Over
by
thedragonaunt
Paddington Green Police Station – probably the most famous police station in the whole of the UK, apart from Sun Hill, perhaps. But Sun Hill was fictional, so it didn't count. Either way, Paddington Green was the last place Molly Hooper had ever expected to find herself, yet here she was, undergoing a very thorough and rather intrusive search by an unapologetic police officer, who took her responsibilities very seriously in deed.
'Right, Dr Hooper, you can go through now. The prisoner will be brought in once you are seated. Please remember, you are not permitted to make any sort of physical contact with the prisoner or to pass any objects to him. Should you do either of these things, the interview will be terminated, immediately. Is that clear?'
'Quite clear, thank you,' Molly replied, trying hard not to take offence at the woman's manner. She was, after all, only doing her job. And her job, normally, involved the processing of terror suspects, from the IRA to the 7/7 London Bombers, IS sympathisers and beyond. So these procedures, however irksome they may seem in present circumstances, were right and proper.
Molly was escorted into an interview room which held a table, with two chairs placed on opposite sides to one another, and two more chairs positioned against the far wall, in which there was another door. She was invited to sit on the chair on her side of the table. The officer then withdrew, leaving her alone.
She took the opportunity to have a quick look around and noted the two-way mirror on the left hand wall – a party wall with an observation room, no doubt – and two video cameras, both focussed on the area occupied by the table. They each displayed a blinking green light, which told her they were active. Smile for the camera, she thought, and smiled, quite inappropriately.
The door opposite opened, suddenly and without warning, and Sherlock entered the room, escorted by two police officers in shirt sleeves and Kevlar vests. At the sight of him, Molly gave an involuntary gasp and fought the urge to stand and run to him. He read that in her facial expression and body language, and his eyes warned her not to give in to her natural inclination. She folded her hands in her lap and nodded, silently, to reassure him that she was in control. He was led to the chair opposite and ordered to sit down, then the two officers took the seats against the wall, behind him.
He looked pale and gaunt and completely out of character, in the blue overalls that all the prisoners wore here. His hair was a little matted and untidy, not so groomed as she was accustomed to, and he had dark shadows under his eyes, which told of a lack of sleep. But the most jarring aspect of his appearance, as he folded his fingers together and rested his forearms on the table top, was the presence of the manacles on his wrists. Molly was transfixed by them and her mouth formed a silent 'O'.
'Thank you for coming,' he said, quietly.
She looked up into his eyes and could not think of a single thing to say.
'Are you alright?' he asked, gazing back at her with earnest concern.
'What? Oh, yes, yes, I'm fine. Or, at least, as fine as…Oh!' She stopped, abruptly. Of course she was fine. She was free to leave any time she liked. He was the one who was...not fine.
'Are you alright?' she asked, lamely.
He smiled, a little ruefully, and nodded.
'As well as can be expected, under the circumstances. It's quite comfortable here, as long as you don't mind brown wall paper.'
All the cells, in the custody suite for high-risk prisoners, were lined with brown paper to ensure that terror suspects could not claim that evidence of explosives found on their persons was picked up from the walls of the cells.
'And we have audio-visual, too. I can listen to Bach and Vivaldi to my heart's content and watch as much crap TV as I can stomach.'
Molly nodded and tried to smile back but her mouth could only manage a tight grimace. He's been here for seven long days, so he had probably passed that milestone a while back.
'And the food?' she enquired, taking in his sunken cheeks and the way the overalls hung from his frame.
'Absolutely disgusting!' he replied, with a grin. 'But, that's OK. I don't have much of an appetite, anyway.' There was something in his manner that told Molly there was more to that statement than might be obvious but the deeper meaning eluded her, for the time being.
They stared at each other, wordlessly, for a long moment.
'I'm sorry for bringing you here but I wanted to see you,' he said, at last.
'I wanted to see you, too. Greg said they didn't allow visitors.'
'No, they don't, usually. I suppose that's the advantage of having Mycroft for a brother. I always wondered if there was one.'
'Your brother loves you, you know that,' she admonished.
'In his own way, I suppose,' he replied.
'Sherlock…' she began, tentatively.
'You want to know why.' It was not a question.
