Inhale.
Exhale.
Inhale.
Look, it's easy. You can control it, control your tears. They won't flow unless you want them to.
Now let's take care of your shaking hands.
What do you mean? Of course you need to! You have to drive the car, for god's sake, no way you'll do it with your hands shaking like this.
See, the trembling is lessening already, you're doing a great job.
What is that? Tears? Really?
Fine, if it's helping you, but you know it doesn't make any sense, right?
"I know.", Molly answers herself and cries over the man who didn't die.
It takes her some time to calm down and she gets a couple of curious glances of passersby. Luckily, no one is caring enough to stop and ask her what's wrong.
Bless the selfishness of the modern world.
Molly takes a deep breath and wipes away last tears. It's kind of stupid, to sit in the cold car and cry, but she doesn't really care.
She just helped a man fake his own death and pronounced him dead. If it's not a good reason to have a little breakdown, then what is?
"Molly!", an unexpected knock on the window startles her.
Oh. It's just Sandra, her new coworker.
"We saw your car through the window, didn't you finish the work an hour ago?", Sandra's blue eyes are filled with worry.
"Yes, yes, I just… You know."
Sandra's blue eyes are filled with compassion. "I didn't know him", she says hesitantly. "Were you close to each other?"
You've always counted and I've always trusted you.
Oh, God.
A bitter laughter rises in Molly's throat. She stifles it with difficulty and gives Sandra a weak smile.
"I'd better go home."
Sandra smiles and nods her head and before she can say anything, Molly starts the engine.
Funny thing- you don't usually feel the smell of other people, not until they visit you at home. In your kingdom you can always smell the strangeness of someone's else scent.
Molly stops on the door frame; her flat is dark and silent, as it should be, but she knows someone is there, maybe sitting in her living room, maybe in her bedroom.
The question is if it is Sherlock or someone who's after him?
"You're wondering if it's a burglar or me, let me resolve your doubts- it's me.", the well-known voice sounds unnaturally loud in her tiny flat.
Molly closes her eyes for a moment. There were many scenarios in her head that included Sherlock Holmes presence in her flat, but never ever did she think it'd happen under such circumstances.
"Is that safe to you?", she walks into the room; Sherlock is sprawled on her sofa, his scarf's laying on the floor, but the coat still tightly wrapped around his body.
"You mean is that safe for you.", Sherlock slightly moves up, his pale eyes fixed on Molly.
She shakes her head. "No, no. It's not what I…"
"Molly.", he always knew how to do that, how to end all her protests with a single word. "Sense of self-preservation is inborn. Good to know you didn't lose it completely.", he rises his eyebrow and looks at her critically. "I wasn't followed and, as far as I know, no one is aware of you.", he adds.
"It's not what I meant.", Molly protests, but she knows she already lost this battle and decides to retreat. "I'll make tea, I'll be right back."
It a cowardly behaviour, but she needs a moment alone, she needs a moment to analyze the situation; there's an officially dead man in her flat, who's relatively well-known in London and who didn't even bother to change his famous clothes.
And who, apparently, chooses not to read her signals and follows her into the kitchen. He trails her like a big cat in a coat and leans heavily on the fridge. Molly deliberately avoids looking at him and focuses on finding a mug which isn't covered with flowers or sweet animals. She's sure she has a plain red one, it would fit Sherlock.
"I knew John would feel hurt.", Sherlock's voice startles her, she almost drops the plate she's holding.
Sherlock's eyes are fixed on the kitchen calendar, hanging on the wall opposite. He bites his lips, vaguely resembling at this moment Molly's three years old cousin.
"I didn't expect his reaction to be so…", his voice falters and Molly feels how her hands are sweating. The first symptom of anxiety in her case.
Sherlock is never in loss of words, simply never.
Except he's now.
"He looked empty.", Sherlock continues hesitantly. "And lost."
You look lost, Molly thinks but keeps it to herself. No need to confuse him any more.
"It's normal, you know. To feel lost after… after losing someone.", Molly pauses. It sounds like an explanation and why would Sherlock need someone like Molly to explain him anything?
But his eyes are full of anticipation, filled with want of comprehension, because Sherlock needs to understand and right now she's the only one able to help.
"Uh…", what more she can say? About the overwhelming feeling of loss after her father died? About this steady ache in her heart that even after five years still can reappear? Would he understand?
"After some time it becomes bearable.", she finally settles on.
"More bearable…", Sherlock repeats after her, a strange note in his voice. The look Molly receives makes hurt shudder a little- his pale eyes, usually so unreadable for her, are filled with disappointment.
