~ The Long Ride Home ~
He rode silently in the backseat of the sedan, warmed by the comfort of the lush leather seats, mesmerized by the droplets of rain on the window that pulled everything out of focus as though he were seeing his thoughts reflected back to him through a kaleidoscope of emotions he never before felt. The sound of the tires whispering in the rain lulled Sherlock Holmes further into a reverie of memories that came perforce from the days events. Bruised, aching and tired, the emotional anarchy left him wanting the car to drive on forever, if for no other reason than to clear his mind and make quick order of the heaviness that tugged at his chest.
Sherlock broke the silence to the other passenger, who seemed lost in his own thoughts. "I can feel you thinking," was his simple statement.
"There's a lot to think about," John answered quietly, seemingly oblivious to Sherlock's bait to speak what was on his mind.
"You must have questions."
"No. Yes. But I wouldn't know where to begin," John paused. "The important question is, how are you?"
"Fine," Sherlock answered dryly, willing his words to stand as truth.
Silence once again settled between the two friends. Of course John was right, Sherlock considered. He hadn't begun to process this day and all that had taken place. What could John ask, or say, that would put any of this into perspective? His own mind was still reeling from all the secrets and lies, long ago buried.
It was a day of heartbreak and loss. Somewhere, children would be notified their parents were dead. A family would be told their three sons were lost at sea – a kindness over saying they were murdered to exact justice and prove a moral conundrum. It didn't matter who they were, or what they had done. It was those left behind that would suffer; they would be left with unanswered questions, and voids that used to be occupied by those they loved.
His forehead rested against the cool glass and the desire to retreat far into himself was betrayed by an endless streams of thoughts and images he couldn't escape. Molly was among them and as hard as he tried to push her away, to not think about what could have happened, the more she lingered…haunting every corner of his mind, ghostly and unfaltering.
It was too much to think about, he rebuked, holding back the threat of emotions stirring within. The heaviness that had been pressing against his chest felt ruthless, offering no escape or merciful reprieve. Three minutes is all it took for him to face the grim wreckage he would call life without her. This time, he would be the one left behind with the unrelenting chasm of grief…the void where feelings unexpressed and measures never acted upon would eventually succumb.
The hours stole away in the long drive back to London, Sherlock aware of each minute that ticked by as a reminder of all that took place, as well as the uncertainty of what lied ahead. He looked over to John, sleeping and snoring more loudly than usual and for a brief moment admired that about his friend - the ability to sleep or eat, even when the world shattered around them. Why John wasn't bursting with questions confused him, especially regarding Molly.
Molly….
How had Eurus seen? What was it that sparked her curiosity? In their five minutes did Moriarty show something…offer up a speculatory nuance for her bidding? Or, was he that obvious…Eurus could see – know - what others had easily dismissed, or simply chose to ignore? Sherlock silently chastised himself for his careless and foolish sentiment. Then again, he thought, maybe he was tired of the game…the obfuscating. Either way, this isn't what he wanted. Not now. Not this way. What would he say? How could he face her after the pain he caused…even if it was to save her life?
"Mrs. Hudson's at her sister's in Dorchester…do you know where you're going? You can stay here, you know," John said exiting the vehicle, shaking Sherlock from his thoughts. He hadn't noticed they were in London, let alone at John's home.
"Mycroft's will do for now. I doubt he'll be there much," Sherlock answered, giving John a knowing look that suggested his brother's presence would be demanded elsewhere. "And, there's the business of telling our parents about Eurus."
John offered an understanding nod, knowing nothing would ever be quite the same. It hadn't been the same, not since Mary's death…maybe even before. "Right then. Get some sleep, Sherlock," he said before closing the door, watching the car drive off into the night.
PART ll
The phone vibrated inside the pocket of Sherlock's jacket, startling him before the cacophony of thoughts could resume their inexorable ricocheting from one to another. He forgot...along with arranging the car, Mycroft made sure he had a temporary phone to use until his own was returned. Sighing, he knew only one person would be calling.
"Mycroft," he answered wearily.
"I assume Doctor Watson has been safely reunited with his daughter?"
"Yes," Sherlock answered resolutely.
"No worse for the wear, then?"
"You mean considering he spent hours chained in a well of freezing water, with the bones of a dead child, almost drown, drugged and beaten up?" Sherlock momentarily paused before continuing, "He's fine."
