I'm back with another sherlolly, praise the lord. This time, however, it's Molly-centric, and a celebration of Molly. There's a lot of torture... so be careful. Additionally, multi-chapter, and I've already got the chapters written. There won't be delay in publishing, only a week between each chapter.

My exams actually finally got over (I still have like, ONE left) and my friend had a birthday, so this was my gift to her. This is dedicated to Sparrow, and the inspiration for this story came from a story by darthsydious, called 'I've Got Soul But I'm not a Soldier.' The capturing idea, the harness, has been lifted from her, and has been taken with permission. That's all that is similar.

Meanwhile, Sherlock belongs to me as much as the Earth does.

"Whilst this planet has gone cycling on according to the fixed law of gravity, from so simple a beginning endless forms most beautiful and most wonderful have been, and are being, evolved."

- Charles Darwin, the Origin of Life

Molly was quite often unsure of what was the underlying theme that ran where humanity was concerned, or where life was concerned – and she didn't pretend to understand it. Thoughts like that were saved primarily for the walk between the barista and the morgue, but now, she had endless time to think of them.

The Consulting Detective, of course, would scoff her need to think of such realities. Molly had never been extraordinarily smart, never extraordinarily popular and never really extraordinary in anything except conducting autopsies. Molly didn't have a super power like Sherlock, and Sherlock didn't think it necessary to think about the futility of existence. But Molly had time. She was in an abandoned warehouse, bound and chained in a harness.

It hurt, quite honestly. She felt sure her shoulders were pulled out of their sockets.

She hadn't been paying attention when Moran had slipped into the morgue. She hadn't had the time to think about anything except the man who had pressed his hand to her mouth, preventing her scream.

"Miss Molly," he said with a grin. "I have been wishing to meet you for a while."

Molly gave a muffled scream.

"It won't help, I'm afraid. There's no one around on your late night shifts. I checked."

Molly had been thinking frantically. Mycroft's men were outside, she knew they were, she knew their names. Jonathan and Nathaniel. Nathaniel had a wife, and she was pregnant. He loved her more than anything, along with their dog. He liked eating burgers, so she used to get him McDonalds whenever she was getting take out. Jonathan had plenty of steady dates and a soft spot for Molly. He liked Chinese.

"They think you have already gone home. I sent a text from your phone telling them that Sherlock was coming in a cab to pick you up. Mr. Holmes left an hour ago with a woman, did he not?"

She had been a witness. The morgue had been Sherlock and that woman's rendezvous.

And then Jonathan and Nathaniel's shift ended.

None would know. It was perfect. The next set of boys would be briefed on how Molly was in Baker street, and they would watch for the night. The next morning, Sherlock may leave early without checking on Molly – he did have a case, after all. Molly had the weekend off from tomorrow.

Sherlock may not realize until nighttime tomorrow. And that was a long shot.

It had been only then that Molly realized in what a dangerous situation she was in.

But before she could understand what was happening, she had been carried off, a swift smell of Chloroform in her nose. Crude, Sherlock would have said. But effective.

Molly only woke up at what looked like an abandoned warehouse. Molly's own hands were tied behind her back – tightly. There was no one else there except Mr. Moran – and a girl with blonde hair.

She had short, crisp hair which didn't go beyond her ears. Her build was lean, strong, athletic. She was dressed in black, and she did nothing more than glance at Molly for a second. Moran smiled slowly at Molly.

"Nice to meet you, Miss Hooper."

Molly took a breath, "Pleasure's all mine."

"I must say, Sherlock Holmes guarded you well. Hiding in his flat all this while – one may even get the wrong impressions."

Molly blinked for a second. "If you're doing this because you think he has the – erm – romantic regard for me," she said, "you're going to be disappointed."

Moran looked at her with a mixture of amusement.

"Do you really think so?"

Molly was briefly reminded of Atticus Finch – Moran had a very similar glint in his eye. "Yes," said Molly as honestly as possible. "I'm not the one who – ouch," she shifted her bound arm a bit, causing shooting pains up her shoulder. "I'm really not the one who counts. That's John. Everybody knows that."

Moran was continuing to look at her with amusement. "Is she lying?" he asked the woman next to him. Sonja, that was her name.

Sonja walked forward, emotionlessly. In one, swift maneuver, she had Molly's arms twisted to the maximum pain.

Molly screamed. "No –" she gasped. "Please –" she twisted harder. "I'm not lying!" she said. "I don't mean anything to Sherlock – I'm – I'm his pathologist," she cried. "I only perform the autopsies."

Sonja released pressure.

"How odd," said Moran. "She's not lying."

"Well, Miss Hooper," Moran squatted down, looking down upon her. Molly squeezed her eyes shut to control herself from screaming. "Why were you living with him?"

"He asked me," gasped Molly. "Please – he asked me. I was his only friend who didn't have protection. Greg was an officer. John can shoot, and Mycroft –" the pain increased and Molly gasped again. "Mycroft is the government."

