Chapter 2 : Switzerland.

Sherlock, Molly and John in my hometown. Everything is accurate. Including the beauty of the lake (I take that train every week and I'm still not used to it. It's not me showing off.).

After nearly twelve hours on the plane (without counting the stop in Newark), John and Molly were happy to take a breath of fresh when they got out of the Geneva airport, even if the air came straight from the nearby motorway. Their respite was short; they had to follow Sherlock to the railway station located a few hundred meters away. He went directly to the counters to buy their tickets. Then he set off at his usual pace. John had no trouble following him, accustomed as he was, running through London's streets with him, but Molly was used to a more static Sherlock, so it wasn't quite so easy for her.

The train left the station for some time. Sherlock, after gallantly putting his and Molly's suitcases in the place between the seats (leaving John with the only other available space: the baggage compartment located above their heads), sat next to the pathologist, which, strangely, didn't surprise the ex-soldier. He was tempted to make a comment but decided against it, preferring to question the detective about the next step of their journey. Indeed, since they leaving Liberty, Sherlock had yet to say a word. He was embarrassed by his response when his friend gave him the name of their destination.

"Isn't that that place where royalties and celebs go for winter sports?" He should really stop watching crap telly.

"No, it's the other one, in French. It's also in the Alps, but in the opposite end of the country. Not exactly a luxury mountain resort… You'll see."

"And why are we going there?"

"One of the project H.O.U.N.D. staff members was a teacher in a school there, keeping a low profile, certainly, after the Liberty debacle. Unfortunately, it didn't stop her from drowning in a small pond. Apparently, the Biology teachers of the local [i]collège[/i] have their own [i]biotope[/i] next to the school. One of her colleagues found her there two days after her death. She was the second one to be killed. Since her death wasn't considered suspicious, there wasn't any enquiry, but Mycroft is currently negotiating with the family for them to let me see the body."

They had passed Lausanne a little while ago. Molly was looking out the window, fascinated by the fact they were so close to the lake, as if they were actually on the lake. Sherlock was somewhere in his mind palace, absentmindedly playing with… Molly's trench coat belt. John didn't dare to move, too afraid to break this moment of calm. Luckily, the release came a little more than one half hour after.

After passing through a tunnel, the train began to slow down and Sherlock signaled to his companions that it was their stop.

The place was a small town stuck between two mountains. John wasn't an expert in architecture, but he would have dated most of the buildings in the street leading to their hotel from the turn of the twentieth century. The hotel was at a crossroads at the end of the street leading up to the station. The building was pinkish, not much to look at, but would do just fine; he really needed a good night's sleep. And Molly certainly did too, given the shadows under her eyes. She even slept during the last part of the train trip. Only Sherlock was is usual self.

They entered the narrow corridor leading to the reception. Sherlock, who was the only one with sufficient skills in French, took the lead and spoke to the receptionist. Molly and John were already waiting next to the small lift, not paying any attention to the conversation. Sherlock suddenly raised his voice and the already little receptionist almost disappeared under the counter. John wanted to intervene but besides telling his friend to calm down –and being ignored– he couldn't do much. The conversation went almost normally after what seemed like an apology from the host and a change of keys.

The detective seemed appeased, though not entirely, and the receptionist was still shaking when he brought them to their floor. John, who was walking alongside his friend, asked the cause of his anger.

"This fool," he answered, showing the little man who was walking in front of them, "thought that Molly and you were an item and gave you a double room."

"I'm not sure he deserved to be shouted at." Sherlock frowned at this and sped up, ending the conversation.

After taking possession of their rooms and as Sherlock was ready to leave, Molly's stomach growled. He threw a glace to his watch; it was around 1 p.m. "You two can stay here and eat. You won't be of any use. But don't get too familiar. I'll see you in… one hour." Still confused after her stomach had expressed itself so loudly, she asked John what Sherlock was on about. John looked at her with a smirk.

"Come on, I'll explain it to you over lunch."

He wasn't sure he should say anything to her, though. If he was more and more sure that his friend had sentiments toward the pathologist, the probability that the detective would accept it wasn't exactly high and he appreciated Molly too much to take the risk of breaking her heart. It would be better if he kept it to himself a little longer…

When Sherlock returned, they were almost finished, casually sipping their coffees and laughing. He shot a dirty look at John and sat between the two doctors. "I went to the biotope. I couldn't find anything, as expected. The paramedics and the rain destroyed everything and nobody could have seen anything. It's too far from the road. I managed to take samples of the mud. It might help us later." he said putting his vials on the table.

As he finished, he reached out to take the little piece of chocolate that accompanied the pathologist's coffee, but she react fast enough to give him a tap on the hand.

