arrest warrants had gone out soon after and the three friends had gone to lunch at a nearby pub.

They ate fish and chips with mushy peas.

They made their way back to Baker Street afterwards. Sherlock played the violin while John worked on the blog. Lestrade had gone back to the office, taking the cold case files that Sherlock had solved with him. Mrs Hudson brought sandwiches up for tea and all in all, Sherlock felt that he was moving forward.

That Oliver's nightmare was slowly letting go and he was settling down. Giles had explained to him that things would go up and down as he processed and integrated the memories. Progressed through the trauma work they were doing. He had scoffed initially at the thought that it would take time. Surely not. He was Sherlock Holmes. Who was above flashbacks and triggers and verging on panic attacks. He would cope as he had at the bothy. Where he had managed to keep everything bottled safely away. Hidden in the chest in his mind palace. Hidden in the cellar.

He wasn't about to surface those memories if he could help it. They could stay where they were until he finally manages to delete them or just …forget. Especially those three days he never ever wants to revisit.

He ignored the small voice that sounded suspiciously like John that it wasn't true that everything was locked away. That the memories were leaching out. That he had nightmares then. That it had been easy for him to disappear into his mind and only become aware later that time had passed, with Molly sitting quietly next to him. Not saying a word to his times of fugue. His times of disassociation or when tremors would start when a particular bad memory would surface. He had written it off that it was due to lack of food. Lack of sleep. Physical fatigue from Oliver's challenges. Recovery of his body when Oliver's men had been particularly passionate in dolling out retribution. Anything but his mind trying to understand and process.

And then they'd been rescued. And all his carefully constructed walls had started to crumble. After the first panic attack, he had realised it wasn't going to be that easy to just forget and move on. His transport had other ideas as he learned to cope with triggers and flashbacks. And it had frustrated him to no end that he couldn't just return to the old Sherlock Holmes – who wasn't afraid. Who could walk into any situation and just deal with it. That his transport still reacted to some trigger words that Oliver had taken great pains to teach him. That he couldn't just unlearn his response to them. Giles had cautioned him. Explained that the conditioning he'd received under Oliver was comprehensive. That the man had known what he was doing.

Shortly after Oliver had been killed, things had seemed to settle. Get back to what was his new normal. But it wasn't long before he had come crashing down to reality when he had reacted to yet another trigger at a crime scene. It was embarrassing. He had come to himself in Lestrade's car in the backseat, with John sitting next to him. He had lashed out. Had vented and raged and John had let him. He had been angry. Angry at Oliver. Angry at his own perceived weakness. Angry that he couldn't predict. Couldn't see his way out.

John didn't say a word. His silence had helped. Afterwards, he crashed. Had spent the rest of the day sleeping. Melancholy deep and he had been very close to seeking oblivion. Had in fact procured a little of his usual from Wiggins. Was sitting in his bedroom, the syringe on the bed. He had everything ready. The rubber tourniquet. The alcohol swab. And oblivion taunting him on how good he'd feel.

Molly had found him still sitting there an hour later. Had said nothing as she had sat down on the bed, across from the instruments on his bed.

"I just wanted some peace," Sherlock said. Didn't meet her eyes as he focused on his hands.

"Okay. For how long, Sherlock?"

He sighed. His hands reached out. Took the tourniquet and he focused on it. The feel of the rubber in his hands. The memory of it tightening around his bicep vivid and all too real. Molly's hand closed over his own. Gently took it out of his hands.

"How long will it be before you'd have to get another high to forget?" she asked gently.

"I don't know," he said softly. "I'm just …tired."

"I know." She had said. Moved the syringe to the side and moved closer. Her hand reached up, cupped his face, forcing him gently to look at her. "I was there too, Sherlock. Remember."

"I can't seem to delete Oliver," he swallowed. "His memories…I….I don't want him in my head anymore." He paused. Took a deeper breath. "If you watch me. Only this once…maybe it will help. Help get rid of everything. I can be clearer. Be a bit more focused, you know. Maybe then it will work. I can get rid of the chest. Move it out of the mind palace and into rubbish."