"Hmm," said Moran. "She believes her tale, whatever else may be said about Mr. Holmes."

Sonja dropped the pressure entirely, and went to her post. Molly almost cried with relief.

"Well, Miss Hooper," said Moran. "We shall test your theories over the next few weeks, shall we not?"

Molly whimpered. "I don't have anything you need," she said.

"No," said Moran. "You have information. I like information."

There came a cold, steely glint in Molly Hooper's eye. "You shan't get anything."

Moran smiled, in the same, amused fashion. "We'll see about that."

It was pain on pain.

Molly could barely breathe. She screamed again, and again, to no avail. If she had thought the blonde girl had been hurtful, she hadn't prepared herself for Moran. Besides, crop cut Sonja was hardly ever there.

She was harnessed to the ceiling – her arms were pulling out of their sockets and everything was hurting. Everything.

"Now come on, Molly," said Moran, quietly wielding the burning knife. "What are the recent cases Mr. Holmes has had?"

Molly whimpered. Shut your eyes, Molly. Don't hear. You're not here. You're somewhere else.

"Why was he using poor, pathetic Molly Hooper?"

Molly sobbed quietly.

"What use did he have of you, Miss Hooper?

She had to concentrate. Sherlock's secrets. She couldn't give Sherlock's secrets.

"Is Irene Adler really dead?"

Secrets. Sherlock's secrets. All the things he kept from his friends.

"How did Sherlock survive the fall? Was Mousy Molly helping him?"

He had so many secrets, thought Molly, ruefully. So many. From John. From Mary. From me.

"Torture really doesn't work with you, does it?"

Molly briefly looked up. Three days since she had been there. "Please," she whispered. "Make it stop. I don't know anything."

"Ah, Miss Hooper. We both know you are lying. I shall give you a break."

Molly hadn't slept in three days.

Moran had successfully managed to break her arm, during that time. Molly could feel swells and bumps and bruising. There were burns from today's session.

Molly's head hung from the height she was at. She could feel new contusions coming up.

"Take off your shoes, now," she sang. "You've come a long way. Walked all these miles, and now – you're in the right place."

Sherlock used to get aggravated when she sang that.

"Molly, please. I'm trying to work." His head was bent upon the microscope.

"Sorry," she said quietly.

Poor Sherlock. He would blame himself, she knew. But Molly wouldn't wish this pain on him.

Sherlock had been through worse.

Sherlock had suffered for over two years.

He had all those scars on his back.

She had seen them by mistake – he had returned home hurt, and Molly had insisted on bandaging him. She hadn't touched him, she'd made sure skin on skin contact wasn't there – she hadn't meant to make Sherlock uncomfortable. Even so… he had been.

Suffering this for three days didn't seem all that bad.

She simply had to block out all that pain. It wasn't possible to survive for long if this continued.

Ms. Rook was obviously an alias, but Sebastian Moran had no interest in knowing where Sonja Rook came from originally. She was what was needed for the moment, nothing more – a desperate woman with an unattainable skill set on the run. He did love people who were on the run. They were easily manipulated.

"She doesn't seem to respond to the methods very well, does she?" said Miss Rook easily.

"No," said Moran. "She's hard to decipher. She hasn't really given any information as of yet, and I don't think any is forthcoming. This one is going to be hard." His eyes gleamed at the prospect.

"Is it possible she doesn't know anything?" asked Miss Rook, frowning.

"No, she definitely has the information we are looking for. I need to know how Mr. Holmes survived."

"It's odd – for someone to be so unwilling to give information about something as trivial as that."

Moran grinned. "I enjoy breaking the tough ones a lot, to be honest. Besides, she's oblivious to her relation with Mr. Holmes."

Miss Rook was frowning at the diminished Molly. "She's singing a song."

"Really?" asked Moran curiously.

"Yes."

Molly's voice rose from the room and filtered into the next one – it passed through the chipped window panes and fluttered through the dust.

"This is your party. Everyone came – everyone's smiling. And –" her voice choked. "and singing your name. And the nightmares and monsters – the nightmares and monsters –" her head fell. She seemed to be thinking about something – for she raised her head a second later. "Your biggest fears – seem lightyears away. No they won't find you here." There was a quiet sort of fire in her fading words.

"That's very interesting," said Moran.

"Have you seen that happen before?" asked Rook.

"No, this is a first." Moran seemed even more amused than normal.

"Is she normal?" asked Rook.

"Genius, I should say," said Moran. "I have some ideas, worry not."

"Try the thumbscrews -?" said Rook.

"Why not?"

Moran left the room – Molly looked up fearfully.

"What an odd girl," said Rook quietly. She could see Molly visibly brace herself for what was coming next. She threw her head back and screamed – that was normal. But every now and again – Rook saw something very strange – every once and while, Molly would take a few deep breaths, and hum to herself words of an unintelligible song.

There's that. Next chapter will be up in a week!