Usual disclaimers apply
Chapter 1
With clinical precision, Molly Hooper performed surgery on her life. It was radical, because the tumour was large and some healthy tissue was damaged in the process, but ultimately she wanted to survive and amputation was better than death. The new job was at the Western General. The flat was in Leith, not far from the waterfront. Her message to Sherlock was unambiguous.
Please do not contact me again. Not in person and not by proxy. And for once, respect my wishes. M
And it seemed that for once, he did.
And so Molly got used to her new world, to the chill winds rushing down Princes Street, to the smell of brewery hanging over the city, to the striking hills looming on every horizon, the ubiquitous seagulls, the stunning bridges. The people were friendly and accommodating, if somewhat hard to understand. After a while, though, her ears became attuned to the northerly lilt, and one day she caught herself replying to a colleague's statement with, "Oh, aye."
She didn't date, she didn't try to move on. She worked, she explored her new surroundings, and she discovered the joy of hobbies. Apparently she had a voice, a neat little soprano, which she contributed to the church choir. Her pottery was beginning to look passable. She contemplated taking piano lessons. It was amazing how much free time you can have when you're not called at all hours to help with criminal investigations that aren't actually part of your job.
Was she only trying to fill the void in her heart? Oh, what sentimental nonsense! Love wasn't everything. Bruised and tender still, her affections for Sherlock Holmes had followed her to the North, and she let them continue, let them be true and weighty, but she assigned them a place, ring-fenced and out of the way, where she expected them to stay, because right now there was something she needed much more than his or any man's love, and that something was self-respect. Nobody here knew anything of the heartbreak and humiliation she had brought in her luggage from London, and since nobody knew, nobody asked, nobody pitied, and nobody spoke of her as "poor Molly" behind her back as she was sure some of her London friends did. She drank the crisp draught of dignity with a relish that proved just how parched she had been.
The light was different in the North, more expansive, she thought, and limpid on the mind. How elegant the city was, with its ancient grey buildings on its seven hills. How free she felt in these streets. Maybe she would stay here forever. Maybe.
When the doorbell rang on an ordinary Saturday morning, she assumed it was a delivery and opened the door on autopilot only to find Sherlock, scarf, coat and all, looking at her.
"If this is your idea of eloping to Scotland, you've made a fundamental blunder."
That was his opening gambit? Molly wasn't having this.
"I asked you to respect my wishes. Why didn't you?"
He sighed.
"I tried, for a while. But this particular wish of yours, Molly, isn't fair on either of us. I would like to think that you know that as well."
Molly still wasn't having it, but she decided to deflect. Simply slamming the door in his face did not square with her new-found dignity.
"So, six months?" she said. "I see Mycroft is slacking."
"Not at all. We knew in under a week where you'd gone. But it took me a long time to compile this – because I wanted to get it right."
He pulled a large manila envelope out of his coat and held it out to her.
"What's that?"
"The whole story. Well, the whole story from my side. I want to leave it here for you to look at and I am asking you…humbly…to give me this one chance. Take your time. I know you're off this weekend and on backshift as of Monday. I'll be at the café of the Gallery of Modern Art, Gallery One that is, every day between ten and two until next Thursday. Thereafter I have to return to London, but you know where to find me there. Please, Molly, will you take it?"
If he'd tried to smile, to charm her somehow, or otherwise tried to look pleading and pitiful, she'd have refused. He knew better, though, than to try any kind of manipulation. The offer was made; his face was kept neutral. She was free to decide.
"Okay," she said eventually and took the envelope. "One chance, but only one."
"I know. That's why I've been so very…thorough."
And with that he swung himself round and marched off. Molly closed the door.
The envelope sat on her kitchen table while she finished some chores and then had lunch. It wasn't going to run away and neither was Sherlock, so there was no reason to rip it open greedily. Only after she had put her plate and cup into the dishwasher did she, slowly and careful, open it. It contained a wad of printed pages and a compact disc. She went over to her PC and switched it on, hoping that it wasn't going to be a video message a la Mary. On the disc was written, "Start with the letter." She began to read.
