"We'll meet again,
Don't know where, don't know when,
But I know we'll meet again, some sunny day."
November 24, 5 Years Later
Northern Scotland
Sebastian. They've found me.
Molly yanked the phone cable from the wall, knocking loose bits of plaster and chips of paint onto the floor. No. No, no. Not now. Not after all we've been through. Years of blending in, hiding herself, raising Poppy from modest government funds. Everything she did, all a waste. Her heart seemed to freeze and plummet into her stomach. How does he know about Poppy?
"Poppy, come inside!" She did her best to mask the anxiety in her voice, but Poppy frowned, concerned. She obeyed without protest, scampering into the warmth of the house out of the fading evening chill. Molly locked the door after her. For a moment she gazed at the horizon, scanning the hills and bunches of trees for any sign of movement. Nothing. She pulled down the curtain.
"Mum, can we have just a wee bit of cake now?" Poppy bounced on the balls of her feet in the kitchen, eyeing the frosted pink cake eagerly.
"Poppy, please. After dinner." Poppy pushed her lips out in an unconvincing pout. Molly's chest panged. You look so much like him… Poppy shrugged. She turned on her heel and skipped to her room, singing under her breath.
"Mary, Mary, quite contrary. How does your garden grow? With silver bells and cockle shells, and pretty maids all in a row…"
When her voice faded, Molly pulled out her mobile and dialed a number, mouthing the sequence to herself. She typed a single word and pressed send; Alastor. Nothing happened. She didn't know what to expect. She hadn't seen Sherlock or John in five years, who was to say that hadn't forgotten about her? The phone beeped.
Delivery failed.
"No." She pressed it again.
Delivery failed.
"Shit, shit, shit."
She squeezed the plastic and it squeaked in protest. He slim fingers turned white. This is him, she thought. Sebastian did this. She bit her lip, feeling cold, terrified, realization. He's going to cut us off. Of course he would, it was the logical thing to do. He could sever all communications, prevent them from leaving, and effectively keep her captive in her own home. She had to be ready.
Poppy twirled her fork in her spaghetti, wrapping the red-stained noodles around the tines before maneuvering the bundle of pasta into her mouth. Molly watched her and smiled.
"Did you find any new flowers today?"
"Aye," Poppy grinned. "I found a bog star on the moor, and poppies."
"Do you want to put them in your book?" Poppy nodded excitedly.
On Poppy's fourth birthday, Molly had given her a blank book and a flower press. Since then, Poppy's mission had been to fill it with the loveliest wild flowers she could find. The pages were stocked with heather, wild roses, and various blossoms from fruit trees around the house.
"How's school?" Molly put down her fork and sipped her water. Poppy was in her first year of primary school in the nearest town.
"Good." Her liquid brown eyes flashed with excitement. Molly's grip on her glass tightened. Molly loved Poppy more than anything, but she couldn't help hating her eyes. Her father's eyes.
His hands glided over her skin, ice forming in her veins and a fire igniting in her heart. He pushed his lips hard against hers.
"Jim," Molly breathed, pulling him closer. His hand curled around her throat. "Jim, stop." He squeezed and bared his teeth.
"Ask me nicely."
"Please, Jim." Lights popped in her eyes. Her arms fell to her sides. She closed her eyes. "Just do it then." The grip released and air rushed back into her lungs. Her eyes flew open. Jim was gone, the lights in the house burnt out. A floorboard creaked, and she turned to face it. Jim smiled at her from the shadows. He looked down, and there was Poppy. He placed a hand on her shoulder.
"Just like dad."
Molly opened her mouth to scream, but no sound came out. Jim raised an arm, gun in hand, and fired. The bullet tore into her shoulder and she fell back. His voice spoke into her ear, soft and sweet:
"Did I give you permission do die?"
"No!" Molly tore the blankets away from her legs and staggered out of her bed. His voice echoed around the room. It's all in your head, he's not here.
She rummaged in her dresser and sighed when she found it: Her Glock 21 Gen4, and 5 boxes of ammunition. Her stock had dwindled in the five years she'd had to practice her shot. It'll have to do. She checked the magazine, then tucked the gun into her waistband. They've found us. They'll come soon. She stared out the window. The sun had only just begun to rise. The high green hills were grey and inky black, ice blue where they met the sky. Let them come, she thought. I'm not scared of him anymore.