Chapter 18

Day 14/15

Irene was already seated at the table in the kitchen when he entered the room. He took the file from under his arm and slid it across the table top towards her. Walked to his secret stash and took down the cigarettes. Went outside and lit one as he stood just outside the door.

"Lord Cavendish," he said to Irene from the doorway. "What do you know of him?"

She opened the file. Gave it a cursory glance. "Old money. Established family. Eton alumni member. Well versed in the political sphere. Has good contacts across parliament and the aristocracy."

"Yes, yes. Anything useful," he said, pulling in another measure of smoke. Held it and blew it out while he was thinking.

"He was never a client, Mycroft."

He turns to her. Head tilted as he flicked ash off the cigarette. "Above reproach?"

"I didn't say that."

"Okay. He and Lord Marden apparently are old family friends. Belong to the same secret society."

Irene chuckled. "Those are really a dime a dozen, darling. This is part and parcel of being a British big boys club, is it not."

He harrumphed. "I had a meeting with him earlier today. He knows about Sherlock. I think he knew Oliver."

She looked up with surprise. "What makes you think that?"

"It was what he implied about Sherlock and his …vulnerability. He wanted me to lift the exile on Lord Marsden and allow him to go back to his position in the house of Lords."

She lifted an eyebrow. Turn a page on the file and skim-read the page.

"Do you mind…" he finally said, gesturing towards the file with this hand before he took another drag.

"Very well. I'll see what I can dig up." He nodded. Finished his cigarette and came back inside.

"What else is bothering you, Myc?" she asked. Watched as he restlessly filled the kettle.

"I think I know Moriarty's endgame and by extension, the reason why this man would be interested in Sherlock." He paused. Switched the kettle on and turned to her. "Oliver was really very clever," he mused softly. Wiped his forehead tiredly. "I'm afraid my little brother has no idea how high the stakes are."

"Surely he'll figure it out?"

Mycroft gave a soft derisive chuckle. "Sherlock is focused on the wrong tree, as it were. He might not see until it's too late."

"The assassin?" she prompted softly; a frown centred on her face.

"Yes. Do you see?" he asked her. Leaned back against the cupboard and crossed his arms. Irene nodded.

"It's utter brilliance," she whispered. Awe in her voice.

"Yes. As I said. Very clever."

"Myc…" she started. Closed the file in front of her with fingers that trembled slightly. "The plot against you…"

"Yes, I know. I have people in place, Irene."

"Fine. Promise me you're not going to do something monstrously stupid."

"I'm not my brother, Irene." He gave a wistful smile and then his eyes hardened. "I'm not without protection. Besides, once they show themselves, I'll know who to send condolences to."

Alex entered the room. Sherlock was curled up under the blanket, his back to the room. He had not taken yesterday's revelation very well. It wasn't entirely unexpected. He ended up cuffing him to the bedpost again. He wanted to make sure Sherlock stayed put and not do something drastic like trying to leave. Despite his warnings about what would happen, the consulting detective wasn't entirely thinking logically at the moment.

"Mr Holmes," he said, putting his bag down on the table. Sherlock didn't move or acknowledge his presence.

This wouldn't do. He needed Sherlock to be compliant. Willing to work. Willing to do what is asked of him.

He stepped to the bed, undid the cuff. Sherlock just curled tighter, not saying a word.

"I know last night was hard to hear. I can understand that you are upset but it's better you are confronted with this now. Understand what Oliver has done. You will not help Molly or John by moping, Mr Holmes. Their lives are entirely based on your compliance."

Still nothing.

He was getting slightly annoyed. He gave a small sigh. "Mr Holmes, this is getting tiresome."

That got a reaction. Oliver's notes as always were quite handy. "Now sit up please."

Sherlock did, reluctantly and refused to look at him. "Bathroom break?" he asked. Sherlock nodded. He led the way, the man following him without a word. Entered the bathroom, closed the door. It took longer than he had anticipated but he gave the man a bit of space. When Sherlock finally emerged, he indicated to him to get back to the room.

