Chapter 8

September

"Is it done?"

"Yes."

"And?"

"He was perfect."

In the end, the hunt was unsuccessful. John was secretly pleased. Hunting had never really been his thing. He had talked to Brad. Jested with the other men who joined them on the hunt. It was familiar in a sense. It reminded him of his army days and the camaraderie that existed before it had been all shot to hell in Afghanistan. But he did good in the end, he thought. Brad was definitely interested in the import/export side of his pretend business. It seems Sherlock had really been busy, setting up a fake website. It all looked legit.

Dammit, Sherlock. You could've shared, you git.

But there was nothing but to lie through his teeth and hope Brad bought it. It was just after noon when they finally returned to Brad's estate. John was invited in for some drinks and lunch. He wanted to get back and make sure Sherlock was okay but in the end, mindful of Sherlock's last instructions, he stayed. If Sherlock needed him the agents would have contacted him, he tried to convince himself but it didn't take away the lingering uneasiness that something in this whole setup was wrong.

It was after two when he finally managed to excuse himself and make it back to the cottage. The two agents were in the sitting room. One was on his phone, scrolling while the other was reading a book.

"How is he?" he asked. Joe looked up. "Still sleeping."

John frowned. This wasn't right. By all accounts, Sherlock should've woken up by now. Squashing his concern down, he entered the bedroom. Sherlock was still in his bed, the blankets piled over him. John paused, just short of stepping fully inside. Sherlock looked relaxed. Fully immersed and he could see his eyelids move in REM. He closed the door gently.

"Did he drink anything or eat anything this morning?" He asked one of the agents as he sat down in the only other available chair.

"He drank some water, I think." Joe said. "He was a bit rude."

John chuckled, relaxing. That was normal behaviour. Sherlock must be on the mend then. They chatted about football and army days. At three, John decided that Sherlock needed to join the land of the living and went back inside the room.

"Hey, sleepyhead. Time to wake up."

He sat down on Sherlock's bed and placed a hand on his shoulder.

"Mmmmh."

"Sherlock. You slept most of the day away."

Eyes opened. Blinked and stared vaguely up at him. Sherlock groaned. "I feel positively horrid." He mumbled. "What happened?"

John frowned. "Do you remember anything from last night, Sherlock?"

"No."

John leaned in. Felt Sherlock's forehead with the back of his hand. He was hot to the touch and his skin was dry. This was so not good. John reached for his medical bag and took out his thermometer.

"Open." He said as he placed it under Sherlock's tongue. Hands on his wrist, he took his pulse while he waited for the reading. Pulse was thready and the final result was 39.6 degrees Celsius.

"John." Sherlock squinted at him. Shivered when John removed the blankets as he curled into a tight ball. "Oliver's dead?"

Oh. This is so not good.

"You shot him. Remember."

"Can I get my blankets back? It's cold."

"No, Sherlock. You're running a fever. No blankets. In fact, we're going to take a bath soon." John stepped to the door. "Joe, can you run a bath for me? Body temp. And I'd like a pot of tea. No milk or sugar." At their acknowledgement, John turned back to Sherlock.

"Don't want to." Sherlock mumbled. Eyes managed to follow John as he stepped back to Sherlock's bed. "Are you sure about Oliver?" he asked again.

"Oliver's dead. Buried and gone. Can you sit up."

"Oh. Good." Sherlock managed to say as he shifted into a seated position. Allowed John to help him as he moved his feet over the side of the bed. "He seemed real. You were gone." Sherlock leaned into John, his head on John's shoulder.

"You told me to go hunting, remember?" John said, helping Sherlock rise to his feet.

"Oh." Sherlock closed his eyes. "Brad…he's hiding something…"

"Yup. Definitely something. Come on then. Bath time."

"I'm not a child."

John stood, Sherlock's arm over his shoulder and his arm around his friend's middle. They shuffled forward, out the bedroom and into the bathroom. John sat Sherlock down on the toilet and he tested the water with the back of his hand. Satisfied, he turned to Sherlock. "Can you undress or do you need help?"

"I can manage. Is this really necessary?"

