The fourth scenario

by

Whashaza

Oliver came for him early in the morning. Sherlock suppressed the sigh as he finally exited the helicopter. They were back at the cottage and he knew what lay ahead. One of Oliver's little side project scenarios he had to solve. He wondered who it was going to be this time. Especially considering the man's words… "The next one will be a bit more of a challenge, Mr Holmes. Despite your protestations, I think you'll enjoy planning this one."

He wasn't sure he'd agree with that sentiment. Ever. But he had no choice so he followed Oliver into the cottage. Took his seat by the table without prompting. Opened the file when it was provided. Read the first paragraph.

"No!" he exclaimed. Pushed the file away from him. Watched the pages flutter onto the floor. He rose from the chair. Turned full circle and stomped to the door. Flung it open to find Oliver outside. The helicopter was gone. He made his way over to the man, ignoring the two goons.

"You're insane if you think I'll do what you want," he ground out. "That is low. Even for you, Oliver."

"Problem?" Oliver asked. Eyes devout of any empathy met Sherlock's.

"What do you think?"

Oliver nodded to himself. Indicated to one of the men. Focused all his attention on Sherlock. "You don't have a choice," he said succinctly. There was a warning in his tone.

Sherlock lashed out. Decked Oliver. A full uppercut that connected firmly. Oliver staggered back. Blood bloomed from his nose. Gushed down his face. Sherlock didn't have a chance to do anything else. Was flat on the ground, a knee between his shoulder blades as his arms were cuffed behind his back. He didn't stop fighting. Even after a well-placed kick forced him to curl into himself, trying his best to protect his ribs and stomach.

"Enough!"

Oliver's voice sounded muted. Nasally. The men stepped back, leaving Sherlock alone as he focused on just breathing through the pain. He ground his head into the soil. Felt blood drip from a cut on his lip. Closed his eyes and tried not to think of the three days. And what his own stupidity was going to bring him.

There was no way Oliver would let this go.

"You can bring her." He heard Oliver. Felt his stomach plummet as fear took hold. Understood suddenly with clarity what was going to happen.

"No, Oliver. Don't," he started. Grimaced and managed to get on his knees. Pushed himself upwards until he stood, facing the other man. "You don't need her."

Oliver was dabbing at his nose. Handkerchief tainted red with blood. He ignored Sherlock. Indicated to one of the goons who stepped forward. Pulled Sherlock away back into the cottage and forced him into the chair. Picked up the file and strewn papers from the floor. Sherlock stood up again. Focused on getting back outside. Back to Oliver. Goon 3 placed the papers on the table. Stepped up and proceeded to hit him squarely in the solar plexus. Sherlock's mouth gaped open as he doubled over. Tried to breathe through the pain. He was forced back into the chair. This time his hands were uncuffed, the chain pulled through the chair back and reattached. He was effectively trapped. Couldn't move unless it was with an awkward shuffle with the chair. He growled in frustration. Pulled on the handcuffs but he knew it was a useless gesture.

Sherlock had nothing to do but wait. Goon 3 standing by the door. Hands casually crossed. A short while later Goon 1 entered with a plastic tarp. Placed it in the corner of the room. For the first time Sherlock noticed the hook set in a crossbar in the ceiling. He blanched. Shifted in the chair as memories assaulted his psyche.

No. He couldn't do this. Not again…

He swallowed bile. Shifted in the chair. Fear and terror had turned his palms sweaty, his breathing increased and his heart felt like it was being squeezed out of his chest. The beginning of a panic attack was starting to take hold when Goon 1 returned with a small table. Proceeded to place instruments that were very familiar to Sherlock onto the small flat surface.

Hell no. He can't…

Finally, Oliver entered. Stepped to the table and started to pull the papers together. Ordered them and placed them back into the folder. Placed it neatly on the table with a pen and paper next to it.

"Bring her in."

Sherlock went berserk. He didn't care anymore that he was shackled to the chair. Didn't care about his skin that was shredded in the process. He managed to get the chair up. Swung it widely. Just missed Oliver in the process. Hit Goon 3 squarely in the chest with the feet of the chair. But he stumbled. Lost his balance and then he was on the floor. Effectively pinned there by Goon 1. He swore. Grunted. Didn't give in as Molly's voice was heard over his grunts and screams. He finally succumbed when Oliver squatted by his head. Ran a hand through his sweat laced curls. "Don't move, Mr Holmes."

Despite everything inside him that wanted to fight, his transport stilled. The silence was broken by his harsh breathing. His heaving chest barely able to get any oxygen in. He closed his eyes. Tears started to flow. Freely without restraint.

He just couldn't…

No.