"Sit on your bed. Roll up your right sleeve."

"Taking blood again?" Sherlock asked, his voice gruff. But he was doing what Alex wanted, sitting down and rolling up his sleeve. It seemed yesterday's lesson was not forgotten. Good.

"No. I need to do a few things today. This will be a little something to help you relax."

Sherlock's eyes widened. His body tensed. "I don't need that. You don't need to give me anything."

"I disagree. Don't fret, Mr Holmes. It's just a sedative. You didn't sleep much last night."

"I wonder why," he heard Sherlock murmur. He took out a vial and a syringe. Drew up the drug, checked for air bubbles. Grabbed a tourniquet from his bag.

"I won't go anywhere." Sherlock tried again.

"This will happen, Mr Holmes. Are you going to fight me on this?"

"Last time you gave me a little something I ended up in hospital." Defiance was flaring. Alex leaned against the table, the syringe and tourniquet he placed on the surface top. Tilted his head.

"As I told you before, I underestimated your weight and the fact that you're still anaemic. This will just help you relax. Allow you to settle so you can sleep. Despite appearances, Mr Holmes, I know what I'm doing."

"Really? Why did you need my help with your little side project?"

Alex studied Sherlock. Wondered how much he was willing to indulge in the other man. What he was willing to allow. "We all have our strengths, Mr Holmes. Yours complimented mine. It made what I do better."

Sherlock sneered. "Assassin for hire?"

Alex chuckled. "No. Not entirely. Just a problem solver."

"There are others, aren't there." Sherlock states confidently. "You have a side hustle, don't you."

Alex gave a small smile. Interesting. Sherlock was as intelligent as he thought. "Everyone has hobbies, Mr Holmes."

"Oh, I bet it isn't entirely like yours."

"No. Maybe not. Should I introduce Molly to my …little side hustle?"

That definitely made an impression. Sherlock's lips thinned; his eyes glared. Alex shifted, grabbed the syringe and tourniquet from the table and stepped closer. Sherlock looked up as he stood in front of him.

"Ready?" he asked.

Sherlock shook his head. "You don't need to do this. I won't go anywhere."

"That's not the point, Mr Holmes."

He watched the muscle play across Sherlock's face. The little side tick that Oliver had so readily described in his notes, evidence of the man's anger and anxiety all rolled in one. Sherlock's hands were opening and closing, his breathing slightly increased. Alex waited patiently. He didn't mind, he wanted Sherlock to come to this realisation. It would make things easier in the long run than forcing compliance through violence alone. Not that there wasn't a place for it in correction.

But in his experience, too much violence brought resentment. A willingness to fight. Brought stubbornness to the fore. Enforced compliance. He had learned from Oliver in that regard. It had been a combination of carrot and stick approach that had brought Sherlock to obedience. That and his fear for what would happen to Molly Hooper if he didn't follow Oliver's directives. He wanted Sherlock to tighten the noose himself. Build his own cage. Last night's conversation had been a good start. Sherlock's shoulders slumped. He wordlessly gave his arm.

"Good, Mr Holmes. This is good." He murmured Oliver's words as he sat down and tied the tourniquet. Sherlock looked away, staring at the wall. Sherlock pumped his fist without prompt, the veins plumping nicely. Scars and old track marks evident on the skin as he lightly traced a promising vein. He was quick and efficient in his administration of the sedative. Capped the syringe and undid the tourniquet and placed both items in his pocket. He coaxed the other man to lie down, watching as the drug started to take hold. Eyes flickered and then closed. Breathing deepened. He slipped the handcuff on again, ensuring Sherlock's arm was secure to the board. No sense in taking any chances although the detective should still be out by the time he gets back.

He pushed Sherlock's hair away from his face, and watched the play of light on the lax features. Yes, he would definitely be an asset worthy of his time. Oliver had already done most of the work in any case.

