Mr Holmes and Miss Hooper - a Sherlolly Story

Chapter 33

(Once again, a little bit of a trigger warning for this chapter and the next few upcoming - this part of the story involves violence against a woman so if that's not something you're comfortable with please just do what's best for yourself, your health and happiness is most important to me! Look after yourselves <3)
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Molly opened her eyes as she heard the latch on the door click again. She wasn't sleeping, she knew it would be impossible to sleep in this place, but staring at the black of her eyelids was better than staring at the concrete walls. Molly wasn't exactly sure how long it had been. There were no windows in her confinement apart from the one in the door which had been covered by a rag or something to stop her from seeing out of it after she'd approached it the day she arrived. But the hunger, tiredness and thirst she was feeling, plus her signs of dehydration told her it had to have been at least two days now. Her captor's henchman had continued to bring in food that she didn't touch, and she'd only been given two bottles of unopened water since she arrived.

The heavy door swung open and the daylight beyond it made her wince. The only other source of light in the room was a dim, flickering light bulb hanging from the tall, concrete ceiling. She heard him whistling to himself before she saw him, an eerie rendition of Frankie Vali and the Four Seasons. She tried to block it out, not letting this psychopath taint that memory of her and Sherlock for her. He sauntered into the room before pouncing over to her, landing crouched on all fours inches away from her face.

"Good morning, Miss Hooper."

"What do you want from me?" She sneered at him.

"Now, that would be telling," he tapped the side of his nose, "a good magician never reveals his secrets."

"Oh, so you're a magician now? What happened to criminal mastermind?"

His nostrils flared, she knew she was pissing him off. She knew her cajoling and her refusal to be timid infuriated him, but infuriating him was better than being afraid of him and so she soldiered on.

"You are quite the sassy one, aren't you? I'm sure that puts the great Sherlock Holmes in his place sometimes. I bet he even likes it."

He winked and waggled his eyebrows at her, passing what was supposedly a seductive smile her way. She wondered at how he managed to make every action seem so evil. There was no good in this man. She looked away from his dark eyes but he reached roughly for her chin and dragged her eyes back to his.

"I don't like it."

She could feel his breath on her skin, speckles of his saliva assaulting her cheeks as he shouted in her face. Her head pounded and she flinched a bit. He put on a fake mask of sympathy.

"Aw poor baby, does it still hurt?" He suddenly reached round to the back of Molly's head and pressed the heel of his palm into her wound, she gasped in pain. "Ah yes, good. Let's not forget what Seb will do to you when you do things I don't like." He stood then, dropping the apple and unsealed bottle of water he'd had onto the floor. "I'll see you soon."

Molly waited until he'd left and she'd heard the door lock again before she let out a silent sob. She reached her own hand round to the back of her head, running her fingers over the dried blood matted into her hair. She'd done something to upset 'Jim' the day before (she had noted his change in clothes and assumed it was yet another day), and he had thrown her tray of food at her before sending in the brawn to his brain to 'teach her a lesson'. The man hadn't done a lot to her, definitely less than she thought he would but that didn't mean him throwing her against the ground by her hair so the back of her head smashed into the floor hurt any less. She had felt the hot trickle of blood and panicked at first, but she allowed her rational medically trained mind to assess herself before allowing herself to feel frightened. It was merely a surface wound. Much like the bruise on her cheek where Moriarty had slapped her the previous day. Her wrists had bruised quite badly and she had purple fingerprints indented in her upper arms from where the maniac had grabbed her whenever he felt like tossing her around the room but she couldn't bring herself to care. If she was hurt then she was alive, and if she was alive then there was still hope of Sherlock finding her.