Dearest Molly,
So you have decided to read the letter. Thank you for that. I want you to follow these instructions precisely: On the enclosed disc, you will find files numbered 1 – 12. They contain factual evidence. Each file should be viewed at the point I indicate in this letter. Do not look at all the files first; do not read the whole letter first; but switch between them as I say. Thank you.
Now first of all: Should you decide to see me after you have gone through all the material, you will receive my unreserved apology for any pain I have caused you. To be clear, the apology is not conditional on you seeing me. Please accept my apology in writing – I am so very sorry – but I think we can agree that this is inadequate. I would very much prefer to say it to your face. You may not want to see me now, but I hope the rest of this letter will change your mind. Please read on.
I will attempt to tell the story of Sherlock and Molly as I experienced it. Cast your mind back to the early days of our acquaintance. To the first time I met you in the morgue. You know what I do. I had not known you ten minutes before I had you noted down as right-handed, cat owner, orphan, Bristol alumna, plus half a dozen trivia. But I added another tag to my internal list about you. "Nice woman, likely to get hurt." Of course I didn't know back then that I would be the one who would do most of the hurting. But I digress. What you should know is that while I generally don't like most people much, even less so on first meeting them, I have liked you from the start. I would be hard pressed to explain exactly why. Some words spring to mind – genuine, innocent, honest, kind – and I suppose they somehow outline the truth without defining it precisely. I have always liked you, and unlike you, I have always been aware of this.
I continued to like you, a little more each time we met, though I have to confess that I scoffed at times at your mannerisms and your cute little ways. Did I notice your fumbled attempts at flirting with me? Yes, I did, but I filed that under "mannerism" too. I added another tag to my list. "Likely to hook up with a psychopath." And promptly, you did.
I would like you to view file No 1 now.
Molly inserted the disc and opened the first file. It was a text exchange between Sherlock and Mycroft.
There is an IT technician called Jim at Bart's. Give him an all-round health check for me. SH
For what purpose? MH
He is going out with a young pathologist of my acquaintance and I want to make sure he is good enough for her. SH
Jealous? You? MH
Of course not. Just looking out for a friend. SH
Leave it with me. MH
Admittedly, I was mostly just worried that he would let you down one way or another. Mycroft didn't find out much; Moriarty was too clever. The psychopath thing came as a surprise. Afterwards I spent considerable time contemplating the question what exactly went down between you and him, and if you ever want to tell me, I would be so grateful, because I may not have been jealous back then, but I was so, so curious, and still am. Digressing again. What I hope you will take away from this first piece of evidence is that I was watching out for you even when you didn't know it, and that I was calling you my friend when you were thinking of me as a mean bastard.
Well, Moriarty disappeared after his brief stint as an IT technician, and you didn't seem particularly heartbroken, so I left it at that. Everything went on as before. I was getting very comfortable around you, and as you know, I am not usually comfortable with people. I was always glad when you were on shift, as the other pathologists were not to my liking. And so everything was fine as far as I was concerned, until I screwed up.
If this were one of John's blogs, this paragraph would be called "The Incident at the Christmas Party." I have attempted to reconstruct what it would have looked like from your perspective. You had perhaps gone to great lengths to find a delightful gift for me – more of that later – or perhaps you had stumbled upon it somewhere and decided it should be for me, in any case, you had invested obvious, albeit naïve, efforts to make yourself and the gift look lovely. You would have arrived at my place hoping for something, some little kindness from me, and instead I mocked you brutally. Only, I didn't really. I had simply misjudged. My deductions, where you are concerned, have so often been faulty, and that night was a prime example.