"Yes." John was succinct. "Get in and I'll get you something to drink."

John left the door open as he went back to the bedroom and grabbed a packet of Paracetamol. "Tea's ready," Peter said from the doorway. "Where do you want it?"

"I'll take it, thanks. How soon before we can leave?" John asked.

"Ten minutes." Peter said.

"Yeah. Okay, can you guys pack up. I'll sort out here and I'd like to leave as soon as it's feasible."

Peter acknowledged him while he stepped into the bathroom with the tea. Sherlock was stretched out in the bath, listless and barely conscious. "Hey mate, think you can drink some tea for me."

Sherlock slowly sat up and shivered, creating small little waves in the water surrounding his body. A hand that trembled reached for the mug. "I'm c…cold." He said. Took a sip and some of the tea sloshed over the rim and into the bath water.

"Your internal thermostat has reset itself, Sherlock. Your body thinks you're cold and is trying to generate more heat. Here, swallow these," he said, giving Sherlock the two tablets. He watched him swallow and then drink the rest of the tea, satisfied that he was getting fluids in.

"Can I get out now, John?" Sherlock asked, looking up at him.

"Not yet. I need to check your temperature again." John said, taking the thermostat out of his pocket. Placed it back under Sherlock's tongue. It wasn't much better but at least was starting to drop and now read 38.9. The paracetamol should help. He pulled the plug and went to fetch some clothes for Sherlock. By the time he got back, Sherlock was sitting on the toilet with a towel around his middle, still shivering.

"Everything hurts," Sherlock said. "Why does everything hurt?"

"Pretty normal, mate. Sorry. You think you can get dressed? We'll drive back to London now unless you don't feel up to it."

"No. Yes…" Sherlock paused. Lowered his head into his hands, elbows on his knees. "My head hurts. I can't think…"

John shut the door.

"Oliver seemed so real," Sherlock said quietly. "I could feel him, John. It was like I was back there on that third day. Back on that couch. I don't understand…"

"Your fever was high, Sherlock. The chances are you were having some vivid dreams. It happens."

"Maybe…" Sherlock trailed off, a pensive look on his face. John passed his pants and turned his back, listening as Sherlock shifted and then grunted. He had taken a shirt off the hanger and passed the shirt and then the trousers, watching him wrestle into his clothes.

"Better?" John asked when he was done. The car was waiting for them when he finally exited the bathroom. John helped Sherlock settle in the back seat and then went back inside and packed up their clothes. He passed their bags to Joe when Brad arrived.

"You're more than welcome to stay another day," the man said.

John gave a quick smile. "No thanks. I do have a previous engagement I need to attend, unfortunately and William is still sick so I need to get him back home."

"Very well. Will you be interested in another hunt? Maybe we'll be more successful then?"

"Yeah, sounds great. I'll contact you."

"Perfect. I hope William feels better soon."

Sherlock took two days before the viral infection worked itself out. During that time, he was plagued by intense nightmares of his time with Oliver. On the third night after their disastrous visit to Brad Vine, did he wait for Molly to fall asleep before he went to the main room and sat down in his chair. He went inside his mind palace, hoping to find a reason why now. Hoping to pull at a thread and find an answer.

"Tell me about Mycroft Holmes…"

The voice. It had been Oliver's. So real, he could still feel the texture of the shirt beneath his cheek, the aftershave Oliver preferred and the touch of his hands on his back. He reached up a hand, touched his own skin, wondering if it was possible for an imprint to last a lifetime. But Oliver was dead and this happened more than a year ago. Is he remembering because of his own internal clock ticking away, reminding him of the anniversary of those three days, when his whole life changed and he realised that no-one is immune to torture. That everyone breaks in the end. That he wasn't any different to those others that Oliver had had in that place.

"Come now. You know by now what I want, Mr Holmes. Let's not be coy."

He sniffed. Placed a closed fist against his lips. Why now?

"Do you understand despair, Mr Holmes?"

He sighed. Tented his fingers beneath his chin and tilted his head forward. Pressing fingertips together but the ghostly feel of Oliver's hand in his hair lingered. His voice whispered from the corner of the room. Cajoling. Taunting. Demanding to be obeyed.

