The big finale with Lord Byron as the final pieces of the puzzle fall in place

Part VI: Chapter 25

January - February

Christmas in the end was a welcome respite, away from the chaos and insanity of the world around them. Even Mycroft seemed to have enjoyed the time away. He smiled twice during the whole family get together. Once during dinner and a half smile during the photos taken with the whole family gathered around one corner of the family dinner table. This had been mostly Molly's doing but still, he stood proud between Sherlock and their father.

Afterwards, during new year celebrations, John had gone out and had come back with a blond, blue eyed former assassin. It seemed Moriarty's mansion had left its mark on the doctor. To Sherlock it was clear that John was smitten. He was about to comment on his observations when Molly had grabbed his wrist and had given him a warning look. He had bitten his tongue, holding his thoughts to himself because he knew his wife enough to know that now was a good time to not say a word.

In the second week of January, Mycroft had arrived unannounced at the flat, with a thick folder in his hands. Jason Albright was fished out of the Thames a few days earlier. Shot in the head at almost point-blank range, it was clear that his death had happened very shortly before John and Sherlock's impromptu visit to Moriarty's Ireland estate.

"A bit dull for Moriarty." Sherlock said, riffling through the pages of the folder that his brother had given him.

"I agree but the evidence is clear. The gun was found in one of his doss houses he kept in London in the hands of a known low-level thug."

"Dead?"

"Obviously. Shot by some junky that couldn't wait to get high. Overdosed on the spot."

Sherlock grimaced. Closed the file and tossed on the side table. "So, that's that then."

Mycroft wiggled his nose in distaste. "If one is inclined to believe the story."

Sherlock frowned. Eyed his brother, his hands gripping the arm rests of his chair. "Oh?"

"Think about it, Sherlock. Moriarty skinned the man that had been playing doctor and yet this man," he says, waving a hand at the folder, "who by all indications have been one of Oliver's closest associates doesn't warrant the personal touch as it were."

"Well, he was a bit occupied…"

Mycroft shook his head. "No." He tapped his fingers on his legs, a contemplative look on his face. Blue eyes met his brother's. "I went to Sherrinford."

"Oh."

"The two surviving men of Oliver…" he trailed off. He sighed. "…Jason was the middleman between Oliver and a lot of his European operations. It seems the plans he had for you were more than giving you back to Moriarty. It did involve getting you ingrained into his operations. You would've worked with Jason closely when Oliver felt you sufficiently… trained."

"That's not news, Mycroft." Sherlock stated, rising and walking to his violin. Mycroft could see that even now how much the thought of what Oliver had planned, still affected his brother. He wondered silently if Sherlock would ever recover fully from what had been done to him. He had come a long way towards healing but there were still times when he went silent. Turned inward. Those times were getting less but still.

"Moriarty was obviously not happy when he realised that Oliver had other plans for you. No honour amongst thieves and all that…"

Sherlock nodded as he picked up his violin. Turned it in his hands, his back to his brother. Mycroft watched the play of muscle on his brother's back. Saw the tension clearly. Was reminded of the hospital so long ago. The first time he had seen his brother after the bothy. When he had realised that his brother and Molly weren't just going to get up and go home with no repercussions for their incarceration.

"Sherlock." He said softly. His brother stiffened. Dropped his head as he slowly put the violin down on its stand.

"I thought he was real…those first few minutes it was …a bit not good. Until I noticed the scars and I saw Moriarty's plan. Realised the brilliance of what he'd done." Mycroft had to strain to hear his brother's voice. It was spoken almost in a whisper. Sherlock turned. Allowed him to see the fear, his eyes searching Mycroft's face. "My transport reacted despite the fact that intellectually I knew he was a pretender. Nothing more than a poor imitation of the real deal." Sherlock looked away, staring at the mantel. Lost in his memories, his eyes closed off to all but the present.

"The couch was there." He said in the end, when the silence had stretched between them. Refocused back onto Mycroft, this time his gaze was clear.

"We can burn it if you want." Mycroft said succinctly. Sherlock raised his eyebrows. Clearly surprised at his brother's suggestion. Then his lips quirked upwards.

"Seriously."

Mycroft nodded. Grinned. "Saturday at noon a good time?"

