Disclaimer. All characters belong to Mr Moffatt, Mr Gatiss and Mr Doyle. All are loved by me.

Time Period: set sometime after TRF, when Sherlock has returned.


Molly cried out in agony as her face hit the wall, and she slumped to the floor, desperately trying to draw breath. She could taste the iron in her mouth and even dizzy from the pain she knew she was bleeding. She hoped it was something as simple as a split lip.

Roughly, she was hauled to her feet, her hands trying to keep her face away from further punishment against the rough plaster wall. Her assailant threw her towards the small camp bed arranged in one corner of the room for her. He missed and she landed awkwardly on her right hip, causing her to cry out again in pain.

"Enough Kasuf," a male voice called from the door way. "She won't be of use to us if she can't work."

Kasuf, Molly's attacker, reluctantly backed away. "Yes, Father. But she should know her place. She spoke without permission."

Molly used the camp bed to drag herself upright, and stood unsteadily, favouring her undamaged left hip and leg. She wanted to scream, but she also knew it was futile.

Kasuf's father tutted. "Dr Hooper. It is unfortunate for you that the West continues to educate women and elevate them to positions above their station in life. If you had learned your place, and remained at home, you would not be in this situation now. However, I will forgive your mistake this time. I will not a second. For the last time, I warn you. You may only speak to the women freely, but never to my sons without permission. Do you understand?"

Molly kept her eyes on the floor, and nodded slowly, her head still recovering from it's impact with the wall. He had changed clothes from earlier this morning during her abduction, but he was still an old man, looking about 70 years old, and walking with the aid of stick.

"Good. Now Dr Hooper, I ask you, and you may answer, how does my son Kamil fair?"

Molly swallowed the blood in her mouth, hoping to lubricate her throat. "Not good. I've stopped the bleeding, but he has lost a lot of blood. I am also concerned about infection. He really should have proper hospital treatment."

"You will treat him here." The old man watched her closely. "You have something else to say?"

Molly nodded warily.

"Speak then."

"Have you been able to obtain the antibiotics and other drugs I requested? He is going to need them to prevent an infection, and for pain management."

"You should have them within the hour." He indicated for Kasuf to leave the room. "Return to Kamil, Dr Hooper, and ensure he recovers. Your continued good health relies on it."

Both men left the room, and she heard the key turning in the lock. Molly's bravery faded rapidly. Wearily she looked over the far side of the room, where another man, Kamil, lay on a slightly better bed than her camp bed. She limped over to check him.

Molly stared at the man, committing his features to memory. He looked a lot like his father. She hadn't had much time to consider the man himself, since she had arrived in the hell hole. Carefully she laid her hand on his forehead. Warm but not unduly so, at least so far.

She lowered her gaze to look at the dressings covering his stomach wound. Blood had soaked through the gauze. She winced slightly in sympathy for Kamil, as she removed the dressing and looked at her handiwork. The wound was red and sore. She had done her best with the tools they had available, but there was really only so much she could do with the limited medical equipment they had provided and the even more limited surgical assistance. Operating with basic equipment, no anaesthetic, no antibiotics and in extremely unsanitary conditions.

Several of Kamil's female relatives had been assigned to help her, but only one, Kamil's sister Lydia, had managed to actually be of use. With the aid of Lydia, several kitchen knives, and even at one point a soup ladle, she had managed to find and extract the bullet, and stop the bleeding. Her improvised sutures of superglue and sewing thread rather than surgical thread were holding for the moment. As long as Kamil didn't move too much. But he had lost a lot of blood.

She had tried explaining this to Lydia and the other women, but they had been ordered out of the room once the operation had finished. Lydia managed to whisper she'd be back later. That was an hour ago.

Molly quickly replaced Kamil's soiled dressing with a fresh one, and taped it back into place. Limping back to her camp bed, she tried to assess her own injuries. Face – hurts like hell, but probably no bones broken. Inside cheek – bitten, but survivable. Hip – badly bruised. One of Mrs Hudsons herbal soothers would be good about now.

Thinking of Mrs Hudson, and 221B brought a tear to Molly's eye. She'd been so busy trying to save Kamil, that she hadn't had time to consider her own situation too closely. She sniffed slightly and then lay down on the camp bed, resting her hip. The blankets were relatively clean, and she balled one up for a pillow and covered herself with another.

No one would even know she was missing yet. She wasn't due back at Barts until the day after tomorrow. It would be a good 48 hours before anyone would realise she was missing. Possibly longer if Sherlock didn't appear wanting a body part. Sadly she realised, there was no one to miss her. Mrs Johnson, her neighbour, would feed Toby, and probably wouldn't even notice until the food ran out, that she hadn't returned. There was no boy friend to check in with, so no one would raise the alarm early. Of the few friends that she did have, they were all used to her crazy hours, and shift patterns. It wasn't unusual for her not to contact them for weeks or months on end.

Molly was exhausted. Her captors had reluctantly let her keep her watch – she'd begged for it, insisting that she'd needed the second hand to help check Kamil's pulse. It now read 9 o'clock. It was evening, so that meant she'd been a prisoner now for 13 hours. 13 hours since she'd been grabbed from the conference she was attending.

A tear trickled slowly down her cheek – Kamil's chances of survival were slim at best. And the old man had made it very clear. If Kamil died, so did she.


So what do you think? Shall I continue?