Chapter 23

Sherlock was unconscious when the team Mycroft had organised found and extracted him. Molly and John had waited by the doorway that led to the roof as a black helicopter without markings had dropped onto the helipad. A moment later, a team had rushed out with a gurney. The transfer was smooth, Sherlock limp and unresponsive on the gurney.

Mycroft had again managed to obtain a private room. It took a few hours before they were allowed to see him. The primary physician had spoken to them about Sherlock's injuries. He had multiple contusions. Subcutaneous bleeding especially in his torso area around his ribs and chest. The two plated ribs had hairline fractures but at least were stable. He had extensive swelling and bruising to his neck. The biggest concern is that his breathing would be compromised. He was kept on close watch while ice packs and anti-inflammatories were pushed to help healing. Sherlock also had concussion signs and the MRI had at least indicated no bleed, which was a positive. He had lost another 5 pounds during the weeks' captivity. This on top of already being underweight added complications to healing that should've been standard. He was dehydrated and his blood counts were rising, indicative of an infection that was starting to take hold.

It took two days before Sherlock showed signs of waking up. Another two before his Glasgow scale reached 13. Not perfect but acceptable under the circumstances. Meanwhile, his body was wrecked with fever and body malaise as he fought the infection. Antibiotics were pushed when the infection was found to be bacterial.

John and Molly stayed with Sherlock throughout. Mycroft had procured the room next door. Had brought in two beds and the pair had set up a schedule, relieving each other every 6 hours. Mycroft popped in occasionally, but generally was updated via text by either John or Molly. Two agents sat outside the door, keeping an eye while the very last dregs of Moriarty's network were mopped up.

Mycroft switched on and watched the news after the first week. Prime time was taken up by the four Lords that had been killed after the Cessna 400 Edwards was flying had crashed into moorland not far from his estate. BBC reported on the shocked reactions by prominent members of parliament and the ensuing investigation by the aviation authorities into the cause of the accident. Mycroft smiled. Switched off the tv set and wandered outside to smoke. He already had his own men in place to step into their recently involuntary vacated positions. Then the real investigation can start to uncover how deep their subterfuge and criminal activities went.

Alex was no more. Killed with signature efficiency by the A.G.R.A. team as they expertly breached the house. His body swiftly interred within a pauper grave. Mycroft didn't feel one ounce of guilt over the villain's death or the four men that had kept Oliver's operations hidden away from prying eyes. From what Irene could gather, the evidence that Molly had found and what Sherlock had told him, all indicated a callous and calculated psychopath with a penchant for hostility and vindictive violence towards women. An intelligent and reportedly charming personality belying the hidden predatory beast inside who had managed to evade law enforcement scrutiny until Oliver. Who had taken his little brother and had tried his best to turn him back to Oliver's pet, so he could manipulate and mould him to his own design. A.G.R.A. had brought him Alex's laptop. Mycroft found Oliver's notes on it, hidden in a folder on an encrypted drive. Scrutinised it and found the slight differences to the file Lestrade had found at the main house. It was clear that Oliver had sent the notes on request but he had left out one or two important factors that hadn't been in the original files.

It didn't mean that the notes weren't effective. Mycroft had known that Sherlock had been affected by the brief phone conversation he had with him. How much, only time would tell when Sherlock was in a position to tell his side of the story when he was better. Giles was on standby but the psychiatrist had been adamant that Sherlock needed to initiate contact. That it was important that the other man could exercise his own agency and remain in control.

So they waited while Sherlock healed. It was two weeks before he was well enough to no longer require constant intensive monitoring. Off the IV and able to hold conversations. Not that there was much conversation. He was quiet. Introspective. Prone to long silences and he slept. A lot. Molly had been concerned. Had spoken to Giles but he had again cautioned her to stick with a wait and see approach. That Sherlock needed time to process. Time to just heal physically first. So they just went with what Sherlock wanted. Sat in a chair and read while he slept. Spoke about life. Cases past. Anything to try and get a reaction and he would occasionally engage.