"Hey! That's mine! I won't even get the time to taste real Swiss chocolate. So, as tiny as this one is, I will savour it thoroughly." As she unwrapped the piece of chocolate and put it in her mouth with a mischievous smile, Sherlock rolled his eyes and resigned himself to ordering a coffee and detailing the plans for the afternoon.

Mycroft had arranged a car for them. Molly took the wheel again, and under the detective's direction, went south. They had barely left the town when Sherlock made her suddenly turn off to the right and take a gravel road into the woods. After around three hundred meters, they pulled into in the driveway of a white house. The place was strangely calm, somewhere between peaceful and creepy. Sherlock practically jumped out of the car and was already picking the lock when the other two joined him.

"Molly, take the bedrooms. John, go to the living room. I'll take the study. Look for anything that could be a link to Project H.O.U.N.D. Anything." And with that, they parted.

In the office, Sherlock was confronted by a disorder similar to his own. Someone had searched the room before him. He was trying to inspect the contents of the bookshelf, most of which was spread on the floor, when he heard Molly call. He climbed the stairs two by two. John got there first, with his gun drawn, to find Molly sitting among stacks of books. One of them was open in her hands. "Look! It's all in French, so I don't know what it means, but there might be–" Sherlock took it with his legendary delicacy, flipped through its pages, closed it in a clap, and gave it to John. He reached to Molly to help her up. He excitedly took her in his arms and kissed her on both cheeks.

"Molly, you are brilliant!" She blushed and stammered.

"It's nothing, really. This box was open on the bed. I didn't really have to try that hard."

They spent the rest of the afternoon looking for more clues, but, except a few photos in some albums carefully hidden in the attic, they found nothing conclusive. Nothing surprising since it was a project initiated by the CIA. What was surprising, however, was the fact that the teacher had managed to keep a journal without the agency noticing or intervening.

They put the metal case containing all the journals and albums in the car boot and Molly wondered if they were allowed to do that, but, since John, as Sherlock's own moral compass, didn't say anything, she kept quiet. Maybe they had planned to return them to the family at the end of the investigation.

Back at the hotel, they sat on the terrace, under the trees in the small park bordering the place. The sun had already set, despite the early hour, at the fault of the mountains that were situated so close, but the weather was clear and the temperature mild.

Sherlock was frantically flipping through the notebook's pages while Molly and John were tasting some of the domestic wine, waiting for their friend to talk. He hadn't said a thing since they came back. His phone rang and he walked away a few minutes. The conversation was heated and when he came back, he seemed to smoulder with a quiet anger.

"It was Mycroft. The family has refused to let me see the body. They're apparently some religious idiots and even money couldn't convince them!" Molly put her hand on the detective's arm, and he almost ceased the nervous drumming he started as soon as he sat back.

"We have the diaries. And the photo albums, that's good, right?" Molly put in. With a sigh, the detective nodded. John, who had not seen the content of the notebooks yet, interjected.

"Can somebody explain what's in those notebooks?"

"They're doctor Bochatay's journals, and this one's from her time in the United States. Some pages are missing. The killer obviously stole them. We can't tell what happened at the moment. But we know where… Or rather when to search. Don't you see? Something happened between the 9th and the 14th of August, 1986. That's probably what pushed the CIA to shut down the project. All we gave to do is to read all the following entries and see I she mentioned the incident again."

"Do you realize that there is more than twenty years of writing there? And we can't even share the work, since our French skills aren't exactly good as yours."

"I know. I'll do it myself. Starting tonight." There was a brief pause before he continued, "Our flight is tomorrow night. Mycroft couldn't get a better one. He's definitely useless today. He should think more about work and less about cake." Turning to Molly, he added, "What would you like to do?" She hesitated, but seeing Sherlock's smile, replied.

"Can we do a bit of tourism? Can we go and see the Matterhorn? Or is it too far?" He played on his phone a few minutes before responding.

"This is definitely feasible. John, would you be interested?" John watched them both smiling at each other and was really feeling like the third wheel. This didn't make him particularly happy. In fact, he was rather worried. Did Sherlock realize what he was doing? The ex-soldier decided he should seriously talk to Sherlock about it before this all ended badly. He took a sip of his wine and smiled to his friend.

"Yeah… Why not. I'll maybe even be able to find something to bring back to Mary. It will maybe make up for the fact that her husband left so shortly after the coming back from a honeymoon and I won't have to sleep on the couch for a month."

He didn't get any answer from his two friends, which made him indisputably feel like the third wheel…

I hope you liked it.

Bonus points for the people who find out where they went.