Author's Note: This story is a continution of That's Not My Name by nocturnias, commissioned by Nocturnias. Please read that story first. (/)s(/)7778735(/)1(/)That-s-Not-My-Name

I don't own these characters, yada yada yada.

For a brief moment as he surfaced from the depths of the sedative, he believed that he was in his boyhood bed, in the room with the big windows facing the duck pond. But when he opened his eyes, he found himself lying on a bed in a very plain room with white washed walls. He was still incredibly groggy and found even the smallest movement difficult, as though he were wading through tar. Suddenly Molly Hooper's face swam into view, looking down on him with those lovely brown, concerned eyes. Ah yes, his Molly. The one who would save him.

But as his vision cleared a bit, he saw the unfamiliar sharpness in her eyes, and it all came rushing back. No, this was not his Molly, was it? Not Molly at all.

He had never felt so alone in his entire life.

"There you are, sleepyhead," she said. It was hard to reconcile her sweet, soft voice with that cold look. She gave his cheek a sharp pat that bordered on a slap. "I was beginning to think I'd given you the wrong dose. Though it was convenient to have you dead asleep on the ferry. Just left you in the boot and did a little sightseeing on deck."

"Where are we?" he croaked. It seemed to be early evening but he wasn't sure. He looked around the room, but there were no clues to discern its location. The lack of street sounds indicated they were in the country. No ocean smell or sounds.

"The Moriarty ancestral home. Not nearly so grand as yours, I'm sure, but it does have its charms. One of those being that it's five miles from the nearest neighbor and uninhabited unless Jim or I need it."

He shook his head to shake off some of the grogginess. He tried to rub his eyes but his hand was stopped not long after it left the mattress. His wrists and ankles were bound by padded medical restraints connected to thick nylon straps. He moved each limb to test them and they seemed to be connected to each other underneath the mattress. He was also completely nude.

"Yes, dearest," she said to his unspoken question. "I thought it was best to keep you put for now." She sat on the bed, just out of reach of his left hand.

Whatever drug she had used on him (Ketamine? GHB? Rohypnol?) was acting as a far more effective restraint than the physical ones, though, as he found it incredibly difficult to focus, but he knew he needed to get her talking so he could figure out what the hell she was up to.

"I still don't understand. Are you really a pathologist?"

"Of course I am, dummy! You can't learn how to slice up a corpse like that on the Internet. Well, I suppose you can, but no, I've always been Morbid Maggie, poking around at dead things. I've always been extremely useful to Jim in pulling off murders when he bothered to get his hands dirty."

Sherlock fought down a wave of nausea at how blithely she described her role in Moriarty's web. He was more horrified than he had been that brief moment at the pool when he had thought that John could be the evil mastermind.

"Did you go work at St. Bart's just for me?"

She smiled. "Oh no, that was all a happy coincidence. I was already at St. Bart's before you started using the lab, remember? Just imagine the look on Jim's face the day I said to him 'Jim, you remember that little boy that worked out that Carl Powers was murdered? Well guess who walked into my lab today, acting like he owned the place?" She giggled and he cringed, hearing a sound he associated with sweet little Molly Hooper coming from this stranger.

"Don't get me wrong, though," she continued. She got up to check his restraints thoroughly and did a quick appraisal of his vitals. "We came to London to deal with you. Jim had been keeping tabs on you for some time, though he did somewhat despair that all your talent would go to waste because you couldn't keep away from drugs. But then you solved a murder that one of his people had done, and then another, and he knew it was time to play. And now it's time for me to play. I'm so glad Jim let me keep you. I've always been his weakness. Funny that he should have worked out yours so easily and you never worked out his. I suppose he is better, in the end." She smiled almost sadly and reached for something underneath the bed.

"Is that—"

"Your riding crop? No, this one was a gift, from Ms. Adler? She really loved my good girl Molly act. Boy did we have a laugh about you, though. About how even after everything you ran off to play the knight in shining armor." She stares at the riding crop contemplatively for a moment. "Of course, it was also a bit disappointing, knowing that even the great Sherlock Holmes is ruled by his prick."

"Did she tell you that I fucked her until she could hardly walk? Willingly, I might add." The words came out before he could think. He was flushed with sudden anger at the knowledge that that woman had once again gotten one over on him.

Thwack.

The riding crop met the top of his thigh. It stung excruciatingly and he had a feeling that the blow wasn't close to full strength. But the pain was followed by a small jolt of clarity. This could be useful. The adrenaline from the pain could help the drug metabolize more quickly.

"Oh, does it bother you? Knowing that she had me without having to tie me down first? Well, there was a bit of that, but there were definitely no drugs involved."

Thwack.

This time the blow was dealt to the other thigh. He looked down to see two identical angry red stripes.

"Top marks for symmetry, Molly."

"Maggie!"

Thwack.

"Do forgive me, it took me ages to remember your alias, too, if you'll recall. Always in the background."

Thwack. This time on his chest, dangerously close to his nipple.

"Did she tell you about my tongue? About how I made her beg for it? Did you know that Irene Adler tastes just like a sun warmed Georgia peach? Have you ever had one of those, Molly?"

"Maggie!"

Thwack.

"Maggie!

Thwack.

"Mag—Oh!" She froze, riding crop aimed at his thigh again, mouth open. Her already flushed face became even more livid. "You brilliant bastard," she said in an awed whisper. Slowly she lowered the riding crop to her side, walked over to a table in the corner and set it down. She took a moment to smooth her hair and straighten her clothes, then opened a drawer. She took out a tiny vial and a fresh syringe.

"I was really hoping we wouldn't have to resort to this again, but since you haven't yet accepted that you won't outsmart us, then back to dreamland you go." She moved back to the bed, inserting the syringe into the vial and pulling the stopper.

"Mo—Maggie. That's really not necessary. I'll do what you want. I promise. And I'll even give you and Jim a running start after."

"After?" she said, as she gently swabbed his bicep with an antiseptic wipe. "What makes you think there will be an after?" She smiled sweetly, eyes hard as diamonds, as she jabbed the needle in and pushed in the plunger.