'Don't move, Mr Holmes."

He shook his head, his curls bouncing and he rose from the chair. Paced to the window and stared out to the street. It was softly lit from the streetlamps, a dull orange sheen. No one was around, everyone else was asleep.

"Can you give me an estimate?"

Dammit. The memory seems so real, like it happened yesterday. He didn't want to remember. Didn't want to revisit what he had thought he'd dealt with Giles. Was at a loss as to why it was coming to the fore now. His transport wasn't happy with him.

"Sherlock?"

He looked up. Molly stood in the doorway to the kitchen, one hand protectively on her stomach where their child was safely growing. His. The hope and love that the child represented so far removed from his nightmares.

"Hey."

"Are you okay?"

And because this was Molly, he shook his head. He didn't have the words to say. Couldn't express what was going on inside him because he didn't understand it either.

"Tea?" She asked, busing herself in the kitchen.

"You should sleep," he said. Glanced at the clock that read 1 am. "Rest is important for the baby, Molly."

She turned to him, kettle in her hand. "I'll call in sick if need be, Sherlock. No big deal, okay."

He nodded. Stepped up and took the kettle from her hand and placed it on the table. Placed his hand on the small bulge of her stomach. "This is us, right. This is real?"

Molly placed her hand over his. "Yes, Sherlock. This is real. This is us."

He didn't reply. Placed his chin on her head as he pulled her close into his body. Tried to replace the feel of Oliver on his skin with Molly. But it wasn't working and he dropped his arms and took the kettle, filling it with water. Placed it on the base and switched it on. Pulled two mugs from the cupboard and placed a tea bag in each. It was going to be quick and dirty and he wasn't in the mood to steep and wait. He turned while he waited for the water to boil. Molly had seated herself at the table, watching him silently.

"What was it like," he started, searching for the right words. When he couldn't find them, he closed his eyes briefly, turned his head to the side to look out the kitchen window, pane dark against the night and said, "…what did they do when I was away?"

Molly gave a small gasp. A hand reached up and covered her mouth and her eyes teared. The kettle switched off, the water boiled and he turned his back to her. Allowed her the time to compose herself while he poured the water in and made the tea. Cut a lemon for Molly and added a slice to her cup. Only then did he turn and placed the mugs on the table. Sat down opposite her.

"I remember waiting." Molly said softly. Didn't look at him when she continued, her hands curling around the mug seeming to seek warmth, "It was always the same. Sitting inside the bothy on the floor by the fireplace. Be quiet…

Molly tried to ignore the feel of Goon 2's gaze on her. He was seated in a camping chair by the door. The satellite phone was heavy, bulging the material where he had placed it in the cup holder of the chair. Arms were folded over his stomach and he scrutinised her from beady eyes. It sounded cliched. Boring, Sherlock would say so but she had no other way to describe him.

He made her skin crawl. She shivered in response, trying to suppress her own reaction while she focused on the floor in front of her. It has been the third day in a row now that Oliver has come for Sherlock. It seemed he was determined to see how far he could push the consulting detective. She had felt Sherlock's anger, percolating just underneath. A warning hand against his arm had stilled a balled fist when the helicopter had landed this morning and they waited outside by the door. She had trudged inside, Goon 2 on her heels and had gone and sat down on her usual place when the helicopter had lifted off, Sherlock seated inside next to Oliver and blindfolded as usual.

Today, it took hours. And then the telephone rang and she looked up. She couldn't help the fear or the dread that spread its fingers wide and she braced herself. Wondered whether Goon 2 would use fists or feet today. Whether her stomach or back or her face would be the recipient because it was obvious even to her by now, that Sherlock had failed in whatever task Oliver had given him to do.

"Yes?"

Eyes dark with malevolence met hers. She shrunk into herself, pulled her body tight and waited.

"Now?"

She pressed her forehead to her knees she had brought up and hugged. Willed the fear and despair down and waited. Soon, he would be standing by her side. Would command her to rise, the phone on the floor and on speaker. Better for Sherlock to hear her screams. Better for him to hear the smack of fist against skin.