Molly looked anxiously at the two officers, who were studiously avoiding eye contact with her.
'It's OK to talk about it, Molly. There's absolutely no question of my guilt. There were about thirty witnesses and all members of the security forces. They know I did it. They had to know. That's why I waited.'
'Waited? What do you mean?'
His fingers unfolded and he fanned out his hands then refolded them and rested them back on the table. He spoke, quietly, so she had to lean in, to hear him.
'I waited for the security forces to arrive so there would be no question as to who was the guilty party. I didn't want John implicated in any way. It would have ruined his career.'
'But why, Sherlock? Why did you do it?' She could feel the tears begin to prick and the lump in her throat was making it difficult to speak, so she whispered.
He looked straight into her eyes and replied,
'It was the only way to stop him. And, well, someone had to do it,' he shrugged, 'and I was the most...expendable.'
Molly gave a sharp intake of breath and stared at him, in utter disbelief. His eyes warned her, once again, not to do anything untoward so she clenched her fists under the table and took several deep breaths to calm herself.
'So what happens now?' she asked, when her voice was back under her control.
'Ah, well, that's why I needed to see you, before…' he paused and looked over her shoulder, at the blank wall. 'Before I leave,' he finished, at last.
'Leave for where? Where are you going?'
He was remanded in custody on a charge of murder but no trial date had been set. Perhaps he was being moved to a proper prison?
'I'm being sent abroad.'
She frowned, confused.
'To a foreign prison? Are you being extradited? I don't understand!'
'No, not to prison. Some undercover work for MI6.' He avoided her eyes, as he said this. 'Mycroft's idea, apparently. He seems to think that I would be a disruptive influence if I were to be held at Her Majesty's pleasure, so this is his preferred solution.'
Molly felt the hairs stand up on her neck and arms and her skin was suddenly cold and clammy.
'How…how long for...this time?' she asked, fearful of what the answer might be.
'Six months,' was his succinct reply.
'That's not very…long.' Nothing could be that simple.
'No, not long at all,' he murmured, looking down at his clasped hands.
'And what then?' was her fearful response.
He looked up to meet her gaze and smiled the saddest smile she thought she would ever see.
'Maybe they'll let me go?' he said, though his eyes told a different story.
'So is this…goodbye,' she gasped, as her breath hitched and the tears welled once again, threatening to overflow her lower eyelids.
He pursed his lips and nodded, almost imperceptibly.
'Yes, I suppose it is. And a thank you, too.'
'For what? What did I do?' she hiccupped, trying so hard not to cry.
'You were honest and faithful and you took all the crap I threw at you without hating me and you have always been a very, very good friend. I couldn't have done half of what I did without you.'
'Oh, yes, you could. Please don't bullshit me, Sherlock, especially if this is likely to be the last time I ever see you.'
He smiled.
'OK, no bullshit. I could have done half of it – but not the other half.'
Molly had to smile, too, despite the dreadful, hollow ache in the centre of her chest where her heart should have been.
'Anyway, they said we could have ten minutes and that time is nearly up and I do so hate goodbyes but, Molly, I just wanted to tell you to get on with your life and find someone who's worthy of you. Can you do that? For me? Please?'
'You mean find someone who isn't a pale imitation of you?'
'I mean find someone who can give you love and make you happy.'
'So, not a sociopath, then?'
'No, not a sociopath.'
The door behind Molly opened and the police officer said,
'Time's up, Dr Hooper. Say your goodbyes.'
The other two officers stood up and stepped forward, one either side of the prisoner. Sherlock slid out of the chair and stood up, too, looking down at her, biting his bottom lip, like a naughty schoolboy, then turned to leave.
The visit was ended anyway, she reasoned, so she had nothing left to lose. She jumped up and darted around the table, throwing her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shoulder. It was barely a second before the police woman grabbed her from behind and pulled her away from him. The two policemen bundled him out through the other exit but he turned his head and held her in his blue-green gaze until the door closed and he was gone from her sight forever.
'Dr Hooper! I explained the rules to you!' the other woman snapped.
Molly gave no response as she was led out the way she had come. What did she care for rules? Her life was as good as over.
ooOoo