In the middle of the second week, he had made space on the bed and Molly had slipped into the empty spot. Grateful when his arm had gone around her, holding her close.

"I love you," he breathed.

"I know," she said. Pulled his arm tighter around her as she enjoyed the feel of having his body around her again.

He nuzzled her hair. "Molly."

"Mmmmh."

"I'm sorry."

Tears formed. She turned in his arms. Her head on his chest and he held her close. Kissed the top of her head. Carded his fingers through her hair, tucking it behind her ear.

"I uhm…," he started softly. His hand lingered in her hair. Drifted down her neck in a soft caress. She could feel his hand shaking and he pulled it back.

"Sherlock?" she questioned.

"Alex, he…said some things."

Molly shifted and then pushed away from him. Dried her tears and sat up, crossing her legs. He looked surprised and then hurt. Started to turn away from her. She could see him closing off again like he had these past almost two weeks. She stopped the movement, placing her hand over his. Intertwining their fingers.

"What did he do?" she asked.

He grimaced and she saw him lose focus. Knew that he was reminded of something. His other hand went up to his throat. Lingered for a moment and then he dropped his hand. She remembered the bruises on his neck. The inflammation and concern that they had of damage.

He stayed silent, closed off. Clearly he wanted her near but he was struggling. She could see it. There was an undercurrent of fear that she had thought gone after Oliver's death.

"Sherlock," she said, "please don't do this."

He sighed. Nodded and then he seemed to come to a decision. "Alex had Oliver's notes."

"I know," she said. "Mycroft told us. I saw the evidence from the room that he kept you in."

"Oh."

She took a breath, steeled herself. "The Ensure?" She swallowed convulsively. Remembered her own visceral response to seeing the photos. The remembered taste of the vile replacement meal they had been forced to drink for four months. His fingers tightened around hers. It hurt but she didn't say anything.

"It still tastes the same," he said. Gave her a half smile. "Claire would be happy to know I'll do anything…and I mean anything… not to ingest that vile liquid again."

She gave a small chuckle. "Good. Because you seemed to have lost a few these last three weeks. Claire will probably need to rework your menu a little until your weight has picked up again."

"As long as there's chocolate cake, I'm game." He wiped his face. Shifted and then pulled her hand towards his chest. Held it over his heart.

"Tell me again the story of Ursa Major." He asked her.

"I thought myths and legends don't hold up to scientific scrutiny," she teased, pleased to realise how much that night had meant to him. She had told him the story to try and distract him away from his terror. Away from the bothy and Oliver and what they'd done to him during those three days. It had felt cliched but for whatever reason, Sherlock had taken it and had turned it into something more than just mere words of encouragement.

He smiled, small creases appearing in the corner of his eyes. Despite it, there was sadness that seemed to linger even now. "It's not true, you know," he said. "What Alex said Oliver wanted."

She frowned, uncertain whether she really wanted to listen to Alex's lies. But clearly Sherlock felt the need to talk about it. She suppressed a sigh. "What did Alex say?" she asked, dreading the answer.

"That I love you because Oliver wanted it so. That Oliver engineered my sentiment for you so he could better control me."

Molly's eyes filmed with tears but she didn't say anything. This was an overarching fear she had since the beginning when she had figured out why Oliver had wanted her there. Why she had been careful with Sherlock even while her own desperation and fear had birthed that first day in the bothy when Oliver had appeared and had made known his intentions. When she had realised her own feelings at that stage unrequited, would not be helpful to Sherlock. That her perceived love she had of him was flawed. That it wasn't real.

That first week had been the hardest she had ever experienced as she had come to some hard truths in her own life. Truths regarding Sherlock. Who she needed to be. What she'd need to do to survive. And despite the fact that Sherlock had not professed any sentiment in any way, she had known by the third week what Oliver had planned. He'd said as much to her when he'd spoken to her after Sherlock had returned and fell asleep.

"How long do you think it will be before he falls in love with you?" Oliver had asked where they were standing outside the bothy. She had been brought before him. Made to listen as Sherlock slept inside. Completely exhausted by whatever Oliver had decided would be the challenge for that day.

