Last day of school mothafuckas.
WARNING: some DARK themes here. Possibly triggering. Just a heads up. Shit goes downhill.
You should check out mainmuffin 's new story, Wonder How? It's pretty lit.
Scroll down to the picture to reach part 2. Keep your arms and legs inside the vehicle at all times. Most of all, just sit back, and enjoy the ride.
Enjoy?
*is whimpering in a corner* it's too freaking long skfneifjfibs
~
Molly Hooper had absolutely, positively no clue how they'd been caught.
One moment their plan was working perfectly, the result of half a years worth of planning and preparation, and the next, Molly Hooper, John Watson, James Moriarty, and Greg Lestrade all found themselves with tranquilizing darts in their necks and black bags over their heads.
Molly let out a small cry at the sharp pain that bolted through her neck. Her vision was beginning to darken. What was this? She managed to look back as she fell to the ground, vaguely aware of the cries of alarm and furious curses coming from her colleagues. Oh god. What was happening? Blindly her hand reached back, feeling something that reminded her of feathers sticking out from the back of her neck.
Molly tugged it from her skin and held the object in front of her face. She was seeing double vision now. Feathers. She was right.
Molly Hooper's final thought as she felt a black cloth fall over her eyes was that of course Sherlock Holmes would be so dramatic as to use blow darts.
/
"Inspector Detective Greg Lestrade. The connections."
Molly Hooper woke up the moment the bag was tugged off of her face. Her breath quickened, sweat beading on her forehead as she blinked her vision into focus. Dimly lit room. She was kneeling. Hands were bound behind her back. To her left was what Molly could only presume to be the rest of her crew, also kneeling, also bound. There was a figure, standing above them. She couldn't quite make out who it was (goddamnit- why wouldn't her vision just focus) though she had a good guess as to who it was.
Molly looked at the ground as she shook her head, forcing back hot tears that swelled in her eyes. Oh god. Oh god. Oh god. What had happened? What had happened? It was so perfect. Everything was going to go so well. They were finally going to take down the Holmes empire. No. No. God no.
Molly's head snapped up when she heard the groaning. Her heart thrummed rapidly in her chest and her body shook with the power of the adrenaline pulsing through her veins. Her vision had finally snapped into focus and her head swiveled to the left. Sure enough, Sherlock Holmes stood over the kneeling figure of Greg Lestrade. Molly felt her stomach twist into knots at the sick grin strung on the infamous consulting criminals face.
"Provided the team with the resources to carry out their plan." Molly felt her breath catch in her throat as she watched the scene. Lestrade hadn't looked up but he could see tears of rage streaming down his face. The inspector clenched his jaw as the strong hands of Sebastian Moran pushed down on his back and as Sherlock swiftly kicked him in the ribs. Molly winced. Those would be broken. At the pain in Lestrade's choked back cry they might have already been. Perhaps he'd used the last of his strength to fight back before he submitted to the poison of the darts. Molly didn't want to to think about it. Not when she saw Holmes moving down the line.
His icy eyes glinted with what could have been humor or rage. It was hard to tell. The black suit he was dressed in had sleeves spattered with a dark liquid. Molly felt her heart near stop in her chest. Who. Whose blood was that. Her dark eyes rapidly flitted around as Holmes paused over the kneeling figure of a shaking John Watson. Her gaze landed on James to the direct left of her and a sick feeling twisted her stomach.
His head for bent down, normally slicked back hair hanging in loose strands in front of his eyes, his breathing labored and mouth open, a mixture of blood and saliva dripping from it and pooling below him. Whether he was awake or not Molly wasn't sure, but she knew for certain that Sherlock had made sure Moriarty knew he was beaten.
"John Watson." At the sound of Holmes's velvet voice, Molly's head snapped up. "The strategist." John was staring straight ahead with narrowed eyes and a straight mouth, his back straightened and shoulders down. A true soldier, Molly thought, biting back a bitter laugh. "You know," Holmes said nonchalantly, "your wife was quite a good rat." Molly's heart sank to her stomach, a breathy "no" escaping her lips. John visibly stiffened, shock clouding his features though he did not take his eyes from the place in which he was staring.
"Yes. It was quite a long time before we caught on to her plan. And really, I must applaud you on your choice of spouse." Sherlock crouched down, meeting John's gaze directly with his mouth twisted into a smirk. "It took us an equally long amount of time for us to get the information of your plan out of her. She has quite the endurance levels." Molly felt hot tears slide down her face and could see John's eyes become glassy. She couldn't help but admire the silver-haired man, however. His shoulders had begun to sag and eyes had widened in horrified thought but he hadn't made any move to break his position.
