Molly wasn't what you would call a 'pretty crier' (is anyone, really?) but that particular night was much worse than usual. Even Toby wouldn't go near her.
She clutched his pillow – the one that didn't smell like him any more – and buried her face into the fabric to muffle to loud sobs that wracked her body. Believe it or not, Sherlock Holmes did sleep during cases, if they ranked as a 4 or lower. Molly hadn't minded him crashing at her place while he was using her bedroom as a workspace. The bed always smelled of him after, and the couch wasn't too terribly uncomfortable.
It had been a while, though. Too long for his scent – that odd mix of sulfur and chocolate that she had always loved – to still linger in the bedclothes. He hadn't been over since a week before his incarceration.
Molly had long since forgiven him for murdering… no, executing Magnussen. He had done a great deed for many people. Surely that outweighed the enormity of his sin. Didn't it always? She'd had no choice but to make peace with it, regardless. It was like with John and Mary, whose shocking situation Sherlock had absent-mindedly divulged to her several weeks after he'd been shot. (She'd wanted to murder Mrs. Watson, herself, when she heard, but Sherlock said no to that idea.) Even if she didn't love him the way John loved Mary – and she didn't anymore - Molly couldn't let Sherlock's actions define who he was to her. She knew her sociopath so much better than that.
No. Not my sociopath. Shame on you, Molly Hooper. You've moved on, remember?
Fairly soon, though, she feared he wouldn't be anyone's sociopath. Not even Mycroft's. She had convinced Sherlock's brother to allow her one last visit with him before he was exiled. He had been under house arrest for the last month, so she'd made the short trip to Baker Street earlier that evening.
Sitting in his flat, speaking to Sherlock for possibly the last time, she hadn't been able to think of anything to say, so she said anything that came to mind. She told him how her cat was doing, scorned Tom to him for trying to phone her earlier that week, elaborated the details of an unidentified body that Greg had sent her that morning missing three fingers, two toes, and his stomach. In retrospect, she figured that last bit was a tad cruel, since he wasn't allowed to help Scotland Yard with cases anymore. He bore it well, but that was what was so terrible to her about the visit. Sherlock Holmes bore it all very well, with a smile and scarcely a comment. He didn't bother trying to solve her John Doe for her, though she knew he must have an idea as to the identity of the killer simply from her description of the victim. He said nothing rude about Tom, not that he ever had, but she knew he always wanted to, and she'd hoped he'd tell her what he'd really thought of him this time since it might be his last chance. All he did was sit there, though, smile, and listen to her talk.
When their time was up, Sherlock followed Molly downstairs to the door.
"Molly," He stopped her at the threshold.
She turned to face him. The door was open, the street at her back. Part of her wanted to run away from him, escape the pain that she knew was coming, the pain that he always unintentionally found a way to inflict. The rest of her needed to stay rooted to the spot, right by his side. That's how it always was with Sherlock Holmes, how it had always been. It tore her apart to be so conflicted by her friend's presence, but, strangely enough, it killed her to think she might never feel that way again. "Yes?" she responded. Her voice was barely above a whisper, but the lump in her throat was audible.
Sherlock pursed his lips, taking a moment to organize his thoughts before speaking. "As I'm sure you understand, this is likely the last time we will see each other. I have been exiled from Britain, and where I am going is someplace that no one can ever follow."
Molly swallowed hard and spoke wordlessly with a simple nod. She understood. She wanted him to continue.
Sherlock inhaled. "I've decided that I want my last words to you to be these: Molly Hooper, I have never met someone so deserving of respect and love as you. Be strong, and be happy. Promise me that you'll try." He held her gaze, never once breaking eye contact.
She smiled sadly and her eyes cast downward, afraid to read his face. "Try to be happy? That's not always something you can decide to be, is it? Sometimes things are just so bad you can't even pretend."
He took a step closer and raised his hand to lift her chin, making her look at him. He was still smiling faintly, but his expression was all it took for him to tell her how wrong she was. "Promise me." He repeated in a whisper, insisting, if not pleading.
Molly swallowed again, fighting for air as her throat tried to close up. "I promise."
He smiled a little wider and leaned in to kiss her. It was just the corner of her mouth, but Molly felt as if she were breaking. Her eyes watered. She couldn't see. In the next moment, he released her, and she turned and walked out onto Baker Street. She knew in her heart that she could never go back to 221B. Not without Sherlock there. It would simply be too painful. She was leaving a piece of herself behind in that flat, and it was best to leave her broken bits be.
