Chapter 22

Day 19/20 Part III

"I told you that you would release me." Moriarty smirked.

"The bombs have been confirmed. We're in the process of dismantling them. Once that is done, you can leave." Mycroft said, ignoring the other man's statement.

"Oh, come now, Myc. Let's play." The criminal consultant stepped closer.

"I don't think so. Anderson will take you where you want to go. Good day." He turned and left. Heard Moriarty complain. He wasn't about to indulge the other man. Wasn't about to let him know that he was going to be the one that would lead them to the rest of his network. The last outstanding web that he hadn't been able to undo just yet.

Mycroft entered his office, closed and locked the door behind him before he made a phone call.

"Everything is in place," the voice at the other end said. He rang off. Dialled the next number.

"I'm not a miracle worker, Myc."

He sighed. "I know. How long and how much?"

A pause. Then Irene answered. "I'll get back to you by tomorrow morning. There are a few avenues I can go. It probably isn't going to be cheap."

"Your definition of cheap is definitely not mine," he said. "Very well. Just get it done."

"You okay?" Irene's voice was soft over the phone.

"Not now," he said. "I need to focus on getting my brother back and getting the rest of Moriarty's web. Too busy right now to discuss sentiment."

"Very well. Tomorrow Myc." He rang off. Sat down by his desk and unlocked the bottom drawer. A press of a hidden button and a secret panel opened. He removed the piece of paper. Memorised the number and replaced it, closing everything down.

Took a deep breath and dialled.

"Yes." It was a woman's voice. Confident and sure.

"I need you on standby."

"You know our fees."

"Money isn't an issue."

"Very well. Where?"

"Currently London. This could change at a moment's notice."

"Okay. We can be there in 12 hours."

It will have to do. "Do you need transport?"

"No. We'll organise everything. 12 hours."

He terminated the connection. Deleted the number from his call history.

It had never been easy dealing with A.G.R.A. But they fulfilled a function and one he was willing to engage this time.


Alex had left the farm. This time he was driving a different car to the one he came in. He had given Sherlock another smaller dose of the sedative. Aware that he needed to keep the man under to make travel easier but that he couldn't keep doing it. Sedatives were tricky. Too much and it could lead to less-than-ideal outcomes.

He needed Sherlock to be fully functioning.

This time he continued back onto the M1. Followed it all the way to and then just north of Rugby joined the M6. He took the exit to Stafford. Brought a few groceries at a Tesco's. Dropped by the pharmaceutical store to pick up a few more bottles of Ensure before he left the town behind. This time he went rural, following secondary roads and then farm roads deeper into the countryside. It took him more than an hour before he reached his destination.

He exited the vehicle. The cabin was well maintained. He entered with the groceries. Packed everything away and sorted the rooms. The one in the back was specially fitted for guests he had to keep for more than a day. He had used it occasionally when he had to extract information for third parties from reluctant victims. He did a quick once over. There was a foam mattress on the floor. A ring cemented in that he could use to handcuff Sherlock to if he so chooses. A toilet in one corner. No windows. No way out except by the door.

He returned to the car. Opened the boot and noticed that Sherlock was slowly becoming aware. He was still handcuffed. The hood still over his eyes. The man stilled in his sluggish movements. His breathing increased slightly but otherwise he was silent.

He bent down, pulled him over his shoulder in a firearm carry and brought him to the room. Dropped him on the mattress. Debated briefly on whether he was going to keep the hood on. The handcuffs. Decided in the end, to remove the blindfold and handcuffs. It wasn't as if Sherlock was really in a position to attack him immediately.

He left him there, closed and locked the door. It was late but he switched on the cameras in Sherlock's room. Set the alarm. Parked the car in the garage set off to the side of the cabin. Made himself a drink and went and sat outside, enjoying the stars.

It was cold but it didn't matter.

He checked his phone for the first time while he took a sip.

Interesting.

Molly Hooper had tried to contact him. He wondered why. His finger hovered over the call button. Did another take at the time and in the end decided it could wait for tomorrow. Switched his phone off and finally relaxed.