"Though," Holmes continued, the smirk not leaving his face, "it was quite a relief when we discovered what really would make her break. Not not the broken bones. Not the deep gashes on her back. No. All we had to do was aim the little red dot on your head and she cracked like that." Sherlock snapped his fingers at the last word, making John visibly flinch. "She broke down, quietly giving us the information we needed in exchange for your life." The consulting criminal stood up, straightening his jacket. Molly couldn't stop the tears streaming down her face and now John's if she tried. Not at Sherlock's next words.
"She sends her love to Posey. Or, is it Rosie? I couldn't tell, her voice was muffled behind the thick glass of the gas chamber we had her locked in."
John Watson broke. Rage equivalent only to that of the gods flashed across his face. "You fucking bastard!" John shrieked at Holmes, making a move to try to get to his feet, only to have his back kicked roughly by Sebastian Moran and send him face-first on the ground. John didn't try to get up. He just laid there, letting broken sobs rack through his body and bounce around the room, accompanied only by the loud laughing of Sherlock as the lithe man made his way over the James. John's sobs became background noise.
"James Moriarty." Molly watched as James Moriarty's heavy breathing paused. Holmes was staring at him, the grin completely wiped from his face as Moriarty's head slowly lifted, meeting Sherlock's gaze with a small smile on his mouth. Molly had to keep herself from gasping. Blood poured down the side of his face from a large gash just above his temple. More streamed from a deep cut on his lip and even more bubbled from the corner of his upturned mouth.
The consulting criminals icy gaze narrowed as he spoke, "the ringleader." And that was all he said. That was all he needed to say. It was like they could read each other's minds. They might as well have. They'd studied each other for so long, so desperate to see the other, to know them.
To beat them.
Sherlock Holmes stared at the grinning James Moriarty, a frown tugging at his lips. Tension built in the room and the only noise was that of John's quiet sobs from his place laying face-first on the ground.
Anger boiled in Molly's blood. Not at Mary. Not at herself. Not at any of their team and it's useless work. The anger she felt for Sherlock Holmes alone was unmatched.
"Why don't you two just kiss already," Molly spat from her place beside James. Her gaze was focused on the floor and jaw clenched. Holmes broke Moriarty's gaze to look at Molly for a split second before flicking back to the grinning man.
"Molly Hooper," amusement rumbled in the voice of the consulting criminal as he made his way to stand in front of her, James Moriarty staring at him intensely with the grin never leaving his face. Molly didn't look up, only stared at the pair of sleek black shoes with her head down. "The assassin."
Sherlock bent down, his fingertips lightly tilting Molly's head upwards. She flinched at the contact, fighting back to instinct to curl away in repulse. "The nobody." Sherlock hissed, the grin on his face widening at the word as his fingers dug into her skin, fingernails leaving crescent-shaped cuts in her cheeks.
Molly didn't wince away, only spat directly in the consulting criminals face.
Sherlock, on the other hand, did wince, momentary surprise flashing across his face. Molly knew that Moran was coming up behind her, prepared to stomp on her neck, but Sherlock smiled. Smiled. Horror gnawed at Molly's insides as the consulting criminal chuckled lightly and wiped away the spit from his cheek.
"Feisty," he said, releasing his tight grip but keeping his pointer finger under her chin and tilting her head upwards, "I like this one." Holmes raised his gaze above Molly, presumably meeting that of Moran's. "Why don't you take her to my office? I'd like to talk with this one in private." Molly felt the urge to vomit at the look in Sherlock's eyes. In fact, she was quite sure she would have if it wasn't for the fact that she suddenly felt herself being lifted by the collar and strung over the broad shoulder of Moran.
"No! Sherlock Holmes, you bastard! You bastard!" Molly shrieked, kicking ferociously at Moran and squirming, desperate to escape his grasp. Mentally she scolded herself for being a failure to assassin-kind though she knew that the drugs from the dart must still have had an effect on the capacity in which she was able to maneuver.
Unfazed, Moran continued to the other end of the dim room, opening a door that revealed a bright white hallway. Molly was momentarily shocked at the scene, only snapping back to focus when the hulking man began to open the first door on the right. Faintly she heard yells coming from the dim room, and now fueled with a fresh batch of anger, Molly let out a yell, craned her neck, and bit down as hard as she could on the tip of Moran's ear, satisfaction swelling in her body when she tasted the metallic tang of blood on her tongue.