"You could just…"
The unspoken rest of the sentence is hanging in the air for a moment.
Finally Sherlock lets himself half-sit, half-fall on the floor, his movements lacking the usual cat-like grace, still without saying a word. Exhaustion is written all over his body.
Molly observes him, thoughts rushing through her head fervently.
Sherlock expects something from her, but what? What kind of explanation he wants? He knows, probably better than her, how people can react for loss, so it's not the matter.
Oh.
She knees beside him, hardly fitting in between the table and Sherlock' legs. There's a smudge of dried blood staining his knee, but that's not important now.
"John reacted like this, because he loves you.", her voice is quiet, barely above whisper, but they're so close to each other there's no need for louder speaking. Sherlock covers his face with hands.
"You can't be sure.", he mumbles through them and for the first time Molly feels superior to him. It's a fleeting feeling and disappears in the moment it was born leaving bitterness of sympathy in her mouth.
She leans toward him and gently puts her arm around him. The sensation of the woolen coat on her skin is almost exactly as she imagined.
It's scary, this closeness of the man, who always was nothing but distant. He's tense under her touch, but doesn't flinch away when Molly lays her head on his shoulder.
Normally she would never do this but there's nothing normal about this situation and nothing normal about this Sherlock.
"But I am.", she says, her answer late, but it's not a problem, not for this brilliant man, but he doesn't acknowledge her answer in any way. He's still tense, still distant, Molly's start aching because of the cold hardness of the floor and the awkwardness of the situation finally wins.
She stands up slowly, brushing gently Sherlock's shoulder.
"I… I just finish making tea, is that fine?", her voice is slightly panicked, surely Sherlock can hear it, but a short nod of head is the only response.
When he's sitting beside her coffee table a couple of minutes later he looks perfectly himself again, perfectly collected and focused, not even a slightest sign of fear or confusion.
Molly wishes she could say if it's just a mask, or he really managed to pull himself together.
"I was sure you have a cat.", he breaks the silence suddenly, making Molly jump and spill her tea. She looks at the new stain on her favourite jumper with resignation. It should have disappear from her wardrobe long time anyway.
So, is that Sherlock's attempt in a small talk, or is he just checking the correctness of his deductions?
"I had.", she answers carefully. "He died three days ago."
Sherlock doesn't respond, just leans more comfortably on the sofa.
Correctness of deductions, that's it, then.
"I think I have biscuits.", the silence is too uncomfortable for Molly. While in the lab there's always something to tell and ask , in her flat every attempt in conversation seems doomed from the beginning. "Somewhere in the kitchen."
Sherlock remains silent, focused entirely on his tea. He actually looks as something dangerous could escape from it and bite him. Molly observes him for a second, vaguely wondering if it's perfectly normal behaviour or if she should be worried.
"Sherlock?"
He raises his head, brows frowned. Molly sighs inwardly.
"I was just checking.", she says hesitantly aware how strangely it sounds, but Sherlock seems perfectly content with this answer.
As he has heard it many times before… Better not to think about it.
Of course there is no biscuits in the kitchen; she must have eaten them during one of many lonely evenings.
"I don't have biscuits, but if you want I can… Oh."
Sherlock is curled in the corner of the sofa, wrapped tightly in his coat, soundly asleep, looking startlingly vulnerable.
Strange how dreams can mix with reality.
She could brush the curls from his forehead and sit beside him, listening to his deep breaths. She could pretend he belongs in her flat, on her old and shabby sofa, that when he opens his pale eyes they would tell her everything she dreamt about.
It would be stupid.
So she takes her favourite fluffy green blanket and gently covers him with it. Sherlock mumbles something unintelligibly, shifts and nestles his face into it, smiling softly.
"Thank you, John.", he adds a moment later, his voice so gentle and kind that something inside Molly breaks.
She lays awake for a long time, listening out for noises of any kind, but Sherlock is apparently a quiet sleeper and nothing disturbs the silence.
It comes as no surprise when morning welcomes her with no sign of Sherlock at all. Even the blanket is folded and put into the usual place, his mug washed and standing in the kitchen cupboard.
Only a couple of days later Molly discovers her spare set of keys went missing.
Sherlock wakes up with a jolt. For a second the pain of hitting the pavement feels oddly and alarmingly real but fades quickly into much more bearable although very much annoying dull ache of a sprained knee and a headache. He burrows his face into the warm fluffiness of the blanket and pulls a face- it smells like flower perfume, obviously feminine fragrance. John really should wash it after one of his many girlfriends used it.
And then realization comes.