She hated Oliver. She hated this man that used her as a punching bag to get Sherlock to comply or as punishment for Sherlock's failure. She hated the bothy. She hated all of this.

But he turned and left and she heard the helicopter as it arrived. She stayed until the sound had died away and then rose. There was a visible tremor to her hand as she reached for the door handle and pulled it open. Went outside but there was no-one.

They had left. Goon 2 is gone.

She was alone and Sherlock wasn't here. She panicked. She didn't know what to do. What was expected. She stood by the well, looked over the grassland and abruptly sat down on the well wall. It was raining and she was already soaked but she was beyond feeling the discomfort.

What the hell was going on?

She didn't have answers. Does she run? Does she wait? There was no food. Oliver hadn't replenished their Ensure, the hunger an ache in her stomach that didn't seem to go away. She didn't know how long she stayed. Her shivering in the cool of the rain had turned and she realised she was on the verge of turning hypothermic. She stood up, her muscles stiff. Went inside and dried herself. Removed her clothes and hung them onto the chair that was their makeshift rack and pulled the blankets around her body. The cameras be damned. She didn't care anymore. It has been witness to their despair. Their hurt and abuse. Showing a little skin was the least of her problems.

That night she followed their routine. Got everything ready, pulling the mattress from the wall and placing it in front of the fireplace. Stoked the fire and added wood. Got some more from the shed for the night. Drank some water and washed her face outside by the well. Once the nightly ritual was complete, did she sit down on the mattress to wait for Sherlock.

He didn't come back that first night.

She had fallen asleep at one stage. Jerked away when she thought she heard the helicopter. But it had been nothing but a dream when she had pulled the door open to find it still dark outside and the moon muted against the night sky still covered in smatterings of cloud, bathing everything in a ghostly white. She closed the door to the cold and silence and went and sat down before the fire again. Added a log and pretended Sherlock was asleep behind her. Laid down again and closed her eyes and pretended his arm was around hers, pulling her closer into his body. But it didn't work and she watched the fire as it raged and spluttered for the rest of the night.

Her own internal clock stirred and she got up. The sun had risen, as she knew it had and still there was no Sherlock. She squashed her imagination down. Tried not to think about what Oliver had done. Whether Sherlock was still alive. Wondered how long she was going to wait before she left.

She started their morning routine. Folded their blankets. Placed it on the mattress that was leaning against the wall, where she had dragged it. Hanged the towels outside. At least the sun was out, weak against the hazy leftover cloud from yesterday's rain. She filled their water bottles from the well. Stood in the doorway and waited. Drank water.

Sherlock didn't come.

By nightfall, the tears came. She was angry. Pushed the heels of her hands against the treacherous trail down her cheeks and wiped them away. Blinked and tried to get them to stop. She sniffed, turned and walked into the night. Stood on the edge of the trial, her shoes pointing away from the bothy and she wondered how far she'd get before Oliver would come looking. Or if he'd care.

But she couldn't leave. Not yet. Not until she knew for certain Sherlock was dead.

She turned around. Walked back to that hated place and closed the door softly behind her. Got everything ready, returning the mattress to the floor in front of the fire. Placed the blankets on the bed. Drank a bottle of water. Set the fire and made sure there was enough wood. Sat down on the mattress. Ignored the hole in her stomach that told her that she was starving.

"You need to sleep."

Sherlock's voice came out of nowhere and she looked up. She was alone. And he wasn't there. His hand wasn't patting her spot. Telling her to lie down and sleep. She focused on the fire again.

"Molly. Sleep."

She sighed. Pulled his Belstaff onto her lap and smelled the material. His scent was there, even though it had been a makeshift pillow for both of them these last few months.

She didn't know what to do. The enormity of the decision lay before her. She couldn't…She pressed her face into the coat. Allowed a sob but she stopped. It wouldn't do to fall apart now. The cameras were always on. Always watching. Always there.

