What You Took From Me

Come With Me

                They stood outside her hospital room, shoulder to shoulder, Sherlock a tight knot next to him. John was quiet, letting Sherlock have his thoughts. He wished there was something he could do to ease this for Sherlock, something he could say, but Sherlock’s expression was blocked off. Sherlock was blocked off. Cut off from him. John felt isolated, but he knew that if he felt isolated, Sherlock… Sherlock must be worse. Isolated even in his own mind, left in the dark. He must be so alone, so… afraid.

                Sherlock could see only the door before him, his mind reeling. Molly was just beyond that door. This was her room, a place where she would be. He thought of her, the last time he saw her. He could see her in that car, drenched in blood. It was matted in her hair, staining her clothes. The metallic stench had been thick in the air, and he wondered now if she was still be covered in red. He wondered if she was mad at him.

                “Sherlock,” John began, his voice as soft as the hand that reached out to touch his shoulder.

                “What if she hates me?” Sherlock accidently let slip before he could stop himself. He immediately cursed himself and before John could comment, he added, “Shut up.”

                “What- no,” John said, taking a step back, “Hold on. Sherlock, she’s not going to hate you. She can’t. It’s not Molly. You know that. You know, you’ve seen how smart she is, how strong she is. She’s alive and she’ll be stronger yet.”

                Sherlock cast a glance his way, his eyes searching John’s face. John was right. He was always right. Sherlock took a deep breath and readied himself as he pushed the door open.

                Molly was resting in her bed, dark circles beneath her eyes. She looked up as soon as the door opened, her eyes finding them, going back and forth between them. A smile slid across her face and she lit up.

                “John, Sherlock,” she beamed. “I’m so happy to see you boys okay.”

                “You’re happy,” John snorted. “We’re thrilled. You gave us a bit of a scare.”

                “More than a scare,” Sherlock corrected as he stood, back straight, hands behind his back. He strode up to Molly’s side, his eyes bearing down on her. She looked up at him with a smile and he pressed a light kiss to the top of her head. Sherlock could see John smirk in the corner of his eyes. “I’m glad you’re alright.”

                “I was told to tell you ‘M says hello’,” Molly said, her voice soft, her eyes growing distant for a moment.

                The air around them seemed to freeze. M. Was she saying… Moriarty? He’s dead. He shot himself in the head. Sherlock had seen it. The blood. The brains. It was all over the rooftop that day.

                “Moriarty’s dead,” Molly continued. “He said that. That guy who took me. He said that Jim was dead, that he wanted you to suffer. But he never said his own name. I think he knew I was going to live.”

                Sherlock stood there, blank faced and blinking rapidly. His eyelids were the only thing he could move. Breathing was impossible. He could barely feel his heart beating. Moriarty was dead. But someone who knew him, someone who how to work like him. A friend? Someone he trusted? It was a thought to scoff at, really, but from the sound of it, it seemed possible. But who would a man like Moriarty trust?

                Someone swift.

                Deadly.

                Smart.

                Sherlock’s eyes drifted to John, his counterpart. What if Moriarty had a counterpart like him? The dark mirror of them. The consulting criminal and the hired gun to their consulting detective and ex-military colleague. But who was he? What was his next move? He wanted to make the Holmes boys suffer, he said. Mycroft was in the hospital. Molly had been put in the morgue. Mrs. Hudson, Lestrade… John. John. John. John. He was next. Sherlock was sure of it. John would have to be next.

                He had to figure this out.

                “Thank you, Molly,” Sherlock said, embracing her quickly before dashing away. He was on a mission. This was going to be solved. Tonight. His heart thundered as he made his way down the halls, brushing passed nurses and doctors.

                “Sherlock!” John tried to call after him, but Sherlock was gone. His long legs had carried him off and away faster than John could get going. He let out a heavy sigh and dropped his head.

                “Are you two together?” Molly asked, her voice soft and curious.

                John’s head snapped up, his cheeks aflame. “Um… yeah. Yeah, we are.”

                “A couple,” Molly clarified and John nodded. She smiled at him, her eyes gleaming. “Good. I’m glad.”

                The red in John’s face increased, he could feel it, burning warm. “I should… I’m going to go after him. Glad you’re better, Molly.”

                Sherlock was already outside, the wind ruffling his hair. He was sure John was making up for Sherlock’s abrupt exit, so he stopped on the sidewalk and waited. He leaned up against the building, wishing for a cigarette. There was so much that needed to be done and he had a fresh bout of motivation. He could do this. He just needed John to hurry up.

                “Mr. Sherlock Holmes? Is that you?” asked a voice, low, like it was a secret causing Sherlock to look up. He saw a man, older then himself, his chin covered in stubble. Everything about him was dark, from the shadows under his eyes, to his eyes, to his hair. He was tan, muscular and lean. There were tattoos showing up beyond his collar.

                “You must be, M,” Sherlock said. He could see it. Standing straight, the tattoo of his military unit. There were two guns outlined beneath his jacket. “I can’t believe you’re showing up here, like this.”

                “Why?” he scoffed. “Not like anyone knows who I am,” he added. “But I suggest we get going, unless you want John Watson to know who I am.”

                Sherlock tried to keep his face blank, to keep from flinching. “In the public?”

                “Come with me and I won’t have to do anything to him,” he smiled, but his eyes, they were dangerous. They reminded Sherlock a lot of Moriarty. “Otherwise, I will slaughter him and it will be painful.”

                The man put his hand out and an unmarked car stopped.  Sherlock stared at it, considering. He looked over his shoulder and through the small window, he could see the sandy colored hair. John was heading their way and there was a distinct click of a gun causing Sherlock’s heart to stop.

                “Fine, let’s go now,” Sherlock said and the man ushered him into the car.

                As the car sped off, Sherlock could see John burst through the door and to the sidewalk, gawking after him. He watched as John grew smaller and smaller until he was gone in the distance, all the while, he could feel his own heart cracking ever more, becoming colder the farther he drove from John. The cold spread from his heart and through his body, leaving him more alone then he had felt in a long time.

                “We have much to discuss,” the other man said, his tone low, filled with dark humor.