Sherlock sits, trying to be as quiet as possible. Molly strikes him as a sound sleeper, a child-like one, but...
Well, he can be wrong and Molly's brown eyes will look at him with a mix of pity and fear and Sherlock doesn't want it, can't have it.
His inner clocks him tells him it's about five am- an awful time to wake up, but coming to Molly hardly counts as a bright idea so limiting the amount of time spent in her flat is the best he can do.
He folds the blanket, feeling extremely strange doing so. In Baker Street it's John who always does that and...
Stop.
The spare keys set is hidden in the most obvious place, almost begging to be taken. He probably won't go back, not like this anyway but the idea of having an easy access Molly's flat it's a nice one. Heart-warming almost.
He grabs the keys and throw them into the pocket.
Steady noise of rain drops hitting the window sill wakes Molly up. She blinks, vaguely remembering pools of blood in her dream, and curls under the cover, seeking for warm.
She remembers her dream clearly instead, filled with warm, pulsing blood so different from this she knows from her work. She rolls on her stomach, hopelessly searching for some comfort in the softness of the pillow.
Wind whistles grimly, rain hits the window glass harder and Molly finally rises her head.
She need to get up, dress in black skirt, black jacket and black high-heels, bought long time ago in short-lived attempt in being sexy in everyday life.
It was a painful experience.
The funeral begins at 11 am, so she really has to start preparing, but even the thought about it makes her heart beat faster and her hands sweat.
It'll be nothing, just one huge lie, strange body in the coffin and wrong name on the gravestone… Only tears of friends will be real.
Molly stops in the middle of brushing her hair and looks into the mirror.
John will be there, on the graveyard, broken with loss of his best friend and Molly will have to lie to him, to say she's sorry for his loss and cry fake tears.
The sound of the text message startles her a little.
NUMBER BLOCKED
You know you have to.
Her breath is quick and uneven, fingers wrapped so tightly around the phone it almost hurts.
"I know.", she says to nobody and puts on the false mourning.
One expect more people on the funeral like this. Somehow even journalists are absent, as if Sherlock's death wasn't first page news for the last week.
She's late: London traffic jams had no mercy for her in this dreary day and the coffin is already buried in the ground. There's Sherlock's older brother standing, as always immaculate, sheltering himself from the persistence rain with huge umbrella. Molly's met him twice in her life, always in the worst possible scenario. Seems third time isn't any different.
"Hello, Molly.", Greg Lestrade appears from nothing, kisses her, slightly awkwardly because of their umbrellas, on the cheek and gives her a sad smile.
She doesn't protest when puts his hand on the small of her back and leads her toward the rest of gathered people. It's nice in fact, his hand feels warm even through the layer of her jacket and she lets someone else has the control of the situation.
They come closer- there's a man standing beside the grave, looking old and empty and Molly is thankful Greg's arm is still around her, because it's John.
At the very beginning John meant almost nothing to her. Surely, she was surprised when one day Sherlock appeared in the lab with a short man who asked too many questions and smiled with sweetness belonging to child. Soon she learnt though that in the universe Sherlock is the centre of, John Watson is the most important men in the whole of creation.
And here he is; no emotions on the usually so expressive face, no traces of tears either. Just this terrifying emptiness, as if the whole world was taken from him. Molly shuts her eyes tightly; she's the one with power of bringing him back his life and yet she can't and won't do this, because she has promised.
It's only when Greg embraces her tightly Molly realizes the dampness on her face isn't the rain but her own tears. Greg murmurs soft and calming nonsense into her ear and she cries and cries, face burrowed in his scarf.
Greg strokes her back in a soothing manner, "I know, I know…", he whispers softly, which makes Molly want to thrust him away and scream the truth in top of her lungs, because he doesn't know, not really.
Her phone buzzes softly in her arm bag.
You bloody bastard, Molly thinks helplessly, takes a deep breath and untangles herself from Greg. John glances at her and gives a forced sad smile, but his eyes come back almost instantly to the grave.
"Miss Hooper.", Mycroft's voice is perfectly polite and perfectly calm, the complete opposition to Molly's choked: "I'm sorry for your loss."
He smiles to Lestrade, takes her arm, gently but decisively drawing her away from the rest of the people. Still he sounds like a perfect gentleman, when he asks:
"Could we talk for a moment?"
"I…", Molly knows she shouldn't protest- if Mycroft has any suspicions then that kind of behaviour just ensure him that she knows something. Or maybe she's just getting paranoid. Nothing strange, with a man like Mycroft.
"I'd rather go home.", it's not a lie at all, she feels already tired and the perspective of spending the rest of the day curled under the blanket has never been more tempting.
