Fill: Find a Way to You - Chapter Seven

[pennin_ink]

Story Type: Prompt Fill
Fandom(s): Sherlock/The Swan Princess/Swan Lake
Characters: Sherlock, John, Lestrade, Molly, Moriarty, Moran, Mycroft, Harry, Ann Watson, Vienne Holmes, Mike Stamford
Pairing(s): Sherlock/John, suggested Moriarty/Moran, very twisted semi-Moriarty/Sherlock
Warnings: Violence, torture, abduction, coersion, Jim Moriarty with access to magic. This chapter: Potential trigger warnings for self harm
Summary: The final part of The Swan Triad, following Till Now I Never Knew and Interlude. Sherlock struggles to escape Moriarty's prison with the help of two fellow prisoners. Meanwhile, John devotes every waking moment to a search and rescue of the man he loves.


Chapter Seven

Sherlock tilted his head back against the wall of his shelter and tracked the moon's progress across the sky. He listened to the regular grind and crunch of Greg's boots as the PC paced in tense agitation along the beach. He'd been on the move constantly since Moran had dumped Sherlock in the lake, and Sherlock was feeling exhausted just watching him.

Molly sat near the shore, absently toying with the tides and reshaping her boundary little by little while keeping an eye on Greg.

For his part, Greg was muttering to himself, moving his arms as though he were wearing too-tight sleeves, even though he'd removed his jacket and was in just his sleeveless t-shirt by then. Sherlock could practically see the anger radiating from Greg's skin, and he pulled his knees up to his chest protectively, pressing more fully against the wall. The clearing was quiet, both Sherlock and Molly waiting for the spark that would ignite the powder keg.

They didn't have long to wait, as Greg came to a stop, his hands clenched into fists at his side.

'No! No, fuck, he can't do this to me!' Greg span round and aimed a vicious kick at his tree. 'I'll fucking kill 'im! Him and his guard dog! I'm gonna wring that prissy little neck of his!' He continued his abuse of the tree, slamming his fist into the bark until it came back bloody and swollen.

'FUCK!' He shrieked into the night.

'Greg, please.' Molly said from the lake. 'Please just, come here. Let me help you.'

'No. Piss off. I wanna bleed. I fucking deserve, just once, to decide what happens to my fucking body!'

Sherlock flinched at that. He tucked his knees more tightly against his chest and wrapped his arms around them. 'I'm sorry.' He mumbled. 'I didn't know he'd--'

'Oh just shut it, would you?' Greg snapped. Sherlock flinched again and drew away from Greg.

'Always so high and mighty, always with the smart answers. Sherlock Holmes, the great brain. Well you didn't fucking think this one through, did you? Huh? You go running that pretty little mouth of yours and I'm the one pays the price!'

'Greg, stop it!' Molly scolded him.

'He doesn't need you defending him all the time! Christ's sake, he's not an infant!'

'I'm sorry!' Sherlock sobbed, but the sound was muffled by his shirtsleeves, where he'd hidden his face.

'He needs a little support! I'm not turning my back on him just because he annoyed Jim!'

'Annoyed? He clipped my fucking wings, Moll!'

'Jim did! Sherlock had nothing to do with it!'

'Oh balls to that! You saw the look on Jim's face! You tell me how supportive you are after three days with nothing to eat!'

'We'll get by, Greg. Dammit, would you just calm down?'

'Calm down? Calm down?! You know what would calm me down? Flying! Away! From! This! Dump!' He punctuated each word with another blow to the tree trunk. Sherlock huddled in on himself and tried to keep the tears behind his eyelids.

'Greg, please!'

'No! No, Molly, I'm done. I'm just fucking done with all this! I can't take it anymore! I want the sky back!'

Something deep inside of Sherlock snapped. It was too much. It was two months of too much. Greg's shouting and Molly's cajoling and Jim's smirking and Moran's fists all tumbled and swirled together until the world was spinning out of control under his feet, and his brain kept repeating every second of that dinner in excruciating detail and it was happening again. It was everywhere and everything and it was killing him, splitting him open and scraping his mind raw. But there would be no Mycroft this time. No mum, no Harry, no Ann, no violin to force order on the chaos, no John to hold him until the shaking went away.

He was shaking now, so hard it made his teeth chatter. He felt the storm rising inside, bubbling up through his throat and he couldn't hold it in any longer. He was just so tired, he felt like he was breaking, fracturing like a frozen lake in a thaw.

The tears were salty, and they stung against his chapped lips. With is head bowed over his crossed arms, he could hide his face, hide what his body was doing until it was done. But these weren't the tears he'd cried for John, silent and biddable, these were dragged from his chest, one by one, and they clutched at his lungs and squeezed his heart and blocked his throat, and his shoulders were heaving and oh God he tried to stop them, but he had no more control left and wasn't it time? After everything, after all this time, didn't he deserve, just once, to give up?

Greg's ranting devolved into something incoherent at the edge of Sherlock's hearing, punctuated with Molly's voice raised to a tone he'd never heard before.

'Would you just SHUT THE FUCK UP and look at him?'