Molly leaned in, her forehead leaning against his. Sherlock tried his best but he couldn't hide his anguish from her. Couldn't hide his tears. His despair that all of this would never be better one day. That Oliver would never be forgotten, never a distant memory that didn't haunt his every waking hour. Didn't bring nightmares. Didn't have him come to himself in the back of bloody Lestrade's car after a panic attack.

"Did you ever think to actually talk to Giles about the chest?"

He leaned back, breaking physical contact with her. Frowned. "What?"

"You heard me, Sherlock."

He shook his head. Eyed the syringe with a longing that was a physical ache inside his chest. His fingers clenched and he thinned his lips as the thought of oblivion felt too overwhelming. He could already feel the needle sliding in. The drug flowing through his veins.

And then her hand was back on his cheek, gently pulling his gaze back to her own. Breaking his connection to the drug lying on their bed, waiting for him.

"Oliver wasn't nice."

He gave a laugh of derision. That was the understatement of the century. Gave her an incredulous look.

"Really, Molly. I'm sure you can do better than that."

Her eyes met his. "Yeah. Like what?"

"How about vile."

"Villainous." She countered.

"Malevolent." Sherlock said.

"Malignant." Molly stated.

"Evil."

"Wicked."

"Horrible."

"Malicious." Molly ended. "Are you going to let him win, then?"

Sherlock glared at her. "No."

She sat back. Picked up the syringe. The alcohol swab and tourniquet. "Because, Sherlock. By doing this…" she paused. Held it out between them, "You are letting Oliver win. Do you still want oblivion?"

It gave pause to his thoughts. He eyed the syringe. Glanced back up at Molly and really considered her words. She allowed him the time to gather his thoughts. To consider what she meant. He wiped his face with trembling hands. "I…I don't know how to do this," he stuttered. Looked away and focused on the window.

"Okay. How about we get a plan in place. To keep you safe? How does that sound?"

"I'm not a child," was his automatic response.

She shifted on the bed. Sighed. "No. You're not. Do you want to do this, Sherlock? Are you that determined to let Oliver have the last say? Be using again. Getting high just so you can forget?"

Silence. Sherlock straightened his back. Obstinance radiating from him. He pouted as he glared at her. She was impervious to his look. Met his gaze with one of calm. The syringe still in her hand, open and inviting between them. Daring him. His shoulders finally sagged.

"No." he said. This time softer. "What plan?" he mumbled.

She nodded. Pulled the syringe to herself. Placed it in the pocket of her jacket. "Can I ask John to join us?"

He looked pained. Embarrassed. "Why?"

"Because you will need both of us, Sherlock. When I'm not here and you need this," she said, patting her pocket, "you need someone else here to watch over you. To protect."

He grimaced. Sneered. It took time but in the end he nodded.

"Okay. I'll be back." She leaned in. Gave him a small kiss. "We will work this out. I promise, Sherlock. Okay. Just…" she tailed off.

"I know," he said. Pulled her into a hug. Held her tight. "Molly Hooper," he said softly, "as ever, you are someone to be reckoned with." He gave a small, wistful smile. Looked down at her as she pulled back. "And you are my saving grace."

She gave him a small smile. "Ready for John?"

He nodded. And she had brought John in and they had sat down. Worked out a plan that would work for them. Work for Sherlock when the memories would become too hard. When oblivion beckoned.

And it worked. To let John and Molly know when it was a danger night. When everything was too much. Too hard. When the nightmares were too real.

And he had found over time that the pull had become less. The want for oblivion fading away into the night.

Now Molly was away at the conference and for the first time since his nightmare with Oliver had started, they were apart. And he had come to realise how much of an anchor she was in his life. How much she kept the nightmares at bay. He missed her. More than he'd admit. But Giles had been adamant that this would be good for both of them. That they needed to learn to be a little independent.

And he was learning. It was getting better.

"Penny for your thoughts?"

He was pulled out of his revery by John. Relaxed his hands that had been tented beneath his chin to the armrest of his chair.