He'll call Molly after he and Sherlock had a chat.


In the end, Mycroft hadn't left the office at 6. There were just too many moving parts to keep track of. He had let John know that he and Molly needed to settle themselves. That he'd probably won't return to the house until at least very late, if at all.

Moriarty had gone to the roof where a helicopter had picked him up. An hour after the consulting criminal had left, Moran had sent through the first coordinates of one of the bombs planted. He had delayed activating the tracker. Knew there were at least three more bombs planted somewhere in London. His agents had let him know that Moriarty had met up with Moran and they had left the UK in a waiting jet.

He was in the ops room by then. Tracking the plane via radar until it had blipped off the screen. An hour after that the coordinates had come through for the other three. When they were dismantled just after midnight, did he give the instructions to activate the tracker.

Moriarty seemed to be in Serbia, which wasn't that big a surprise. He knew about Baron Maupertuis and his affiliation with the consulting criminal. He made a few phone calls. Set things in motion.

It was 4am when he watched the scene play out before him. It came through the body cameras of the deployed specialist SAS team. He watched as the last dregs of Moriarty's web was taken out. As Moran and Moriarty were escorted out.

Sherlock and Alex weren't with them.

He hadn't expected as much. Knew from what he'd seen so far that the man was a lone wolf. But he was still very slightly disappointed nonetheless.

Instructed Anthea to let Sherrinford know that Moriarty was on his way back. To expect Moran as well.

Only then did he make his way home. Irene wasn't back yet when he made it to his bedroom. He showered, dressed and got under covers.

And finally allowed himself the small luxury of sleep, even if it was only going to be for a few hours before he'd get back up again at 8.


"Oh, you're so going to lose."

Sherlock inspected the stack before him. Shuffled around.

"Giving up already?"

"Just…shut up, Molly. Not done yet."

She giggled. "Fine. Give it a go. That one looks like it's sticking out."

He glared at her but it lacked any of his usual venom. He and Molly were busy playing their version of Jenga. They had managed to gather kindling that they had found at the back of the woodshed. Had measured and broken pieces until they had managed to get some uniformity. It wasn't perfect but it helped to pass the time. Another piece of wood was used as a writing implement, a T-bar drawn not too far away. So far Molly had managed to have four ticks to his three.

It was washing day. His clothes drying in front of the fire and he had a towel around his middle as they sat outside in the sun, playing on the ground. It had been a good week with Oliver. The two challenges he had done had been relatively easy compared to some of the ones he's done in the past. Oliver had been pleased and for once, he and Molly were bruise free. Even had a little extra Ensure. Enough to last until the next challenge run tomorrow.

He pushed lightly against the one he had finally selected. It gave a little and the stack wobbled slightly.

"Don't breathe, Sherlock…"

"Not now," he said softly but nevertheless, held his breath as he slowly pushed again.

"Not allowed to touch..." He looked up and gave her a glare.

"Should I do the tick now, or after the tower has fallen." she asked with a raised eyebrow, a grin on her face.

He ignored her. Bent down back to his task. He finally managed to extract the piece, holding it up triumphantly for her.

"Ha." He exclaimed. "Take that, Molly Hooper."

"You're still supposed to put it back up on the stack, Sherlock. Rules, remember."

He pouted. The stack was a little wobbly. Leaning towards the one side. "Fine."

Holding the stick like it was one of the delicate trace pieces of evidence he would work with, he very gently placed it on top. Finally letting go, he leaned back and watched it wobble a little more. When it didn't topple, he grinned.

"Your turn."

"Okay. I can do this." Molly said. "Out of the way."

Sherlock moved back, watched with amusement as Molly shuffled around the tower. Her concentration intense, a small frown between her eyes.

"You should just give up now."

"No. Not yet," she said. Eyed one particular piece. Gently pushed. It moved surprisingly easy.

"Hey, that's not fair." he started. "How did you…"

She pulled it out. Grinned mischievously. "Guess who's going to win."

"You still have to put it down."

"Easy peasy."

"Fine. Prove it."