Sherlock blinked. Seemed to contemplate the invitation and then he laughed. It was a good sound to hear. Sherlock sat down, suddenly he looked like his old self. A confidence in him that had been lacking – even as he hid it from others, Mycroft hadn't been fooled. He knew his brother. Knew how much all of this had changed him.

As Lestrade would say. It had turned his brother into a good man. Had brought them closer and the restoration in their relationship was not something he had envisioned for himself and his little brother. Sherlock was a husband, soon to be father. All the things before Oliver he would have scoffed at. Mycroft stood. Picked up the folder from the table and grabbed his umbrella and coat. Turned to Sherlock that was still seated in the chair. Looking for once; peaceful.

He had gone back to his office. Left Jason's file on his desk as life went on.

January was quiet in the end. Even the criminal element seemed to be taking a rest, much to the chagrin of Sherlock. John had wisely made himself scarce. Between work and Mary, things were good. Molly was growing, her stomach expanding and very visible to all that she was pregnant.

The beginning of February brought the interesting case of the three Garrideb brothers. Lestrade was pleased in the end when they found a printing press in the cellar of John Garrideb. John received a minor wound to his calf as a result of a mistimed gun shot that had led to the bullet ricocheting off a steel cabinet, sending a shard to cut a long groove in his muscle. Mary had been especially attentive and he found in the end, that he hadn't minded the inconvenience of the wound.

Sherlock had brought a cot and then had needed help putting together. John had thrown in the towel when he realised that he'd need an engineering degree to fit the pieces together. Mary and Molly had put the cot together after his and Sherlock's dismal attempt.

They got a case from Lestrade regarding a poisoner in High Wycombe that had killed three people. Apparently a mate of his was in charge of the case and they had gone down to the south of England for a week, leaving Mary and Molly in London. The case had rated a good seven on Sherlock's scale and when they got back, the ladies had clearly bonded.

What was disconcerting for the first two days is the looks they would be given that would send Molly and Mary giggling.

John decided that he would never understand women. Sherlock was almost driven mad trying to deduce the reasons that it was that Molly and Mary found so entertaining. In the end, John had told him in no uncertain terms that some things will never be understood and to just let it go.

They found themselves in the sitting room on a Wednesday morning towards the end of February, a client sitting in the chair. It was one of Mrs Hudson's bridge club friends and John had explained to Sherlock in no uncertain terms that he was to behave and not be himself. Of course, Sherlock had chosen to roll his eyes and had only promised after a look from Molly.

John had smirked and that had put Sherlock into a strop but he hadn't cared. Molly was clearly the one to make sure Sherlock behaved.

"There's a shop I go to, to get herbal uhm…soothers. For my back." Eyes that were watery, blinked at them both, the man was old even by Mrs Hudson's standards. John had wondered briefly if the man would have a heart attack between the stairs and the front door as he had slowly made his way up the stairs. But he was here now and Sherlock for once, was at least silent while he gave John a look he was very familiar with. John schooled his face into one he used on the old and infirm and little children, faking interest while thinking that maybe Sherlock had a point. His friend deduced him accurately. John saw the slight uptick of the corner of one side of Sherlock's lips and he glared at him for a second.

"…but the shop didn't have any of the usual mixtures…"

He focused back on the old man.

"Yes yes. Your herbal soothers are out of stock." Sherlock preempted the man. John saw him open his mouth and he knew he'd never hear the end of it from their downstairs lady if he allowed Sherlock to continue. He cleared his throat and threw Sherlock a look. Sherlock sighed. Raised an eyebrow. "Please, do continue."

The old man seemed to gather himself. Nodded and harrumphed. Folded his arms across his chest.

"None of the shops in London have them anymore. They said that there's something wrong with the supplier."

This seemed to interest Sherlock suddenly, who sat forward, tilting his head and narrowing his eyes.

"Since when?"

The old man squinted at them. Seemed to do some kind of mental calculation in his head. "Uh…since the end of December."

Sherlock looked at John as if that was supposed to make sense. He knew that is then that the whole Moriarity saga had come to a head, leading to the death of the man himself. But surely Moriarty couldn't have fingers…

"We'll take the case." Sherlock declared, rising. Excitement rolled off him in waves as he turned to the kitchen. John watched as he entered and then half turned at the doorway.

