Chapter 20

Big shout out to kaoruca and knightphoenix2 who have been commenting on each chapter and making this author's heart a happy little guppy. lol. Seriously, thanks for letting me know I'm not entirely mad doing this crazy writing on the weekends while my family encourages me to keep going and that they'll be fine for a few hours without me while I type away.

This chapter is huge for Sherlock in many aspects. Especially loved writing the first scene. That came in a flash of inspiration and I sat down and wrote it in one go. There is a little surprise at the end - dun dun dun and a little cliffhanger. Because why not.

My heart will go on by 2Cellos was inspirational in the first scene. Suggestion to listen to it while reading it.

Day 19 Part I

He wasn't going to lie. The last few days had been confronting. He didn't want to believe anything that Alex was saying. But on some horrible, distant plane it made perfect sense that Oliver's endgame was the complete manipulation of everything in his life. And that included his feelings towards Molly. Of John, of Mycroft. He wasn't so sure anymore what was his own thoughts and what was Oliver's. Listening to Alex as he read Oliver's notes and parroted back to him everything he had revealed to Oliver was frightening. He had not realised how much the other man had been able to extract from his mind. Was he really that weak? That obvious. Granted the three days were a bit of a blur in the end. The memories more visceral. He remembered the agony. Molly's screams. The moment he first broke down. The second time when he ended up crying into Oliver's shoulder. He still can feel the touch of Oliver's shirt beneath his body. His hands could feel the thread of his material as he clutched it. The couch and Oliver were vague collections of questions and answers. He couldn't even remember most of the questions the man had asked. All he knew was that it was violating in the extreme. That it was wrong.

And he still answered each and every damn one of them.

Told Oliver everything that was his life.

And here was Alex bringing it all back that he tried his hardest to delete. To forget. And his transport was reacting just the way it had with Oliver. He remembered the bothy. His initial meeting with Oliver. The scene playing itself out in his mind.

"Let Molly go. You don't need her. She's not important. My brother won't care if she dies."

"But you would, won't you Mr Holmes. No, I like her where she is. She's going to be a motivating factor for you. One I will exploit to its fullest extent, I think."

"John would've been better," Sherlock stated. "If you knew anything about me. She's just the pathologist who works at the lab."

"Oh. This is brilliant." Oliver said, grinning. "Do you know anything about human nature, Mr Holmes?"

He brought his legs up, curling into himself under the blanket on the bed, his back to the room. His one weakness and Oliver had pushed and pulled until he had no choice to learn. To acknowledge. And it hurts. To think that what he and Molly had was not born out of free will. That his choice was as artificial as his complete compliance in the end.

Did he love her? Truly? Or was it some manipulated fantasy implanted into his psyche by Oliver.

He didn't have an answer. He couldn't talk to John or Molly or Giles. Didn't have anyone else to which he could gauge his own reactions with. And that made this so much harder. Even Mycroft's analytical mind would be preferable to this.

Would you say Ms Hooper is important to your world?

"Shut up," he said softly. Oliver's voice too hard to ignore.

… But I'm going to enjoy watching you learn.

"No!" He turns his head into the pillow. Screams in denial. And then he's punching the pillow. Punching the mattress. The physical exertion brings little relief from the turmoil inside him. He swore loudly, his pillow flattened as he sat up. His legs swing off the bed. He ignored the twinges of bruises and got up and made his way to the bedroom door. Surprised it was open and then he was in the bathroom, splashing water on his face. Looked up and saw himself in the mirror.

He wasn't a pretty sight. Alex had an affinity for violence. Liked to assert control. He sneers, turns away and starts the shower. Strip and then he was under the cascading water. Letting it flow over his head, his body as he leaned on the wall. He wanted oblivion more than ever. It burned in him. His hands itched. He wasn't certain if Alex offered him another shot of his special blend, that he'd decline. Even the sedative was better than lying awake, trying to manage nightmares and his own thoughts. He'd almost asked the man last night for it. It was the thought of Molly that had stopped the words from coming.

Have you learned to appreciate sentiment, Mr Holmes?