When you had said you would drop in, I had expected your normal self, minus the lab coat. I had expected ponytail, childish jumper and perhaps, given the occasion, a silly Santa hat or something of that nature. So when you came through the door, I was a little shocked, because the dress, the curls, the bow, the make-up, those massive earrings, it was all too much. You looked very pretty (and if you'd had eyes at the back of your head, you'd have seen Lestrade ogling you), but you didn't look like you. My immediate conclusion was that you were about to see a lover, and I opened my big mouth and came out with all that drivel probably – I say probably, because I find it hard enough to understand my current feelings, let alone those of the past – because I did not relish that idea. However, I honestly did not mean to hurt you. I thought if you were about to meet a new lover, you'd like being teased about it. Isn't that what people do? Of course, being the tremendous ass that I am, I got carried away and made that utterly inappropriate comment about your mouth and breasts; I am sorry, Molly, that was low of me. Then I read the gift tag and was mortified. Please believe me when I say that until that moment I had never suspected that you had any deeper feelings for me. A bit of hero worship, perhaps, "fangirling" they call it these days, don't they, but I always assumed that was all. Had I known that it was me you were trying to impress with your frankly gargantuan earrings, I would have kept my mouth shut. You have to believe me that I have that much decency at least.
You were quite right to upbraid me, of course. However, at the time I felt your reproach was a little unwarranted. You said that I always said such horrible things, every time, always, always. I understood that you were being hyperbolical because you were upset, nevertheless I couldn't help thinking that this comment was unfair. I had said so many nice things to you over the years. Perhaps you thought I only said them to butter you up so you'd help me with cases, but that's not quite right. You and I both know that you'd have helped me anyway. No, I said nice things to you exactly because I knew you would help me. As a kind of advance payment, if you will. In retrospect, the majority of my compliments were probably rather clumsy, still, they were sincere. I have always considered you an attractive woman by objective standards. Anyway, at that moment at the party, when you claimed that I always said horrible things to you, I felt a strong urge to defend myself. There was a list rattling through my head that would have gone along the lines of "On the 14th of January 2012 I told you that I liked your smile, on the 23rd of April the same year I said your new perfume suited you" etcetera, etcetera, and while the compliments were ones I'd really given you, the dates were made up because even I can't remember things in such detail. Sometimes, when I want to show off, I do this kind of thing. It's the famous bullshit that John says you've seen though years ago. The list of bullshit was about to force its way out of my mouth, but some higher power (perhaps Sherlock Holmes's sense of decency?) stopped me and insisted that I asked you to forgive me. Here is one part of my conduct on which I can look back with satisfaction. I sincerely hope the kiss I gave you took away at least some of the sting.
I would like you to view file No 2 now, which is a photograph of my bedroom wall.
The photograph showed the headboard of the bed and above it, arranged with great precision int rectangle, in heavy silver frames with three inch mounts, were the "Beauty of Science" art prints she had given him that Christmas. She remembered it well; she had been so thrilled when she had found the set in a tiny book shop in Greenwich. There was an image of galaxies taken by the Hubble Space telescope, a botanic cyanotype by Anna Atkins, a microscopic picture of snow crystals, fractals, a 17th century map of the coast of Holland, a close-up photograph of a starling's feather, and other intriguing images. They were so beautiful that she had coveted them immediately but had been put off by the rather hefty price tag. A week later she had gone back to the shop and bought the set anyway, not for herself but for Sherlock. She had occasionally wondered what he'd done with them; whether they were mouldering away in some cupboard, whether he had even bothered opening the box. Whether he had scoffed and tossed them in the bin. Instead he had spent probably ten times as much as she had to have them framed; and he'd hung them where she would never see them. Which raised the question…
I know what you're thinking, Molly. The photograph is recent, as you can easily see from the file extension, but I can assure you that the pictures had been put up as you see them before Easter that year. I had them framed for two reasons, one was guilt, but the other, more important one, was that they are really very beautiful pictures. I know I should have thanked you for them, but I was being a dick and a coward as usual and didn't want to drag up that awful scene again. Let me thank you now. You gave me a wonderful gift that I have cherished ever since. Lately, I have been thinking that it also contains a message. Science, logic and rational thinking on the one hand, and beauty, art and all the finer feelings on the other hand, are not polar opposites as I so long believed, but complementary aspects of the world that should both be valued equally. The pictures you gave me express this to perfection.
Let's move on to the other issue that needs to be addressed in this context. John has invested much mental effort into convincing himself and me that Irene Adler and I were soulmates. And John, bless his cotton socks, is rarely right. In fact, the entire topic can be dealt with in bullet points:
- Irene Adler was an extravagantly attractive woman by objective standards and this fact was not lost on me.