"John…please make sure that uhm…"

"Mr Dawson."

"Yes, right. That he makes it out alive. Oh…and get the address of the shop if you don't mind."

John turned to help Mr Dawson up and ignored the little shout of glee he heard from the kitchen. When he and Mr Dawson had finally managed to make it safely down the stairs to the front door and into a cab, he had turned to find Sherlock already waiting for him with John's coat in his hand.

"At least a seven, John." Sherlock was explaining as they started down the road towards where the agents were parked. Mycroft felt it justified and for once, Sherlock hadn't seemed to argue the point. John was secretly pleased and more than a little comforted that they had backup if a case went south. He gave the address to the driver, a little shop on the west side of central London. It was a dingy affair; the shop had clearly never had a roaring trade. It smelled of old spice and camphor inside, assaulting his senses while Sherlock deduced the poor clerk in five seconds flat and he ended up playing diplomat, trying to source the supplier from the poor girl who had the misfortune to be working there.

The main supplier seemed to have an address not too far from the shop actually. It wasn't too far from Heathrow Airport, just south of the Great South-West road in Hounslow. Sherlock decided that it would be a good idea to go investigate, even though it was just after four in the afternoon and it was already getting dark.

"It's roast night." John complained. "The Great Herbal Soother mystery isn't going to be solved in one afternoon, Sherlock. Surely we can come back tomorrow."

"No, John. It's going to be an hour at most and then we could possibly have found another of Moriarty's hidden stash houses."

"Wouldn't it be better for your brother to be involved then." John tried again. "Surely if this is part of the inquiry into Moriarty's criminal activities…"

Sherlock waved a hand, looking out the window as the car drove into a more rundown section. "John, if this is one of Moriarty's warehouses and he was a distributor for the 'herbal soothers' Mrs Hudson and her friends used, then it would also be logical that we could find evidence of Brad Vines' smuggling operation."

"What's the point, Sherlock? Moriarty is dead and Brad and his smuggling buddies are in jail awaiting trial. Is this about Jason…" John watched the play of emotions on Sherlock's face. He tried to hide it but he could see he was right. "It is, isn't it. You and Mycroft both think there's another player, don't you. That is why the car and the agents…" He glared at his friend. "Does Molly know?"

"Of course she knows. I'm not going to keep it from her." Sherlock said but he looked guilty. Clearly he had chosen not to tell her everything of his suspicions. He gave Sherlock the look which got a reaction.

"Oh, come off it, John. It's not that bad." Sherlock tried to rally, throwing his hands in the air and glaring at him.

"Oh, you're going to be in so much trouble when she finds out." John said with a glint in his eye. "And you know she's going to find out because women have a nose for this kind of thing. If I were you, I'd tell Molly everything tonight after tea."

"Fine." Sherlock was clearly in a strop, flicking his coat's lapels up and half turning his back to John. It only made John laugh which off course didn't help with the strop but he could deal with it.

The agents finally came to a stop on the outskirts of what looked like a staging area for incoming and outgoing freight, the fence around the area new even though the warehouses inside the fenced area looked neglected and run down. Sherlock and John left the agents at the car with a promise that if they weren't back in thirty minutes to phone his brother and come looking for them. That was more John's doing than Sherlock's but he felt better for knowing there was a plan.

They walked the fence, following the curve of it until they had to walk around another pair of old shops. The windows had holes in them and were partially boarded up and graffitied enough that it almost gave the walls a second coating of paint. Sherlock stopped halfway down, gave one of the doors a look and stepped up, turning the handle. Surprisingly the door opened without a squeak, moving smoothly until it came to a standstill against the opposite wall. Inside, it was dark. Not at all inviting and John felt the hair on the back of his neck raise.

"Uh…what is that?" He asked. "I thought you wanted to investigate the warehouses – which are on the other side of the fence."

"I think this is a back door." Sherlock said cryptically. Reached inside his jacket and took out a torch. John decided not to ask why Sherlock had a torch.

"Bit dark and scary, don't you think?" He said as he followed Sherlock inside.