The man let out a growl as he opened the door, slinging Molly from his back and letting her land back first on a suddenly carpeted floor. Molly let out an 'oomph' when she landed and groggily sat up, whipping around when she heard the sound of the door lock behind her. She scrambled to her feet, observing the room around her as she worked to undo the tie around her hands.
It looked like one would imagine the office of a consulting criminal to look like. The office of Sherlock Holmes, at least. It was, in a word, vintage. A fireplace the only source of light, a large mahogany desk at the end of the room and a deep red penbrooke armchair under it. Bookcase lining the walls, a human skull resting on the mantle above the fireplace, red carpet lined with gold under Molly's feet. She looked down and felt her breath catch in her throat. Make that a red carpet spattered unnaturally with a dark liquid. People had died in this room. A small sob escaped her lips at the thought that there was a highly likely chance of her being the next one...
Molly heard gunshots.
Two, to be exact. Two gunshots, about four seconds apart, followed by muted screams that were impossible to pinpoint. She was curled up against the wall, her face buried in her knees, flinches shivering throughout her body after each sound echoed through the building.
The fire in the fireplace had died considerably, now a slow burn that casted long shadows through an already dimly lit room. Molly wasn't quite sure how long she'd been sitting there. She wasn't quite sure who was firing the gun and who the bullets were hitting.
She wasn't quite sure of anything.
Molly stiffened when she heard the door trapping her in the dark office unlock, soon jumping to her feet and sliding against the wall and behind the door as it slowly opened.
She held her hands in front of her face, having freed herself of the zip tie ages ago, and, when the door closed again, attacked from behind.
If it weren't for the drugs still coursing through her veins, Molly was sure she would have been successful. A trained assassin, with a solid hit list and extensive military and defense training, should have been successful. However, the moment Molly felt her hand wrap under the chin of who she assumed to be Sherlock and the other ready to push his head and snap his neck, the consulting criminal surprised her by crouching. Crouching and then tugging Molly down by literally pulling her over their shoulder and causing her to land back-first on the floor. Again.
Molly let out a small cry of pain though instantly scrambled up, desperately trying to blink her blurred vision back into focus.
"Not going to lie," Sherlock Holmes, whose voice Molly quickly identified, "I was expecting a little more from you, little assassin."
Molly let out a strangled cry and, with a still hazy vision and lethargic movements, threw a jab, quickly followed by a roundhouse kick. The jab was sidestepped, the roundhouse caught. Molly turned on the foot that ground her to the floor, facing Sherlock's way, and jerked her foot back and then forward. It did catch the consulting criminal in the chest, however, due to Molly's lack of power, didn't do much and rather caused Sherlock to take a few steps back.
"American Kenpo? Interesting," Holmes remarked as he regained his position. "A defensive style, taught mostly in response to attacks upon oneself. Quick, solid strikes. Hit-and-run attacks." Molly flew in with a punch, anger fueling her motions. Her breath caught in her throat when Sherlock blocked it, a smirk on his face as his eyes met hers. "If I had to guess, little assassin, I'd say you were scared."
Counter-grabbing Molly's arm, he pulled her into him closely, so closely that she could feel the consulting criminals breath on her skin. Taken aback, she almost didn't realize that he had her arm position over her elbow. One tug down and it would break. Panic surged over Molly and, without thinking, her knee flashed up and connected with the consulting criminals groin.
Sherlock Holmes looked momentarily surprised as his breath was sucked from his chest and as he tumbled backwards, letting go of Molly's arm. The assassin saw her opportunity and flashed forward, readying another attack.
That time Molly was sure she would have succeeded had it not been for the gun Sherlock tugged from the inside of his black suit and cocked, aiming it right at Molly's head. She froze. She was almost point blank but not close enough to try and shoot forward and use a technique, not with the drugs still pumping through her veins. However, with the confined space running wasn't necessarily an option.
Shit.
"Congratulations, little assassin," Holmes purred as he glided forward so that the gun was pressed to Molly's temple. "There's a gun on your head."
Molly's breath became shaky, her hands trembling.
"I should have expected American Kenpo," Sherlock was standing behind her, leaning in so that his breath warmed her ear. Molly flinched. "That was always your favorite."
"Don't," Molly's quiet plea came out hushed, her voice cracking slightly.