"Just …stop" he whispers desperately. Pounded a hand against the shower wall. Leaned his forehead against the tiles, eyes closed as he tried to calibrate. Tried to focus on his breathing.

It wasn't working. Oliver's voice reverberated just everywhere in the confined space. His ghost was just visible, standing as always ready. Eyes malevolent. Waiting for Sherlock to break one of his damn rules.

"Please…just…stop."

But Oliver wasn't done with him yet.

Do you love her then?

And that was the question he had no answer to. What was sentiment? Oxytocin release and brain synapses firing or something more? How would he answer that question?

If Oliver didn't happen, would he still have Molly?

Getting your pants into a tight knot there, aren't you, mate?

He actually looked up. Expected John to be standing there. But John's voice was calming. Drowning out the noise from Oliver. From Alex.

"Not exactly fun times," he says, giving a half smile.

Oliver happened.

He nodded. He had the scars to prove that. Wasn't exactly something he could forget. Even though he tried.

When exactly are you going to stop moping, brother mine?

Go away, he thought. Not moping, Myc. Just thinking.

How's that working out for you? Can you not see what Alex is doing?

He sunk down, sat on the floor of the shower. Leaned his head back, eyes closed as the water flowed over him.

He's messing with your head, brother mine. Don't let him.

And there was the crux of it. He knew it. Could see it. Couldn't stop it. Couldn't drown out the thoughts that were cascading around his head. Couldn't banish the fear that settled in his stomach. He felt helpless. Alex didn't need to shackle him to the bed. Didn't need to lock doors. He couldn't leave. Leaving meant Molly being thrust into certain danger. John dead. But staying meant he was isolated. Staying meant dealing with Alex and his sickly honeyed words.

He swore again, slamming his hand against the floor tile. Pulled his legs up and hugged them.

Sherlock?

"Not now, Molly," he murmured.

Don't let Oliver win.

"It's not Oliver…" he starts.

Isn't it?

He paused. Frowned. Images and sound were surging through every room of his mind palace. A tsunami of memories that touched every aspect of his life. The realisation was overwhelming. Too much to bear. But all of it was about Oliver.

The first meeting in the bothy.

…Do you know anything about human nature, Mr Holmes?...

The first time Oliver had hurt Molly.

... "If it's any consolation, I am sorry."

"No, wait," Sherlock's baritone boomed across the yard. "Don't…"

"You can't stop this, Mr Holmes." …

The beating and looking after Molly Hooper afterwards.

… "Molly," he said softly. His hands hovered over her, unsure what to do.

In the end, he wiped her hair away from her face with gentle fingers. "Let me see, okay." …

The look in his eyes as he removed everything from the bothy and locked the door.

…You will learn, Mr Holmes. Do not question my generosity towards you and Ms Hooper.

I will decide what you need. Is that understood?...

The starvation.

…I just don't see a way out. This is not enough. We're starving, Molly…

The three days of hell.

…you will learn, Mr Holmes, what despair really is. And once you have learned despair, we will truly delve into the depths of it until understanding comes. Now let's begin…

Oliver's disregard for his and Molly's wellbeing.

… "Let me do it. I can take his place."

Oliver shrugged his shoulders. "Sorry my dear. It doesn't work like that. You know that."

"You can kill him if you push him too hard, Oliver."

"And your point is?" Oliver asked, his gaze meeting her unflinchingly…

The fall.

… "Hurts," he whimpered and then another bout of sickness hit him a third time. This time it was barely anything he brought up, dry heaving in silent torment.

"What hurts, Sherlock?" she asked.

He took another shuddering breath. She could see the effort he took to focus. "Everything. Please…Molly… please. I need….give me anything…please…I want…oblivion…"…

The side projects that he wasn't ever to voice.

…" Do not discuss this with Ms Hooper or I'll introduce her to the first day."…

The drugs.

… "Arm."

Sherlock turned to Oliver, his heart in his throat. He had expected as much. A syringe was in the other man's hand. "What is it?" he asked calmly, pulling up the sleeve of the jacket. It didn't go very far and in the end he took it off completely when Oliver indicated.