"The secret door? That is what you're going with as a title?" he jested. Focused back on the case and what John had written earlier in his blog.

"Haha. Funny. It was a secret door, Sherlock. Built in where nobody would notice."

"I noticed."

"Yes. Well. You're Sherlock bloody Holmes. Of course, you'd notice."

Sherlock smirked. "Wasn't even that hard."

"No. Took you half the morning to find it, didn't it."

"Okay, so a bit cleverer than the average bloke out there. Probably cleverer than Anderson."

John laughed. "Okay then. How did you figure out it was the third panel on the left of the door that had the lever built in it?"

"Oh, it was elementary my dear Watson…"

The conversation flowed, as they jested and talked about the case. About the day. For a moment, Sherlock could forget about Oliver. About memories he kept under lock and key and still haven't opened up to Giles about. About the fact that Molly is still going to be away for 9 more days.

In that time and space, if felt normal again.

Like Oliver had never been.

It was nice.

Sherlock was lying in bed, waiting for Molly's text. He was reading a scientific journal. He put it down when his phone dinged. Smiled as the nightly ritual started.

Hey MH

Good day? SH

Yeah. Alex had to go off today. Had a bit of a family emergency. So just me and Sue. Did you know there's software to put muscle back on the face that has been badly burned or unrecognisable so that you can rebuild the image. MH

Interesting. SH

It was. Just expensive. Not sure if Mike will buy it. We don't get a lot of those to really make the cost worth it. MH

So more a marketing exercise then? SH

I guess. But it was very good. MH

…

You doing okay? MH

Better. Everyday better. SH

Okay. Well, I better go. Sue's here. We're going out for late supper. Chat tomorrow. MH

Love you. Sleep well, Molly Hooper SH

Love you. Night Sherlock MH

"Despair isn't that hard a concept to grasp, Mr Holmes. It is insidious. Can slither in everywhere. How much has it consumed you so far? Can you estimate?"

He tried to shift. The handcuffs clinked. He breathed through the agony as another smaller cut was made.

"Mr Holmes, can you estimate."

"I…I don't know," he managed to say. Shifted again but it didn't take away the burning of his shoulder muscles. How hard it was to breathe at the moment with his hands extended above his head in the way it was. His throat was raw. Everything hurt.

"Not good enough. You're only making this harder. Don't move and think. Estimate. Please be as accurate as you can be."

He nearly sobbed. Bit his lip in an effort not to give the other man the satisfaction.

"10%" he said. Made up a number. His head drooped and he sucked in another breath as another cut was made.

"Really?"

"What do you want?" he managed to say.

"Don't move, Mr Holmes."

"Fine." He braced himself. Stood his ground. Groaned at the sting of another cut.

"Good. Now, can you estimate?"

He leaned his head back. Swallowed and then whispered. "He who learns must suffer."

"An apt quote Mr Holmes. But not answering my question. Come now. The lesson is on despair. How much has it consumed you so far?"

He was silent. Another cut. Took a shuddering breath.

"How much?" Oliver was clearly getting annoyed. Not that it mattered anymore.

"Not enough," he said in the end.

"Very well. Then, let's begin again."

"No." Sherlock woke up with a start. A hand was over his mouth, another pressing down on his shoulder. His immediate reaction was to fight. His nightmare has come to life. He was back there in that place. Hanging from the meat hook. Oliver's voice was still ringing in his ears.

He was frantic. Managed to get an arm loose from his bedding. Pushed against the hand over his mouth as he tried to pull away from the feeling of being smothered. Got his other arm free, the figure above him indistinct and dark.

The man grunted. Renewed his effort and pushed down, using his height advantage over Sherlock as he pressed harder. He moved into the moonlight from the window, his face accented into blues and shadows. But it was enough for Sherlock to see who it was.

Oliver's dead. This isn't Oliver. He's dead. You killed him. You're safe. This is a nightmare… This is a nightmare…

The thoughts kept repeating in his head at a panicky pace.