"It's not a problem, not at all.", Mycroft assures her hurriedly with a tight smile. " There's a car waiting outside cemetery and I'd be delighted to have you as a fellow passenger."
Molly hesitates, her eyes quickly scanning Mycroft's face. He's harder to read than his younger brother. Or maybe she's simply lacking years of observations?
"I have to insists, I'm afraid."
Every line of the limousine awaiting for them screams about big money and good taste of the owner. Molly wonders for a moment if it's just her or her rather cheap suit really clashes so horribly with beige leather of the sits.
"Miss Hooper.", Mycroft starts, still holding his umbrella in hand. The water is dripping from it, slowly creating a pool on the floor-board. Molly moves her leg a little further away. "You'd known my younger brother for approximately seven years."
Six and a half, Molly thinks, but leaves it to herself.
"How would you describe your relationship?", Mycroft continues, an expression of polite interest on his face.
"I…", Molly pauses. For almost all her acquaintance with Sherlock she believed there was no relationship between them at all.
You've always counted, says tiny voice in the back of her head.
"We just worked together sometimes.", she finally settles with. "I sort of helped him a couple of times and we met many times in the morgue."
"You did spend a Christmas day together.", Mycroft remarks.
"Yes, but I think it was John idea. To invite me, I mean.", this admission leaves a bitter taste on her mouth.
"Right.", Mycroft shifts his position and undoes first few buttons in his coat. "Did Sherlock trust you?"
"Oh. Sort of?", Molly answers hesitantly. Mycroft's raised eyebrow tells her to continue. "I mean he doesn't…didn't question results of my analyzes…"
It has to be family thing, as Mycroft's gaze is as steady and unnerving as Sherlock's. "Did he ever voice this trust?"
And I've always trusted you.
"No.", Molly says quickly. Probably her answer is too fast, but she doesn't really care right now. All she wants is to escape from this car, the smell of luxury, expensive leather and the piercing gaze of Holmes the elder.
"I believe we're almost under your flat.", Mycroft announces, "Thank you for the most enlightening conversation."
Molly forces herself to smile in answer.
Her phones buzzes again when she fights with the lock on her door. It's hard to say if the lock is getting stuck, or she should blame her shaking hands.
The flat bears no sign of presence of Sherlock. Luckily for him, since Molly's sure she wouldn't be able to stand another Holmes so soon.
She checks her phone. There are two text messages, both from BLOCKED NUMBER.
Don't speak with him, says the first one.
I HAVE told you, announces the second one.
Molly looks at them for a moment, strangely amused, then makes herself a cup of tea.
A fluffy blanket and crappy TV shows are waiting for her in the living room.
Interesting how the possession of a mobile phone can improve one's mood. Sherlock touches his new phone, a cheap one, almost affectionately. The heaviness of laptop in the arm back is also reassuring- now he has the essential tools to fight the battle.
The bored receptionist doesn't pay any attention to him, exactly as he predicted. She's sure he's one of many tourists too poor to rent anything in London, but ambitious enough to find something just outside the city.
Later she will remember only his funny accent, a strange mix between French and something else, God know what. He could be tall, yes, why not, most men are tall compared to her. He was limping, or maybe it was the other one? Oh, the monitoring system? Well, in fact these cameras are fake, Mrs. Richards, the owner, says it's horribly expensive to buy, you know, all this things. But he's horribly mean and if she had a choice, she would never work for him and…
Sherlock smiled to himself when he closed the door behind him. Obviously, the best place to stay hidden while being close to London.
He strongly suspects that the need to stay close to his home-city can be counted as a sentiment, but the great amount of search work has to be done and it doesn't really makes sense to leave everything familiar behind him so soon.
And then there's John.
Sherlock rarely lets himself to think about John. Or about anyone that matters to be honest. It's painful in a strange, unknown way that confuses his sharp mind and takes away the ability to focus on the task in the hand.
Sherlock hates it with his whole heart.
Maybe that's why he decides to see John one more time. The explanation is a rational one: when he sees John's perfectly fine-because he must be fine, surely his pain is a short-lived one, don't think about Molly's words- then all his confusion will simply disappear.
So one more trip to London has to be done, Mycroft's invigilance system forgotten. Besides Sherlock managed to deceived it many times before, in one memorable occasion long enough to almost die because of blood loss.
If Sherlock believes in anything it's his mind and it tells him he'd be lucky today.
John and Mrs. Hudson are visiting Sherlock's grave today and it feels slightly surreal to watch them. Mrs. Hudson is on edge of crying but John looks completely calm. At least from Sherlock's position.