Odd. Since when did Molly curse? He was tempted to look up, to focus on the others, but if they saw…they couldn't see. He couldn't let them see him this way.

Then there was an incredibly wet hand on his shoulder, and he flinched.

'For fuck's sake, kid, look at me.'

Sherlock shook his head and pressed harder into his forearms.

'Sherlock. Please.' Greg's voice was soft, gentle. 'Please stop hiding from me.'

An index finger pressed against his chin and he followed its upward path, lifting his head until he could focus his tear-reddened eyes on Greg.

'There you are.' Greg smiled. He was drenched head to toe in lake water, and there was a massive puddle on the ground where he'd been pacing. 'Christ…I never saw…I'm so sorry Sherlock.'

Sherlock tried to inhale, but the air stuttered and caught in his mouth and throat. 'I didn't mean to--'

'I know. God…you're too clever by half, mate. The way you talk and throw your weight around, it's just so easy to forget.'

Sherlock blinked, and more tears tumbled across his eyelids. 'Forget what?'

Greg lowered his eyes. 'How young you are.'

'I'm not--'

'Don't. Don't start that with me. You bloody well are. Not even twenty years old and…this.' He waved his arm helplessly at the clearing. 'Fuck but you've got no business being as strong as you've been. You act like you're something more than human but you're still a kid.'

He tugged Sherlock forward until Sherlock's face was pressed against the fabric of his shirt. Sherlock could feel the heat from Greg's skin, could smell the man's sweat and his blood.

'You can't do this anymore, do you hear me?' Greg whispered. 'You can't keep this from us. When it gets bad, when it starts hurting too much, you've got to let us in, Sherlock. I know it's hard. But don't lock us out, okay?'

Sherlock balled his hand up in Greg's shirt and sobbed into his shoulder. 'I'm sorry.' He gasped around the lump in his throat. 'I'm sorry.'

'I know. It's not your fault. I shouldn't have shouted at you. Christ, I was a complete shit. I'm sorry.'

Sherlock licked his lips, felt the rough and broken skin of them against his tongue, and pressed his face into Greg's pectoral.

'I'm scared.' He confessed. It was the smallest his voice had ever been.

Greg sighed into Sherlock's hair, then pressed his lips to Sherlock's scalp. 'So am I.' He whispered.

~~~

'Anything?' John asked, slipping the helmet off his head.

Mycroft made a noncommittal grunt before looking up from the papers arrayed along the kitchen table. He started, then narrowed his eyes.

'A motorbike, John, really?'

Harry looked up with eyes like soup plates and Ann slapped a hand over her mouth to muffle the snort.

'What?' John glanced down at the helmet in his hand. 'Oh, yeah. Mike's got this mate. Thought it'd be useful to learn.'

'And is it?' Mycroft demanded.

John shrugged. 'Fast, far more manoeuvrable than a car, could come in handy. That's not important. Anything on Jimmy?'

'Oh yes.' Ann said. 'A name.'

John's eyebrows rose and he sat down heavily between Harry and his mum, eyes trained on Mycroft. 'Well?'

'James Moriarty. Transferred from Ireland at the beginning of Year Eight, filed for a transfer back in the middle of Year Ten. Bright. Incredibly bright. Bright enough to make it look like he wasn't half so intelligent as he was.'

'What do you mean?'

Mycroft shook his head pityingly. 'John, think. It's obvious. James Moriarty manipulated the system, deliberately masked his intelligence so as not to draw attention to himself. There's really no way he'd have remained among his peers otherwise.'

John drew a report toward him. 'How can you tell?'

Mycroft scoffed. 'Really, John. Sherlock did it all the time.'

'He was the top in his year.' John protested.

'He could have been the top in the next three years above him if he chose.' Mycroft said. 'He chose otherwise, and deliberately set out to appear less capable than he was.'

'Did you do that?' John asked.

Mycroft shrugged. 'To an extent. Image really is everything. It wouldn't do to show one's hand too readily. But if you know what to look for, the stratagem becomes obvious, almost laughable. To a man such as myself, it is blatantly apparent that our master Moriarty was openly mocking his educators throughout his schooling. The similarities are almost painfully striking.'

John blinked. 'You're saying he's like you. Like Sherlock.'

'In this way, yes.'

'But lonely.' Ann said. 'His reports never mention friends. They never mention other students at all apart from the disciplinary ones. He was the victim of quite a lot of bullying.'

'Including a particularly vicious campaign by a Mr Carl Powers.' Mycroft put in.

'But the police never investigated it, so the connection was never reported.' Harry added.

'When did he return to Ireland?' John asked.

'He didn't.' Said Mycroft.

John jerked his head up. 'Explain.'

'He never registered at any other school.' Ann said. 'At least, not under his real name.'

'He never registered at all under his real name.' Said Harry. 'Dropped off the sodding planet.'

John raised his eyes to Mycroft, begging silently for something, anything.

Mycroft sighed. 'I think James Moriarty is a murderer. I believe it was he who killed Carl Powers. Under that theory, the disappearance of Molly Hooper becomes infinitely more suspicious. I cannot entertain the idea that these incidents are unconnected. John,' He levelled his gaze at the young soldier, unblinking and steady. 'I think we've found the man who took my brother.'

John looked down at a photograph of a teenaged boy with large, dark eyes and a too-wide smile. He picked it up and held it up to his face.

'Then,' he said, gripping the photo hard enough to make it crease. 'James Moriarty is a dead man.'

