Natalie

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We were hugging when I heard a noise down the hall. I disconnected myself and pushed him backwards, spinning around into my sulking position. And the second I did, Jim opened the door. "Hurry!" He yelled angrily into the room. "Oh." You could hear the crimson smile curling over his lips. "You two have a domestic?" He practically chuckled. Mark was sprawled out against the dresser, and I remained as I was. "Well, no food for little Natalie. Tsk. tsk." Jim said in his usually deep and amused sounding voice. "You, come on." He told Mark harshly and left the room swiftly. Mark began to shut the door as I heard a crash and the sound of bullets down the hall and rolled over, sitting up. "Ah! The older Holmes! Finally!" I ran to the door, but too late, closed. I began bashing and banging, hurting my already bruised hands. They may not have killed me in my week here, but they came close. Moriarty wanted information, and I was weaker than Sherlock. He beat, he cut, he slashed, he burnt. I had cuts and bruises all over my arms, calves, and face. I had lost a lot of weight. The dress was bloody and torn. My hair was mess of greasy, spit-filled, bloody tangles.

"Daaad!" I called hoarsely. Yelling hurt me after a week of screaming and crying, but I wouldn't stop for anything. I continued to pound and yell until I was crumpled against the door. Tears welled in my eyes from the pain, I still tried to get his attention. "D-daaad..." I croaked, crying, falling down the door. Barely conscious the door flew open, pushing me to the side. I squinted, the tears still streaming down my face, curled behind the door, all I could see was flashes of a laughing Jim, him slapping me, him cutting my cheek, all the torture coming back to me in spurts. I felt someone pick me up, seeing a glimpse of Sherlock's face. I curled into him. Focus on Sherlock. Flash of Jim's laughter. Sherlock. I can feel him cut my cheek. SHERLOCK. I'm crying. It's all replaying.

"Tell me, Natalie." Jim punched me hard across the jaw. Blood welled up in my mouth. I spit it in his face. He chuckled. "If that's how you want to do it." He wiped the bloody spit from his face with his sleeve. He pulled out the lighter from the torture table. "Lets see how you like fire." I gulped and tried my very hardest to hide the fear behind my eyes but it didn't work nearly well enough. "So you don't like it, hmm? GOOD." He said, shoving the lighter under the my arm, the strapped-to-the-wooden-chair arm. I bit my lip and took it, tears beginning to roll down my face. "TELL ME!" He bellowed, leaving the lighter. I began to scream, but still not giving him the answer he wanted. He held the lighter even closer, I could feel the hot metal against my skin. "WHAT IS SHERLOCK HOLMES WEAKNESS?" He asked again and finally it was all too much. The pain, the tears, the screaming, Jim yelling, all of it.

"ME!" I yelled out, the word echoing through-out the room. He flicked off the lighter and I looked at the devilish smile spreading across his face.

"Thank you, Natalie. Thank you very much." He continued with his grin and left me sitting in the room, strapped up to the chair, bleeding, burned, and crying.

I woke up in a hospital bed with Sherlock by my side, sitting in the chair bedside, eyes closed. I tried not to make an noise, but I had to know how long I'd been there. I sat forward and drew his immediate attention, his eyes snapped quickly open. "Natalie. Thank God." He said in softly in his deep voice. I opened my mouth to ask, but he held up his hand. I sat back down in my bed. "It's been four days. I got you out of there Natalie. You're safe now." I'm safe when he's around. Or John. I'm not safe, I'm a danger. But wait. Four days?

"Four?" I croaked hoarsely. My throat was still scratchy, but it didn't hurt. "I was only there a week." I stated, sending my dear father into state of confusion.

"Nat, it was a month." He told me. I shot up again, this time I wore the confused look. No. No. No. I marked a day every time I woke up. I distinctly remembered seven. Unless. Unless I only woke up seven days. The torture, the boredom, the escape plans, the retreating into my mind palace. How long did I sit in that room? "What did he do to you?" I was brought out of my thoughts by Sherlock's growl.

I shuddered as the memories crashed back. "H-he..." The hospital room melted away and I began to panic as the room I was tortured in came into focus. No. No, Sherlock saved me. H-he saved me. I began to shake. He wasn't there. But Jim was. He walked into the room. "You're my very favorite, Natalie. Do you know why?" He circled me like a shark surveying a small fish. "You're the hardest to break." He whispered in my ear from behind. "What shall we do to you today? It only took six tries last time. Lets see what we can get out of you, now that you're broken." I hadn't slept at all since the last time I was dragged into the room. And I could feel the raw flesh still on my arm from yesterday's little meeting. I was determined to not give him anymore information. At all. But every bit of my body told me I wouldn't be holding out long. Jim slapped me back into reality.

I was still on the hospital bed, but Sherlock was sitting on it too, right beside me. I was slumped onto his shoulder, and he had his arm around me. "Shhhh. Nat, I'm right here. You're safe now." I shuddered and curled tighter to him.

"D-Daddy..." I whimpered, pulling my knees to my chest and wrapping my arms around them. I knew half of him still wanted to know, the other half didn't want to send me into another flashback. So I composed myself. "Torture...." I threw the word out of my mouth, And I knew that was all I needed to say. He knew how bad it was from the evidence I wore all over my body, and by my actions. I didn't usually act like this in front of anyone, sometimes him or John. I am reserved. I don't cry and shiver, I bite my lip and sniffle. When I looked into his eyes there was an anger boiling like I've never seen.

"I'll get him Natalie. I promise. I'll get him." He reassured me. Or maybe he was reassuring himself. "Now, why?" he asked, meaning 'Why the hell did they torture you?'

"Information." I replied, meaning 'Jim wanted to know anything and everything about you.'

"How much?" he asked again, 'How much information did he take? How far did he hurt you?'

I smiled remembering out first encounter. "Shoe size, favorite color, current case, weaknesses." I listed, 'I was a smart alec in the beginning, but he dug deeper and deeper, until he hit the center."

"Anything else?" He raised an eyebrow, 'Any other random details?'

"Mark." I remembered. 'He was there'

"How?" He questioned. 'As a friend or foe?'

"Well..." I sighed. 'Foe, but friend.' Then I thought about it, knowing he would need an answer, whether it was the one he wanted it not. "Forgiven." that's how. This did not seem to please my dear old Dad. This he needed more details about. So I gave them to him. I told Sherlock everything that Mark had told me, and he seemed to understand.

That's the thing about Dad and me. We brought something to each other. To him, I brought humanity, and reassurance. It was in there, locked away in the dungeon of his mind palace, and I was the only one with the key. And with me, he wasn't alone. He wasn't miles ahead, with me he was challenged. And to me, he brought acceptance and encouragement. When he was around, I wasn't 'that freak', I wasn't 'the know-it-all', I was the proud daughter of the 'know-it-all freak' and I would promptly insult the intelligence of anyone who questioned the man. And whenever I wanted to do anything, he would nod and follow behind. I once told him I wanted to fly, he stated rather simply, without looking up, 'You'll have beautiful wings.'