He doesn't cry-Sherlock hopes Molly was wrong- but then John stays alone actually does cry and for one crazy moment Sherlock actually hope he'll be noticed.
It's completely impossible- he choose the perfect location for his observation, didn't let himself make a smallest mistake.
A very tiny part of him regrets it now.
John finally leaves the cemetery and joins Mrs. Hudson, but Sherlock doesn't follow him. He's seen enough.
His hostel room is strangely cold, despite sunlight, but Sherlock doesn't pay attention to it. There's job to be done, not a usual one, but it can't stop him.
Contrary to belief, popular especially among policemen, Sherlock has never killed anyone. What's more he hasn't even considered killing. It's dirty work and Sherlock's sure he won't have any pleasure from it, although he also strongly believe to be perfectly capable of such act. Under suitable circumstances, that's it.
John killed for him in very first days of their friendship. After eighteen months Sherlock is sure he can kill for John.
Seems circumstances are definitely suitable.
He stays awake all night, gathering information, spinning a web he'll throw on his first victim. He's bone-deep tired, but he doesn't stop.
Partially because he doesn't want to dream. In his dreams he's not falling- he's hitting the pavement, over and over again with bone crushing force and John is always standing right next to him.
He never does anything to stop Sherlock's fall.
Sherlock is silent for a couple of days and Molly starts wondering whether it's a good sign, or had he manage to kill himself after all.
Imagination obligingly shows her his pale face covered with this time real blood. Suddenly her lunch stops tasting so deliciously and Molly puts the fork away with a sigh.
She just want to see him.
It's a desire very much different than the one she used to have. She stopped dreaming about his hands, confessions of love are no longer what she wants to hear from him.
Is as if she lost unrequited love and gained a friendship in return.
She spins the phone on the table and checks it once again. The waitress smiles to her.
"Anything else for you?", she asks and leans to take Molly's plate. "Don't worry, he'll call.", she adds.
Before Molly can answer her phone buzzes. The waitress smiles broader.
"You see?", she asks and leaves Molly alone.
The text it's from BLOCKED NUMBER. Overwhelming wave of relief rushes over her, leaving her slightly lightheaded. The message itself is short, as always.
Act normally.
Molly looks at it frowning and then reads it again in vain hope it'll make it more understandable. She hasn't changed anything in her daily routine for well… At least three years! Why Sherlock decided to give her this advice? What is wrong with her current behaviour?
Oh. Of course.
If Sherlock would really die, if the body laying in the dirt of one of London's cemetery belonged to him she would visited it at least twice since the funeral. Obviously Sherlock is perfectly aware of that.
No way of escape from this unpleasant duty then. The relief of knowing Sherlock's fine, at least fine enough to write texts, vanishes somewhere, leaving behind pressure of oncoming headache.
She takes a taxi, deciding that effort of driving through London is way too big for her today. The cabbie gives her a sympathetic look, but luckily restrains himself from any comments and glances at her from time to time through the back mirror. Molly focuses on the bouquet of flowers she bought. It's colourful and doesn't really suit its destination, but somehow she couldn't force herself to buy something more appropriate.
It's surprising how pleasant the cemetery actually turns to be: it's a quiet and peaceful place, sunshine is warm on her back and Molly starts wondering if she really should have been so reluctant.
And then she sees John.
He's standing with his hand on the black granite of Sherlock's gravestone and seems lost to the outside world. He's talking, Molly can hear fragments, single words.
A branch crackles under her feet and John turns her in one fluid move, which says a lot about his past. His body seems to be ready to fight and it's only when he recognises her it slowly relaxes.
"Good morning, Molly.", he says politely but with reserve and takes a step back from the gravestone.
"I didn't want to... to disturb you.", Molly vaguely waves her hand, unsure how to call John's behaviour from before a minute. He smiles sadly and shakes his head.
"It's fine.", he steps aside and something about the way he moves catches Molly's eye.
John's slightly limping, but otherwise he seems to be perfectly fine. Much better than during the funeral, but something is off- as if he ordered himself not to break completely and put a mask, but the underneath shines through.
Molly puts the flowers on the ground, wondering if Sherlock is still in London, if he saw this simple black gravestone made for him. The granite is polished so strongly it reflects everything and Molly sees John's still standing behind her.
She clears her throat. "I think it suits him."
John's frowned eyebrows reminds her once again how badly her conversational skills needs to be improved.
"I mean...", she continues, not sure exactly why she's finding it important to say, "the gravestone, it suits Sherlock. See? It reflects everything around it , but from this place it's almost hard to say what colour it is."