"Don't move, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock closed his eyes. But it was Oliver's aftershave he smelled. It was his voice. His body stilled and then he stopped moving. He removed his grip from Oliver's arm. Dropped his hands to his side. Nostrils flared as his breathing increased. Dread settled in his stomach; a familiar feeling he had thought long gone by now.

"Very good, Mr Holmes. Open your eyes."

He did. He couldn't help his transport's response anymore.

Obey…

"If you make a sound and bring Dr Watson or Mrs Hudson before we're ready, they will die. Do you believe me?"

Oliver always kept his promises. He knew the man would do what he said. He nodded, meeting his former captor's eyes. Wondered if he blinked whether Oliver would disappear and he'd wake up from this nightmare. But it was all too real. The man's hand against his mouth was rough. His hold on his shoulder bruising.

"Good. I'm going to remove my hand now. No sound, Mr Holmes. I mean it."

Oliver moved away. The only sound coming from Sherlock was his breathing. Harsh in the stillness of the room. Sherlock's eyes followed him as he moved around the room. He secured the door, turning the lock. Moved back around and then sat down beside the consulting detective.

"Have you discussed our little side project with anyone beside Mycroft?"

Sherlock shook his head. Oliver watched him, inspected his face. "You know what happens when you lie. Does anyone besides Mycroft know?"

Sherlock shook his head again. "Very well. Where's your phone?"

His eyes shifted to his bedside table. Oliver stretched across, picked it up. Thumbed it on.

"Passcode?"

Sherlock glared at Oliver. The other man sighed.

"I can walk up or down the stairs, kill them both before anyone is even aware. Passcode."

Sherlock gave it. He had no choice really. He knew it. Oliver quickly moved across the screen. He typed a message and then dropped the phone beside him. He reached into his jacket, pulled out a small black satchel. Unwound the string holding it together. Inside a syringe lay with a small vial beside it. An alcohol swab still inside its wrapper and a tourniquet.

It didn't take a genius to know what Oliver was planning.

No. Not again.

He shifted, a sudden move that took the other man by surprise. The bedding twisted around his legs but he had managed to grab hold of Oliver's jacket. Was pulling the man down with him as he rolled. Tried to get on top of the other man. But his legs were still stuck and he managed a half roll before Oliver pulled back. Broke Sherlock's grip.

"Don't move, Mr Holmes," Oliver ground out. Sherlock watched in disbelief as his transport obeyed the man. His muscles relaxed. He was heaving from exertion, his breaths loud in the tense atmosphere.

"Disobey me again, and Dr Watson and Mrs Hudson are dead. Do you understand?"

"Yes," Sherlock said.

"Straighten your bedding."

Oliver bent down and picked up the phone and satchel that had dropped onto the floor in their struggle. He took out a gun, attached a silencer to it. Sherlock sat up slowly.

He had no choice really. He did what Oliver wanted. Felt the bed dip and then Oliver was seated next to him. He balanced the gun on his knee, while he unpacked the satchel next to Sherlock.

"Draw up a full dosage." Oliver said.

"Oliver, please…" Sherlock started. Wondered why he'd bothered. Oliver had never listened to him before. Had no regard for his well being. His shoulders slumped and he reached out with fingers that trembled and picked up the syringe and vial. Drew the measured dosage expertly. Capped the syringe and placed it back on the satchel when the other man indicated.

"This is what is going to happen next, Mr Holmes. We're going to send a message to Dr Watson. Hopefully he's not a sound sleeper. Then you're going to inject yourself as he comes through that door. Any questions?"

Sherlock stared at the man. His brain was trying to process what was happening. He blinked. "Why?"

Oliver leaned closer. His hand pushed Sherlock's hair out of his face, smoothing it back almost gently. "Because Mr Holmes, you were curious. Did I not tell you to forget about this little side project of ours?"

"What about Mycroft?" he asked.

"Your actions after tonight will determine whether he lives or dies, Mr Holmes. Do you understand?"

Sherlock nodded.

"Very good, Mr Holmes. I'm glad we have this understanding. I want you to roll up your sleeve." Oliver said. Got up from the bed. Looked down at the consulting detective.