Don't look back…
She cast a glance over her shoulder, and regret was instantaneous. Sherlock was turning away, shutting the door. In that small glimpse of his face in the dying light, she saw everything she needed to know. Not from deductions, but from experience. It was the look that reminded her of her father. Sherlock was doing to Molly what he had done to John in the days leading up to his final confrontation with Moriarty. Except, this time, he wasn't the one in control.
Sherlock Holmes was going to die.
That was when the tears had started.
As she lay in her bed back at home, half a bottle of red wine drained and the cat hiding in the dresser, afraid to investigate, Molly allowed her swollen eyes to drift around the room. There were little bits of Sherlock here and there, which she had gratefully let linger to fill the gaps that Tom had left behind when he'd moved out. On the nightstand, next to the bottle of wine, was a stack of old case files. On the dresser was a line of jar containing toes, decomposing at varying rates in different liquid substances, something that would probably bother her if she weren't a pathologist. Sherlock had turned the back of her door into one of his thought-process boards with the pictures and the strings connecting ideas. She had considered taking it all down when his sentence had passed, but she had wanted to keep a part of him with her, refusing to accept that he was leaving. Now, however, she didn't welcome the reminders.
When he left the first time, after she helped him fake his death, Molly had tried to pull out every root he had set down in her life. She got rid of everything she had ever kept of his, deleted photos of him off her computer, and severed her connection with John, save for the occasional check in to make sure he was on the mend. She'd felt terrible, abandoning him like that, but she was too afraid she'd slip up and let him in on the secret. She'd always known he would come back one day, though, and everything would go back to normal.
That wasn't how it would be this time, though. He was dying for real this time. There would be no distraction that could make her forget that.
Resigning herself to her fate, Molly rolled over and picked up the phone. It took her several minutes to collect herself, but she eventually managed to calm down enough to call Bart's. It was two in the morning, but there was always someone working the night shift. She told the secretary that she was sick, and couldn't come in the next day. Her voice was thick from crying, which added effect to her claim. After being assured that Edith would cover her shift, Molly hung up, threw the phone across the room, and retreated into a ball under the covers like she used to after watching a scary movie when she was small. By the time the sun was up, she was asleep.
"Molly, there you are!"
Molly's head snapped around. She was in her lab, laying on a very large autopsy table. Sherlock was walking toward her, smiling broadly as though he found something very sweetly amusing. He was pulling a suitcase. He walk straight up to her and leaned down to kiss her forehead before hoisting himself onto the table beside her. "I need this space. Is that alright?"
She blinked several times, confused. "But… but I don't want to move."
He smiled again, warmly, but his annoyed tone didn't match his expression. "Well, I don't want to battle international criminals in a game of wits. Actually, I do. But we all have to make sacrifices. Well, that's what John says, anyway. Now get up. Mary won't let me use her their flat while they're at work. Thinks I'm going to blow something up."
Molly groaned and rolled away from him, to the other side of the lab table. "Ugh, not now, Sherlock, I'm at work!"
"Ummm, no. You're not. Now move."
"I said I don't want to." She grumbled. "You're so awful sometimes. Just leave me alone."
She was met with silence, but then the world disappeared from under her and she was swinging through the air. Her arms flew out and her eyes flashed open. Her flat swirled around her as she was lifted from her bed and carried out to the front room. A scream rose in her throat until she recognized the face of her intruder.
"Sherlock!" she shouted. "How did you get in?"
"Relax, I used my key this time. All your windows are intact."
"I didn't give you a key!"
"The hidden nook in the bottom of that cat statue by your door said differently."
"That's my spare, not your all-access pass. Now put me down, Sherlock Holmes." Each word of the last sentence was enunciated and harsh.
"If you wish." He lowered her onto the couch and turned toward the kitchen. "Coffee? I got the kind you like." He pulled a small bag of fresh grounds, her favorite brand, out of his coat. She couldn't help but smile a little. She had run out the day before, Thursday, on schedule, but her usual café was closed by the time she'd left Sherlock's flat. He must have known she would be out. Sherlock Holmes may be an arse from time to time, but couldn't help noticing those small things.
Wiping the sleep from her eyes, Molly stood and followed him. "Coffee would be lovely, thanks." While her friend whipped out her ragged old coffee pot, she leaned back against the counter and watched him. What case was he on that was so urgent that she needed his flat? She glanced out the window at the darkening sky. She must have slept all day, and he must have been working that whole time. It must be at least an 8 to warrant a whole pot of coffee and her help. His urgency told her it might be higher than that.
That was when she woke up enough to remember. Outraged, she slapped the back of his head.
He turned, confused and defensive. "What was that for?"