"I had taekwondo. We would practice on each other for hours. Argue about the better style for days on end. I sprained your ankle once. You broke my nose in response." The consulting criminals hand wrapped lightly around Molly's neck, pushing her chin up. The assassin closed her eyes, feeling tears begin to well in their corners.
"Please. No." Even she could barely hear herself.
"How young we were." Molly stiffened, her jaw clenching as she felt the criminals lips press lightly to the side of her neck. "What happened, my little assassin?" He breathed into her skin.
Realization made Molly's eyes snap open. He was right. She was an assassin, drugs or not. And besides, he wasn't going to kill her. Not when there was something he so obviously needed.
With a grunt, Molly shoved her elbow into Sherlock's stomach, tearing from him. His momentary surprise was all she needed as her hands wrapped around his wrist from where she stood in front of him, and she readied to bring the criminals arm down and break it on her shoulder. However, Sherlock recovered quickly and managed to react just in time, kicking Molly's back and sending her flying forward. She went with the force, not releasing Sherlock's arm as it slid quickly out of her grasp and tearing the gun from his every so slightly panicked hold and landing in a wobbly forward stance.
She had the gun. She whirled quickly and pointed it at the detective. Shock flashed across his face, though only for an instant. It was soon replaced with a sly smile.
"Wonderful," Sherlock cooed, raising his hands up in mock defeat. "What a show, really. I suppose I should have accounted for the adrenaline rush that must have overtook the drugs I still have running in your system."
"American Kenpo was always better than taekwondo. There's no show. It gets the job done quickly." Molly snapped at Sherlock. Her trembling hands had stilled, replaced with the steady pose of an assassin.
The criminal shrugged, the smile not leaving his face. "Whatever you say."
"Fine," Molly growled, "I say to call your guards off of my team. Let us all go. You've had your fun. Now it's time to call defeat."
"Defeat?" A small chuckle rose in Sherlock's throat, "I don't think so."
"It doesn't seem like you're in any position to negotiate, Holmes."
"Then shoot."
The two words admittedly caught Molly off guard. However she regained her position and narrowed her eyes, her cheek resting on her arm as the pad of her finger rested lightly into the trigger.
"Go on then. Shoot me."
"Who's to say I won't?"
"Oh I'm positive you won't."
"Oh?"
"Especially not when any sign of me dead will wreak havoc outside of this room. All of my people will shoot all of your people. You think this is war? You haven't seen war, little assassin."
Molly tried not to let her hesitation show, "you're bluffing."
"Not even you believe that, Molly." The lightness in Holmes's tone had disappeared.
"Then why did you keep me alive. Bring me here?"
A pout crossed Sherlock's sharp features, "I just wanted to catch up. Old friends, chatting again. That, and you are the best for hire assassin on the market."
"I stopped being for hire ages ago," Molly hissed through gritted teeth, "I stopped being for hire when you showed up and stuck your nose where it didn't belong."
"Oh really?"
"You've killed hundreds that we know of."
Sherlock tskd disapprovingly, "since when did morals ever stop you? I've seen what you can do. What you've done. You're cold hearted to bone, my little assassin. Tell me, how much is the DI's office paying you for these little conquests? Goodness, you must be driving them broke."
"I take no money if it means ending you once for all!" Molly snarled.
"Then do it!" Sherlock yelled at her, all light disappearing from his eyes.
Molly began slowly pulling the trigger. She remembered Sherlock. How smart he had once been. How happy. His dark curls, once long and wild, falling over his face as he bent over shallow creeks with Molly and carefully watched the minnows that swam by. His eyes, narrowed and intent, as he looked into Molly's eyes when they were only nine and kissed the new bandage on her scraped knee, telling her he'd always be there for her.
His fingers, stained with crimson blood as he stood from hunching over the limp shape of the man sprawled in the alleyway. Molly had been blurry eyed and weak, leaning against the wet brick wall she had just been pinned to, but she still remembered the dark look that had flashed over Sherlock's eyes and the blood that dripped from his fingers and he looked at her and proclaimed the man dead. They had been eighteen years old.
His sullen face when he quietly explained to her that he had to go only a year later.
His straightened back. His black, crisp suit. His clipped way of talking. His velvet voice. Molly hadn't recognized Sherlock when she saw him for the first time, nearly nine years later. She had been expecting a man. She was met with a monster. She'd questioned herself after the night she'd seen him on the news, being faced with a murder they'd just barely managed to link back to him. Everybody knew he was guilty. The smirk that lingered on his face told it all. It was almost like he knew that he was in the ordeal that would make him famous. He basked in every second of it.