~~~

Usually, when he dreamed, he dreamed of Harry.

He didn't intend it, but he never did find a way to master his dreams. It was only that he tended to dream of music, and often the sounds were joined by pictures, and generally the pictures he associated with music were all of Harry. He'd not wanted to lose practise by the time John returned, and had found in Harry a willing and enthusiastic dance partner. And she had John's eyes. It was almost, so very nearly, close to something close enough.

So they'd danced. For two years, he'd danced with Harry in hopes of dancing with John. And now he dreamed of those afternoons and the giddy whirl of Harry's sundress skirts and the dizzying heights of violin and piccolo and the easy rhythm of a waltz. Harry was the prelude.

He never saw John in his dreams, though his dream self often wondered where John was. But the man himself only ever appeared in the hazy between time, not dreaming and not awake but hovering on the boundary of the two. Sherlock would gradually regain control of his mind, and he would summon John to him. He both loathed and lived for those few precious, stolen moments when his human body could welcome John into its heat, when he could lay himself bare and invite John's eyes, his hands, his lips to peruse him at their will.

He always awoke to a swan's body, desperate and burning and so, so angry. He woke into a nightmare, every single time.

'Sherlock! Sherlock!' The whisper jarred him from a feverish vision of John's hands stroking along his bared thighs, and he nearly gasped at the unfairness of it.

*Greg! For God's sake, what is it?*

'Get you. Such a grumpy puss.'

*Out with it!*

'We've got movement.' Greg tilted his head to indicate the house, and Sherlock whipped round to see it.

Jim was getting into the sleek black car he always took to London.

*He's not taking you this time?* Sherlock asked.

Greg shook his head. 'Still grounded. Can't fly, can't spy. Little Jimmy's left us all alone.'

*Must be an emergency. He'd never dare leave us otherwise.*

'Could be a trap.' Greg pointed out. 'Explains why he didn't unground me for the mission.'

*I was really trying not to think of that.* Sherlock groused.

Greg rolled his eyes. 'What if he's back before sunset? London's not far from here. I could fly there in a couple hours. If I could fly.'

*You could?* Sherlock snapped his head to look at Lestrade. *How far is it?*

Greg shrugged. 'Distances are weird in the air. But, I don't know. Twenty miles? Thirty? South of here. I bet you could fly it, with a bit of wind at your back.'

Sherlock blinked. London. He could get to London. He hadn't dared contemplate the possibility.

*Wait.* He said. *How is that possible? There's no sign of civilisation for miles, I've seen it. When you take me above the treeline.*

Greg smiled and shook his head. 'Not as easy as that, mate. Jimmy's old teacher, he hid us away. It's like…like an illusion gone firm. There's this line, right? I fly through it every time Jimmy sends me out. It's a border, but stronger than the ones we've got to deal with. It feels old.' He shivered a bit and shook his head. 'And deep. Like looking down a chasm. It's--' He broke off and bit his lip. 'Look, I never met the guy, okay? Jim did away with him before I got the chance. But there's a reason for the way Moll won't talk about him. Jim is sick, yeah. He's twisted and evil and too bloody dangerous by half. But the Old Man, Sherlock…I can feel him. Every time I cross that line. We're in his world. Not Jim's, not ours. This isn't England, it's something else. He made this place. We're walking on his turf.'

Sherlock tilted his head. *But the Old Man is dead.*

Greg shook his head. 'He's not. There's something of him left over. It's here. It's keeping us hidden and it won’t let us go. When you pass the boundary, you'll feel it too. Jim is small time by comparison.'

Sherlock trained an eye on Greg. *When I cross?*

Greg nodded. 'When we're free.'

Sherlock nodded. He looked up at the sky. *Late afternoon. You should get started if we're to eat tonight.*

Greg rolled his eyes, but he dutifully rose to his feet and went to gather up supplies to build a fire. 'Sodding Jim. You know, if he'd let me keep smoking we'd have this up in a tick.'

*You smoke?*

'I did. Before Master Nutcase up there stuck me in a fucking dungeon. I shit you not, kid. It was an actual, honest-to-God dungeon. With rats. Moran took my last packet of fags when he threw me in. Haven't had one since.' He shuddered. 'Worst six months of my life, that. Got a bit easier after that, though. A bit.'

Sherlock shrugged at that. Swans could shrug, it just took a bit of practise. *Molly, are you nearly ready?*

*Got some. Just a mo' please.*

Sherlock grimaced, then turned to Greg. *If he does stay away tonight…do you think it's time?*

Greg paused, a bundle of branches in his arms. 'I…don't know. Maybe. Are you sure you want to go in there, mate?'

