Chapter 15
Day 13
"Sherlock, no. You can't."
"Why?"
"It's not going to work. This is nuts."
"What else do you propose we do?"
"I don't know, okay. Oliver won't like it."
"I just don't see a way out. This is not enough. We're starving, Molly."
He stood up, paced the bothy. Their meagre supply of Ensure almost finished. Enough for another few days. He wanted real food. Wanted to chew and swallow, not drink and swallow. Thought back to all the cases he's worked on and not eaten. His offhand remarks that it interfered with his brain. Now he craves food. His muscles atrophying; his body consuming itself. The sound of the helicopter had both his and Molly's heads up. He sighed, made his way outside with Molly to wait for the man.
He'd done his run that day, forcing his body to push itself. It was a hard challenge but he managed to please Oliver in the end. He had already mapped the conversation out in his head when they landed. Turned to Oliver when they were outside the helicopter, waiting for Goon 2 to exit with Molly.
"Oliver, is it possible for us to get some real food," he started. "We need…" he trailed off when he saw Oliver's face. Knew then that he'd made a mistake. Rallied despite the feeling of dread. "If you need me to perform, I need adequate sustenance. The Ensure is not enough."
"You done?" Oliver asked quietly.
He nodded. Oliver turned from him, called Goon 1 closer. "Mr Holmes doesn't appreciate what we give him. Remove everything."
"No!" he said, stepping up, hands raised. "You can't." And then he was on the ground, arms protectively around his middle as he just tried to breathe through the blow to his stomach that Goon 3 had delivered with glee. A kick followed to his back and he grunted in pain. A moment later, Goon 3's hand was on the back of his shirt, pulling him upwards and forcing him to stand.
"You will learn, Mr Holmes. Do not question my generosity towards you and Ms Hooper. I will decide what you need. Is that understood?"
Sherlock glared at Oliver. Watched as his men removed everything from the bothy. Their food. The blankets, soap. Even the mattress. Molly was standing outside the door, a forlorn look on her face while she hugged herself.
They closed the door and locked it.
"I'll be back in three days. We can have a discussion then on the way forward." Oliver stated flatly. Turned and left Sherlock and Molly in front of the locked bothy.
Molly stared at Sherlock as the helicopter lifted off and left.
"You just had to, didn't you?"
"Not my fault," he mumbled, not meeting her gaze.
"No. Obviously not. The great Sherlock Holmes never makes mistakes. Oh no…It's always everyone else, right."
"That's not fair, Molly." He says, his voice rising.
"No. And sleeping outside is?" she says, matching him. "This is on you! I told you to leave it alone."
"He's starving us. Are we supposed to just keep quiet and carry on?"
"Well, if you did, we bloody well will be having some Ensure right now, wouldn't we?"
He did a full 180, fingers in his hair. Growled in anger. "A little more backbone from you would be nice, Molly Hooper. Why am I always the one to ask Oliver."
"Really. That's your comeback. My cowardice vs your reckless abandonment. What a perfect pair we make."
"I didn't say that."
"No. You're not the one he used as a punching bag. Do you think I enjoyed his little demonstration two weeks ago."
"Molly…" Sherlock said plaintively, "don't be like this."
"Like what?"
"This," Sherlock said, indicating her with his hand.
"Angry? Frustrated? What do you want me to be, Sherlock? Should I grovel at your feet and ask for forgiveness?"
He gave a long growl of frustration. "You're impossible. I can't reason with you like this."
Molly stared at him.
"What do you want from me?" He hissed in the end, trying to fill the silence of her anger.
"When you figured that out, let me know," she said softly. Turned and left, stalking off past the well and on the small little track that led away from the bothy. He watched her disappear. Thought about going after her but knew without shoes it would be an exercise in futility at best. And Oliver wouldn't like it. The rules were very clear on how far he was allowed outside the bothy.
"Bloody, stupid, idiotic woman," he muttered as he tried the door of the bothy. It didn't budge as he knew it wouldn't. "How am I supposed to know what she wants if she doesn't say anything," he continues as he moves to the well. Pulling up a pail of water, he watches the water slosh in the bucket. "It's not my fault," he says again, feeling frustration and anger boiling. He pouts, turns around and stares towards where Molly had disappeared.