Despite everything, she fell asleep that second night. Dreamt Sherlock was back and his body was tight against hers, his arm over her stomach and holding her close. His breath hot on her neck, stirring her hair as he breathed. His words as he told her to sleep well seemed to hang in the air. Filtering through the silence of the bothy, as real as if he was there.

The third day was empty of promise. She did the routine. Waited. Drank water. Ignored her hunger. Ignored the sting of tears. Ignored her fears. She was numb. Stood by the doorway and stared into the distance of the hills.

At the end of the day, she went inside. Stood just over the threshold. The bothy empty. The floor clear. The little pathetic pile of leftover Ensure and water bottles in the corner they had designated as their kitchen. The mattress on the wall, the blankets hung neatly. The tin and towels and soap kitty-corner to the kitchen. The fire that smouldered, the ash hot enough to ignite again the moment she'll add a piece of wood. Crackling to life.

She turned around. Closed the door behind her and walked away. Her feet followed a course she was familiar with. A route she had taken to keep fit. A route she could walk blindfolded. It got dark. It didn't matter.

She kept walking. Reached the epoch of her trek and stopped. One step further and she knew she wouldn't stop. She stood at the crossroads. Wavering. Uncertainty bleeding from her on what she was supposed to do.

But she couldn't leave him. Couldn't go without knowing whether he was alive or dead.

She turned back.

The third night was just as lonely and she realised how comfortable she had come to having his body next to hers. How safe it made her feel. How much she had come to rely on the nights and their shared sorrow.

She cried herself to sleep. And dreamed that his arms were around her and he was telling her that it was all going to work out. That he'll be back.

The fourth morning broke and the helicopter landed and they left Sherlock in a pile beside the well.

A body broken. A mind shattered.

The mind-numbing shock when she saw him…

Sherlock had Molly in his arms. They stood together in the kitchen, bodies tight against each other. A trauma shared that couldn't put to words what was experienced. His hand was on the side of her head, his thumb wiping away the tears.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. His own emotions raw. "I didn't know…"

She leaned her forehead on his chest. Her own arms around him, low on his back. She felt his muscles, felt him. He was real and here. Not broken to pieces. Not dead.

She looked up. And he tilted his head down and then his mouth was on her. A hunger, deep and searching and he kissed her with a desperation she hadn't experienced before. Not even at the hospital after Alex. She returned his kiss. Her fingers cramped tight in his shirt. She pulled away, pushed against the shirt. Suddenly wanted it gone and wanted to feel his skin against hers. Wanted the reality that he was here. He wasn't gone and had left her alone with Oliver and his men.

They pushed their way to their bedroom, clothes following a pathway to the door. Not breaking the kiss. By the time the door closed, he was left only in his pants. She pushed him onto the bed, straddled him and leaned in. Kissed him with fervour, trying to drown away those images of the bothy and his body, broken. He reciprocated, turning her so that she was under him. He towered over her and then all their clothing was gone and she pulled him tight. Felt him full along the length of her own body.

This is real. She thought. We're here. Oliver is dead. And this is us and it's real.

She couldn't get enough. Wanted him close. Wanted his contact. When they were both sated and lying in each other's arms, did she feel his hand on her stomach. Hands spread out over her bulge.

"You know. What you did for me that day…" He held her close. His fingers on his other hand were making soft trials down her arm. "I…" He swallowed and she could feel the movement of his Adam's apple against her head. "Molly…"

She rose up on her elbow. Reached out and pushed his curls from his forehead. The way she knew he liked it. It calmed him and he met her eyes in the dark of their bedroom. "It's okay, Sherlock." She said, "We are real. This is real. Us. Not Oliver. Never Oliver."

He gave her a smile. She traced the corners of his eyes, noticing the way the crow's feet crinkled. Traced the scar over his eyebrow. Trialled her fingers down his cheekbones and down the fuzz of his growing beard that would be gone in the morning.

"How did you survive?" she asked softly. "I saw the result…how did you manage to survive?"

He shifted but only to pull her tighter against him. Skin on skin. Two become one. He gave a chuckle in derision. Stared up at the ceiling but his grip on her didn't lessen. Her own didn't either if she was honest. In as much need for physical contact as Sherlock.