*No. But I have no choice. We're so close to my Key, Greg, I know it. It's time to take the next step.*

Greg sighed and dropped the wood to the ground. 'He'll have defences. No way in Hell he doesn't lock that place up tight.'

*Then I suggest we put my theory to the test.*

Greg nodded. 'Whatever happens in there, Sherlock…you're not alone. You do know that, right?'

Sherlock paused, for once glad his face could express little to nothing, then drifted further into the lake to await the moonrise.

~~~

'Mmm. That feels better.' Mycroft allowed his lips to spread into a slight smile.

'Told you.' Harry replied, dabbing the cool flannel against Mycroft's forehead again. 'You've been staring at that tiny, tiny type for too long. I won't even talk about the screens.'

'When did you turn health-care professional?' Mycroft asked.

Harry smirked. 'When you decided to take over as the recklessly unhealthy one of us.'

Mycroft paused, then lifted his hand to wrap his fingers around Harry's wrist. 'I'm glad you came back, Harry.'

Harry smiled down at him. 'So am I.' She looked out the window and paused. 'Strange…' She muttered.

'What is?' Mycroft didn't bother to open his eyes.

'That bird out there. In the garden.'

'What about it?'

Harry frowned. 'It seems stupid, but I could swear I've seen it before. It looks like a hawk or something. One of the big ones with scary beaks.'

Mycroft shrugged and pressed his face into the cool cloth. 'Maybe it has a nest nearby.'

Harry stared at the bird a moment longer. 'Yes…I suppose it must do.' She tore her gaze from the window and back to Mycroft.

~~~
'What do you reckon?' Asked Greg, tearing off a bit of fish and popping it into his mouth. The fire crackled cheerfully between them. 'Shall we give it a go?'

Sherlock nodded. 'Jim said magic was all or nothing, that the part is not the whole, but we've proven him wrong before. And I think there's a lot about Molly he doesn't fully understand. He didn't imprison her. Who knows what he didn't see?'

'So…you want to take me out of the lake.' Molly said. 'You can't. We've tried this, over and over. I can't step beyond the water.'

Sherlock smirked. 'Yes, you can.'

Molly frowned at him. 'I can't. Stop being difficult.'

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'You can move past the boundary, Molly. I've seen it. You lose your shape, but you still cross. Just, in water form.'

'But I always flow back. Always.'

'But what if you couldn't?' Sherlock proposed. 'What if we cut you off from the lake?'

'How do you mean?' Greg asked.

Sherlock smiled. 'We take a piece of her. Like we were planning with the water. It's not the lake, Greg. It's Molly. Molly is the power, she's the thing keeping us here.'

Molly went red. 'You can't think that! I'd never--no! If I had that kind of power I'd have let you go ages ago!'

Sherlock sighed. 'I know that. But you said it yourself. You can be compelled. Jim can make you dance, Molly, you don't think he can make you bind us? It was probably built into your spell. I doubt you'd even be aware he was doing it.'

Molly paled then, and she looked down at her shaking hands. 'You mean I…I did this?'

Sherlock shook his head, and Greg reached over to take her hand.

'No, Moll.' Greg said. 'The Old Man did it. And Jim. You had nothing to do with it.'

He turned to Sherlock. 'So…how do we do it?'

Sherlock studied Molly for a bit. 'We take one of the bowls we took from our food deliveries. Molly could…I don't know…spit in it?'

Greg arched an eyebrow. 'You think we should carry her spit around with us?'

'Fingernail clippings?'

'Christ, Sherlock, next you'll be suggesting she wee in it!'

Sherlock considered. 'That would give us more volume to work with.'

'I didn't mean really!'

'Guys.' Said Molly.

'Well what do you suggest, Greg?'

'Whatever option doesn't involve piss.'

'Guys?'

'Toenails, then. Actually, there's a thought. Do Molly's toenails grow? Can she clip them?'

'Guys!' Molly shouted. Both men turned to look at her.

'If you're done talking about me like I’m not here, may I make a suggestion?'

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably and Greg cleared his throat and waved a hand at her to go on.

'Thank you. I was going to say,' She tugged on her ponytail, lifting the soft brown tresses into the air. 'I could just cut off some of my hair.'

Neither man needed to look at the other to know they were both identical shades of red. So they didn't.

Greg silently got one of the bowls they'd stolen and gave it to Sherlock, who held it out to Molly. Molly lifted a clump of hair, took a breath, and closed her eyes. She moved her open hand against the hair so it rested against the outer edge of her little finger, then with a twitch of concentration the hand elongated and flattened into a blade, which she sliced through the hair, holding the newly cut locks in her other hand as the blade returned to its original shape. She placed the hair in the bowl, and Sherlock licked his lips, then moved the bowl past the shoreline.

The hairs in the bowl instantly turned to water as soon as they were over dry land. Greg and Sherlock watched the bowl and Molly intently.

The water remained where it was. The hair did not grow back.

The trio heaved a collective sigh.

'Greg…it has to be you.' Sherlock said quietly.

Greg nodded. 'I know.' He took the bowl and walked to the treeline. Sherlock followed, Molly looking on anxiously from the edge of her prison.

