Molly, Only Molly (Sherlolly)

Chapter Thirteen

"Hello, Molly," the woman says, in a light French accent.

I press a hand to my chest. "Who are you?" I hate how much my voice is shaking. "What are you doing?"

"Unfortunately I can't reveal anything right now. Maybe when you sign on, you'll find out."

"Sign on for what? What are you talking about?"

She grabs my arm and pulls me forcefully from the phone booth. I consider screaming for help, but nobody's around to hear me.

Except for the cabbie, who has stopped right beside us. The woman shoves me into the back, then steps into the passenger seat.

The last thing I see on Baker Street is Sherlock, running down the sidewalk and trying to tie his scarf at the same time. He runs after the taxi, but it picks up speed and we roar down back alleys and little side streets.

"What are you doing?" I ask again. My voice sounds stronger this time.
The cabbie hands me a small slip of paper. A business card? It's for a costume parlour, specializing in "historical fashion."

"What does this have to do with anything?" I say sharply. Something is severely wrong with their heads. The woman laughs. "We own this place," she says.

I am confused. If Sherlock were here, he'd have solved the mystery and had the criminals arrested. Probably be in his flat drinking tea, and boasting about how easy it was.
Think, Molly. You have a working mind, and should know enough to figure this out!

But all I can figure out is that these people are dressed in clothes from their rental business.

"We've been watching you for quite a while, Miss Hooper," says the cabbie. It's the first time he's spoken, and his voice is a deep baritone. This sentence unnerves me.

"But why?" I ask. "What could a bunch of clothes designers want with me? I work at a hospital." Oh, why did I tell them that?

"We know. St Bartholomew's, is it?"
There's no use denying it... So I nod. "You're smart, Molly, more than you give yourself credit for. We've learned that in the time we've been,
well, observing you, let's say."

"That was you," I say, "the night when I stayed late, wasn't it?"

The woman claps slowly, her red lips curving into a slow smile. "Well done, Molly. Thank goodness Sherlock Holmes was there to cover it up."

Was Sherlock in on it too? "He's a part of this?" I ask slowly, feeling as if I'm missing something important.
"Oh, no." The woman laughs. "He was just in the right place at the right time, I suppose." The man laughs too.

My head is throbbing and little white lights dance behind my eyes. We stop at the curb a few minutes later, and the woman comes to sit beside me. "This will go a lot easier if you don't scream," she says, and then ties a gag in my mouth. It bites into the corners of my lips, and I cough.
But she's not finished, because a blindfold goes over my eyes. "Just so you don't know where you are," she says.

The cabbie starts driving again, and we make a few sharp turns which throw me against the side of the car. Everything is dark, and the only sounds are the honking of cars' horns from outside. I consider banging on the window, but what good would it do? They're tinted darker, and also, who would ever think something wrong if they saw someone in a taxi?

Exactly. Nobody.

I lean my head back and close my eyes, which does nothing because I can't see anyway, but it's better than having dust in my eyes. The cabbie whispers something to the woman, and she laughs.

All that I can do now is hope that Sherlock and Lestrade will come and find me.

🇬🇧🇬🇧🇬🇧

I sit alone, in the darkness. I don't know how long I've been here for.
The woman comes in and takes my blindfold off, but the light is too bright, so I put my face in my hands.
A few minutes later, when open my eyes again, I pull out my gag and take in a few deep breaths. Dust is thick in the air, and I choke.

When I look at my phone, I see that almost two days have passed. And yet, no one has come to help me. Do I even need help? It's not as if I'm in a jail cell. I stand up and walk to the door, legs shaking slightly. It's locked.

Great. Sherlock would know what to do, I think for the millionth time. There's a window big enough to fit through, but when I look out it's at least a three story drop into a back alley.

I could pick the lock of the door, tie bedsheets together and slide out the window, climb up onto the roof and parachute down. But I don't do any of those things, because I don't know how. So instead I sit on the floor and hug my knees to my chest.

What about calling? But they'll only trace my calls, and besides, I have no service here anyway.

It's hopeless to even try.