"You know. When people talk about torture, it's an exercise in intellect. I thought myself above it. That it's what normal people do – break I mean. That I could safely disengage my mind and transport from each other. That I would be impervious to any attempt to extract information. That I would somehow be immune because of who I am. I was wrong."

"I didn't understand. Not until that first day what it meant. What a body can withstand and still live. It was the hardest thing I've ever endured. I remember thinking…what I would do when I got back to you. How I'll look after you if they'd done the things to you that played in my head."

His fingers tightened painfully but she didn't comment. "All I thought of was that I wouldn't be able to help you if my body was broken. Of course, at the end of the first day, Oliver started playing his mind games."

He paused and she could feel his heart stutter underneath her skin. His breathing evened out after a moment. She pulled tight and there was no more gap between them. No distance that wasn't filled with physical contact. He seemed to take courage and then he said, "From the start, I had headphones on." He took another measured breath. His eyes still staring up at the ceiling. "Oliver…he …" Sherlock paused and licked his lips. He removed his left hand, wiped his face and eyes and balled his hand into a fist.

"His voice was always there, during the first day. Asking me about despair. Asking me to rate my experience. Telling me why this was happening." His hand relaxed. "It was …difficult to step into my mind palace and disconnect. I couldn't employ my intellect to counter what he was doing to my transport…I felt…alone."

He reached out. His hand splayed back onto her stomach. It seemed to ground him and he tilted his head, his eyes focused on hers for a brief moment. They contained so much of what Oliver had done. She remembers those broken orbs of blue on the ground beside the well when she had fixed him up as best she could. A plaster over a bleeding, gaping wound in his soul. He gave her a sad, small smile and then refocused up at the ceiling. Somehow determined to continue.

"It came as a surprise when Oliver changed tact. When I heard Goon 2 and what he said. What he promised he would do to you and then your screams started. It was real. I believed it. At the same time, they…" he stuttered. A ghostly whisper that filled the space surrounding them. A sadness that never seemed to go away, colouring the words he said blue and she wished it wasn't so but she knew it had happened because she had cleaned up the result. "…it hurt."

"I know." She said, "I'm sorry, Sherlock."

She wiped his tears away. He took her hand. Kissed her fingers. Placed it against his lips and held it there. His breath warm against her skin. "I could deal with it, you know. It was just my transport…but it was hard hearing you while it was happening. Imagining the same hands on you. The same feel…" He hiccupped. Turned his head away. She gently coaxed his head back. Bringing comfort as much as she could. "And then at the end of the second day, he broke me. It took only two days to physically break me down. That's when he started asking questions about my life. Started burrowing into my mind. And when I resisted, he brought the damn headphones back and when I…" He scrunched his face as if in pain. Groaned but he didn't stop. "…I lost it completely. At that moment I would've done anything to never have those headphones back. To not hear your screams while Goon 2 raped you. Anything, Molly. I answered all his questions. It didn't matter what he asked…I couldn't…"

He was weeping. His body shook against hers and she didn't know what to do. So she held him. Let him grieve. It was the first time he had ever shared anything of his time with Oliver with her. Had given her a glimpse of the torment he had endured. She kissed him. Kissed the tears. And then he kissed her back. She tasted salt. Tasted his grief. Shared in a way that couldn't be quantified. It was raw, unimpeded. Cleansing.

At the end, he fell asleep for the first time since he got back from the trip he and John had gone off to. His head cradled on her chest; ear pressed against her heart. She gently ran her fingers through his hair and felt the flutter of life in her stomach.

For you, little one. She thought. He will love you deeply. Passionately. Teach you violin at age 3. Buy you a chemistry set as soon as I'll allow him. And he'll give everything of himself. You will be loved for what he'd endured. He will protect. He will move the world for you. For I know what he did so that I could be safe. So that I could survive.

You are hope. And love that endures.

So be gentle, little one. He hides it but that is what he needs.

Molly fell asleep, Sherlock's body entangled with hers. One hand in his curls, holding him close, the other over his that was splayed over her stomach, protecting the life inside her.