- She was a worthy opponent and almost beat me. I had to admire that.
- She was a criminal. I hunt criminals; I don't fall in love with them.
- The first time I saw her, she tried to throw me off my game by appearing in front of me stark naked. In case you wondered how I identified her in the morgue. (Only it wasn't her after all. Darn, just how did she manage that one?)
I would like you to view file No 3 now. It is a transcript of my entire correspondence with Irene Adler.
Molly nearly laughed when she read the messages. The words were more confident than any she'd ever managed in this context, but apart from that here was a faithful mirror image of what Sherlock had called her own "fumbled attempts" at flirting with him. And they had been just as unsuccessful.
As you can see, she was rather keen. I, not so much. I have no idea what became of her. Mycroft tried to feed me a story through John that she'd gone to America on a witness protection scheme, and around the same time I heard rumours that she'd been beheaded in Karachi. Chances are, neither of these stories is true. I amused myself with imagining a dashing rescue and quite fancied myself in the role of the knight in shining armour, but that's about the extent of it. Mycroft tried to keep up the illusion that she's alive in America by sending me little fake messages from time to time, but I would say the balance of probability is that she is indeed dead. Case in point, there hasn't been a single message since Sherrinford.
After The Incident at the Christmas Party, I made an effort to be nicer to you. I hope you noticed. I didn't always succeed, I know, because I am clumsy and arrogant and at times mentally paralysed in your presence, but the good intention was not lacking!
I would like you to view file No 4 now.
It was a scanned-in image of an article she had written years ago for a medical journal. Her photograph was in a small box at the top. Key phrases and sentences were underlined and in the margins appeared several exclamation marks and once the word "excellent!" The edges of the paper were fuzzy and slightly torn in places, a grid of lines divided the sheet and along those lines the print was faded or rubbed off. Molly remembered leaving the journal lying open on the lab table beside Sherlock in the hope he would notice it. At the time, he had ignored it completely.
Did you think I wasn't interested in your article? Far from it. I took note of the publication and obtained a copy from the Imperial College library. The paper is in the state you see it because it has been in my wallet ever since. I kept it with me because it was your first. The others are in a folder in my desk drawer. The folder is labelled "Clever Woman." I have always admired your competence, Molly, and I've learned a good deal from these articles. You were never just a pretty face. You showed your mettle time and time again, for example that day when you went out solving crimes with me.
Which brings me to a baffling puzzle: How I could spend an entire day with you and not notice the engagement ring on your finger. Can you solve it, Molly? It's quite easy, really. After The Incident at the Christmas Party, I made a vow never to deduce you again. I trained myself only to look at your face. Your lovely, warm, caring, expressive little face. I looked at it a lot that day. When we talked in that stairwell, I was feeling very tenderly towards you. I told the absolute truth when I said you were the person who mattered most. If you hadn't given me strength, if you hadn't had such boundless faith in me, I don't think I could have gone through with it all. I owed you gratitude, but I wanted to give you more than gratitude. What exactly, I wasn't quite sure. I'm still not sure. I'm pretty certain, however, that I was about to hug you.
Then you moved your hand, the ring caught the light, and that's when I first saw it. That moment I had … feelings. No idea what kind of feelings. Disappointment and jealousy are the two that spring to mind. Perhaps something else that doesn't fit into such categories. A feeling that I hated this discovery but that it served me right. I had an urge to say something crushing, like the day you brought in your "Jim from IT." Against all odds, I had the strength to stop myself. Who was I to tell you what you should and shouldn't do? I wanted you to be happy, so I had to make myself wish that this engagement would make you happy. Have you ever wondered what kind of kiss we could have had on that stairwell if that ring had not been on your finger? I was indeed profoundly grateful when it was gone.
I would like you to view file No 5 now.
A snapshot from John and Mary's wedding, one she'd never seen before. She is standing beside Tom and smiling up at him, desperately trying to convey the impression that she is oh so happy. It was astonishing how obvious the desperation was. Sherlock is on her other side with Janine clinging to his arm, but he isn't looking at Janine, he is looking at her, Molly. He looks…forlorn.