Want to rethink that thought? John asked.
"Just shut up."
Really. You know you need to fix this?
"Go away, John."
Having a hissy fit is not going to help you tonight, Sherlock. It's still getting close to freezing point.
"Not my problem."
You have no coat. No socks or shoes.
"Just bloody hell shut it."
Real mature, mate. You know you're talking to a hallucination, right?
Sherlock didn't reply. Looked towards the small little shed where the wood was stacked. Fisted his hand, pressing it against his lips. Sniffed, got up and made his way over. There was already a little space where they had removed wood for burning. He starts to move some more, trying to create a little insulated cave as best he could. He worked at it for at least an hour before Molly returned. He turns, a piece of log in each hand as he focuses on her. Drop them on the pile he had created and step toward her.
"Molly, I…" he starts, standing in front of her. He couldn't meet her eyes, his hands clenching by his side.
"Not right now, Sherlock."
She walks past him to the well. Washes her face and hands. Return the bucket to the bottom of the well.
"You're right," he says in the end. She turns, eyes wide in surprise. "I was dismissive of you, Molly Hooper. I…" he shifts on his feet. Pursed his lips and focused on her, meeting her gaze. "Human nature is not easy for me. I always found it a great mystery. I just…I should've considered your words more carefully. I'm sorry, Molly. Because of me, we're going hungry and sleeping in the woodshed."
"I'm still very angry at you, Sherlock." Molly stated softly. "What you did was inconsiderate and foolish. Do you realise that Oliver can do what he wants? That asking him nicely isn't going to work. He's not a case, Sherlock. A puzzle for you to solve. He's the bad guy."
"Don't you think I know that."
"I wonder sometimes, you know." She says, "You still carry on as if we're going home tomorrow."
"My brother will be looking. John…"
"Yeah. How are they going to find us, Sherlock? We're in the middle of nowhere. It's just Oliver and his men. There's no-one else here."
He didn't have an answer to that. Stared at her.
"We need to be mindful, Sherlock. Of each other. Of Oliver. I would like to go home in one piece if you don't mind."
His shoulders slumped. He nodded. Turned back to his task. She joined him silently then, stacking and moving logs around until a tidy little hole had opened up that was big enough for both of them. The sun was already setting by the time Sherlock shimmied in, his back against the wall of logs. It was a tight fit and to be honest, a little claustrophobic but they had no choice, really. The best use of space and insulation was always going to be a balancing act. Molly settled between his legs, her back against his chest. His arms folded around her as they watched darkness settle and with it the temperature dropped dramatically. She was stiff in his arms, her anger very much still there. He nuzzles her hair, drops his forehead against the back of her head as he wonders what to say or do to let her know that really was sorry for what he'd done. What his actions had led to.
She shudders in his arms and sighs. "Maybe next time, Sherlock, consider how your words will impact me before you say them to Oliver."
"I promise," he breathes, grateful for her forgiveness in the words she hadn't said.
"Okay." They sat in silence then, but this time it was comfortable. Molly relaxed fully, snuggling into him as the night deepened. Mist formed in front of their faces as they breathed out, a visible reminder of the cold that was seeping in.
The night was long and they slept in chunks. Woken by cold more than anything else but it wasn't too bad considering their choices. Hunger was ever present for the next two days. They filled it with water from the well. Sat in the sun on the first day and then in the little shed on the second when it rained. Oliver returned early on day 3.
Sherlock apologised. Made amends as best he could and did the challenge to Oliver's satisfaction. The bothy was opened and Sherlock never brought up the lack of food again. He had learned his lesson. Knew that Oliver can and will take away everything to make him understand who was in control.
It was another two weeks before they got everything back that they had lost. Their mattress, blankets, water bottles and Ensure.
Sherlock realised that he was feeling better before he'd opened his eyes. He wasn't sure why he had dreamed about that particular time early on in their captivity when Oliver had asserted his control.
Because of Molly, you twit. John said.