"Okay." She circled again. Eyed the top. Came to a standstill kitty corner from him. Her tongue stuck out as she put it down delicately with great concentration. The stack wobbled but kept standing.

"Your turn…"

Molly's voice was still in his head when he finally came awake. A small light was on, a single bulb set in the roof. The memory was pleasant and he was loath to swap it for the current situation. He closed his eyes, willed the memory back but it faded away, like wisps in the wind.

His mind definitely had the cotton wool feel of sedatives. His tongue thick. He wondered when the last time was that he had anything to drink. With Oliver, it could've been hours. He wondered why he was here. What the other man was planning. Where Molly was.

It took a while before he slowly pushed himself upwards, so that he was seated on the foam mattress. Eyed the room. There were two cameras in the corners, red lights indicating that they were on. A toilet in one corner. He was in the other corner with the makeshift bed. His wrists had the familiar feel that he'd been handcuffed but at least the skin wasn't broken. Just bruised and puffy a bit and that he could manage. His throat was sore and he gingerly felt, his fingers light on his skin. Wondered what had happened but his memory was hazy.

What was the last thing he remembered?

He frowned. Closed his eyes and tried to think. Memories were vague, flirting and his mind palace wasn't a great help. It was chaos in there. He didn't know where to touch. Where to begin.

He remembered Oliver.

He remembered…

No. Not going there.

He focused away from the remembered agony. His own despair and terror. Ignored the open chest in the cellar of his mind palace that he had dumped his memories of those three days in. Instead tried to focus on Molly. But things were hazy and hard and in the end, he decided to not force it. It will come, he thought. Once the sedative was completely gone, he'd remember.

He heard the click of the lock and then the door opened. A man stood in the doorway. And it wasn't Oliver.

"Who are you?" he asked, his voice hoarse. He couldn't get much more than a whisper out. It hurts to speak.

The man's eyes seemed to gleam in the dark, haloed by the light coming from the hallway. "You did some work for me." He said. "Do you remember?"

The voice. He knew the voice. He kept his arms loose on his knees. Watched as the man entered with a camping chair. Placed it by the door and then stepped over to him and offered a bottle of water. He took it without protest. Opened the bottle and took a sip while the other man seated himself. The feel of the water cool against his burning throat.

A memory rose. Of sitting in a camping chair next to Oliver. Of a cultured voice and hands on his arm. His chest. Unwanted.

"You're Oliver's friend." He sneered the last word. Regretted it the moment he did. His throat was definitely bruised. His vocal cords strained against their use. His hand went up as he protectively covered his throat.

"You can call me Alex."

He nodded. The name seemed familiar. He knew it from somewhere. Wondered if he went into his mind palace and searched if it would come up in the chaos. He wasn't entirely convinced.

"Where's Molly?" he asked.

"Where do you think she is?" Alex asked. He tilted his head. Seemed to be studying his responses. Sherlock knew something was off. He didn't like it. He took another sip of the water.

"I'm guessing where she always is."

"Can you be more specific?"

Sherlock paused. Another memory seems to flirt across his mind's eye. Molly at …Baker's Street? He frowned. Dismissed it. He once more took a sip.

"You remember Oliver's rules?"

How could he forget?

He swallowed. "Yes" His voice soft. The words almost inaudible.

"Good. Oliver gave you to me for a while."

He shook his head. Shifted on the mattress. Placed the bottle beside him.

"Molly…"

"As long as you do what you're told, Oliver said she'll be safe."

He almost burst out laughing. Safe was not a word he'd associate with Oliver. Ever.

"How long?" he asked. Focused on the man before him.

"We'll see. Maybe a week? Depends on how well you do."

Sherlock looked away. Couldn't meet the other man's gaze anymore. Something was very wrong. The man was lying. He could see it. Could see the broken nose. The dark circles around his eyes from the bruising. His clothes spoke of money. Superior quality and practical. He was very dangerous. Maybe more than Oliver. His hand clenched. His knee bounced. Nervousness he couldn't quite clarify.