"Yet here you are." Sherlock chuckled. He swept the light over the room. Inside everything was clean. No bottles or drug paraphernalia was lying around. No homeless or drugged out users either. It was almost too clean. John wondered how it was so and what had happened in the past to make even the destitute avoid this obvious shelter.

"Ah." Sherlock stepped to the back of the shop, the light leading the way and John followed. At the back was another door, this one a shiny bright steel door. Unlike the front door, this one was locked.

"Here," Sherlock said, passing him the torch.

"Wait….what? Are you seriously considering breaking in?" John asked, holding the torch to shine on the lock.

"We've come this far." Sherlock mumbled as he bent over the lock. "John. Light."

"Oh, right." He stepped up to Sherlock, angling the light so Sherlock could see the lock. Watched as his friend started on the lock. "You know it's roast night, Sherlock." He said again. "I don't think Molly is going to be pleased if she has to come and bail us out for breaking and entering."

"For heaven's sake, John. We'll be fine. We can always get Lestrade to bail us out if it comes to that. Or my brother."

"Fine. I'm allowed one - I told you so - when we get arrested."

Sherlock gave a brief smile. "It won't come to that. Mycroft's men are waiting in the car. They can explain. Can we now go in."

There were stairs that led down and evened out into a long hallway wide enough for four people to walk shoulder to shoulder. The tunnel wasn't all that long, probably enough to reach the first warehouse they had seen through the fence about 200 metres from the fence. The door on the other side was unlocked and Sherlock took his time to open and have a quick look.

"There's a camera in the corner," he said to John, who was patiently waiting just behind him. "Light is off so I think whatever security measures were there are probably gone now that Moriarty is dead."

They made their way inside. The floor was stacked with crates. Artificial alleyways created. Sherlock made his way over to one crate. Read the words stencilled on the back of it. Tried to open one but didn't have any leverage.

"Here," John said, passing him a crowbar.

"Oh. Thanks." He hooked it and managed to lift the lid of the crate. Looked inside. Stacked neatly in rows where ivory tusks.

"Bloody hell. How many did they kill for that?"

Sherlock looked around at the crates. Randomly opened another one to find it full of jars. Took one out and opened it to find it filled with some type of powder. "I think we found Mrs Hudson's herbal soothers." He said, placing the lid back on and moved swiftly down the rows to the back office.

"All these crates…" John swore.

Sherlock didn't reply to John's observation. He entered the office, which was a short hallway with smaller offices lined up along the way. He opened doors as he made his way down, looking in quickly before moving onto the next one.

John glanced through one door. Found nothing but empty desks and walls. It was the back office where they found the file cabinet. Locked but Sherlock made quick work of the lock. Started rifling through the pages.

"Surely they won't have anything incriminating in there," John said.

"They have a warehouse full of incriminating evidence, John. An operation this scale requires paperwork."

"Fine. I think we should go."

"Ah. Here we go," Sherlock said. Pulled a paper from the file he had rifled through. Pushed it under John's nose. "See."

John took the piece of paper. Started to read the words printed on it when a shuffling noise brought both of their heads around. The door opened; they weren't alone anymore.

John sighed. Looked at Sherlock as he said, "I told you so."

Molly looked at her watch again. The roast and potatoes were in the oven and all she was waiting for was Sherlock and John to come back from their field trip, so they could have a night in. Mary had arrived a short time ago and helped her to finalise some veggies to eat with their meal.

"How's the change of job?" She asked Mary.

The former assassin chuckled. "A change of pace, definitely. It helps that I actually trained as a nurse before A.G.R.A. Came handy during particular nasty ops."

Molly sat down on Sherlock's seat. A cup of tea in hand. "You don't miss the uhm…action?"

"What? Getting shot at and not entirely sure if you're going home at the end of the day." She gave Molly a quick smile. "Maybe a little." She paused. Taking a sip of her wine. Gave a small grimace. "Even before Moriarty took out my team…" she paused. Looked away and a sadness she couldn't seem to shake was obvious even for Molly to see. "…let's just say that I was realising that my age was catching up with me. In this business…you either die young or get out before you die."

"Sorry, didn't mean to…"

Mary waved her hand. "No. It's okay. We've been a team for the last five years. Just a bit not good at the moment but we all realised that the possibility existed that we won't walk out of any op."

