Molly had begged him not to go, but begging was something that had never swayed him. Sherlock was resolute in his monthly visits to see John. Of course Mycroft could (and did) update him, but Sherlock felt the need to see him for himself. So after a five month cooling period, Sherlock would take a plane from his current location in Switzerland to London on the seventeenth of every month. And every month he would walk casually past 221B, and feel his heart ache, knowing he wouldn't be setting foot in his home for a very long time. And then, with his hat pulled low, he'd track down John. He was always in the same few places, so it was never difficult. John had fallen into a routine since Sherlock (died) left. He would depart from the flat at seven in the morning and take a cab to his job at the dentistry. At twelve he would go to the small cafe down the street, order a cup of tea, and sit solemnly at a dreary black cast-iron table set outside. His tea would grow cold after half an hour. John would then toss it into the nearby trash and go back to work until three. From work he'd walk to a nearby park and wander down the paved path that encircled the area. After a few laps, He would hail another cab and go back to the flat. Sherlock never saw what John did inside the flat, but it didn't take a genius to know that it wasn't very much more eventful than the rest of his day. He cursed his overactive mind as he imagined John sitting in his chair, the flat cold and empty. Or sitting in front of the telly, the noise low and the colors flickering over his emotionless face. The first few months went by the same way, John never varying his schedule, Sherlock watching him from a distance. And with every visit Sherlock could feel his heart grow heavy. But nothing could compare to the pain he felt when John started bringing his cane with him. His limp was slight at first, and the laps he took at the park were cut down considerably. But eventually the light exercise stopped altogether. Instead he would hobble to a nearby bench and vacantly watch passerbys. Sherlock felt the desire to grab John, shake him, tell him everything was fine. Instead he would wipe angry tears curtly from the corners of his eyes and leave John. It seemed to be the only thing Sherlock could do these days.
And so his monthly trips always ended with Sherlock feeling more alone and frustrated than before. Molly was always there, asking him if he wanted to talk about it, fixing him a coffee, telling him not to worry, that he would be back with John in no time. Sherlock appreciated the kindness, but after each trip he preferred to go to his room and play violin. Sometimes he would purposely play loudly in the early hours, raking his bow viciously across the strings. But Molly never complained. John would have opened the door and given him a piece of his mind, but not Molly. Oh, Molly. Always so eager to please. But she didn't know that Sherlock wanted confrontation. One night when he was in a particularly irritable mood he had thrown his glass mug across their small flat, shattering it on the wall. She had not yelled at him for being childish, but had quietly picked up the broken pieces. It drove him insane. The one and only time she would speak up was when he would go on his visits.
"It's dangerous to go back to London." She would say, her large brown eyes shining with emotion. "Please, Sherlock. Just...please." Every time she would beg him, near tears, and every time he would go. That's how it had been for the past fourteen months. And the fifteenth visit seemed to be no exception. Sherlock had went to London and watched John discreetly, noting that he looked more thin and grey. He seemed to be slowly deteriorating. John's day went by as uneventful as ever. Sherlock wondered how he wasn't going mad doing the same thing over and over. When John entered the flat for the night, Sherlock caught a cab to the airport.
He immediately knew something was wrong when he reached the building. A small family live on the ground floor, Molly and he had the second. The family was loud and colorful, the noise of laughter and television always permeating from their flat. But not today. The lights were all off. it was 9:43 at night. The boys would just be getting ready for bed, but their telly would be on until 10. On the offhand chance that they decided to turn in early, the hallway light would at least be on. (The youngest of the boys, only 5, still had an irrational fear of the dark.) Sherlock immediately became alert.
He entered the building cautiously, walking past the stairs that would lead to his flat. He instead walked down the small hallway of the family's flat. Family photos hung on the wall. Sherlock noticed that a school picture of the eldest son was slightly to the left. He entered the living room. The light was dim, making it hard to discern anything, but there was the unmistakable smell of coppery blood in the air. He found the lightswitch and flipped it on. The parents sat on the couch. The father's head was leaned back, his mouth open. The woman's head rested lightly on the man's shoulder. Her dark hair was covering her face. The scene could have been mistaken for a late night movie, in which they both fell asleep, if it wasn't for the small round hole in the man's forehead. blood was pooled below his head, already coagulating. Sherlock already knew it was no point checking the mother. He went to the children's room and flipped the light on. Two small beds were against the far wall. Each boy had a pillow over their face. Each pillow had a hole in it. Sherlock looked away from the two motionless bodies. He remained calm but a cold dread was wrapping itself around him. He made his way back to the staircase. He wanted to run, but he knew he had to stay in control. He forced himself to walk up the stairs on shaky legs.
The door to their flat was already open. He pushed it further and entered. All of his papers were scattered about. His desk drawers were open, the contents strewn everywhere. Molly's door was cracked. Sherlock's body was covered in a cold sweat. He didn't want to go in Molly's room. He didn't want to see what waited for him. Even as his mind was telling him to not go, his legs moved him forward. He rested his hand on the door. He took a shuddery breath. Sherlock pushed the door open.
Molly laid on the bed, her arms tied above her. Her small body was naked, crudely on display. Her left eye was swollen shut, the other open and vacant. "Molly," Sherlock said hoarsely, taking a step towards her. Dry tendrils of blood coated her forearms. Five of her fingers were missing, two on one hand, three on the other. His legs continued to bring him closer, though his mind begged for them to stop. As he drew closer, he saw that her missing fingers were lined up neatly on the bedside table. "Molly." He said again, his voice shaking and weak. Her bottom lip was split in two. small round burns were on her abdomen and breasts. Carved neatly on her lower stomach were two letters: SM. His mind fought for control. He had to stay in control. He reached up and untied her hands. He placed them gingerly by her sides. Sherlock cupped the side of her face. The one brown eye looked vacantly past him. His mind saw vividly what happened. They ambushed her while she was reading, most likely. One tied her up as the other started tearing through the flat. The man would hit her, asking her where Sherlock Holmes was. Did she stay silent? Probably. Molly was faithful, she wouldn't have betrayed him. Even as they stuck lit cigarettes on her sensitive skin. Even as they hit her repeatedly. Even as they cut off her long, lovely fingers one by one.
"Molly." he sobbed. Her face grew blurry as he cried, his control vanishing. His whole body shook. Hot tears splashed on her broken face. He smoothed her hair lovingly. "My beautiful Molly..."
He sat with her for an unknown amount of time, holding her. When his tears started to dry up, he placed her head gently back on the pillow and kissed her forehead. He took the blanket that had been ripped off the bed and placed it over her. He looked at Molly's small shape under the sheet. His sadness was overwhelming, but a new emotion was starting to envelope him. Rage. A rage so dark and complete, his body was paralyzed with it.
Moran was going to pay.