John's still looking at her with a strange expression on his face, but now there's comprehension in his eyes.
"You don't believe in this lies written in newspapers.", it's not a question- it's a statement, said with relief and Molly realises how important it is to John.
"No, of course not!", the idea of believing to all this lies, even if Molly wasn't initiated into Sherlock's plans, it's simply ridiculous.
"Thank you, Molly", John smiles, this time much more warmly. Something in Molly's chest twitches painfully.
You can't say anyone.
You can't say John.
"I'd better go.", she says quickly before she does something unforgivable.
She feels John's gaze on her back even for a long time.
Falling it's just like flying.
Like flying.
Sherlock seriously hopes it's not- otherwise everlasting dream of an ability to fly it's stupidest from the great variety of people's strange wishes.
Falling is terrifying. And painful.
Even when the destination isn't a permanent one.
Sherlock hisses quietly, when his knee misbehaves again; he must have hit it harder then he initially thought. A visit to doctor would be strongly advised, but dead men rarely visit doctors with problems of sprained knee. Luckily there's a street lamp close enough to prevent him from an unpleasant meeting with the pavement.
No one spares a single glance at him and for the very first time in his life Sherlock blesses people's inability to see. For them he's just one of the many passers-by.
Only a small boy, about five years old, observes him with huge brown eyes, gripping tightly his mother, no: his nanny hand. Sherlock fights the ridiculous urge to talk with him.
He probably wouldn't understand him anyway, chances that this tiny Parisian knows English are close to zero. His nanny catches Sherlock's look and frowns, so Sherlock slowly and unwillingly untangles himself from the street lamp.
No need of getting unwanted attention. Even though she'd most probably remember only his ginger locks. Personally he hates them but the best way to stay unrecognizable is to have one very characteristic feature. The rest of the appearance will simply disappear from human's memory.
And Mycroft would never believe Sherlock did something so radical to his hair; partially because it's really against Sherlock's nature.
He checks his knee in the café toilet- it's still swollen, even though the wound has almost scarred. Not good, but there's nothing he can really do about, aside from giving it a rest.
Sadly it's impossible.
He buys himself tea made in a way John usually did it. As always it tastes horribly and has nothing in common with the one John made. Sherlock supposes that one day he'll learn to stop ordering it.
For now he focuses on files saved in his laptop.
It's wonderful how easy you can be the proper person in the Internet. All you need is to know right passwords and Sherlock was always good in knowing right things.
Moriarty was right- sometimes a simple key can make a king from you. Luckily Sherlock's perfected the skill of opening the tightly closed doors since he was a small child.
Finding out that Ludmila Dyachenko likes spending some time after a contract in Paris took him a laughable amount of time. Other things were harder to discover but after two weeks of searching in the hard drive of this inconspicuous laptop are things that could ensure a life sentence for Ludmila.
Sherlock strongly suspects they're sufficient enough also to blackmail her and buy her silence forever.
He won't risk like that.
Dyachenko has a small and rather trashy in Sherlock's opinion house on the outskirts of Paris. It's placed in a dream location, with tall and thick hedge, which isolates it both from the street and neighbor's houses.
Sherlock checks the front door and smirks. Dyachenko, apparently, is old-fashioned- there's a tiny piece of wood put between the door and a the frame.
It's not an obstacle at all, even though putting this splinter back will require using the window. His knee won't be happy.
Sherlock opens the door with easiness of long term burglar; John would be shocked. Of course there's an alarm is on, but Ludmila isn't really a person hard to read and soon it's safe to walk in to the room.
Now all he has to do is waiting.
It's almost dusk when Dyachenko finally comes home, which probably makes things more dramatic, not that Sherlock has time to think about it.
"Good evening, Miss Dyachenko.", Sherlock smiles when she enters the room. "Or should I rather call you Mrs. Lukyanienko?"
Her eyes widens, albeit slightly, but otherwise seems untroubled by Sherlock's presence. She's good, he has to admit it, but there are very few things you can do with a gun aimed on your head.
"Please,", Sherlock gestures toward the armchair. "Sit down, there's a couple of things we need to discuss."
Dyachenko doesn't protest but her eyes never leave him. "You want information, right?", her accent is strong but voice itself is melodious, pleasant. "You think you can make me talk."
"No, Mrs. Lukyanienko, I don't think.", Sherlock smile broadens slightly at her obvious surprise. "I know."
Self-confidence mixed with arrogance works every time- Ludmila's body tenses with fear, Sherlock can see it in every line of it.