"Moriarty said you'd appreciate it." …

Breaking Molly's arm.

Through it all, on a distant plane he was aware of Oliver watching everything with clinical detachment. And there came a point where he must've had enough because Sherlock heard a loud crack and Molly scream. It was primal, full of pain and his heart stopped. He ceased fighting and finally submitted.

The incessant words on how this would get better. That he needed to be trustworthy. Accept their fate.

Someone was screaming and then he realised that he was doing it. Torn from deep inside him, pouring out in a primal release that he had never allowed before. When he was done, his throat raw, did he open his eyes.

Better? Molly asked.

"Better," he said and for the first time in a very long time he gave a chuckle. And it turned into a sob. And then came the release. He poured his heart out in that shower. Allowed everything to flow from him in a healing balm that soothed even as it covered the hurt. Not concealing. But it was acceptance.

Oliver had happened.

He was never going to be able to undo it. It was a part of him now. But it had also grown him. Made him see things he hadn't before. Things he had been blind to.

And now he sees for the first time. He observes.

Sentiment had helped him survive Oliver.

Sentiment had kept him going.

Sentiment had been his saving grace.

Sentiment will make him whole once more.

For John. For Molly. His brother. His family. Lestrade. Mrs Hudson.

He smiles. Rises to his feet and closes the tap.

Why do you love Molly, Sherlock? John asked with a knowing grin. Arms folded, his eyes dancing with a hidden truth.

He looks at his friend even though he fully knew he was a figment of his imagination.

Sentiment, dear brother?

Mycroft arched an eyebrow but a small smile was on his lips.

Sherlock straightened. Grabbed a towel and dried himself. Chuckled when it finally settled completely in his mind.

He loved Molly because he chose her. Because he wanted her. Because he was hers. And she was his. Molly Hooper had full control of his heart. And it wasn't because Oliver wanted it so.

It was because he wanted it. And in all honesty, probably had always wanted it.

Because he gave everything that was him to Molly Hooper freely.

Mycroft entered his study to find Irene seated behind his desk. She rose easily, walked around and gave him a peck on the cheek.

"Success?" he asked as he settled on a high back chair by the smaller table. She joined him.

"You can say that." she said. Smirked. "In the end, she wasn't so difficult to understand, Myc."

He raises an eyebrow. "Oh?"

"Our dear Kitty is motivated by money and fame, my dear darling. Understand that and it was easy to extract what I needed from her."

"I'm interested in how she found out about the boat."

"Someone phoned her. A cultured voice, she said. I do believe the man you're looking for is the one who phoned her."

"I'm assuming you got the number?"

Irene waved a hand. "It was blocked of course." She gave a predatory smile. "But there is this guy at BT…and I know what he likes…"

"Irene, enough."

"Oh Myc, you're not much fun. Jealous much?"

Mycroft didn't rise to the bait. Sat back and waited her out. "Fine. He called from a prepaid mobile phone. Discarded already."

"Where?"

"Docklands."

Mycroft contemplated that piece of information. He would need to consider some more of the puzzle pieces he could see forming. It was frustrating. He needed a bit more data. He was certain he would be able to find his brother and this man if he had that elusive part. He was still waiting on the last piece of the puzzle. The hacker so far was a dead end. All he knew was that the reason the hacker had been killed was to conceal the fact that Sherlock's DNA and dental records had been faked. Moriarty's offhand remark that she knew something could very well have to do with his brother's altered data and nothing at all to do with the mystery man.

"Mycroft, are you sure about going ahead with the funeral?"

He sighed. Wiped his forehead. "It is the best outcome out of all the possible iterations I could see."

"Your parents?"

"Yes."

"This is not going to end well when they find out."

"Can't be helped, Irene. If this ruse is to succeed, we need people to believe. This could give Sherlock a little breathing space with his captor."

Irene leaned forward, placed a hand over his.

"Myc?"

He gave her a brief smile. Turned his hand and held hers for a brief second and then he pulled away. Rose and pulled his waistcoat down. She rose with him. Stepped closer.