They passed through the trees together, following a trail Greg knew by heart. It wasn't terribly long before Greg came to a complete stop, his breath hitching.

'This is it.' He breathed. 'One more step…that's it.'

Sherlock put a hand on Greg's shoulder, and Greg raised his own hand to cover it. 'If this works…'

'I know.' Sherlock said. 'It changes everything.'

Greg took a deep breath, and stepped forward.

Nothing happened.

Greg blinked. He looked at his hand. He patted his chest, his arm, his leg. He raised his hand and felt his face, his fingers brushing over every feature, shaking like a wind-tossed leaf.

'I…it…'

'Take another.' Sherlock urged.

Greg took another step. And another. After one more, he let out a laugh, rich and wild and raw. 'It worked! Sherlock! Look at me!' He whirled round, careful not to spill the water. 'Look at me! Look!'

'I see you.'

'Ha HA! I'm human! Do you see? Can you see it? Look at this, I've got fingers!' His hand flew back to his face. 'Got a nose…lips. Sherlock I've got lips! And eyebrows!'

'You look incredible.' Sherlock agreed.

Greg grinned. 'Sherlock, if I didn't think it would somehow destroy the world or something, I would kiss you right now.'

Sherlock blushed and looked down. 'Just avoid my lips.'

Greg stilled, looking at him quizzically. 'You don't…you don't mean that, do you?'

Sherlock shrugged. 'If you like.'

Greg beamed and surged toward Sherlock. His lips found Sherlock's forehead, both his cheeks, and his nose for good measure.

'You're incredible, kid.' Greg whispered, pulling Sherlock into a crushing hug. 'You're…truly incredible.'

He pulled away, holding Sherlock at arm's length, his face bright and beaming. 'Now, let's get into that house.'

~~~

John was tired. He was so, so tired. He knew he needed to sleep, that his body would only betray him if he didn't tend to it before going on a mission, but he was so wired he doubted he'd be able to nod off.

In his stupor, he didn't realise his feet were taking him to Sherlock's bedroom until he was standing at the door. He went in, and the first thing he saw was the hook on the wall where Sherlock had kept the swan pendant when he wasn't wearing it.

John closed his eyes and waited for the dizziness to pass, then walked over to Sherlock's bookshelf. His fingers ran over text books, science journals, true crime books, and a very sparse selection of fiction, including the complete series of Sandman comics.

He grabbed a text book at random and flopped onto Sherlock's bed, determined to read himself to sleep. He barely got past the first page before his eyes began to slip closed. The last thing he saw before sleep overtook him was a large bird, a falcon maybe, seemingly staring at him from the other side of the window.

~~~

'I don't like this.' Greg muttered, clutching the bowl of Molly's water close to his chest. 'No agent. He always leaves an agent. This feels like a trap, Sherlock.'

Sherlock nodded, but he continued climbing the hill, and Greg kept following him. 'We have no choice. Our Keys are in there, somewhere.'

'He'll know. He has to know. He wants us to go in.'

'Or he's just that cocky.' Sherlock pointed out. 'Or it was that big of an emergency. He might just think you're helpless without your wings.'

'Jim?'

Sherlock sighed. 'He's not a god, Greg. He's barely a man. You let your fear give him too much credit.'

'Bollocks. He's managed to cage you, hasn't he?'

Sherlock paused, his foot at the edge of the back garden. 'I'm not a god either.'

He shifted his grip on his own bowl. They'd need to be careful, or Molly was going to run out of hair before long.

'What makes you think this'll work?' Greg demanded.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. 'You heard Molly. Her water loses all its force when it gets near him.'

'Yeah, so?'

'So,' Sherlock said. 'Have you ever seen him actually touch the lake? Has he ever made contact with the water, in all the time you've been here?'

Greg paused, then frowned. 'Not that I've seen.'

'Nor I. I think he and Molly are anathema to each other. I think there's something in how the Old Man imprisoned her…something that prohibits contact. '

Greg scrunched his forehead. 'You mean, like, he was worried about Jim being a horny little bastard and took steps to make sure he didn't take any liberties?'

Sherlock shrugged. 'If that helps you sleep at night.'

Greg sighed. 'You're cold, do you know that? Sometimes, just when I think we've gotten under that thick skin of yours, you just turn so cold.'

Sherlock paused. Then he said, 'There's a door round the back, it leads into the kitchen in the servant's quarters. That's where Jim took me last time. Judging by the lights we see coming from the house, I'd hazard a guess his study is in the attic, but I want you to check the basement as well. We best hurry, we haven't got much night.'

They made the rest of the way to the door in silence. There, they paused, each scarcely breathing.

'This is too easy, Sherlock.'

Sherlock nodded. 'I'm doing it anyway.' He held out a hand and slowly, slowly lowered it to the doorknob.

'ACK!' The flash of light left a bright red afterimage behind his eyelids, and the concussive force sent him sprawling on his back. He clutched at his hand, hissing through the pain as the skin bubbled and blistered.

'Shit!' Greg cried. 'Kid!'