Why not take advantage of that fact.

"Ready?"

Molly looked up. John was standing in the doorway, his jacket in hand. The flat felt empty without Sherlock. It's now been four days. The deadline looming ahead for her. She wanted to trust Mycroft. Trust that he knew his brother.

"Yeah," she said, grabbing her own jacket and pulling it on. Placing her scarf around her neck and following John out the door. Mycroft's armoured Jaguar, and agents waiting out in front. They entered the back, settled as the luxury sedan pulled away.

"John," she says, turning so she could see him. "Thanks for being there."

He chuckled. "Sherlock will have my hide if I don't," he said. "So, what's the plan for today?"

"Want to keep busy, you know. Thought I'll try out the new software I got as a trial from the conference."

"Sounds interesting." He says as the car slowed down. Stopped outside the clinic. "Are you sure you're going to be okay by yourself? I can always request another day off. It's no big deal, really."

"No. I'll be fine. I've got Mike. And the agents. I'll be all good."

"Okay. Please text me or phone me if you need me, okay." John exited the car, waved goodbye as they drove away. Molly opened her phone, had a look at her messages. It was still disappointingly empty. No texts from Sherlock. Nothing to indicate where he was or what he was doing.

Dammit, Sherlock. Just text already.

The phone stayed stubbornly quiet.

She made her way to her lab when they had arrived at Barts, the agents shadowing her. They made themselves comfortable in the hallway outside her lab, leaving her alone as she entered. She put her bag down, took her jacket off and went and made tea. Brought it over to where her computer was and logged on.

It took most of the morning to install the software. She read up on her notes she had made during the conference. Read some of the chapters of the manual she had received. It felt good to be busy. To keep her mind occupied. It meant she didn't think too much of the fact that Sherlock was still out there, searching for a man that seemed every bit as dangerous as Oliver.

The program seemed interesting. It liaised with a national database that collated data from different towns and cities on murder victims. The theory being that if enough commonalities were found, then it could be indicative of a potential serial killer. False positives were very high in the beginning as the program compared killings. If someone died by strangulation, it could match up with potentially any strangulations out there. This of course wouldn't mean that it was the work of a serial killer. Just that there were 50 strangulations in the country that had been similar. The trick came to expand on the criteria. Read the data and understand what to input to bring the field closer to a match. It was fascinating in a horrible kind of way. And she could see the appeal a program like this would have on Sherlock Holmes. Molly sometimes wondered if his brain didn't work in a much similar way as the application. Collating data, correlating, and filtering until it all came to clarity in his mind. She was still in awe of him. Still valued that part of him even though it seemed a bit muted since Oliver.

He still hasn't taken on clients. Still reluctant to fully place himself out there. Oh, he took on cold cases. Took on cases that had Lestrade stumped. But it wasn't the same as before Oliver. Something inside him seems broken. She couldn't put her finger on it. Whatever it was that Oliver had done in those three days had been extremely traumatic. He had never shared with her what exactly it was. But she knew that whatever it had been, wasn't just physical. Oliver had done something to Sherlock's mind. Had somehow managed to worm his way in and pull it apart. And Oliver was still there, even though he was dead; tormenting him, this time beyond the grave. It had her and John worried. And Mycroft. Even though the older Holmes was less easy to read than Sherlock, Molly had learned the nuances of him. Knew that he wanted Sherlock to recover as much as she and John wanted. She had spoken to Giles about her fears. He had told her that everyone heals differently. That they needed to give Sherlock time. That he would come to his own when he was ready. That it wouldn't do to push. That it would only set Sherlock back.

So, she and John didn't force it. Did their best to bring a wall of protection and comfort around Sherlock so he can have safety to heal. But it just wasn't always easy. There were times that Sherlock was downright stubborn and angry. Where he would go the whole day without speaking to either her or John. And then there were times where he seemed his normal self. Spoke and acted like he used to before Oliver.