Oh, right. Molly …angry. Not doing this right now, he thought. Molly and her anger will have to wait. His body was less sore, the nausea almost gone now. His ribs still hurt but it wasn't as bad as two days ago. He also realised that he wasn't alone in the room. It was a feeling, more than anything else.
"Feeling better?"
It was the voice of the man that he'd met with Oliver. So that hadn't been a dream. It had actually happened. He opened his eyes. He was lying on his side, a blanket pulled over his shoulder. His right hand wasn't cuffed anymore. Instead, he had an IV catheter in place in his arm. He followed the tube up to a bag that hung on a pole.
"Saline and some pain meds. You were not well."
The man was seated at the small table, a laptop open in front of him. Eyes without emotion met his.
"I underestimated your weight. The dosage I had initially prepared for you had assumed that you'd be back to optimal weight. The fact that you almost died was …unexpected."
Sherlock almost snorted.
"Bathroom?"
He had to think about it. In the end, he decided it might do to get a layout of the apartment. He nodded. The man got up and came over and removed the IV. Helped him sit up. Dizziness was almost immediate and Sherlock had to take a moment to just overcome the mixed signals his transport was sending him. The man was patient. Waited until he had gathered equilibrium before helping him up. It was slow going once he was up. His legs just didn't want to cooperate. But they managed. The bathroom was just outside the bedroom. Nothing more than a toilet, a basin and shower.
"Will you manage by yourself?"
He gave another small nod, holding on to the basin. His knuckles white as he tried his best to stay on his feet. He didn't need to pretend. There was going to be no escaping, even if he could think he'd manage. He was just too weak.
It didn't take long before he was done. The man was waiting outside the door. Helped him back to the bedroom. Sherlock sat down on the bed, scooted back until his back was against the wall. Watched as the man pulled a bottle from his bag.
"You need to eat. This will help."
He shook his head when he saw the bottle of Ensure. The man walked over, sat down next to him. Opened the bottle.
"Drink up, Mr Holmes."
"No."
"Oh. He speaks. Excellent."
The man was entirely too comfortable sitting next to him. It reminded Sherlock about the times he had met with this man and the casualness the man had in touching him. He suppressed a shudder. It wouldn't do to show any discomfort. This man would exploit it to the fullest.
"This is how it will go, Mr Holmes. You will drink this bottle or I'll tie you up and force feed it to you." He said in a measured tone. Held the bottle out. After a moment's hesitation Sherlock took the bottle.
"Good. Now drink all of it."
Sherlock took a slow sip. He winced at the memories of Oliver and the bothy the Ensure was evoking. It was revolting and every bit as horrible as he remembered. His hand with the bottle dropped to his leg. He swallowed against the chalky taste. Took a breath and managed another sip but then he just couldn't.
"Not really hungry," he said. Met the man's gaze. "Feeling sick."
"That is unfortunate." The man said. "I had hoped that we would not have to go this route so soon." He got up, made his way to the table and grabbed the handcuffs that Sherlock only noticed now from the table. It didn't take a genius what the man was going to do. Sherlock forced himself to take another sip. The man stood by the table, watched him and Sherlock drank the whole bottle. He had to pause twice to stop himself bringing it all back up. Knew if that happened, that the man would make sure that there would be consequences. Gave the empty bottle to the man when he was done.
"I can eat normal food, you know," he says conversationally.
"That wasn't the point," the man said, sitting down across from him at the table. He leaned back in his chair.
"Oh." Sherlock winced. "Any other hoops you want me to jump through?"
"Not right now." He smirks. "Oliver was really very good, wasn't he?"
"Oliver's dead," Sherlock states flatly.
"And yet you still respond as if he's alive. He's taught you a few things." The man focuses on the screen of his laptop, moves a mouse and clicks. He starts to read, "He arrived three hours late. As expected. I made him wait outside in the rain and cold for another hour. He ended up taking shelter beneath the helicopter. No matter. He has no idea what I've got planned. It will be interesting to see how long it will take to break him. I think I have the gist of him now. I predict three to four days…" He looks up watching the play of emotions on Sherlock's face.
"Three days?" he asked Sherlock, one eyebrow raised. A hint of amusement in his voice.
"What do you want me to say?"