'The…water!' Sherlock gasped. The pain was fogging his brain, clouding his vision.

'I've got it. It's okay.'

Sherlock shook his head. 'The water!'

'Oh!' And Greg gingerly took Sherlock's arm by the wrist and lowered the angry looking skin into the liquid.

The soothing sensation was instantaneous and familiar. Sherlock's skin quieted and began to regain its normal colour. He whimpered as the healing came to a stop, far sooner than Molly's touch would have done. His hand still stung, the pain almost identical to a chemical burn he'd received when he was sixteen.

'Will you be okay?'

Sherlock nodded and struggled to his knees, clutching the burned hand to his chest. 'I'll live. Try the--the water.'

Greg hissed through his teeth and adopted a pleading expression. 'Are you sure about this?'

Sherlock nodded. 'We've…established the…control,' Oh Christ it hurt. He tried to push the pain out of his mind and went on, 'Time to introduce a variable. Just…dip your hand in the water then try the door.'

Greg cringed, but he lowered his hand into the bowl, moving it about until every bit of skin down to his wrist was glistening and wet under the moonlight.

'You damn well better be right about this, Sherlock.' He muttered, and he moved his hand toward the door.

Halfway there he stopped. 'It's…pushing.'

'Can you push harder?'

He shook his head. 'Not sure. Closer I get, the harder it pushes.'

'Try.' Sherlock snarled.

'Well help me!'

Sherlock gritted his teeth, then he covered his good hand in water and moved to Lestrade. He took a deep breath and slipped his hand over Greg's. Together, they pushed.

It was like…well it wasn't like anything. Sherlock could find no experience with which to draw a comparison. It was as though the air itself had congealed around their hands and was growing ever more solid the closer their skin came to the shielded door.

'Harder.' Sherlock gritted out, struggling against whatever force kept Moriarty's power and Molly's apart.

'Fuck…feels like…crushing my hand.'

Sherlock shook his head. 'No, bone crushing feels nothing like this. This is just pressure. Push!'

Greg kept trying, but the pain was obvious over every inch of his face. 'Christ…Christ this hurts…'

And now Sherlock could feel his bones beginning to buckle under the strain. Metacarpals shifted and ground together, and his vision whited out for a moment.

'Oh…fuck this!' Greg cried, and with a small splash he upended his bowl over both their hands. The concussive force doubled, snapping them back, then buckled under the onslaught of Molly's presence. The barrier between them and the knob wavered, and in that one moment of vulnerability both their hands met the cool metal and twisted.

The door threw itself open and they tumbled over one another, landing on the floor in an undignified heap, both breathing heavily and clutching at their hands.

'Ow.' Greg moaned. 'Ow, fucking ow! We…are never…doing that again, clear?'

'Relax.' Sherlock said. 'We got in, didn't we?'

'My hand! I'll be lucky if I can pick up a pen after this.'

Sherlock glared at him as they both got to their feet. 'Just give it to Molly when we're done and she'll sort it out.'

'Even she's got limits.'

'Quit whining. It's hardly as bad as all that.'

Greg went quiet. Then, 'It was really that bad, huh? The changing, I mean. I never saw.'

Sherlock tried to suppress a shudder. 'It was torture, Greg. Extreme pain is sort of the point.'

'Fair enough. You're to the attic, then?'

Sherlock nodded. 'Try the cellar. Whichever of us is finished first will meet up with the other. Got it?'

'Got it. Good luck, kid.'

They separated. It took Sherlock a little searching before he found the semi-concealed door leading up to the attic.

Which was, of course, locked. Sherlock sighed and let his forehead fall against the distressed wood. Frustrated, he slammed his fist against the door, then fell to his knees to examine the lock.

It was old. Older than the locks he was used to picking, and he wasn't sure if that made it easier or more difficult.

'Right. First things first.' He muttered, then he set off in search of something which would make do as an ad hoc lock pick.

He found what he was looking for in a study in the main house. The entire room was covered in dust, nothing touched, nothing moved in at least two years.

'Two years…when he got Greg.' He tried to imagine it, to piece together the story from what he could see.''

'The Old Man…Moran killed him two years ago. Before or after they took Greg?' He wanted John. John would know what to say to kick Sherlock's brain into focus. He'd say the right thing or the perfect wrong thing and…

'Two…years.' The dust circulated in the room, stinging at his eyes and making them water. He sniffed the tears back and swiped at his nose with his sleeve. 'When I kissed John. Apart from Molly it all starts two years ago.'

He circled the room, taking in every detail shouting at him from the corners, from the bookcases, from the coffee table and the chair legs.

'Six years ago…Carl Powers. He took Molly…why did he take Molly? Why her?'