Exhaustion gripped at Sherlock and, after everything they had gone through, there was no reason to doubt Mycroft's sincerity. Still, he was never one for idle, familial chit-chat and now was the not the exception to the rule. Uncertainty was the undercurrent that could easily sweep away his precariously calm demeanor, and only moments before did he remember he had no home to return.
"Not just a child, Sherlock," Mycroft Holmes paused, carefully considering his next words. "Victor. None of this can be e -"
"Just as telling our parents about Eurus won't be easy for you. What do you want, Mycroft?" Sherlock snapped more forcefully than he anticipated. He wasn't angry with Mycroft and, for the first time in a very long time, felt something akin to sympathy. How Mycroft had carried the knowledge of their sister, the weight of what he knew, for such a long time, was a testament to his strength, as well as a part of him, a softness, he'd rather not let anyone see. For all his power, Mycroft wasn't as strong as he wanted people to believe and now was not an exception. There will be hell to pay and Mycroft will carry the burden of this as well. For better or worse, he was, undeniably, the keeper of the Holmes's family secrets and sins.
"Yes. Well..." Mycroft's voice drifted.
"Mycroft?"
"I thought you'd want to know MI-6 removed Doctor Hooper from her home a few hours ago. They've taken her to a secure location until we receive the all clear."
"I thought -"
"Our sister," Mycroft interjected, "Plays with words. No explosive devices were found inside, or outside, her home, as Eurus informed us, but a thorough forensic search was not an exaggeration of reasonable caution, wouldn't you agree? So far, I've been made aware that cameras were found throughout the house, so even with no bomb the video feed needed removal. We have yet to review any of the tapes or data."
"Is that really necessary, Mycroft?" The last thing Sherlock wanted were specters at the feast having a front row seat to Molly's life. To his life.
"Sherlock?" The elder Holmes brother questioned.
"Leave it alone, please?" The pleading was soft, but undeniable. Sherlock wasn't one to ask favors out of hand and, in this case, the depth of what was being asked went beyond the normal exchange of mutual assurances.
"I can promise you discretion, of course. We have yet to assess the full extent of damage caused by Eurus."
"I agree, Mycroft. But that's not where you'll find it."
"Sherlock, you do understand there will be a full investigation? People have died. Procedures need to be followed, there are security measures, and even I -"
"You won't find anything there," Sherlock interrupted. There was no escaping the quiet, but threatening insistence in his voice. "Promise me."
"It's evidence," Mycroft persisted.
"Then make it disappear!" Sherlock snapped, his agitation mounting. "Destroy it. Do whatever it is you do with things like this. For God's sake, Mycroft, you disappeared our sister. Make this go away. Molly Hooper deserves none of this."
A long pause settled between the two brothers, as though it were a battle of wills, each waiting to see who would give in first.
"Alright, Sherlock," Mycroft sighed in capitulation. "With the exception of what took place earlier, you have my promise."
"Good night, Mycroft -"
"Sherlock, wait."
"What now?"
"I placed Doctor Hooper in one my rooms at The Diogenes. It's discrete and her presence won't interfere. She's being well tended to, of course, but I'm sure she's awaiting an explanation."
"You didn't tell her?"
"Me? Why on earth would I? It's not my place, Sherlock. I simply called, woke her from a sound sleep, and gave her the warning that British Security Services would be entering her home, unannounced, and to quickly make any preparations to leave. I'm sure she found it rather disturbing, but she's also clever and no doubt attempting to connect the dots."
"No doubt," Sherlock scoffed.
"You'll need to speak with her."
"I'm not an idiot, Mycroft."
"Yes, well... Sherlock?"
"What?"
"It's not my place -"
"But..."
"If you love this woman, and, well…I want you to know I've always been fond of Doctor Hooper. Perhaps you'll find some advantage after all, little brother."
A quiet pause settled between the words spoken and the meaning they carried. It was undeniable what Mycroft and John witnessed earlier that day and now...the walls that previously sheltered the entangled and careful hearts of friends laid bare and vulnerable for the scrutiny of others.
"I let you get on with it, then. Goodnight," Mycroft added before hanging up.
Sherlock turned back toward the window, offering one last instruction to the driver. "Diogenes club, take me there."
Author's notes: This is a small companion piece I wrote to go with The Molly Diaries. It should be read before Chapter 2, Everything Changes. The Long Ride Home gives a bit of background on what was going through Sherlock's mind before he spoke with Molly to explain the I Love You 'phone call' in The Final Problem.