"You're worried." she said.

"Sherlock should've called by now. I fear that this man might be able to trigger a relapse if Oliver showed him how."

"Sherlock is stronger than you think…" she started to say.

"That might be the case, Irene. I sincerely hope so. But he was struggling…"

She leaned in, her arms went around him. He allowed her, feeling somehow stronger for it. "Stop pretending." She said softly.

He looked down at her. "Who's pretending?"

She chuckled. Broke the hug and stepped away. "You forget, Mr Iceman. I know what you like. And I know that when it comes to your brother, what lengths you will go to, to protect him."

Alex returned midday. Entered the room, barely glancing at Sherlock where he was seated by the table. Pushed another paper towards the consulting detective.

"Obituaries," he said.

Sherlock didn't reply. Turned the pages until he got to the appropriate heading.

William Sherlock Scott Holmes

It is with great sadness that we announce the passing of our dear brother, who was tragically taken from us too soon. Missed greatly by his family and friends, who will hold safely onto the memories. A celebration of his life will be held at St Thomas Church in a private ceremony.

He pushed the paper away. "Dull," he said.

Alex looked up in surprise. "Really?"

"Yes, well. Not unexpected, is it? What is the whole point? Apparently my memories are all Oliver's doing. What does it matter."

Sherlock could feel Alex' scrutiny. He needed to make the other man believe. Focused his energy on keeping his body loose, his demeanour cowed. It wasn't that hard. He knew the impact Alex had had on his transport. His hard drive. It was going to take a while before he'll be back to where he'd want to be. But he understood now and he knew himself a little better. That should counter the other man while he worked on a plan to get out. With the obituary, he knew that John and Molly were safe. Looked after by his brother. It would be decidedly very hard for the other man to get to them. It would give him leeway if any came up, to make a move.

"We're going on a trip," Alex announced.

Ah. This is interesting. Sherlock thought. Alex dropped a phone on the table, placed his bag on the chair. Went to the bed to gather the cuffs that were still attached to the headboard.

"Anyone I know?" Sherlock asked.

Alex gave a small smile. "I don't think you've met before. But it would be enlightening."

Sherlock stood, stepped away from the table without instruction. Turned and placed his hands behind his back.

"Good, Mr Holmes. You definitely are learning," Alex cooed. Stepped up to him, the handcuffs in hand. Relaxed in Sherlock's apparent compliance. Which was the reason that Sherlock managed to take the man by surprise. His elbow hit Alex in the solar plexus, a forceful hit that doubled the other man over. He followed it up with an uppercut that broke the Alex' nose and flung him back. He sprawled onto his back, by all counts unconscious. Sherlock stepped up, nudged the body. Alex didn't move.

He made his way to the table, grabbed the phone. It was different to the one Alex had been using. A quick check and he realised that it was a standard burner phone. Not much use except making phone calls. There was no lock on it and he typed in his brother's number. Didn't have long to wait before Mycroft answered.

"Who is this?"

"Mycroft…"

"Where are you?"

"Not sure. South London somewhere I think. It's a cul-de-sac. Terraced Houses. Out of the way of main traffic."

"Are you safe?"

"For now, yes."

"I've got a trace going on the phone."

"I'm not sure but he hinted that he's not alone. He's got photos of John and Molly."

"They're safe. Staying at my place. I'll increase their protection detail."

"He's dangerous, Myc. He's got Oliver's notes. There are others he killed…" he trailed off, closed his eyes briefly as the photos slammed into his mind's eye. He tried to ignore it as best he could. "He's got photos of his kills. Promised to do the same to Molly if I don't comply."

"Sherlock, are you safe?" Mycroft asked again. Sherlock could hear the concern in his brother's voice.

"Uh, yes. I uhm…he tried…" he stopped, glanced at where Alex was still sprawled on his back on the floor. Not showing any signs of consciousness returning. The nosebleed had slowed. Discussing his mental health wasn't going to help him now. The triggers and memories Alex had brought up he wanted to discuss with Giles. Not his brother. "I'll be fine." He said in the end. Making it clear that Mycroft was not to pry any further.