The application on her computer dinged, drawing her away from her thoughts. It had finally finished installing. She opened it, watched as the screen changed. She felt excitement rush through her. This was going to be interesting. She clicked past the first screen, onto the main form. Currently there are 20 000 records in the national database. The team had explained that this would expand and grow as more towns and cities came on board and as the data was integrated into the backend database. But 20 000 records were a good start, she thought, to have a play and see what the program could do.

She opened the filter page where she could enter criteria to search for. She randomly choose one of the methods of death on the dropdown and watched the records drop to half. She made a few other random changes, watching as the numbers changed. This could really be interesting and she suddenly wished Sherlock was here. He would have a ball, she thought. Smiled. He would be jumping out of his skin, his fingers flying over the keyboard.

She sighed. Her phone was still disappointingly silent.

"Okay, Molly. Lunch first." She said out loud, signing out of her computer. She went to the staff kitchen; had some coffee and the sandwich she had made at home. Enjoyed a brief chat with Mike, explained the program and what she'd found so far. Sated, she made her way back to the lab. Performed Mr Thomas' autopsy. He had died of a myocardial infarction. Nothing sinister. Wrote up her notes and finalised his paperwork. It was four pm by the time she was finished. Eyed her computer and wondered if she'd have time to have another go at the program.

Decided in the end to leave it for tomorrow. She was tired and just not in the mood anymore. Sherlock had still not contacted her. She wanted to find out from Mycroft the next steps.

Mycroft had a busy day. The files that Molly and John found had been in the hands of his analysts for most of the day. They had been busy collating as much information as possible. They used the photos the ME's had taken, sharpened and cleaned it up as much as possible before running it through a facial recognition program that most of the public was unaware they had. It took a few hours before the first identification was made. From there it was easy to pull apart bank records, birth and school records and criminal history if any. It was slow and tedious work and Mycroft left them to it.

He spent his day with Anthea looking for ghosts. Pulling apart rumours linked to Moriarty. Managed in the process to identify another one of Moriarty's cells in eastern Europe. But it wasn't the answer he was looking for, so he passed the information on to his counterpart in that part of the world. Knew that this time tomorrow another part of the consultant criminal's web would be exposed.

He knew he was looking for someone with a public school background. Someone older. Probably self-employed or the type of work that would enable him to travel. Someone that death followed.

It was frustrating. The variables, although significantly excluding a whole lot of people, still were too big to narrow down. He needed more data. More information and with Sherlock still in the wind, there was no chance to try and coax his brother's memory any further.

Halfway through the mid-afternoon, he dismissed Anthea. Closed and locked his door and then sat down in his chair, his hands tented beneath his chin as he closed his eyes and put his brain to work. Shifted through all the information he had so far. Worked at the angles. Consider the facts he had. He was interrupted in his thoughts when he was busy untangling a particularly nasty little knot of information in his mind palace by his phone. He frowned. Had thought that he'd put it on silent.

It was Lestrade.

We need to talk.

He pressed the call button.

"Yes."

"Have a look at this afternoon's late print. Kitty Riley's the journalist."

He opened his office, asked for the late print. It was on the front page in big bold letters.

Sherlock Holmes presumed dead, gravely injured after fighting off burglar.

The article was speculative at best. Photos were included of the bloody handprint on the railing. It included Sherlock's brief hospital stay after a suspected overdose. Exploited his brother's past drug use. The fact that he was reported as having discharged himself from the hospital against medical advice and that he was in the houseboat probably to get high was concerning. More speculation that he was surprised by someone breaking in and in the process was gravely injured. Went over the railing and the river police are trawling for his body further down river.

There was just enough truth to make it believable. Most of it lies. But the public won't see it that way. John and Molly…

Mycroft was already making calls. Organised for the agents to pick both up and bring them to his home. Texted Lestrade and asked him to meet him there. Grabbed his jacket and exited his office while he made another call.