"What are you giving me?" Sherlock asked, unbuttoning his sleeve and pushing it up.

Oliver smiled. He rolled up the satchel, placed it back in his jacket. Picked up the phone and hit send.

"Something you'd appreciate, Mr Holmes."

"Can we not do this," he tried again. "I'll stop…make sure Mycroft stop…I…" he stuttered. Then his words just faded away completely. Oliver had clearly not been impressed at his attempt to negate what was about to happen.

Oliver's hand settled on his head. A familiar feeling of despair settled deep inside him as he stilled automatically. "There are always consequences, Mr Holmes. You know that."

He nodded.

It was less than a minute later before Sherlock heard John's footsteps. He was clearly running. John's voice was loud just behind his locked door. The knob rattled.

"Sherlock!"

"Sherlock, come on mate. Open the door!"

"Now put the needle in your vein, Mr Holmes." Oliver said to him and Sherlock, still hesitant, looked in alarm as the gun in the man's hand came up and wasn't pointed at him but at the door. Sherlock could hear the thud of John's shoulder as he tried to force open the door, a regular beat that seemed to echo in his head.

"Sherlock, open the damn door!" John's voice was desperate and there was a hint of something else…maybe fear. Sherlock wasn't sure.

"Now or he dies."

He did as he was told. Tied the tourniquet. Pumped his hand and then cleaned the injection site. Familiar actions he'd done hundreds of times before. Inserted the needle. His finger on the plunger and a hand came down, giving pause to his next action. Sherlock met Oliver's eyes and didn't like what he saw there. He shuddered but obediently waited.

"Not until he's through the door. Do you understand? Only then do you complete the action." Sherlock nodded his head, eyes drifting from Oliver to the door and back. Oliver smirked and then his hand was off Sherlock's and he moved swiftly away, into the far corner behind the door where the shadows and darkness was the deepest and just seemed to fade into it.

A splintering noise came. His bedroom door swung open hard; John went through it without thought. He paused just over the threshold, his eyes meeting Sherlock and then drifting down to the needle that was already in his arm. For a moment Sherlock thought he'd be free. Now that John was here Oliver would be gone. That this was nothing more than a nightmare. But then the man stepped out of the shadows behind John, his gun pointed right at his friend's head.

"Sherlock, just…hey …Sherlock, look at me…You don't…" John was frantic. His voice had a higher pitch to it as he tried desperately to stop Sherlock. But he had no choice. He couldn't watch him get shot point blank. Oliver had been clear about the consequences of disobeying.

Of saying anything.

He closed his eyes. Ignored John's entreaty and pressed the plunger in. Pulled the needle out and dropped it on the bed next to him. Lied back down as the drug started to take hold. John swore but was already moving forward and Oliver faded away.

Maybe this is a nightmare. Just a dream…

"Bloody hell, Sherlock. What did you take?"

Sherlock shrugged, his body already relaxing as whatever had been in the syringe flooded his system.

"Sherlock…" John swore loudly again. "…how much was in here?"

"Enough." He said, the sweetness of oblivion flowing through his veins and already it was…better. Less noise. Less hurt. Less Oliver.

"Why?" he heard John ask as if on a distant plane. He could feel his friend's fingers on his pulse. He gave a small sigh of contentment as more thoughts disappeared into the ether of the drug's effects.

This wasn't so bad. This was …bliss.

"Sherlock! Dammit." Heard John shuffle and then the pillow was rudely jerked from his head. Next John removed his duvet and blanket, leaving him stranded without any covering on the bed. He started to protest. Stopped when he realised that he just didn't care. Felt disjointed as John moved his body into a recovery position. John's fingers were on his wrist again.

"Yes. This is Dr John Watson. I need an ambulance at 221B Baker Street. My friend is busy overdosing." There was a brief pause. "No. I don't know what he took."

"Not an overdose," he managed to mumble.

"Really? Just why, Sherlock?"

John sounded mad. He couldn't understand why? This was heaven. He gave a loopy smile.

"Because Oliver said so," he said simply, his words slurring and then he was off, flying with the stars and none of it mattered anymore.