"Excuse me?" she had said. Flabbergasted that he would even think she'd entertain the idea.

"Ms Hooper, you are clearly aware of your role, aren't you?"

"Yes." She replied. "A means for you to control Sherlock's behaviour. To make him do what you want by threatening me."

"Very good, Ms Hooper. You are not entirely stupid." She had kept her anger inside at his flippant words. "How long?" Oliver had asked again.

"I won't help you," she had said. Turned to go back inside but Goon 3 had stopped her by stepping in her path. Her shoulders had dropped and she had turned back to face Oliver.

"It doesn't matter what you do, my dear," Oliver had stated. "This," he said, indicating the bothy and surrounding area, "will be enough." His smile had been predatory then. "The heart wants what it wants, isn't it so, Ms Hooper?"

"You're insane," she had whispered, awed by his callousness and cruelty. Tears had started and she wiped at them angrily. Wanted nothing more than to hurt the man before her.

Oliver had stepped close. Tilted her head up by his hand. Inspected her like a prized bull at a fair. She pulled her head from his hand. "Don't," she warned.

Oliver chuckled. "Mr Holmes seems unaware of his own feelings toward you. But they are there, Ms Hooper. Trust me. It won't be long, I think."

"I'll tell him," she said.

"Oh, you can try. But he won't listen, will he? You see, Ms Hooper. I know about these things and I can predict with fair accuracy what he'll say to you. Should we take a bet on it? How bout extra food rations for two weeks?"

"Why are you telling me this?" she asked quietly.

"Because Ms Hooper, when the inevitable happens, I want you to remember this day. And then you can either choose to take away his hope completely by rejecting him or you can cement my hold over him by agreeing. Either way. I win."

"You bastard."

Oliver had laughed. Turned around and had left her there, standing outside the bothy with an impossible decision.

It was something she had wrestled with ever since. Why she never pushed Sherlock ever in this. And when he had professed his love only after they had escaped, she had thought it through. And had taken it because her own love in that time had grown to more than a schoolgirl crush. It had matured. And she had discussed this with Giles. In depth. Pulled apart and examined her thoughts and feelings until she came to the cathartic insight that what they had was so much more than Oliver. Oliver might have thought himself clever but in the end it was them that had prevailed. And he was dead.

"I was afraid…" his voice was a whisper, bringing her own thoughts back to the here and now and Sherlock's struggle. "…that if you knew, maybe then it would be different. That what we have…"

"Sherlock, stop." Molly said firmly. Pulled him until he was sitting up straight. Cupped his face in both her hands as she leaned in. Forehead against his. "I love you. Not because of Oliver or what happened. But because I know who you are."

He frowned.

"Sherlock," she said his name reverently, "Are you going to let Oliver win?"

He shook his head. "If I wasn't who you thought I was. If I wasn't who I thought I am, would you still love me?" he asked and there was a brokenness in his voice she hadn't heard before.

"Yes." She said, "Always."

A sob broke out. But he took a shuddering breath, his hands on her hips. "I was afraid that it wasn't me that loved you."

Oh, how she understood everything in that one sentence he had just said.

It encapsulated absolutely everything of Oliver's hell and his intent with them both. And Alex's cruel motivation in bringing it up.

You bastard. Rot in hell with Oliver.

She kissed him. Her hands shifted, ran through his curls. Pulled him closer to her and she waited, her lips on his. A promise if he wanted it. Nothing more but her own intent clear. He groaned, but something inside him shifted and then he leaned into her. His hands tightened and then their kiss deepened into something more. It was hungry. Exploratory. And a whole story told that was theirs alone.

Her breath gone when he finally broke the kiss. A hand gentle as it traced her face. Lingered over her swollen lips. Whatever battle Sherlock had been fighting inside him finally seemed to have settled. A peace that she couldn't describe seemed to steal over him.

"Molly Hooper," he smiled. "You are a force to be reckoned with."

She laughed. Couldn't help it but it was freeing. Oliver and his hold over her own life broken into pieces.

"You have me," she said then. "All of me."