And file number 6, the note that came with it.
Just one sentence, in Mary's handwriting: "Are you sure these people are matched up correctly?"
No, I was sure they weren't, but since the matching up was not of my choosing, there wasn't much I could do about it. I had Mycroft check out your Tom and he certainly showed up to be squeaky clean, but, oh, Molly, was he ever not good enough for you! Simply not being a psychopath is setting the bar rather low, don't you think? I never once heard a single intelligent word come out of his mouth. As for the "quite a lot of sex" you were having, I have to confess the thought makes me shudder. You did well getting rid of him. How did you do it? Did you have any opportunity to slap him? You do such a good slap, I believe I should be jealous if you slapped anyone other than me.
I'm sorry, I should be serious about this. You know what a dark time I went through. It would have been so much worse without you. Please view file number 7, which is a note I wrote one day at your place while you were at work. I meant to leave it for you and as per usual didn't have the guts. I kept it, though, thinking one day I might be a braver man. I guess that day has come.
Molly, I cannot thank you enough for everything you do for me. Without you, I would be dead many times over. I feel safer in your home than in my own. Time and time again I am humbled by your generosity. I am a mess right now and may be so for some time to come, but one day, I promise, I will get my act together and repay you for all your kindness. Until then, remember that you mean more to me than anyone else in the world. Sherlock
Molly heaved a deep breath. The gist of the letter had been obvious for some time, but that last sentence still came as a surprise. More than anyone else: that meant more than Mycroft, more than John or Mary. She, Molly Hooper, was the most important person in the world to Sherlock Holmes. (And the person who had cut him off, abandoned him, given up on him…)
I said it was a dark time, but there were glimpses of light, too, Rosie being one. Rosie liked me. If anyone had told me before that I would enjoy holding a baby in my arms, I would have declared them insane, yet here I was, blowing raspberries to keep her amused. I had to deduce that I was more similar to the average human than hitherto assumed.
The other big glimpse of light was you, of course. Whether you scolded me or comforted me, you always did me good. Remember that day when you told me you felt as if you were running to stand still, because it needed so much TLC from you just to keep me alive from day to day? You were frustrated because I wasn't getting any better. Molly, you looked at that the wrong way round. Imagine you had not been running...
I would like you to view file No 8 now.
It was a copy of discharge papers from a rehab facility.
I'm clean, Molly. Nothing but caffeine and nicotine for the last five months. Just so you know. But I've gone ahead of the story. In fact, I've been arranging and rearranging these paragraphs umpteen times, but I think this way, it flows best. The two most important things have to come last. You know what they are: Sherrinford, and the Fall. I will start with the Fall.
I have told you before that you made it all possible. I'm not sure I was clear: It wasn't what you did that day, it was what you said. Granted, it was convenient that you had the body ready by the time Mycroft's people arrived. But it's not as if they couldn't have commandeered one anyway. What they couldn't do and what nobody else could do was to give me the strength to go through with it.
What had she said? She replayed it in her head one more time.
"What do you need?"
"You."
"But what do you need me to do?"
"Patience; there will be things to do soon. Not now. Tell me, Molly Hooper: Who am I? What am I?"
She'd seen the despair and utter confusion in his face. This was a new thing, something she had never expected to encounter in Sherlock Holmes. Doubt. His infuriating self-assurance had left him completely. He was like an animal exposing a soft underbelly, vulnerable to any tooth or claw that might wish to strike. She had to turn him around and get him back on his feet so that he could face whatever it was that was coming for him.
"You are the best person I know," she said firmly. "Not only smarter, but better. You do what is right, not because it comes naturally to you but because you choose to. With your gifts, you could be the world's greatest criminal mastermind, living in luxury in a high security fortress, pampered and guarded, pulling strings in the background. You could be Moriarty, only worse. Instead you choose to live in a mediocre flat among ordinary people and you put your life on the line to hunt down criminals. And don't you dare say you're doing it for the thrills, because you could get just as big a thrill from pulling off some terrible crime. No, Sherlock, you choose this because you are moral to the core."