"I think you just answered my question. I'm sitting with a conundrum, Mr Holmes. I'm not entirely sure what to do with you."
"You can let me go. I promise not to tell."
"Oh, you're a funny man, Mr Holmes. You've already created all kinds of problems for me by remembering our little side project. I had thought you'd be a bit smarter about it after our little tête-à-tête in your bedroom."
"You pretended to be Oliver. Wouldn't call it exactly that. Who are you?"
The man paused. Contemplated Sherlock's question. "Alex."
The name seemed familiar somehow. He frowned as he scanned the man in front of him. Remembered his last frantic thoughts back at his bolt hole when he had tried to deduce who this man was. This man knew Molly. Had been in contact with her.
His eyes widened as he remembered his conversation with Molly. Alex, who is older and from Manchester. Who is reserved, quiet and very knowledgeable about human anatomy.
"Good. You made the connection?"
"You don't need her."
"Interesting. How would you know what I need, Mr Holmes? You don't know me at all."
"You have me. Molly is off limits."
Alex laughed. "Oh, I think I'll keep you. You just have no idea, do you? Did you know I had tea with her yesterday shortly after I picked you up from your secret hideaway. You were passed out in the boot of my car while we sipped tea. She had chai." He says the last sentence softly. "She's really very angry at you, you know. I think she might warm up to me."
Sherlock growled. Alex clicked on the mouse again, his attention diverting from Sherlock to the screen.
"Sherlock demonstrates an irreverent interpersonal rigidity and an automatic disdain of authority figures. Will need to find a way to combat that…companion?"
"What are you reading?" Sherlock asks, squirming on the bed as he tries to get some semblance of control back. His transport was starting to react to the man. To what he was reading. He didn't like it.
Alex looks up, fakes surprise. "Oliver made notes. Didn't your brother tell you?"
Sherlock felt his mouth go dry. His stomach bottomed out. He glared at the other man, his lips pressed into a thin line. Mycroft had told him that he had the only copy and that he'd burned it. Evidently Oliver had liked to share.
"Oliver knew exactly how to control you, Mr Holmes. And these notes …are helpful." He smirked. "Should we give it a go?"
"No."
Alex closed the laptop. Stood up and made his way over to Sherlock and sat down next to the other man. Placed a hand on his knee and Sherlock jerked.
"Piss off," he snarled. Shifted away from the other man. Alex ignored him, instead made sure that he had Sherlock's full attention before he spoke.
"Restraining you is going to be tedious for both of us. So here is the deal. You can move around freely in this room and use the facilities. You are not allowed to go any further than the bathroom door. If you try to escape in any way or interfere with the cameras I've set up, Molly Hooper will join us at a different location. You are still …weak. I would suggest you use the time to rest and heal. I'll leave you some more Ensure. I have an appointment I need to attend to that is going to take me away for most of the day. I expect to find you here when I get back. Acceptable?"
"What do you want with me?" Sherlock asked.
"We'll shall see. Are the terms acceptable?"
"Yes."
"Good. I'll see you later tonight. Behave." With that, Alex patted his knee, got up and grabbed his phone and laptop and without another glance at Sherlock, left the room.
John opened a new folder. Reading the first page, he closed it and moved it to the bigger pile that he and Molly had set up for files who didn't match. It was tedious work. He couldn't believe in this day and age that files were not uploaded immediately to a computer system.
"Explain again why we're going through this manually," he asks as he stretches the kinks out of his back.
"Because this is the NHS and we have a backlog. For cost saving purposes, they have reduced the admin staff and we're three months behind. Getting dead people in the system is a lot less important than the living."
"This is ridiculous. Bloody politicians."
"You have no argument with me."
John stands up, reaches for his cup. "Tea?"
"Yeah. Break would be good."
They both made their way to the little staff kitchen. Cups in hand, they sat down at a small table. "Molly," John started, "I'm sorry about what Mycroft said earlier. You know that Sherlock doesn't blame you, right."