"It's me."

"Hello Mycroft," Irene greeted.

"We're having house guests tonight. I need you to find out information for me on one Kitty Riley."

"Really, Myc. I'm not one of your agents."

"Irene…"

"Very well. It will cost you."

He gave a small smile. "As always. I'll be home in thirty minutes."

Alex had returned midday to find Sherlock stirring, starting to become aware. He had given him a top-up, watched as sleep stole once more over him. He kept an eye on him while he made phone calls until he was certain that Sherlock was comfortable and his breathing wasn't compromised.

He spent the rest of the afternoon travelling to and from a warehouse that Oliver had setup. One that Mycroft had missed in his endeavours to absorb and disband Oliver's holdings in the UK. When he finally made it back to the house it was early evening and already dark. Getting the bag out of the car was problematic but he managed in the end, dragging it up the stairs and into the room where he was keeping Sherlock.

The man was only just starting to come awake, eyes barely cognizant of his surroundings. He blinked against the light that Alex switched on and then gave a slow groan. The handcuff clinked against the headboard. Alex dropped the bag in the middle of the floor and then proceeded to uncuff Sherlock. He pulled a water bottle from his backpack, helped the other man sit up and held the bottle to his lips. He had added a mild stimulant to the water. Enough to help Sherlock overcome the last dregs of the sedative he'd given him earlier. Sherlock turned his head away but he coaxed him again and was pleased when he took another sip without fighting him.

"Good, Mr Holmes. Once more…."

"Stop…going…to be sick…" Sherlock managed to say, pushing weakly against the bottle.

"Shhh. You'll be okay. This will help. Small sips, Mr Holmes." He said. Kept him in place and held the bottle to his lips. Eyes clouded with the sedative blinked at him. Sherlock took another sip. Managed to finish the bottle in the end. By the time they were done, he was awake and aware of his surroundings. Aware enough to notice the bag.

"What did you do?" he said, his voice gravelly from sleep, glancing between the bag and Alex. He squinted, his fingers massaging his temples and Alex knew he'd be sporting a headache.

"Oh. This is something that Oliver had planned. Seeing that he's not alive anymore, I think I'm going to improvise." He got up from where he'd been sitting next to Sherlock and pulled the newspaper from his backpack. Passed it onto the other man and watched the play of emotions on his face. Sherlock looked up at him, his eyes narrowed as he threw the papers on the bed next to him.

"Mycroft will never believe this drivel. You're insane if you think he'd fall for it."

"Interesting…what about John? Or Molly? What would they think of this …drivel?" he asked, indicating the paper. "Are you that quick to discount your fiancé and your friend?"

"No."

"So which is it, Mr Holmes? Will they believe?"

"Don't be absurd. Of course not."

"Mmmm, thought as much. That's what this is for," he said toeing the bag. "Oliver's contingency plan."

"No."

"You don't even know what's in the bag, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock gave a dry chuckle. "Not that hard."

Alex dropped to his haunches. Opened the zipper. "I guess not. What do you think?"

Inside was the corpse of a man. He looked a lot like Sherlock. Hair the same colour. Face lax in death. His body was covered in scars, the same brand on his arm. "Oliver was thorough. I have to give him that." He said when Sherlock stayed silent. "He even got the old track marks right."

"DNA. Dental records…"

He looked up. Smiled. "That's the beauty. Everything is in a database somewhere. Remember the hacker you helped me kill?"

"I didn't…"

He rose smoothly. Stepped over the body and sat down next to Sherlock. "Come now, Mr Holmes. You knew perfectly well what you were doing. So by proxy, you did kill those people you helped to plan their murders for."

Sherlock didn't reply. Stared at the body in the bag.

"By the time the river police fish him out of the Thames, he'll be bloated. Chewed up by propellers. He'll match dental and DNA records. Your friends and family will mourn. And you'll be officially dead."