He quirked an eyebrow. But she could see her own laughter mirrored in his eyes. He pulled her closer, his hands moved from her hips to her back and he buried his head into her neck. Felt his kiss, featherlight on her skin. His mouth stopped by her ear. "And you have me," he whispered.

He pulled back and she saw mischief dance over his face. Knew him well enough and on a level that no-one else did. Thought of all they had endured together. Had survived because they had each other. Was stronger for it.

"I'll drink Ensure for you," he joked.

"Please don't," she giggled. Her hand tracing the contours of his face. Amazed by his resilience. His ability to survive.

"Molly," he said softly as the quiet became charged with more than the silence of the room. She felt a smile tug at her lips. His breathing increased slightly. His eyes held her own captive. "I choose to love you because I want it."

It was wordy. But she understood.

"Good." She said. Kissed him again and this time it was more. Their hands explored as they released Oliver's ghost over their relationship. Aware that something profound had taken place in that hospital room that they wouldn't be able to explain to anyone else.

They weren't aware of John opening the door and silently closing it again. Or of their friend that brought a chair and sat like a sentinel of old in front of their door and directed away any hospital personnel.

Their world for that moment in time consisted of no one else.

Grief has turned to redemption. The cost paid in full. And love had won.


At the beginning of the third week, he was to be discharged. He had spoken briefly to Mycroft.

"Alex?"

"Dead. His laptop is with me."

Sherlock nodded. Scrutinised his brother with eyes that had seen too much. Wiser for it.

"It wasn't fun," he said softly. "He tried to trigger a relapse."

"I gathered as much."

Sherlock gave a half smile. "You kept your promise."

"Ah. Yes."

"I realised something…" Sherlock trailed off. Swallowed but didn't break his gaze. "About Molly."

"It wasn't that hard to see that Alex would try…"

"No! No…" Sherlock shook his head. His hand tightened around the blanket. "Not him. It was Oliver…" he paused. Seemed to gather himself. "It was always Oliver. He uhm…" he closed his eyes. Leaned his head back against the pillow. Took a deep breath and opened them again. "When I met Oliver for the first time, one of the questions he asked me was about human nature…I didn't have an answer. Not e…even when he asked again during those…uhm, three days. He asked again that last day before you came. Only then could I answer him. Did I understand? It was never me," he said softly in the end. Dropped his gaze to his own hands that were fretting with the blanket that covered him. "I was never the key. I understand that now." He looked up, gaze strengthened and a clarity and surety there that Mycroft had never seen in his brother.

"It's always been Molly. She's always been the key. Do you see, Myc?"

Mycroft nodded. Understanding what his brother was saying rushed through his mind palace like a gale force.

"You chose her." He said it as a statement of fact. Not a question, for there was no question anymore.

Sherlock nodded. "Because I wanted her. Not because of Oliver. Never him."

"Yes. I understand, brother mine. She will be safe. And so will you."

"How?" Sherlock looked at his brother with fear. "There were others…" He frowned. "I think there were others…some of the days were just nothing more than a blur. But I remember Oliver once…" He wiped his face with both hands. Clearly struggling with something. "There was a …hunt?" He shuddered. "I think he drugged me. Made me forget. But I had bruises sometimes that didn't make sense."

Mycroft's eyes darkened slightly. "Taken care of brother mine. They won't bother you or any or yours again. You have my word."

Sherlock looked away. Stared at a spot on the wall. Mycroft had impulsively reached out, folded his hand around his little brother's. Asked a grounding question. Wondered if he was too late and whether Sherlock was away again, into his own mind and memories.

"Hey, you with us?"

Sherlock tightened the grip on Mycroft's hand. Held on as if for dear life. Tears were close, dancing on the edge. He shifted in the bed.

"Myc…"

Mycroft sat down on the edge of the bed, his hand still in his little brother's.

"Yes, Sherlock."

"You're not entirely a rubbish big brother."

Mycroft chuckled. Didn't look at his brother. Gave him a chance to recalibrate. He didn't remove his hand though.

"Good to know. You're not so infuriating at times."