He looked up at the ceiling and gulped. He gripped the letter opener in his hand more tightly, then he went to the kitchen to add to his lock picking arsenal before, with only a little hesitation, making his way back up to the locked door concealing the possible answers to his questions.

~~~

'Alright.' Mike said, wiping some of the mud from his jacket. 'I think that should just about do me for motorbikes.'

John smirked at him. 'What's wrong? Scared of a little risk?' He revved the engine and Mike jumped back.

Mike rolled his eyes. 'Do you really think this thing is going to help you find Sherlock?'

John frowned down at the handlebars. 'I don't think. At all. When I'm riding it. It's nice to…stop thinking.'

Mike nodded. 'Fair enough.'

John licked his lips, then scanned the surrounding area. He couldn't help it, really. Part of him, a big part, was still abroad, still waiting on that one unlucky moment.

His eye caught movement in a tree, and he went still.

'John?'

'Do you see that, Mike?'

Mike followed John's gaze and shrugged. 'What? The bird?'

'Falcon.' John said. He wasn't much of a bird enthusiast, but one of the guys in his unit had been keen on Falconry. Apparently it was a thing in the army. 'I've seen it before.'

'How can you tell?'

John shrugged. 'Looks the same. Think this is its territory?'

Mike frowned at him. 'Does it matter?'

John shrugged. 'Could do.'

'Why?'

John pointed up to the bird, eyes intent. 'Because I think it's got a bullet casing around its neck.'

~~~

Sherlock finally got through the lock and pushed the door open, then immediately closed it again. He stood for a moment and breathed, one hand braced on the door, the other on the doorknob. When his pulse had returned to normal, he slowly opened the door again.

The room was full of Sherlock. His own face gazed out at him from every wall. School photos, surveillance stills, there were even some he recognised from family photo albums. Red threads criss-crossed in a haphazard spider's web from image to image, and every bit of wall not papered with Sherlock was covered in notes.

Sherlock ran a finger over a line of Moriarty's scrawl. It appeared the madman had attempted something approaching scientific note keeping, but it was clear his attention had wandered somewhere far more deranged in the process.

'Two parts passion. Three parts denial. Subject responding favourably.' Devolved rapidly to spidery scribbles of 'Soon. Almost. Mine. First kiss last kiss. Not yet. Not yet!'

Sherlock licked his lips. Kissing again. It was somewhere to start, certainly. He stepped gingerly through the attic room, weaving his way around the towering stacks of ancient, musty books. Spell books, most likely. Sherlock ignored them for now. Jim wasn't the sort to follow someone else's pattern.

Words leapt out at him from the walls. His own name assaulted him again and again.

Dance for me Sherlock. They said. And, Smile for me, Sherlock.

And, most worryingly, Bleed for me, Sherlock.

Sherlock shuddered and tried to push the words out of his mind. There was a desk against the far wall. It was covered in papers, several of them in danger of spilling out onto the floor. Some already had. He knelt and picked one up, and nearly dropped it.

Sherlock I can taste you.

He gagged and let go of the page, watching it flutter to the floor. He felt a wave of dizziness and braced a hand against the wall to steady himself. He felt something tacky under his palm and jerked his hand away. Reluctantly, he turned his head to see what he'd touched.

MINE

It was unmistakably blood. And it wasn't completely dry yet. Sherlock's head started spinning and he leaned against the desk, grateful that he could feel nothing but paper and wood grain against his skin.

He looked down at the papers beneath him as he waited for his vision to clear. As it did, the words on the page became all too legible.

A: Are you scared?
B: A little. But I'll be okay.
A: You can't promise me that, J---
B: Okay, then how about this? I'll try my damnedest to be okay.
A: Your damnedest?
B: John Wayne marathon with the lads. It did things to my brain.
A: [Laughter] As long as you don't come home a cowboy.
B: I promise. Just a soldier.
A: Tell me, J---
B: Eight months, twelve days.
A: Sooner.
B: I wish I could. I love you so much S-------
A: I love you.
B: I'll never get tired of hearing you say that.
A: I'll never stop saying it.
B: S-------, it's almost time.
A: Don't say it.
B: I promise.

Sherlock thought he was going to be sick. Transcripts. The sadistic bastard had transcripts of every single fucking phone conversation they'd had. Sherlock tore through the pages. Sheet following sheet of his words, of John's words. Their own, private, precious words! And…and he'd scribbled all over them. His snide remarks marred every exchange, filling the negative space with 'Silly little dog, he's always been mine.' And 'so sweet, I could just vomit.' And, repeated on every single page, 'Say it! Say it! Say it!'

On the bottom of the pile was a sheet of paper with a single sentence scrawled over and over in red pen.

Say it, Johnny Boy.

Sherlock screamed and swept all the papers off the desk, scattering them across the floor. He sat down heavily on the floor and curled in on himself, hugging his knees to his chest.

'Fuck you, Jim.' He sobbed, his body rocking back in forth of its own accord. 'Fuck you. Fuck you, Jim.'

He didn't know how long he sat there before a hand rested gently on his shoulder. He jumped and made a ridiculous squeaking noise in the back of his throat, but when he looked up it was Greg's face frowning down at him, and there was no madness in those soft brown eyes.

'Christ, kid.' He whispered. 'This is…'

'Get me out of here, Greg.' He breathed. 'Please. Oh God get me out of here.'

'Hey, hey, hey.' Greg muttered, kneeling to pull Sherlock into his arms. 'It's okay. I've got you. You're okay.'