Sherlock shifted his gaze. Met Alex's eyes fully. "I can walk out that door right now."

"True. You can try." He took out his phone. Opened it and swiped to the gallery. A photo of Molly and John exiting Baker Street was on there. The next one was of John as he entered the clinic. Then Molly outside of Barts. "You leave. They die. That simple."

Sherlock focused on the last photo of Molly. Swallowed. "You're alone. If I kill you, they'll be safe."

"Are you sure about that, Mr Holmes."

Sherlock wasn't even subtle. He waited while the man scanned him fully. Smirked. The detective's whole demeanour changed by what he deduced.

"Why are you doing this?"

"Isn't it obvious by now, Mr Holmes. I've come to a decision regarding you."

"It will never work."

"I disagree. Look at where you are, Mr Holmes. Look at what you've already done for me. What you told me."

"I'm not…"

"My dear boy. Oliver's already broken you in. Despite the fact that you were free these past few months, you still retain his conditioning. Last night alone has proven that. Sentiment has made you …malleable."

"I disagree…"

"No, Mr Holmes. Shall I prove it once more?"

Sherlock looked away; his hands clenched. Sweat was forming on his brow; he was panting slightly. All the hallmarks of a panic attack starting. Alex put his hand on Sherlock's back. Rubbed in slow circles. "Shhh, you're okay, Mr Holmes." He said, using Oliver's words and inflection. The words he knew Oliver had used on that last day to pull Sherlock's mind apart while he pretended to care. Pretended to bring comfort. Sherlock startled, jumped up and stepped away from Alex.

"Stop it!"

There was a tinge of desperation in his voice.

Alex stood up. "Sit down, Mr Holmes."

"No."

"This is getting tiresome, Mr Holmes." He said, eyes dark.

Sherlock was shaking his head; his hands were trembling when he wiped his face. Took a step back. "You're not Oliver. Stop trying to be him. Stop this now!" His voice raised; he dragged his hands through his hair.

"Sit down."

Sherlock took another step back. He was almost to the door. It was time to intervene. He watched the other man, took his phone out and thumbed in his code. Pressed a number he had on a quick dial. His gaze never left the other man as he waited for the call to connect. He'd done this before. Knew how to play his quarry in this game. When the recording started stating the time, he said, "Mr Holmes is slow today. Kill the doctor."

"No!"

"Wait," he said. "Decision time, Mr Holmes. What is it going to be?"

Sherlock's eyes were wild. He'd seen them before on others. Knew the process that would be going on behind them. The desperation as thought of escape dominated and then in the end acceptance when they realise that there is none. Sherlock was more intelligent than any of his previous victims. It shouldn't be a long wait.

Five seconds later and the detective growled. Made a full 180 degree turn as desperation bled off him in waves. He met Alex's gaze and then looked at the door and then the bed. He gave another groan in frustration, sneered.

"Mr Holmes, just accept it," he said gently.

"No. I…" His hands clenched and then everything seemed to just deflate inside the other man. He took a step and then another and then he sat down on the bed. An aura of defeat hung on him. It was obvious that Sherlock had given in.

"False alarm. Keep up surveillance." He said and closed the connection. He was pleased. This was going very well. He placed his phone onto the table. Got a bottle of Ensure out of his bag and threw it at the detective. Watched him fumble the catch. Pulled trousers and a shirt from the backpack as well.

"I want the clothes you're wearing. You can put these on. You may go to the bathroom if you want privacy."

Sherlock hesitated but then stood, placed the Ensure on the bed and taking the clothes, exited the room without a word. The bathroom door closed soon after and Alex allowed himself the luxury of a grin.

Things were going very well, indeed.

"What is this, Mycroft?" John asked, indicating the newspaper.

"I might've miscalculated slightly." John could see the embarrassment the other man was feeling. It was telling that Mycroft wasn't even attempting to hide it. Greg Lestrade was looking extremely guilty. Stood in the corner of the room, his hands on his hips.