"I know, really John. It's fine. Giles had talked to me about false guilt, you know. That was something that both Sherlock and I had in buckets. Feeling guilty for getting the other person hurt for something we did. For whatever perceived reason Oliver would come up to abuse us. I learned that it was never on us. It was all Oliver. He was the one who hurt us. It doesn't mean I still don't have nightmares about it or it doesn't come up in my thoughts during the day. But I choose to step past it. Not let Oliver steal more of my time than he already has."
"Thank you, Molly." John said simply.
Molly frowned. "For what?"
John gave a sad smile. "You kept Sherlock sane; you know. He told me what you did for him. That because of you, he had hope."
Molly sighed. Blinked against tears and looked away from him. "I'm not a saint, John. Sherlock kept me alive. Protected me. He gave up a lot to protect me from Oliver. I did what I could to help him survive. I don't know if I'd be here if Oliver did to me what he did to Sherlock."
John reached across the table, took Molly's hand in his own. "We'll find him, okay." She nodded, gave a watery smile. "Why did he do this? Why go off alone now?"
"The only answer I can give is that he thought he'd be protecting us, Molly. I don't think he was thinking clearly. Seeing who he thought was Oliver, and the realisation that he wasn't safe…who knows with Sherlock."
"He's a bloody idiot," she says. Stood up and put her cup in the dishwasher. "Files?"
"Yeah," John said. "Files."
"Michael, it's me asking," Irene purred. Leaned over the table in the dark, dingy pub. They were seated in the back, well away from any prying eyes or ears. The man across from her skittish. He wiped a nervous hand across his head, the few strands of hair that was there messily covering his bald patch. He glanced at her and then his eyes swept across the general area.
"I know," he said shakily. "The last time I helped you, you said it would be the last time. You have no idea the risk I took getting that disc to you."
"It helped, Michael," she said softly. Pulled on all her skill she had in dealing with clients in the past as she tried to get past the man's fear. "And no-one knew but us. Isn't that true?"
He nodded. "Yeah, okay but this is too much, Irene. You're asking too much."
"No-one will know it was you. You're nothing to them, Michael. This won't fall on you. I promise. Just a name. That should be enough…"
"Irene…you're killing me," Michael said. Took a deep draught of his beer. Eyed the general area again.
"It means I'll owe you," she said softly. Added a hint of desperation in her voice. She knew what he liked. Knew how to get him to capitulate.
He sighed. She knew she had him.
"Jim had plans with Oliver." He started softly. She had to lean in to hear. To focus on what he was saying. He clearly was terrified but determined now to be in the green with her. For her to owe him a favour. He gave another furtive look. Took some more courage from his beer and licked his lips. "There was a rumour going round…very vague and sounded a bit far fetched you know. About those two. That Oliver had…you know…taken Holmes' little brother because of Jim."
She kept her composure. Knew all of this already. But she knew that Michael needed to have a lead up. Tell the story before he'd get to the titbit he'd want to share. She nodded at his expectant look when he paused. Silently encourage him to continue.
"Uhm, a lot of people were interested when Oliver shared the betting site. Wanted him to suffer, you know. He had a reputation. They were …uhm…willing to pay to see him hurt." He raised his hands, "I didn't, you know. Didn't bet on that site."
"I know, Michael. It's okay. Not judging."
He nodded. Finished his beer. His hands fidgeted and then he wiped his balding head again. The wisps of hair stood on end. Irene ignored it. She gave him an encouraging smile.
"Yeah. Uhm. Okay. So Oliver has friends that don't like Jim, you know. But they don't like Mycroft Holmes. They think he interferes too much in their affairs." He looked around again. Wiped his hands on his jacket. "I shouldn't be doing this," he suddenly said. Started to rise. Irene reached over.
"For me, Michael. No-one will ever find out. I promise."
He fidgeted, still half-risen in his seat. Scrutinised her then, his beady eyes flirting over her body. He licked his lips and sat back down.
"I want fifty thousand pounds. And I want help to disappear."
Irene smiled. "I can do that for you."
He looked around the pub again. Wiped his face and then his head again. Came to a decision.
"There are rumours about a ghost. Someone that gets hired when a difficult target needs to be rid of. That one of these friends of Oliver had hired this man to get rid of Mycroft Holmes."
"Do you have a timeline?" she asked.