Molly took another sip of her tea. "The first time I woke up in that field with Sherlock, I wasn't entirely sure what to make of it."

Mary tilted her head. Blue eyes scrutinised Molly with an intelligence that was very reminiscent of Sherlock. She had randomly just blurted out a small piece of her own experience and wasn't sure where to go from here. She dropped her gaze. Focused on the half-full cup of tea in her hands. "Who knew that would be the beginning of a whole new life for me." She said in the end. Looked up at Mary. "I'm sorry about your team."

Mary nodded. Seemingly to understand what she was implicating. The new beginning that was staring her in the face. That so much good can come from something tragic.

"So, where do you think those boys are?"

Mary looked at her watch. Frowned and placed her wine glass on the side table before she picked up her phone. Her fingers flew over the screen. Finally, she turned it so Molly could see the screen.

"What are they doing in West-London?" She asked. "John knows it's roast night. He never missed one before."

Mary laughed. "Is that so?"

Molly found herself grinning. "Since I've moved in here…he once made Sherlock phone Lestrade and hand over a case so they could get back home."

"Oh, brilliant. I'll be sure to remember that for future reference. Thanks for the heads up."

"Okay. Maybe keep an eye on them." She asked Mary. The conversation flowed easily from there. A friendship that was starting and blooming. Molly found that she found an affinity in Mary and more importantly, seemed to understand her. Mary seemed to accept her without any prejudice. She didn't have to explain Oliver. Didn't have to explain what happened to her and Sherlock. More importantly, she felt safe with Mary. Where her friends struggled at times to understand that she had changed. That she was different because of Oliver and her experiences at the bothy, she found she didn't have to pretend.

Yes, she could see her friendship with Mary growing.

"Okay, I might have miscalculated." Sherlock said. Eyed the men who surrounded them. There were six. All thugs. Broad shoulders, thick skull. Not particularly bright.

"You think?" John quipped. "Left or right?"

Sherlock gave a brief smile. Glanced around again. Calculated their odds. Exit points and mapped their route through the warehouse they had to go.

"Left."

"Now?"

"Now." And he moved. Shifting the weight on his foot as he rushed the guy closest. Managed to unbalance and then he shoved him into the one next to him. Created a hole big enough as he and John ran through the gap, sidestepping like a professional rugby player on the way to the try line. Voices shouted but they were already through the first door. Rushed headlong past the crates. Turned abruptly to his right at an intersection. John's steps are loud behind him. Muted in the space of the surrounding crates. He turned left at the next intersection. Noticed the gap and stopped. Jumped and pulled up onto the top of the crate. Reached down a hand and helped John up. They flattened. Watched as the men raced past their position. Sherlock got up, body low as he jumped the crate, running along the top towards the exit.

It was close. They managed to get all the way to the door. Had it opened and stepped outside before Sherlock realised his second mistake.

He immediately recognised Lord Byron. That was one man he hadn't expected at all and he wondered how it was that both him and Mycroft had never even considered the man before him. He remembered the interview he had done with the man almost a year ago now. Remembered Mycroft telling him that he was looking into him for another matter entirely. He should've asked Mycroft what that meant. Should've insisted.

There were four others waiting with Lord Byron. He frowned briefly when he noticed Brad Vines. John looked at him. "I thought he was in prison?" John whispered to him.

"Evidently he got out." He said succinctly.

The men were standing in a semicircle, what looked like pistols in their hands and pointed at the ground. Sherlock and John came to a standstill as behind them the six men flowed out. Surrounding them.

"We're not alone," John blurted out. Sherlock noticed John shift. Standing tall, his chin jutting out as he eyed the men before them.

"You mean the two men waiting in the car by the gate?" Lord Byron asked with amusement. He gave a quick smile. "They're sorted, John. Unlike Moriarty, I clean up after myself."

Anger made sharp angles on John's face, his hands in fists as he took a threatening step forward. Brad's arm rose, the pistol a dark barrel pointed at John. "I'd not move if I was you." Brad said. John blinked at the threat. Relaxed visibly. Sherlock hadn't moved at all. He was focused on Lord Byron.