He needed time. Time to rearrange his mind palace. Time to sort out the wisps of memories that seemed to tease him that there was more to Alex. That he knew him. That Molly is …safe? John and Mycroft…

He dropped his eyes. Stilled the movement of his body. Relaxed his shoulders as much as possible. He knew how to do it almost instinctively now. Had learned this lesson painfully from Oliver.

"What do you want?" he asked.

"I need you to look at a file for me. Come up with another scenario. Are you up for it?"

He didn't think he had much of a choice.

"Fine." He said in the end. Rose and followed the man out the room. Seated at the table where he was indicated. A file was dropped in front of him. He looked up and half expected to see Oliver. The whole scene so familiar.

Opened the file. Read the first page and then push it out of the way.

"No. I'm not doing that."

Alex sauntered close. Pushed the file back. "Do you remember Oliver's rules?"

He swallowed. Shifted in the seat. "You're supposed to obey, is that not so, Mr Holmes."

He sneered. "You're not Oliver."

"No. I'm not. But did he not promise you that Molly will get an introduction on the first day if you fail me?"

"I'd like to go back to my room."

"Not an option, right now. Do the exercise."

He took the measure of Alex. Scanned him deliberately. Again, memories were tugging at the back of his mind. It was frustrating. He knew they were there but somehow a wall had been built. Keeping them at bay.

This had to do with Oliver. He knew it.

The other man was clearly capable of violence. Not above using it and he suddenly had a vision of the other man on top of him, pressing down on his throat with his forearm. Of Mycroft's voice…

He closed his eyes. Ignored the other man. Stepped to the wall. Oliver warned him. Told him what would happen if he broke it. He ignored the other man inside his head. A ghost, nothing more. Not real and not here.

His head rocked. His eyes flew open and he reached up, wiping the blood from his spit lip.

"You will not ignore me, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock stood up. Inside, he pushed against the wall. Watched it crumble and everything came rushing back. It was a surge of awareness. Like he'd been asleep and had suddenly woken up. Remembered Oliver.

Remembered the bothy.

Molly, face bloody and bruised.

His own fears.

He remembered the hospital.

Giles.

John, as he helped him breathe through his memories.

Mycroft's voice as it droned on about Christmas.

And the feel of the gun in his hand as it bucked. The smell of cordite and Oliver as he watched the man take his last breath.

And most of all, he remembered Molly.

And what she meant to him.

Alex…Alex was threatening Molly. Alex, who would kill without a thought.

His own eyes darkened. A dangerous glint in them and Alex almost took a step back. He took note.

"What exactly did you think was going to happen?" he said. His voice was still hoarse. Still painful but it wasn't going to stop him now. "That I'd regress? Think I was back at the bothy? Back with Oliver." He couldn't help the derision. The man that had caused so much pain. So much torment in his own life. In Molly's. "You are not Oliver. You might pretend. Have his notes. But you are and never will be him." He continued. "So, I have triggers. Bad memories. Who wouldn't. And you're obviously clever enough to have a go at them. Clever enough to not have been caught before now, killing all those women." He paused. Took a painful breath. His throat was clearly not happy with him. The pain was …bothersome. "Think about this," he said. Gave a smirk. Knew it would annoy the other man. "You want to use my brain. You obviously see value in it. To my brother…well. I seem slow. You are nothing but a goldfish to him."

Alex gave a warning growl. Took a step towards Sherlock.

"Your brother is otherwise engaged. Looking for Moriarty. Looking for bombs. It will not be hard for me to get to Molly. To John."

Sherlock tried to laugh. But it hurt too much. He almost choked, but his intent was clear. "I know they're safe, Alex. My brother has told me so. He keeps his word."

"Really."

"Yes. Really."

Alex smirked. Took his phone from his pocket and switched it on. "Then why did Molly Hooper try and phone me? Should we find out? Maybe arrange a visit?"

Sherlock didn't wait. Without thought, he lunged himself at Alex. Managed to take the other man by surprise. He lashed out. Heard the other man grunt. He pushed, rushing Alex backwards into the wall. Held him there as he managed to sink another short jab into the other man's ribs. Alex grunted and then brought his knee up. He managed to avoid the hit, shifted his body at the last second but it meant his stance was off. The other man used the wall, rolled him against it. He blocked a jab. Shifted and moved his head just in time as another fist came up. Alex groaned as his hand hit the wall. Sherlock dropped down, somehow managed to avoid an upcoming knee. He rolled away and came up into a standing position. Facing Alex sideways, his hands away from his body. Ready.