Yet, as he walked out of the court a free man with his hands in his pockets on the TV, Molly had taken a break from eating ice cream cross legged on a hotel bed and looked at the snipers gun tucked neatly in the corner of the room. That night she wondered how both of them had managed to become so savage.
That night, Molly stopped being an assassin for hire.
The gun in her hand felt heavy. It was odd. The weight of it had always felt so comfortable. Guns had become a part of her. She had always felt so open and bare without them.
Yet this one made her arm almost sag. Molly's eyes had once again become glazed with tears and Sherlock's arms dropped to his side.
"Look at us," he said with a small sigh, taking a step closer. "Look at what we've become." Another. "You must wonder how this happened." Another. "I do too." He was close to her now. The gun was pointing at his chest. Molly hadn't remembered letting it drop from its place aimed at his head. "Truth is." Another step. "I really couldn't tell you if you asked for my life story past the time I left you. It all happened so fast." The gun was pressing into his chest now. Sherlock didn't seem to mind. "Put down the gun, Molly," he whispered, letting his hand raise and cup her cheek. She began to drop her arm, her eyes wide. The tears were falling now. "Stay with me," the man with the dark hair and icy eyes that stood before her whispered, "please."
The moment Molly had registered the pain lacing his rich voice was the moment the bomb went off.
Oh my.
She had forgotten about Plan B.
Sherlock threw his body around Molly's, shielding her from the bits of rubble, but Molly was gone before he had even turned. She had thrown herself behind the mahogany desk, suddenly grateful it was there. She stood up when the blast had passed. A small gasp escaped her lips. Sherlock lay on the floor, dark blood staining his suit and the carpet and his skin. He was out, completely unconscious. Molly knelt by his limp body as two fingers slowly went to press on his neck. She was torn by whether or not she wanted to feel a slow pulse.
She was even more torn by the fact that she felt relief when a lazy pulse beat under her touch.
"Is he alive?!" Molly stood quickly, seeing James standing at the newly made entrance. Dry blood caked his skin and new blood streamed lightly from the fresh cuts that peppered his body.
"The Plan B team was late," Molly called back, trying to keep her voice from shaking. "He's alive."
James picked through the rubble as the smoke began to clear. Molly's lungs burned but she ignored it.
"The Plan B team was very late," the smaller man agreed solemnly. He stood by Molly, staring down at the unconscious consulting criminal. "Give me your gun."
Molly handed the little weapon to him, squinting past the smoke, "who's alive?"
"All of Holmes's guys died in the explosion. Before it though... they shot Lestrade. In the shoulder. I highly doubt he'll make it."
"A-And John?"
"He managed to grab the gun. Had managed to wriggle his way out of the zip ties without anyone noticing. You taught him that, if I remember correctly. He stomped on one Moran's shin. Broke another guys wrist. Blind rage fueled him. I've never seen anything like it. But then he turned the gun to his temple and..."
Molly's chest tightened, "no..."
"Hey! Let's go!"
Molly and James looked behind themselves, seeing the bulletproof vest-clad officers making their way through the rubble of the explosion. One was waving frantically at them, motioning for them to follow. Molly turned away and began working through the debris that littered the room. Things were still falling from the remains of the ceiling and walls in fat chunks. The bomb had been small but had still done its job very well.
"Do you think he'll get placed in one of those fancy jail cells? Bribe the director maybe?" Molly called to Moriarty. When she got no response she looked back. Then she froze. James stood, his eyes wide and wild as they looked down at Sherlock, the gun in his hand shaking.
Molly knew that look.
"James..." she said slowly. "Don't do it. I know you want to."
"He killed... so many," was Moriarty's trembling reply.
"That doesn't mean you have to as well."
"He shot Lestrade. He gas-chambered Mary after torturing her for weeks. He made John... look at what he's done."
Molly didn't have a response for that. All she could reply with was a strangled, "don't," as memories of the heavy gun and Sherlock's pained eyes flashed through her head.
James looked back at Molly, his dark eyes wide. The look that clouded his face sent shudders down her spine. Oh god. An ugly smile twisted the corners of his mouth. Oh god. Molly's eyes widened.
"Don't-"
The gun went off. Molly screamed. There was so much blood. Why was there always so much blood?