"You're a hard man to kill." Lord Byron said. Stepped up to Sherlock. "But not that hard to catch."

Sherlock frowned. Byron reached down. Grabbed his wrist and twisting so it was obvious what he wanted. Pushed back the sleeve until Oliver's trademark appeared.

"Not the first time, Sherlock." Byron said, tracing it with a finger. Looked up and met his eyes. "You made Oliver and me a lot of money."

"I don't understand."

Lord Byron tilted his head. Studied him while he kept Sherlock's wrist trapped in his own. "You really don't remember, do you." He said pensively. "Any of it?"

"Of what?"

"Think. You met me once before at the bothy."

Sherlock scanned the other man. Frowned briefly as he tried to twist his wrist out of the grip of the other man. Lord Byron tightened his hand. Fingers white on his skin.

"Oh, come on. The great Sherlock Holmes clueless. But then again, Oliver did like playing with his pet projects." Byron sneered. "Because of you, Oliver is dead." He opened his hand and allowed Sherlock to pull away. The aristocrat's fingers were still visible on his skin, slowly fading as he pulled his sleeve down, hiding the evidence of Oliver's ownership. He narrowed his eyes as he queried his mind palace, going through the files he had in there.

John glanced his way, concern evident but Sherlock couldn't placate his friend right now. They had bigger problems than missing memories.

"You were in the helicopter…" he started. His eyes widened and he tilted his head. "You were his partner. Oh…this is good. Underestimated Moriarty there, didn't you. Planned your revenge but didn't take into consideration Moriarty's obsession with me. How does it feel to have lost everything."

"Sherlock." John's voice had a warning to it.

Lord Byron glared.

"You do realise that you've shown your hand, right. Couldn't help yourself. My brother and I would never have suspected you. You covered yourself well enough. But now…now you have no choice but to play your little game. So, what's next? Hurt John so I become your willing slave? Kidnap Molly and force me to do your bidding?"

"Sherlock."

He ignored John. He was angry. Felt it pulse along his veins. He took a step towards the man, standing toe to toe with Lord Byron. They were of the same height; he didn't back down as he stared the other man down.

"Have you told your friend how you begged Oliver to go home to Molly and the bothy. How you promised to behave. How you cried into his shoulder, pouring your heart out." Byron said softly. It was all the more menacing in the way he said it. Calm and with measured pace. "Or that you begged Oliver for drugs."

Sherlock felt his mouth go dry. He felt John shift next to him. And then John was there, interjecting himself between them. Nostrils flaring, John ignored Brad and his gun. Pushed Lord Byron away from them with both hands flat against the man's chest.

"Back off." He said, his anger making his voice gravely and low.

Lord Byron seemed taken aback by John's defence. He looked at Brad and back at them and then he laughed. "Oh…Brilliant. You two really are a pair." A thoughtful look came over him as he eyed them.

"I had planned to kill you and dump your bodies. But there is nothing stopping me from having some fun while doing that."

"Killing us?" Sherlock asked, eyebrows raised. "Bit over the top don't you think. What if we promise never to tell."

Lord Byron chuckled. "You're a funny man. No. I don't think so, Sherlock. Ever gone hunting?"

"Not a sport I enjoy." He said. "Seeing that most times the prey have no means to fight back."

"Oh. You might find it illuminating." Lord Byron said cryptically. "Prepare them." Sherlock watched him walk away and then hands were on him and John. They were pushed towards the side of the building. Four jeeps were parked there. Lying on the ground beside one of the jeeps were Mycroft's two agents. They were unconscious. Hands tied behind their backs. He barely got a glance before he was pushed against the wall, face first.

"Hands on the wall, spread your legs," one of the men growled. John was given the same instruction, further on down opposite the second jeep. They removed his Belstaff. Hands were over his body, rifling through his pockets and removing everything he had. When they were done with their search, did they turn him and push him face down on the hood of the first car. His hands were pulled behind his back and securely fastened with rope. They were rough and made sure it was tight. A hand pulled on his trousers. He shifted, memories of Oliver surging forward and he suppressed them with effort.

"Hey, what do you think you're doing?" He said authoritatively. Glared back.