"Oh. Very clever. Not the first time, Mr Holmes." The other man said, wiping his lip. Looked at the blood. "How many times are we going to try this game?"

"Which one is that Alex? Oliver had me for almost five months." He gave a half smile of contempt. "You had me barely for what…a week? Sorry. But I think you're losing."

Alex snarled. Rushed Sherlock then. He pummelled into Sherlock. The momentum slamming them into the floor. Sherlock felt a rush of air leave his body but he gave as good as he got. Alex was hurting, he could see it. But he was too. Felt it as fists slammed into his ribs. His face.

In the end, it was pretty one sided. Sherlock blamed the drugs. The Ensure. The mental torment of dealing with the other man's attempts to trigger a regression. In the end, he curled into himself. Protected as much as he could his stomach and face.

But it wasn't enough to stave off the threat of darkness.

One kick, driven with a viciousness he hadn't seen in the other man yet, hit his ribs just above the plate. He felt a crunch and pain, white hot and agony ribbed through his body. Knew then that John wouldn't be happy.

And then blessedly the man stopped. Was standing above him, heaving.

"You will learn, Mr Holmes. I promise you that. How painful is going to be up to you."

He had no voice to answer. No energy. Felt the familiar feel of steel as it closed around one wrist. He didn't protest. Couldn't. His body consisted of agony. Everywhere. It reminded him too much of his time just after the fall.

But there was no Molly to make it better. No John. Just another missed opportunity. But he didn't regret his actions. He had the measure of Alex now. Knew what would set the man off. Knew that the other man was hurting too. He grunted as he was pulled upright. Barely had the energy to let his feet walk as the other man dragged him to the room, his arm held in place over Alex' shoulder. The man's other arm snaked around his chest, pushing against the ribs he had kicked. He was thrown on the mattress and then Alex threaded the handcuff through the ring and enclosed it around his other wrist.

Left and slammed the door shut.

Sherlock finally allowed himself a groan. Shifted upwards until he felt a modicum of relief against muscles that had been pummelled into fresh bruises. He leaned his head and shoulders against the corner wall of the room. Made sure he was wedged in.

And promptly passed out.


"We have a location."

Mycroft was at the kitchen table when Anthea had called. It was still early. John and Molly haven't appeared yet.

"Where?"

"Northeast of Stafford. About an hour's drive. It looks like a cabin. Nothing much for kilometres."

"Thanks. I'll take it from here."

He phoned the number he had memorised.

"Address?"

He rumbled it off. Silence and he knew that the other person was looking at a map.

"One hour."

"Very well. You have the photos on the side project?"

"Yes."

"Timeline?"

"A week."

"Good."

The call disconnected. He slid his phone onto the table. Got up and made a new pot of tea as John entered the kitchen.

"Tea?"

"That would be great. Ta." The doctor said. Seated himself at the table as he rolled his shoulders and neck. "Getting back to my own bed would be bloody great." He said. "No offence Mycroft, but I like a firmer mattress."

"Maybe tonight," he said. "We have a location."

John said up straight. A hint of a smile on his face. "You sure?"

"We'll know in about," he looked at his watch. "An hour and half?"

"Bloody hell," John said. Took the offered cup. Molly joined them and then Irene sauntered in. She knew when she saw his face.

"How long until we know?"

Mycroft looked at the time. Did the calculations. "An hour."

She passed on a disc. "All I managed to find. Some of his kills when his clients wanted proof."

"Thanks, Irene." Mycroft said. Tucked it into his jacket pocket. "I'll have it analysed later."

The hour passed slowly. Each to their own thoughts. Conversation was a little forced and then just naturally dried up. No one was hungry. No one left the table. It was a waiting game that felt tortuously slow.

And then Mycroft's phone rang.