Her expression was stern, serious, enraged. "Sherlock Holmes, be straight with me. Are you evading exile?"
He laughed and relaxed. Before answering, he put the coffee pot on and took off his coat, hanging his scarf on the pot rack. Molly stood there, fuming, while she waited for an response. "Not exactly," he finally said. "Technically I shouldn't be in the country anymore, but Mycroft is working on that. Queen's pardon or something. I'll only be illegal to a few more hours, tops." He handed her a coffee mug with a smile. It was an odd expression, a mix of giddiness and dread.
"Why are you still here, though?"
"National security," he stated as though it were self-evident. Her uncomprehending expression made him rethink his answer. "Ah, yes. You've been asleep all day, haven't you? Didn't go into work or even answer your phone. You won't have heard."
His expression was scaring her. "Heard what?"
He strode over to the telly. "This has been on every screen in the country for several hours now." He switched the screen on.
"-miss me? Did you miss me? Did you miss me?"
The mug slipped through Molly's fingers, splintering into shards of ceramic as it crashed to the ground. Shrapnel hit her shins, but she didn't notice. "But... he's dead."
"Um, no. It would appear not. Molly, you're bleeding."
She shook her head, ignoring his comment. She did notice a sharp stinging in her lower left leg, which confirmed his statement, but it didn't matter. In a trance, she walked forward until she stood directly in front of the screen. That face. That horrible face that had lied to her, used her, and ruined Sherlock's name for two years, forcing him underground. She had rested in the solace that he was gone, but now…
A sharp pain on her leg brought her back to reality. Sherlock was kneeling by her side with a cloth, a bottle of peroxide, and tweezers, cleaning her wound. "Ouch! Sherlock…"
"Sit down and sit still." He instructed. She found her way to the rocking chair and settled down, eyeing the telly intently as her friend tended to her leg. She may deal with gruesome dead bodies all day, but the sight of her own blood had always made her uneasy for some reason. It turned out she needed stitches, which Sherlock did himself.
"I don't understand how this happened," she started, disbelief blanketing every infection in her voice. "Edith examined his body. She said he died. You watched him die."
"Who's Edith?" Sherlock asked, clearly lost.
"Edith from the pathology department. You've only seen her about six times this week."
"Edith…" He tilted his head and closed his eye. "Nope. No Edith in here. Well, not from this century, anyway. Must not have seemed of notice." The detective smirked briefly before turning serious again. "She's working for Moriarty. I suppose I should say 'I'm sorry', although I'm not sure how that's my fault."
"How can you say Edith's working for Moriarty when you don't even remember her?" She was such a sweet co-worker, which was a difficult find in her field.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "She performed an autopsy on a man who she claimed was dead, and is now, clearly, not dead. I think it's a highly irrational assumption to say she was simply mistaken. It doesn't take a sociopath to figure that out."
Molly frowned. He had a point, but she didn't have to like it. "Turn that thing off, please." She gestured at Moriarty's face, playing on repeat in the background. "I think I've got the idea."
Sherlock switched off the TV and finished binding her leg. He helped her back to her bedroom and tucked her under the sheets. "Comfortable?"
She nodded. Reality was still on its head, and comfort was her least concern, but she couldn't complain about her physical situation, beyond the stinging beneath her bandages. "Okay, so let me get this straight. You're staying, you're not going to die, and Moriarty alive because my co-worker is a treasonous bitch?" Molly was growing angrier the more she thought about it.
He pursed his lips. "Yes, that sounds about right." He tilted his head quizzically. "Did Mycroft tell you about his prediction of my death?"
"No, your face did. You're a terrible actor, you know that?"
"I faked a serious relationship for the sake of a case for a month. I'm fairly sure you're the only one who thinks that."
"I still haven't forgiven you for that," she grumbled under her breath.
"She got rich off it! What's to forgive?"
Molly grimaced. "Not what I meant." Before he could open his mouth, her timing perfected from years of experience, she said, "Now, you said you needed my room?"
Sherlock blinked, mentally/ dropping whatever he had meant to say and jumping onto the new (and, to him, more interesting) topic. "Ah, yes, I need your wifi. Mrs. Hudson canceled mine this morning, thinking I was leaving." He reached behind the other side of the bed and pulled a stack of half-a-dozen laptops out of a bag. "I need to trace Moriarty's signal."
"Doesn't MI-6 have someone else who could take care of that?"
"He an impotent narcissist with a dependency on anti-depressants and hair plugs. Plus, he smells of rotten ketchup. I'll work faster without the stench."
Molly smirked understandingly. "He wouldn't let you play with his fancy computers, would he?"