"My husband,", she says. "He can protect himself."
"I have no doubt in Mr. Lukyanienko abilities. Question is if he's skilled enough to protect your daughter as well."
"Oh,", she says weakly, for a moment all her weakness exposed in plain sight.
Caring is not an advantage. Sometimes even Mycroft is right.
Sherlock knows in this moment he has won- whatever he says from now on, whatever bluff he'll try to sell- Dyachenko will believe in everything.
She pulls herself together, of course- Sherlock wouldn't expect anything less from a trained killer. She cleans her throat.
"You've done your research. But I can't see what you can do with this information.", she doesn't believe in what she just said; you could learn the basic symptoms of laying by observing her.
It's time to play.
"Oh you know.", Sherlock shifts in the sofa, taking a more relaxed position. "So many bad things can happen to a little girl in a huge city..."
Her breath catches, Sherlock lets the silence stretches.
"You should be dead.", she finally mumbles and Sherlock smiles, this time genuinely. "What do you want to know?"
"Moriarty's second in command. What do you know about him?"
Dyachenko thinks for a moment. "I've never seen him."
Oh, well. It was worth a try.
"But,", she continues and Sherlock feels his hope rising. "I know he was a soldier once and then he did something and they throw him out. And, well, I heard he's handsome. And that's all. Really."
Her voice sounds calm but eyes are full of hope and for a moment Sherlock almost feels sorry for her, but her fate was written in the moment Sherlock started researching her.
It turns out incredible easy at the end- he simply pulls the trigger.
Silencer is a great invention, pity nothing can be done for the mess; blood and brain is splashed all over the wall, creating a macabre decoration- a study in carmine and grey.
Sherlock leaves it to be.
It's dark outside, the cold evening air cools his face. He wonders if he should feel anything special, as he walks the empty street toward the main avenue.
Maybe he should at least feel sick?
He checks his hands: they're perfectly steady.
No sign of stress whatsoever. He listens to his body carefully but apart from almost constant tiredness and pain of the knee everything is fine.
It's almost disappointing if he has to be honest. Feels like he isn't doing enough, not trying enough.
His room in the cheap motel welcomes him with smell of dampness he can't used to. The bed is waiting, unmade after his last nap but Sherlock doesn't even dare to look at it.
He has a search to do and there's nobody he would say: "it's too late, go to sleep for god's sake, are you trying to kill yourself?", so sleep will have to wait.
Molly stretches and yawns, checking the time. Another half an hour until her shift ends, which means another half an hour before her meeting with Greg Lestrade.
When he called her yesterday evening she was genuinely surprised- she's forgotten he has her number- but agreed right away. Even though they'll most probably end talking about Sherlock.
Surprisingly it scares Molly less than it would just a week ago; maybe that's because he is silent for over two weeks now, Molly tries really hard not to think about possible explanation, and everything about him goes a little blurrier with every day. The idea of him sleeping in her living room seems now as unbelievable as before all this strange happenings, even though she knows perfectly well he had slept there and he had stolen her keys.
But she still can't stop worrying, her heart beating harder with hope after every text.
Soft knocking tears her from her reverie; it can't be Greg as they both agreed upon meeting in a cafe next to the hospital and her co-workers never knock.
"Yes?", she calls, frowning. "Please, come in."
A woman enters, elegant and completely out-of-place, with BlackBerry in her hand and a fake smile on her red with lipstick mouth.
"Good evening.", she says, looking with a slight distaste as well as curiosity around. "The car is waiting for you."
"The car?", Molly repeats, astonished. "What car?"
The woman sighs. "Mr. Holmes's car."
"I can't leave now.", Molly protests immediately. "I'm still working."
The look this woman sends her is filled with pity. "If the car is waiting for you then it means you can leave the work, it's all agreed."
For a moment Molly wants to say "No" for simple fun of refusing but it'd just make her more child-like so she strips of her gown and leaves the lab, without looking at the woman.
The car is indeed waiting; surprisingly with no Mycroft Holmes inside.
"Where are we going?", Molly asks as soon as she takes a place on the leather sit, even though she doesn't really expect to get the answer. The woman just smiles to her, slightly absent-mindedly.
When the car finally stops in front an old house built with red brick Molly is already five minutes late for the meeting with Greg. She grabs her phone furiously.
I'm so very, very sorry but I can't make it to the meeting. Hope we'll meet soon,
Molly
The replay is almost instant: Is everything fine? and Molly feels a pang of regret. She could have been sitting with a handsome man, drinking delicious coffee and be perfectly normal girl, at least for a moment. Instead of that here she's- about to walk in to a house that could be a setting for a horror movie to have another most possibly pointless conversation.