"Very well. Your funeral was going to be a small affair. Guess I'll have to cancel it now."

Sherlock gave a small chuckle. "Thanks for that." Turned to the bag of Alex and zipped it open.

"Two minutes to triangulation." Mycroft said.

"How's Molly?" he asked, as he rummaged.

Laptop. Rope. Small satchel, the feel of a syringe inside. Phone. Wallet…

"You know I'm not very good at people, Sherlock. John is with her. She seems to be managing."

"Ah." A thought took hold. "Molly knows…"

That is as far as he got before the world tilted on its axis. He slammed down on the ground, the phone flying out of his hand. He turned, kicking back but Alex was clambering over him, a bloody sneer on his face. An elbow stabbed into his stomach and air left him. He gasped but was rolling, trying to counter the weight of the other man. Alex stopped his momentum with a judo move, feet locking behind his back and then his arm was against Sherlock's throat, pushing in.

It was hard to breathe.

He focused on trying to dislodge the arm but he had no leverage. He bucked and then gave a short jab into Alex's ribs. The other man gave a grunt but gritted his teeth and continued to press down. He could hear the tinny of Mycroft's voice calling his name over the phone. Tried again a counter move but his movements were getting sluggish. It was hard to focus and his body screamed at him for oxygen. He slapped at the elbow, tried to hit the ulnar nerve but he had no strength left.

Darkness threatened. His eyes lost focus and then Alex faded away and awareness was no more.

"Sherlock!"

Nothing but grunts and scuffling sounds. Mycroft kept the phone to his ear, looked to Anthea and asked, "How long?"

"30 seconds."

He nodded. Tried calling Sherlock again. And then it went quiet. Ominously so. He heard breathing and then a voice, cultured and with a nasal twang said, "He's still alive. I'll contact you."

He took the phone away from his ear, the dialling tone still echoing in his head.

"10 seconds…" Anthea said, turning from the screen.

Mycroft nodded. "Radius?"

"Within 15 km's."

"How many cul-de-sacs with terraced houses?" He asked as he phoned Lestrade. It connected, the other man's voice questioning.

"Hold Lestrade…"

"Three," she said. Indicated the areas.

Three too many, he thought. By the time they've scrambled police and his own agents, Sherlock and the assassin would be gone.

"Mycroft?" Lestrade's voice came over the phone.

"I need full tactical units to the following addresses…" he rattled them off as Anthea scrolled through them. "House to house search. Sherlock would possibly be at one of the end houses. Kidnapper is probably armed and very dangerous, Lestrade. Expect resistance."

"Bloody hell," the other man exclaimed. "I'll contact you soon."

He closed the connection. Made another phone call while he made his way out the operations room. "John. Sherlock contacted me."

"What?"

"He managed to get a phone. He's still in danger. The kidnapper has him. He sounded …" he sighed. How would he express what he'd understood by what his brother had not said? "…not himself," he said in the end. "We narrowed the search radius. We have tactical units enroute."

"Okay. What do need from me?"

"Just sit tight with Molly. Explain the situation. Once I've assessed, I'll let you know."

He rang off as he entered his car, two agents already seated in front. Anthea joined him in the back and the car smoothly started and accelerated away. Made another phone call.

"We have a situation."

"How bad?"

"Red level."

"Very well. When?"

He looked at his watch. Estimated the time to South London against traffic.

"You have 45 minutes."

He closed the connection as the sirens started. Watched the cars part before his own. Despite everything, he knew for a fact that they were going to be too late.

It didn't take a genius to see it.

He came to, laying on his stomach with his hands cuffed behind his back. He coughed, his throat bruised and made breathing painful.

"That was very naughty, Mr Holmes." Alex said. His voice had a strange, nasally blocked tang to it. "I thought we were reaching an understanding."

Sherlock grimaced. This was not going to go well. He wondered how long it would be before Mycroft's agents would arrive. He felt movement, managed to squint, and made out Oliver squatting down on his haunches by his head. He blanched when he saw the familiar blindfold in the other man's hand. His transport was reacting to the closeness of the assassin. The smell of blood. The feel of handcuffs on his wrists. He pulled away, tried to roll onto his back.