Sherlock paused for a moment. "No. Something about national secrets in the hands of a psychopath."
"Sociopath," she corrected.
"That's what I told him."
"'Course it is. So, do you mind me staying in here while you work or…?"
"Actually, I needed your help. If you're not too tired…"
"Are you joking? I've been sleeping all day! I need something to keep me busy."
He pulled a seventh laptop out of the bag. "This is my research computer."
She gave him a long, baffled stare. "Your research computer? The research computer? The one you told me never ever to touch under any circumstances because a partial finger print on one key could get me exiled or executed for treason should the contents of the hard drive ever come to light?"
"Yes, that one." He set it in her lap. The feeling was something like a burn, without the heat or pain. Her first instinct was to drop the object and back away quickly. He opened it for her and typed a lengthy password. "I need you to pull up every file I have concerning the ballistics of Moriarty's gun. Also the ones about his Parisian operatives. And the ones in Athens. Might as well throw in Madrid, while you're at it. Just get me everything that looks suspicious."
"How specifically suspicious?" she asked warily.
"Oh you know…" He waved his hand vaguely as he simultaneously booted up all his laptops.
Molly frowned. She did know. Of course she knew.
They spent the next few hours plugged into their respective computers, side by side on the bed, laptops scattered around their bodies. Sherlock would think out loud now and then, attempting to explain things to her that she didn't understand. She tried to pay attention at first, but gave up eventually and muttered in agreement when he stopped for breath. It wasn't until around midnight that they broke their focus. Molly's stomach was growling uncontrollably, and it was distracting for them both. Sherlock insisted that she get something to eat, for both their sakes. She was standing over the stove making pasta for one and contemplating all the new, horrific facts she had learned about the government underworld in the course of the last few hours when she heard Sherlock's triumphant exclamation from her bedroom.
"Sherlock?" she called. "What did you find?"
"His signal, Molly! Everything right down to the bloody IP address of the computer he's using! The main source of his broadcast!" There was a shuffling in the other room as he made his way out to her, carrying one of his computers. He set it down next to the stove, never taking his eyes off the display for a moment. Lines and lines of code that Molly couldn't read filled the screen.
"That's good, right?" she asked, standing close to his side, trying in vain to identify something she could comprehend in the information before her.
"Good doesn't begin to cover it. All I have to do is…" His fingers flew across the keys. "There. That should do it." He hit the enter key and the screen went black. He froze.
Molly looked up at him, vastly confused. "Was that good?"
Sherlock didn't respond, just closed his eyes. Mind palace. She saw it on his face.
The phone rang. Sherlock's hand flashed out in its direction, his fingers making the shape of a gun. "Shut that up before I shoot it," he muttered furiously.
She knew better than to hope his was joking. Huffing, Molly ran to the wall where the offending device hung. Who could be calling at that blasted hour? She grabbed the receiver and put it to her ear. "Molly Hooper speaking. Who is this?"
"Hello, darling. Did you miss me?" An all-too-familiar voice came through the line in a sickly crooning.
Molly dropped the phone like it had shocked her. It swung on the cord and hit the wall. "Ouch. Rude," she heard faintly through the static.
"Sherlock," she stammered.
"Stop talking," he snapped.
"No. Sherlock…"
He opened his eyes and turned to her. "What?" His voice came as an aggravated hiss, but his expression softened when he saw the horrified look in hers. Then a fire sparked in his eyes as he understood, a controlled fury rising to the surface behind his measured posture. In three steps, he was at her side. Angrily, he hit the switch on the hook, cutting off the connection and hanging up the phone. "He's been watching me this whole time. He knows I cut off his signal from your flat. I've made you a target." Sherlock gripped her shoulders firmly and looked her in the eyes. "I'm sorry, so very sorry. I've put you in harm's way. You'll be in danger if you stay here. Grab some clothes. You're coming with me to Baker Street." He walked away and began gathering up his computers, not giving her a chance to argue. "Hurry! He might be close."
Shaking herself out of her stupor, Molly ran to the closet, pulled out her suitcase and started scooping bits of fabric into it, not pausing to think about what she was bringing. Sherlock shoved every trace of his work left in the flat into his bag. In two minutes, they were walking out the door. As they were leaving, Molly's cat protested from his chair.
"What about Toby?" she called to Sherlock as he picked the last of his paper up off the coffee table. She was suddenly very worried that Moriarty might try to use her beloved feline against her.
Without breaking stride, her friend scooped Toby into his arms, stuffing into his long coat under his arm, where it would be harder for the cat to get away. "Your car. Go!" Sherlock pushed Molly out the door and locked it behind him.