"Please…" he whispered. "Oliver…"

Felt gravity change and then the chair was righted. He was seated in front of the table, facing away from Molly. Away from his worst nightmare. Oliver's hand on his shoulder while his other hand carded through his hair. "I know this puts you in a difficult position, Mr Holmes. That is unfortunate." Sherlock suppressed a sob. "But that is the way the dice has fallen. You have a choice to make. This intellectual exercise or Molly Hooper."

He shook his head. Heard Molly's gasp. Then a whimper. He tried to turn his head to look and see what was going on. Oliver almost gently forced his head to face the table. "That is your focal point for now, Mr Holmes. Not what is going on behind you."

Molly's denial came from behind. A soft plea.

"What will it be?"

He hung his head. Another sob escaped. His hands clenched.

"Remove her jacket," Oliver said, his attention clearly on the scene behind Sherlock.

"No." It was a whisper of despair. He took a shuddering breath. Oliver pulled his head up, hands tight in his curls.

"Mr Holmes?" he asked. "What is your choice?"

"The file," Sherlock managed to say. Heard clothing rustle behind him. He wanted to turn. Wanted to tell Molly that everything was going to be okay. That Oliver wouldn't…

But he couldn't make that promise. Because he knew without a doubt that Oliver will. Could. That nothing would prevent the other man from following through with his promises.

"Mr Holmes, are you concentrating?" He blinked. Forced his eyes to focus on the other man's face. "Good. Very good, Mr Holmes. I'm going to release your handcuffs. You have three hours. Please don't disappoint. It goes without saying that if you move from this chair for any reason or turn towards Ms Hooper, there will be consequences. Do you understand?"

"Yes," he replied. His voice barely registered even to his own ears. Oliver nodded. Let go of his hair and then the cuffs were released. The table was pushed closer and he opened the file. Tears blinded him as he read the first paragraph again.

He had to reread the first page. The words swimming in front of him. He had trouble focusing. Oliver must've realised. Sherlock startled when he felt a hand on his shoulder. Oliver leaned in. Whispered into his ear, "In one hour, I'll remove her shoes. The hour after that her shirt. The hour after that…you get my drift?" Sherlock stilled. "And then I'll see if I can replicate your scars to the ones I'll create on her. Incentive enough?"

Sherlock wiped his eyes. Nodded and focused.

Forgive me brother, he thought as he stepped into the empty sterile room he had created in his mind palace. It was devoid of any sentiment. Devoid of colour. Laughter. Hope.

He placed each of the papers on the walls. Focused on the problem at hand. Poured all of his intellect into solving what was before him. Ignored every outside influence. Ignored Oliver and this room and Molly and the promise that was given.

It took him exactly the three hours Oliver had given him.

He wrote it out. Made sure to be clear and concise. Finally leaned back when he was done. Watched without emotion as Oliver read his plan on how to murder his brother. Nodded in satisfaction.

"Well done, Mr Holmes. I'm very proud of you."

He didn't blink at the prick of the needle.

Felt blessed darkness and silence steal his thoughts away. Welcomed the oblivion.

….

….

Woke up with Molly Hooper in his arms. The familiar feel of her body in his somehow relief. He frowned when he saw the shredded skin on his wrists. Wondered what had happened to have caused the injuries. Had a vague recollection of Oliver and going back to the cottage.

Molly woke up. Stretched. Sherlock noticed her wrists were bruised. He sat up. Took her arm in his hands. Traced the angry flesh.

"What?" she said. Her hand reached out. Touched his face. He knew his lip was split. Felt the bruise on his cheek and when he lifted his shirt, the tell-tale bruises on his back and torso. He just had no memory of it.

"Molly?" he started.

"I don't know. My mouth feels fuzzy," she said. Frowned. "What happened?"

He wiped his face. Noticed the way his hand trembled. Looked around the bothy but everything was as it should be. Closed his eyes but everything was fuzzy. He had no recollection except for knowing that Oliver had come. And then a big blank slate.

Maybe it's better you don't know. Some things are best left alone.

It was John. His friend was almost visible in the room, he felt so real.

Do you really want to know, brother dear?

"Sherlock?"

He looked up. "Uh, yeah. Okay…"

Molly gave a small sigh. Stood up. "I don't think I want to know, do you?" she said in a soft voice. "Maybe it's better if we don't remember."

He didn't meet her eyes. Nodded his head. Oliver had done something. It was so obvious. He raged inside at the unfairness of it all. At Oliver.

He didn't let it show. Got up and followed Molly as they started their daily routine.

Sometimes ignorance is bliss.

That night his nightmares kept him awake. And the night after.

He had no idea what had happened but it was enough that his transport remembered. And when Oliver returned to pick him up a day later, his transport reacted to the man in a visceral way it never had before.

And Sherlock understood not only despair.

But unadulterated terror.

And he had no idea what Oliver had done to teach his transport that lesson. He and Molly never did find out what Oliver had done to them.

And maybe it was better that way.