"I,", she says as soon as she sees Mycroft Holmes, "am late for a date."
Technically it's not true, but Molly lets herself save the details.
Mycroft smiles and gestures at armchair opposite him. "Please, sit down. I'm terribly sorry for any inconvenience I might have caused."
Molly snorts and sits down. Normally she wouldn't react so badly but she's tired of never-ending worry for Sherlock and right in the moment she though she'll spend at least some amount of time without wondering about his wellness his elder brother decides to kidnap her.
"Miss Hooper,", Mycroft starts, "we both are aware there are things you're keeping hidden from me. As much as I appreciate your worry for my brother as well as your loyalty I feel it's time for me to know the truth."
Molly glares at him for a moment but before she can even say a word Mycroft speaks again.
"My brother... Sherlock tends to act hastily and without further planning. It's only thanks to his own brilliance he hasn't managed to kill himself. Yet,", Mycroft pauses for a moment and fixes his blue eyes, a little darker than Sherlock's on Molly's, "I'm afraid that this time even his mind might be not enough. That's why I need to know where is my brother."
Molly swallows, feeling almost like a small rodent in front of a snake. "I, umm..."
"Miss Hooper I'm sure my brother asked you for your help. Now my turn came and it's me asking for the same thing."
Promise me you won't tell anyone.
"I don't know.", she says quietly and weakly. "I don't know,", she adds stronger, "why are you asking me about this."
Something flickers in Mycroft's blue eyes and Molly suddenly realises he's not sure- he simply hopes he's brother is after all alive. He suspects, of course, but he doesn't know for sure.
She's seen enough broken men in last week for a lifetime.
Wondering vaguely if she can be the only woman on Earth who saw both Holmes brother broken, Molly stands up and puts her hand on Mycroft's shoulder.
"I,", she starts but her voice fails her and she needs to clear her throat. "Sherlock will kill me for this.", she says simply.
Nothing. Nothing at all.
Sherlock groans, grabs his hear and leans forward feeling live coming back to his numb from sitting in the same position from a couple of hours legs.
No one knows anything about this former soldier, Moriarty's second in command man. Well, aside for the fact he is a former soldier.
Sherlock contemplates for a moment hitting the wall with the useless laptop, but decides against it. Ashtray, though, it's a completely different matter and soon it flies through the room to hit the wall with a thump.
It makes nothing to lessen Sherlock's frustration.
He hates this lack of information with every fibre of his body. Without data his mind is useless, doesn't differ from any average one.
Sherlock groans again and barely registers the muffled "Ta gueule!" coming from the next room.
With Jim Moriarty the game was fun- the slow pace of finding another pieces of the puzzle simply enlarged the excitement. But, back then, Sherlock was willing to play the game.
Right now he wants only to win it.
He picks up the laptop again and exhales deeply. He's exhausted, in the way he's never been while living with John. He almost forgot how awful sensation it is.
He misses John. The realisation is sudden and he really shouldn't think about it, things are complicate enough without dealing with unwelcomed feelings.
But he can't help himself.
He needs John.
He needs him to talk to him, to ask him question and get (usually) wrong answers, he needs him to tell him is enough for today, rest, he needs him to bring the blanket and turn off the light, to get angry at his carefreeness...
He needs him simply to be beside, close enough to touch, even though he rarely does that.
Somehow it's even more frustrating than the lack of data.
Sherlock decides to go out; the night is rather cold but it makes nothing to clear Sherlock's mind, thoughts are twirling in disorder without making and sense and he can't focus.
It's hateful.
He buys a pack of cigarettes in a 24/7 opened shop and methodically smokes one after another until his body protests against further poisoning.
It doesn't help at all.
Sherlock looks at his phone- it's a cheap one, easily replaceable, even with his quickly shrinking amount of money. Fast decision and his fingers almost without his will enters numbers: 779428009.
He never memorized them but yet there are, displayed on the phone screen.
Sherlock closes eyes and clicks "call".
"Yes?", John's answer's almost immediate, despite the late hour. As if he was waiting for this call. "Hello? Is anyone there?"
Sherlock inhales deeply and disconnects before he'll make something much more stupid. He crushes the SIM card then and throws it away, the phone itself ends in the dust-bin.
The opened laptop awaits for him on the floor in the motel room but Sherlock leaves it there and curls one the bed, savouring every second of the calmness in his head.
In the morning everything will start again. For now Sherlock sleeps, fully clothed, with sound of John's voice in his ears.