"Greg called me yesterday morning. It was a very obvious setup. I didn't think it advisable to unduly concern you."

"Bloody hell, Mycroft. This does concern us."

"Yes. Well, I can see that it was a mistake. This man is a lot cleverer than I gave him credit for."

"You think?"

"He has Sherlock?" John turned to Molly; her voice soft in the room. Her eyes shimmered and she was unconsciously rubbing Oliver's brand. "John…" she started. He made his way to her quickly. Pulled her into a hug.

"Hey, it'll be okay, Molly. Sherlock's a stubborn bastard. You know that, right."

She nodded. Wiped her eyes and leaned into his hug. "How is this even possible?" she asked, her voice muffled against his chest. John looked up, and met Mycroft's gaze. His lips pursued, a frown deepening around his eyes.

"I have not been entirely idle, Molly," Mycroft began. Indicated for them to sit as he took a chair across from them. He sighed. "I've been to see Moriarty."

"You son of a b…"

"Enough! Not helping, Dr Watson," Mycroft stated. John took a deep breath.

"Fine, Mycroft. Why don't you explain to us what the hell is going on."

"Jim Moriarty knows who this guy is. He's not willing to give that information yet. This is a chess game, John. His endgame is his release and the utter desolation of my brother. His opening is very good, he has planned out his attack well. He has alluded that the hacker that was killed found out something about this man that we're hunting. That this man has plans for Sherlock. I think he obviously knows what Oliver did. Might want to continue the conditioning Oliver has implemented."

"No…" Molly started, her hand in front of her mouth. A sob escaped. "It's Oliver all over again. This is so unfair. Are we never going to be rid of him?"

"He's dead, Molly," John said. "Oliver is dead. Sherlock is smart. He'll figure it out."

"Let's hope so, John." Mycroft said. "My brother wasn't exactly in a very good headspace when he left the hospital."

"Mycroft, not helping," John said, glaring at the other man. Molly took a staggering breath. John could see her visibly trying to regulate herself. Trying to bring her emotions under control.

"No. It's okay. I'm okay," Molly said. Took another slower breath. Her eyes cleared. "He's right. Sherlock will need us when we find him."

"Molly," John started but something inside Molly has changed. She seemed stronger. Determined. A fire burning inside her that he hasn't seen before.

"John, no. We do what we need too to find Sherlock. I don't care what it is. How long before you know who this hacker was?" she asked Mycroft.

"A day. Maybe two."

Molly nodded. "Okay. Two days isn't so bad. But no more than a week, Mycroft. One week, then so help me, but you will get that information from Jim. Even if you have to tear him limb from limb."

"Molly…" John started again. Blanched when she looked at him. She was very different. He suddenly understood how Sherlock had survived. This Molly Hooper was the one that had survived Oliver and had managed to keep Sherlock intact. Had managed to keep his friend sane.

"Never mind." He said in the end. Met Mycroft's look with one of his own.

"I've arranged for Mrs Hudson to visit her sister. My agents have packed some bags for you. You'll be staying here. I don't want to give this man a chance to use you to get Sherlock to comply."

Molly nodded and John knew they had no choice. Greg was silent in the corner. Hadn't said a word during the whole exchange. A look passed between him and Mycroft and John suddenly wondered what else was there that they didn't know about. Wasn't privy to.

"My cat…" Molly started.

"Taken care of, Molly. One of my agents will look after him."

Her eyes seemed to shimmer and she seemed to deflate. John felt his heart break. Took her in his arms and held her.

"Hey, Sherlock will be okay. He's got you to come back too. I'm sure he's already thinking of ways to escape."

She gave a watery smile. Nodded in his shirt. John didn't voice his fears out loud. How much he was aware that Oliver had affected his friend. How much Sherlock was still reeling from what the other man had done.

Dammit Sherlock, he thought. Don't do this to Molly. Just find a way and come back to us.