But the man ignored him. Then he felt the prick of a needle in his gluteus. His trousers reassembled afterwards. He thought about protesting. Didn't see the point in the end. He blinked. The world was definitely going out of scope.

A sedative then. He stumbled as they pushed him away from the hood of the car. Into the back seat and then a blanket was thrown over his body. He shifted, pushed upwards but his limbs weren't cooperating.

"What the hell," he managed to slur. What did they inject him with?

The movement of the car as two men got into the front. Another in the back, his head suddenly moved and then settled onto someone's lap. He blinked against the semi-darkness of the blanket. The smell of sweat, fear and something mouldy on the blanket heavy in his nostrils.

Not the first time the blanket had been used in this manner. He thought. He shifted, tried to move away from his position he was in and the feeling of claustrophobia the blanket was bringing.

"Shhh, Sherlock. Just relax. Go to sleep."

Like bloody hell he'll do that…

The car started. Movement and he rolled with the motion. What felt like an arm came down on his body. Kept him in place.

He groaned. Protested as he wondered if John was in the second jeep.

A hand settled on his back. Started to make slow circles. He whimpered at the memories that surged forward. The drug wasn't helping. His hands tightened into fists behind his back and he shifted.

"You're doing good, Sherlock. Shhhh. Just relax."

"No." He moved again, his body uncoordinated and he struggled as he kicked out. His feet hitting the door. The blanket was suffocating and he blinked in the twilight that was created in the pocket underneath the material. Tried to keep Oliver at bay. Tried to breathe his way through the panic attack that was threatening.

The hand persisted. A slow, steady movement.

"Oliver was very good, wasn't he? He had perfected his art. Had found a way to make even the most stubborn man compliant. You know, don't you have your brother not rescued you, that you will be working for Oliver and me. The plan was for you to run our European operations with Jason. He would've rewarded you. Brought you into the fold when you proved yourself trustworthy."

The hand on his back continued its ministrations. His thought processes seemed slow. Difficult and he closed his eyes. Took a deeper breath as he tried to regulate his own senses. Get control back over his transport. But what Oliver had done was too ingrained.

"When I found out what you and Mycroft had done…" The hand paused. Lifted higher between his shoulder blades and he stiffened. The reaction automatic and he found with horror that his body remembered. Each nuance of Oliver. Each inflection. Each touch.

"…I was quite angry. I had warned Oliver. Had told him to forget about you. Get you back at a later date when everything had calmed down but he didn't listen. I guess he was as stubborn as you were. Felt some sort of affinity for you. It wasn't much of a surprise when I heard about his death."

He must've made another vocal protest. The hand on his body returned to tracing circles on his back. Calming under the influence of the drug he'd been injected with. Not a sedative then. Something else…something …familiar.

"You see, Sherlock. I can't let this go. I tried. And when I noticed you at the shop, looking into the supply issue, I realised that I'd have an opportunity to get you. And you walked straight into my arms when you came to the warehouse. I was prepared to wait. I didn't mind." He felt Lord Byron sigh. His hand stilled for a moment before it started again.

"In the end you and Mycroft had cost me everything. Everything Oliver and I had built over five years of friendship. My friends that your brother had killed. Alex. Once I'm done with you and your friend, I'll make sure Mycroft understands what loss is before I kill him."

"No…Molly…" He managed to get out. His tongue was heavy in his mouth. The words difficult to form.

"We shall see." Lord Byron said to his barely managed question. The hand on his back settled. A presence that was unwanted yet something he also had a confusing memory of Oliver and feeling the man comfort him in those initial first moments after he was put on the couch for the first time. When he had cried into Oliver's shoulder. Of wanting to fall asleep at the end of his emotional spent.

"Sleep, Sherlock." Lord Byron's voice seemed to come from far away.

"No," he managed to say. "I can't…"

"Shhhh. John is coming along for the ride, Sherlock. He'll be there when you wake up. There's nothing you can do to change any of this. Now go to sleep."

He tried another protest. His tongue had trouble with the word No. His eyes already closed, his breathing deepening despite willing himself to stay awake.

The sound of the wheels as it hit tarmac a bit jolting but then it became white noise. The hand continued to stroke and then he couldn't fight it anymore.

Awareness faded and then even that was gone and he slept.