'I'm not. I'm not. I can't--I can't do this. Greg, please!'

'Shh, shh. It's alright. You don't have to. Just, just sit still and close your eyes. Can you do that for me?'

Sherlock nodded and did as he was told.

'Okay, now tell me what to look for.'

'N-notes. Um…s-something like a recipe or, or a formula. And, um…log books. Charts. He's…he fancies himself a scientist. Um. It's a-about me. And…and John. Oh, God. John.'

'Breathe, mate. Just breathe.'

Sherlock put a hand over his chest and struggled to get oxygen into his body. He was on the verge of hyperventilating, he knew, but there seemed to be no way to stop it.

'Sherlock. Sherlock, come on, focus. You can do this. Okay, how about this. Um…it's from the pile you chucked on the ground. Says "Copper was too small. Up the scale. Cast local, break global." That make sense to you?'

Sherlock shook his head.

'I'll write it down.'

'No. No, take nothing. I'll remember. Oh God I'll remember.'

'"First kiss last kiss?"'

Sherlock shuddered. 'I don't know. I don't know!'

'Okay, okay. Breathe. Um… okay here. "Keep the penalty steep. Only absolute commitment, no prizes for quitters. First kiss--" erm…it, uh, it says that quite a lot. "First kiss last kiss". About twenty times.'

'I'll--' Sherlock swallowed past the lump in his throat. 'I'll remember it.'

'Okay. This one says "Application of will directly proportionate to complexity of Key, attempts at eradication stalled…" um…it gets a bit…weird after that. Lot's of "mine" and "soon" and the like.'

Sherlock crossed his arms over his knees and buried his face in them. 'No more, Greg. I can't.'

'You can. We're close, Sherlock. Come on, kid. So Jim's insane. We knew that already. You can do this. You're so, so strong Sherlock. You can get past this. Come on we're burning moonlight.'

They went on like that, working through what was left of the night with Moriarty's insane note keeping. Greg soon managed to work out what was useful to Sherlock and what wasn't, and he got better at choosing the relevant notes to read aloud. Sherlock, for his part, diligently committed every word to memory, even as they burned in his ears and his chest and behind his tightly closed eyes.

And then Greg made a noise, hollow and broken.

'What?' He looked up and opened his eyes.

Greg licked his lips and shifted uncomfortably. 'Sherlock, I need to know you can handle this. Tell me if you think you can go on.'

Sherlock clenched his eyes shut again and buried his face once more. 'Do it.'

Greg sighed and began to read aloud. '"They kissed. I saw it with my own eyes. That god damned boy of his. I'm losing him. I won't lose him. He wants a kiss? That's what I'll give him. One kiss to make him or break him. I'll break him. I've got the--"' His voice broke, and Sherlock heard him draw a ragged breath. '"The copper in the cell. He can be my first--my first go. I don't need the old man. I can do this on my own. Sherlock Holmes is mine. Not long now. Won't she be glad I've brought her a new friend to play with? Fucking John Watson. Let's see how much he thinks a kiss is really worth."'

He stopped reading. He was breathing heavily. 'Shit…'

'Just after he'd killed the old man.' Sherlock observed. 'When he turned you. Copper…'

'What about it?'

Sherlock shook his head, and he could practically feel Jim's words oozing about in there.

'Take me to the lake, Greg.' Sherlock whispered. 'Please. I can't breathe in here.'

'Nor can I. Come on, mate. I'll help you.'

Greg's arms were firm and solid, and if he kept his eyes closed and buried his nose in the crook of Greg's neck, Sherlock could almost fool himself into believing they were the extent of his world, that nothing existed beyond them.

But Sherlock was never all that skilled at lying to himself, and he could no more stop himself looking than he could stop his heart. He opened his eyes, and they fell across bold, messy writing scrawled above the door frame. He caught his breath, and things began to slot together in his mind.

Mustn't stray from those precious lips. They said. Break his heart and it stops beating.

Sherlock whimpered, the sound escaping before he could stop it, and he pressed his face into Greg's chest. He stayed that way, deliberately blind to his surroundings, and let Greg guide him out of the house.

When they reached the clearing, he collapsed into the water with a feeble splash, and Molly's arms rose from the shallows to hold him, pulling him against her as her body solidified. He could feel the tremors from his own body resonating in her arms.

'What did he see?' She asked quietly, clutching him protectively to her breast.

Greg shook his head and pulled the pair of them close. 'You don't want to know. And I don't want to tell you.'

Molly gently stroked her fingers through Sherlock's hair, and he gradually allowed himself to relax into the cool comfort of her embrace. He tried to pull himself together, to focus himself on the work, but his brain was buzzing and spinning out of control and even as the facts began to slot into place to form answers, for the first time since he arrived at the lake, he felt truly powerless.

Moriarty wanted him, that much was sickeningly obvious. But more to the point, Moriarty wanted to take him away from John. He would do anything to achieve that end. Up to and including murder.

If Sherlock failed in his attempt to escape, he was a dead man.

~~~

Chapter Eight