Alex stopped the movement. "Don't move, Mr Holmes." He said, using Oliver's voice and Oliver's inflection. Sherlock whimpered. Focused everything he had on reminding himself that Oliver was dead. That he wasn't back at the bothy. Back under the other man's control. That Molly was with Mycroft. Molly was safe. John was safe. His brother was on his way.

The material slid over his head. Over his eyes, the feel familiar and so not wanted. He tried to dislodge it by scraping his face against the floor but a hand closed around his throat, warning. He stilled. Focused on his breathing. The way Giles had taught him. The way John would always help him.

Three seconds in. Four seconds out. Three seconds…

"Your rebellion was not unanticipated Mr Holmes…"

No. Not that…

He shook his head. Cold dread flowed from his stomach, settled like a ball of fire in his throat. A hand was carding his hair. Unwanted.

Just breathe. He thought. Oliver is dead. He's dead. This is just Alex using Oliver's voice. Alex copying Oliver's commands. This isn't real.

"What is going to follow in the next few days to weeks will depend on how quickly you learn…"

He moaned. Wanted nothing more but to curl into himself. Started to move his legs, started to turn and the hand around his throat tightened. He stilled again.

Mycroft is on his way…Molly is waiting…John will be there…

"When you and I have reached an understanding, this will stop…"

Despite himself, cold sweat formed. His breathing grew harsher as his transport started to take over. His hands shook and he tried to will the tremors to stop.

"Until then, you will learn, Mr Holmes, what despair really is…"

His hard drive tried to reset. Tried to block out the images and feelings of remembered pain and agony. He swallowed a sob. Didn't want to give Alex the satisfaction of how much the words were impacting him.

"And once you have learned despair, we will truly delve into the depths of it until understanding comes…"

I can't do this. Not again. No…not Oliver. This isn't Oliver…This isn't…

"Now let's begin."

Images flooded his hard drive. The feel of the handcuffs on his wrists overwhelming. The smell of blood in his nostrils. The blindfold over his eyes. The fear. The pain. The agony. All of it there. Unwanted. All of it too much. His own control not enough.

No. Not now… he thought. Frantic. Tried to wrest control back. To Focus. To breathe.

Then the past caught up with him and he wasn't in the present anymore.

It had been a close race. He sedated Sherlock and managed to get the man down to his car, into the boot and out of the garage and cul-de-sac when he heard the sirens. He calmly drove down the road when the police raced past him. He made it just, watching in his rear-view window as a cordon was set up.

He calmly drove out of London. Followed the signs and got onto the M1 without incident. Stopped at an Esso in Luton. Got coffee and a sausage roll. Consumed it before he set off again. Continued on the M1 and then took the Salford Road offramp. Drove a few more kilometres until he found the turn off onto a farm road. Drove up the road until he reached the farm gate. Opened and closed it after himself, aware of the camera on a pole. Drove the last 500 metres and then entered a yard. A shed stood open and he parked the car inside. Two men with guns were waiting. He threw the keys at them after he exited the car, backpack slung over his shoulder.

"Package is in the boot."

They nodded, turned to the car as he made his way to the farmhouse. Entered the kitchen to find a man waiting for him.

"Alex," he said, hand out. They shook hands.

"What happened to your face?"

He grimaced. "Sherlock Holmes."

The man laughed. "I was told that he could be feisty."

"Lesson learned," he said. Turned to watch as the two men entered, Sherlock still out cold between them. "Watch him," he said. Turned back to the other man.

"Price is agreed."

"Yes. The money will be here within 24 hours."

"You understand that this is a one-time-only offer."

"Yes."

"Good." He nodded. Pulled his laptop out of his bag. Setup his phone connection over wireless. Started the program that bounced the signal. Dialled the number he memorised from Sherlock's aborted attempt at escape.

"Who is this?" Mycroft's voice came smoothly over the phone speaker.

The other man stepped up.

"This is Sebastian Moran. And guess who we have as a guest."