He heard a sob, barely controlled. Leaned forward and then Sherlock shifted, moved and his forehead rested on Mycroft's shoulder. With his free arm, he reached up and gripped the back of Sherlock's neck. Held him in place as tears wet his suit. Didn't say anything while his brother let go of his grief and pain.

And they finally understood. They were stronger together.


The second day after his release he went to see Giles. Mycroft's car had dropped him off, the agents waiting outside while he went into the kitchen for the ritual he and Giles had established.

"Good to see you," Giles had said, adding sugar to Sherlock's cup.

"Thanks. Good to be back," he had said. Followed the other man into the sitting room. He had taken his time, and drank his tea. The silence again comfortable. The ritual brings a sense of normality back. Of calibration.

When he was done with his tea, he put his cup on the side table. Cleared his throat and looked at the titles. Read a few but he knew them well by now. Could probably list them in order if he so chose.

Giles waited patiently.

Sherlock took a deep breath. Focused back on Giles.

"I'm ready…" he started. Seemed to gather courage from somewhere deep inside himself. Shifted in the seat and sat up straighter. Closed his eyes briefly and then determination settled.

"I'm ready to tell you about Oliver and the three days I was with him."

And in that sentence, Sherlock was well on his journey to healing as he not only acknowledged what had happened to him but was honest about his own triggers and trauma.

Dealing with those three days took a while. But he was determined to not be in a position again that he'd been with Alex. For the sake of Molly. John. Mycroft and others. For himself. He wanted to move forward. Move ahead and be whole.

Not discounting the pain. A realisation that the memories of what he'd gone through may never entirely go away. But also refusing them the power to prolong his suffering. But to make it a part of him. That part of him that survived. That overcame immense adversity. That part of him that was gradually healing. Embracing acceptance. Hope. And revelling in love.

He was still arrogant at times. Full of himself. But tempered with wisdom. A little more empathy. A bit more cautious.

And trusting of those in his close circle that they were there to protect. That love was shared. Unconditionally.

Sherlock and Molly got married at his parent's house a month before the one-year anniversary of the day they both woke up in the field. Their vows were simple but heartfelt.

It was the best day of both their lives.

That night he had completed and brought to fulfilment their journey as they moved in the ages old dance of passion.

It was a revelation for him and he was glad he had waited. They had gone away, spending a week touring Europe.

And when they were finally back and Molly back to work at Barts did he open his blog. John was seated in his chair and he was at the desk.

Looked at his inbox.

Smiled and for the first time felt truly free from Oliver's grip. Knew that his own healing will probably take a lifetime but that was okay.

He clicked on the Inbox. Leaned back and met John's eyes. His friend rose, made his way over and saw what he was doing. Smiled.

"Ready for a new client?" John asked.

"Ready."

Sherlock clicked on the first email.


What a journey. Congratulations. You made it this far. 😊 Thanks for everyone who has left comments and kudos or just read the story. Know that it's very much appreciated.

Oliver was never an easy character. Nor Alex but I wanted to show Sherlock's journey as he came to acceptance of what had happened to him, as it was traumatic and horrible and not nice...as he said to his brother and John. 😉 And the roles Molly played in it as well as his brother and John and Irene. That he's better for it. And everyone has grown in the process, hopefully. Stronger for it. Guess it made this story a bit harder than the first one - as the first one I got to play on the last 10 chapters especially on the story of Sherlock and Molly and their realisation of love. This story delved into uncomfortable truths at stages and makes it harder and I could only really get to Sherlock and Molly in the last chapter. Hope you loved the scene as much as I did. 😉 But it meant I could put to bed Sherlock and Molly's fears and their own unresolved trauma at the hands of Oliver.

I'm busy with the next story. It will be called - The case of the Lion and the baby - well approximately. hehe. I'm allowed title changes. A lot less angsty - in fact probably more humorous and fluffy. Got to give our characters a bit of a break, right.

So if you liked this fic, please let the author know. Even if you just lurked until the last page. LOL. I get it. Guilty of that too. But really really would love feedback. Until next we meet again.