"I am not a fraud then?"
"You are not a fraud. You like your bit of drama and you're putting it on very thick at times, but you are always true at heart."
"I am true and I am good?"
"You are true and you are good."
"So I deserve to live?"
A dreadful realisation hit Molly at that moment that he wasn't going to die from some external danger, but by his own hand. She braced herself.
"You deserve to live. More than that, you have a duty to live. With great gifts comes great responsibility. You, Sherlock Holmes, are the last person in the world who could be allowed to give up his life."
Looking back, Molly hardly knew where all those solemn words had come from. For once, the nervous prattle that usually took over her mouth in the presence of Sherlock was muted. She had spoken the truth clearly and convincingly. And Sherlock had looked at her as if he had seen her, really seen her, for the first time.
"Do you believe all that, Molly Hooper?"
"I do. I believe in you."
He had peered at her so earnestly, she had nearly wilted under his gaze. Eventually he said, "Then it must be true." He took a step towards her and put his hands on her shoulder.
"I must disappear," he said. "Not from this world, since you tell me I am duty-bound to it, but from sight. I can't promise that I will return, or if I do, when. I hope I will see you again one day, Molly, but whether I do or not, I want you to know that I believe in you, too." He pressed a kiss on her forehead. "Now come, we have work to do."
It was your faith in me that saved me. I was assaulted by doubt from all sides and I needed someone to believe in me. No, not someone: you. Not Mycroft, because his family loyalty trumps everything. Not John, because while I would trust him with my life, I wouldn't trust his judgement. Only your judgement counted. You are my rock of certitude.
I would like you to view file No 9 now. This is moments before I jumped off the roof.
Another text message exchange between Sherlock and Mycroft.
Promise to look after Molly. SH
I already promised that. MH
Promise again. SH
All right, I promise again. MH
Thank you. SH
Once I was "dead," I had to leave the country as quickly as possible, of course. Being, as I was, so snugly hidden in your bedroom, I might have wished for Mycroft to be a little less efficient. What's two days in the grand scheme of things? I tell you what two days is: Time enough to come to some conclusions. I had already told you that you counted and had always counted. What I realised during those two days was that you counted more than the others. More than Mycroft, more even than John. You see, Mycroft supported me because he was my brother, John supported me because he was, and is, dazzled by my gifts, and in spite of his very healthy ability to tell me some home truths, he continues to hero worship me. Not so you. You had seen me in my weakest hour and still you believed in me. You proved yourself to be my best ally.
I can present no evidence for this, nor for anything that happened during the two years I was away. You will have to take my word for it. Let me tell the truth. I did not think of you all the time, nor did I think of you more often than of John or of my brother or even of London. There was a difference, however: I drew more strength from the thought of you. You know well enough how things went downhill after my return. They would have gone down much further if it hadn't been for you. Don't think about this as John meaning less to me than you thought. It is about you meaning more.
Of course this was not the only time that I left as a dead man. The second time, I had the opportunity to leave some kind of will with my brother. File number 10 is part of it.
A handwritten note: "In the event of my death, let Molly Hooper know that I made a donation to a sperm bank (see enclosed form) and that, should she ever wish to have a child, I would be honoured if she chose me as the father."
Was that an insolent thing to do? Are you revolted? I was not in my right mind at the time. Still, perhaps you can understand it as an incredibly misguided attempt to leave you a meaningful gift. Judge me fairly, Molly. You know you always do.
Now we have reached the point where I have to ask you to view file No 11. I need to warn you that it contains video footage of the Sherrinford phone call. No doubt, it will be a traumatic experience for you to watch it. Please watch it nonetheless, for your sake and mine. I would imagine you are still hurting from this experience. Trust me, so am I. You're a doctor, Molly, you know that the wound needs to be cleaned out so it can heal properly. You need to know the whole truth, and I don't think there are any words that can describe it. You need to see it for yourself. All of it.
Molly folded up the letter and replaced it in the envelope. She shut down the computer, put on her jacket and grabbed the keys. The door clicked shut behind her.