He shook his head. "It's just a rumour. But these people are not to be messed with Irene. I want my money tonight. And the plan in place by then to make me disappear."
Irene exited the pub ten minutes later. Blinked in the mid-morning sun. Her phone out as she walked away.
"Darling, where are you?"
"The office."
"We need to talk."
Silence and she knew Mycroft was contemplating his options. Understood her need for privacy.
"Home?"
"Yes."
"I'll be there in an hour."
"It seems Oliver has friends that don't like Jim. But they like you even less, Mycroft."
Mycroft took a sip of his tea. Leaned back in his chair in his study. Irene was seated across from him. A nervous energy seemed to bounce off her. Very unlike her.
"I'm not unaware, Irene…" he started.
"No! You don't understand, Myc. There is a contract out on you."
He gave a half-smile. "Not the first time."
She sighed in frustration. Stood up and walked up to him. Stood in front of him and then leaned down, hands on the armrest of his chair. "The man I saw was afraid, Myc. Oliver had friends that didn't like you or Sherlock. More than Jim, I surmised."
He pulled her down onto his lap. His arms folded around her, holding her to him. She allowed him to comfort her. "I've been doing this for a while, Irene. I'm still here."
She pulled back. "I don't think you've dealt with someone like Oliver."
"He was very clever. But he's dead. Whatever he had in place, won't hold. Hired assassins usually require payment."
"I don't know," she said softly. Pensively. "This feels a bit more than that."
"I'll advise my agents of a possible threat. Would that help set your mind at ease?"
"Fine. This man I saw requires money. And a new identity." She said as she rose. Mycroft rose as well, pulled his jacket closed and buttoned it.
"That can be arranged."
"Myc," she said, hand on his chest and stopped him in the doorway before they exited the study, "be careful, please. I think this rumour has some substance to it."
He nodded. Left and she found herself alone in the kitchen. Remembered the scene in the bothy she and Mycroft had watched on his laptop a few months ago when Jim Moriarty had tortured his little brother. And the impact it had had on Mycroft.
This was not ideal. Sherlock having decided to go at it alone. It put Mycroft at risk. Made him vulnerable while he searched for his little brother.
Dammit, Sherlock. She thought. You really are clueless aren't you about how much your brother is willing to sacrifice to make sure you're safe.
She had tried to let Mycroft see. Sherlock will survive. That she knew without a fact. She could see his fortitude. Knew it in herself as well. He might be struggling after what Oliver had done. But then anyone would. The fact that he had survived with his sanity in check was testament not only to his own mental strength, but in part because of his relationship with Molly Hooper. John Watson. And his unending faith that his brother would always come to the rescue.
But this time, she wondered if he had underestimated the reason why it seemed Jim and Oliver and by extension the shadow men Michael had mentioned, were dead set on acquiring him. Getting him to do their bidding.
Did he not see that by extension, they would be controlling Mycroft. That his older brother would do almost anything to make sure Sherlock was safe. Alive. Looked after. And if it were to dance to their tune in order to make sure Sherlock didn't die, he'd do it.
She wasn't in the mood to stay. Grabbed her bag and exited the house.
She'll do what is necessary to get the information she needs.
To keep Mycroft safe.
Sherlock had spent most of the afternoon sleeping. He had grand plans that just never came to fruition. He had managed to make it to the bathroom. Had taken a brief shower, using the towel set out by Alex on his bed. It had felt good to be clean but that had pretty much taken all of his energy. He made it to his bed and had fallen asleep almost immediately afterwards. He had woken just after four and had drunk another Ensure. It still tasted horrid but he knew that if he was to have a fighting chance against the other man, he needed to get strong. And if that meant consuming the one revolting, stomach-churning thing he hated most on this earth, then he'd do it.
He was sitting at the table, placing the empty bottle on it as he looked for the cameras. One was in the corner setup in a way that it covered his bed and the bedroom door. He was certain the other one would be in the hallway opposite. He just wasn't really in the mood to go look.
He needed to think. He spent the time in his mind palace, leafing through files and considering his limited options. There weren't a lot of choices currently open to him. What he needed most was a way to contact Mycroft. Let his brother know what was going on. He looked towards the window. Stood up and moved the chair out of the way so he could have access. He was on the third floor of a semi-attached house in a cul-de-sac. No through traffic, obviously and too out of the way for him to get anyone's attention. The fact that Alex wasn't too concerned about leaving him here alone, spoke volumes that Sherlock would have no recourse to his usual methods of communication. He sighed, dropped the lace curtain back into place and sat down again by the table.
Alex found him still there an hour later. He switched on the lights as he entered. Pushed his laptop and phone onto the table and closed the curtains.
"Rested?" he said, sitting down on the chair opposite. "Glad to see you drank another bottle. Good."
"Real food?"
Alex gave a little smile. "No. Not yet."
"What is the point of this little experiment? Getting kicks out of forcing me to drink the one thing I detest the most."
Alex shrugged. "Why not?"
Sherlock stared at Alex. "Busy day?"
"Why don't you tell me?"
Sherlock scanned him deliberately. "Successful sale?"
"Contracts signed, so not too bad. Bored yet?"
Sherlock gave a false smile. "No."
"Very well. I have some work to do. Feel free to continue to sit there or take a nap." And with that statement, Alex opened his laptop and focused on his screen, ignoring Sherlock completely. The consulting detective wasn't entirely sure what to make of it. He wasn't used to being ignored. He fidgeted on the chair. Eyed the other man. Narrowed his eyes, reached across the table to snag the man's phone.
"I wouldn't," Alex stated, not taking his eyes off the screen. Sherlock had the phone in his hand, his thumb on the screen button. Alex sighed, sat back and met his eyes. "Don't be childish, Mr Holmes."
"My brother will want to know where I am."
"I'm sure he would. It's password protected."
Sherlock had the phone in his hand, swiping the screen. A pin was requested. Sherlock tried the first number he could think of. He wasn't surprised when it didn't work. There was the creak of a chair and then a pair of handcuffs was dropped on his lap. Sherlock looked up at Alex.
"Phone."
Sherlock handed the phone over. "This shouldn't have been unexpected," he quipped.
"No. Now cuff yourself to the bed."
"No."
The fist came out of nowhere. Sherlock had not expected it at all. Alex so far had not given any indication of hidden violence. Had not shown any inclination that he would resort to physical means to control, despite the warning this morning. Sherlock was reeling, blood filling his mouth. His lip split. Alex didn't give him a chance to recover. Instead, the man had grabbed him by the back of his shirt, pulling him from the chair to the bed. He threw the consulting detective onto the mattress, grabbed his right hand and yanked it close to the headboard. The feel of the handcuff as it closed around his wrist brought a shudder to Sherlock. Images of his time with Oliver superseding all other thoughts. A momentary boldness was stoked by an explosive anger inside Sherlock. Only matched by the intensity of a dialectical injection of fear in the subcortical structures of his brain. He rose, pulled powerfully against his restraints.
"Sit down."
"Kiss my arse."
Alex was efficient. Sherlock had to acknowledge that. He grunted as a fist doubled him over. He gulped as he tried to breathe. Alex stood in front of him, waiting patiently. Sherlock glared, pulled at the hand that was cuffed to the bed. There was only one way this was going to go. His transport wasn't ready for this type of physical abuse. It would be of no use if he got himself injured and unable to even entertain escape when the opportunity arose. The decision tree in his head exploded into only one logical outcome. He sat down.
"Good. I have work to do. Do I need to muzzle you?"
"No."
And without preamble, Alex dismissed him. Turned and made his way to the table and sat down. Sherlock dabbed at his lip with the back of his hand, the familiar taste of blood in his mouth. He didn't say a word as he tried to process what had just happened. Alex very obviously was not immune to using any means to control. Was used to being listened to. Was comfortable with violence. Had no compunction or thought of doing what is needed to get what he wanted.
Sherlock thought about the murders he had helped to plan for this man. Thought about the intelligence he saw and the assured self-confidence.
Fear centred on his chest, spread its fingers wide when he realised what Alex was.
A serial killer.
Who was casually sitting across from him working on his laptop. And he knew Molly Hooper.