This story takes place two months after the events of "Mary and Molly and the Misandrist's Mail." It can stand alone, but if you want to know why Molly is in Edinburgh, you might want to read that first.

This story will be in two parts. For that, I do apologize.

000

She sat in the little pub, picking at her food meditatively, and wondered what she should do. Molly's new job, her new life, in Edinburgh was exciting and fulfilling and she liked her co-workers and enjoyed her position. But sometimes, when she missed her old life, her old friends, she would treat herself with a visit to this pub on her lunch break; the pub where she and Greg and Mary had lunched together that first day in her new home. Today she had even managed to get the same table they had taken that day two months earlier; and she could see them in her mind's eye, tucking into fish and chips and cheerfully discussing the murder case they had stumbled upon the evening before.

Molly toyed with her phone. Greg had been contacting her in some way every evening since she'd moved away—until last night. For two months, he had tried to call every night, or if he was working he would at least send a text describing what he was doing: "drowning victim, Serpentine", or "body in Marble Arch Station." But last night—nothing. She wondered if it would seem pushy or obsessive of her to call him. Or she could just text him and ask if he was okay. Mary would know what to do. But Mary had not been answering her texts since yesterday morning: another worrisome development. Molly sighed and turned her phone over and over in her hands. She needed Mary's advice. Why was her friend not answering? Mary was always there when Molly needed her!

As she sat, vacillating, her phone rang and Greg's number popped up on the screen. Relieved, Molly snatched it up.

"Hey!" she exclaimed happily, and then hoped she did not sound over-eager.

"Molls." Greg's voice sounded hollow and rough with exhaustion, and . . . . something else. Something like . . . grief? Molly's scalp prickled with terror. But surely he was just calling to say he was sorry he'd not called last night?

"What is it? What . . . what's wrong?" she demanded, her heart thudding with dread.

"I'm sorry—I . . . I ought to have called yesterday. I didn't know the bloody sodding press would get hold of this so soon-damn them all to hell! I wanted to be sure to tell you first. . . . I wanted time to fly up and tell you in person. Damn it. . . . " Greg was rambling, and Molly's anxiety grew. Had something happened to Sherlock, or to John? They were always throwing themselves into dangerous situations. A tragedy was bound to happen one day. . . .

"I haven't seen any news," she interrupted him, impatient with worry. "I don't know what you're . . . what you're on about. What's happened?"

He was silent a long, horrible moment, and she clenched her fist, driving her nails into her palm as she waited. "I couldn't talk yesterday," he said at last. "I couldn't . . . . Oh god, I couldn't say the words . . . ." His breath sounded loud in her ear. "Molls, Mary's . . . gone."

Mary! Of all the things she had feared he would say, this had not crossed her mind. "Gone," she gasped, in shock, knowing full well what he meant; and yet she asked, "Kidnapped?"

"No. Well, yes, initially." Greg had got hold of himself and he sounded more in control. "Her clinic was robbed, and the bastards took her hostage. She didn't . . . didn't . . . ."

"No!" she cried, cutting him off, suddenly furious. "No, don't say it! It isn't true!" She pressed the phone against her mouth to stop herself from sobbing aloud. It was absurd. It couldn't be real. Mary was more alive than anyone Molly had ever met. It was impossible that she should be dead.

"I know," he soothed, understanding. "I know. It doesn't make sense, does it? I can't quite make myself believe it, either; but I saw her . . . . Oh, god, Molly, I saw her . . . ." he trailed off and was quiet so long she was afraid he had rung off. In the silence she felt an agonized scream welling up in her chest; but this was a public place. People were looking at her. She struggled to get hold of herself.

"Greg?" she whispered timidly.

"Yeah." He sounded so weary, so bleak. She could hear the rasping sound of his hand rubbing his unshaven face. "She didn't go easily, Molls. She took one of them with her—stabbed him with that knife of hers. The other one—well, John and Sherlock caught up with the killer this morning. I'm in hospital with him now. When they release him, I'll take him into custody."

Molly understood. "I'm surprised you're not in the morgue with him," she commented grimly, amazed at how calm she was able to sound, while her emotions roiled within her.

"It was a near thing," he admitted, his voice quiet, obviously trying not to be overheard. "I think, if I'd not shown up when I did, I might be taking John into custody for murder right now instead of this bastard. Molly," he sounded suddenly like a lost and frightened little boy. "Will you come? Can you . . . .?"

"Of course!" she exclaimed. "I'll be there as soon as ever I can!" He needed her, she knew. He must be the strong, supportive friend to John and Sherlock now, but who would be strong for him? What he had seen had horrified him, and who could possibly offer him comfort? And she needed him, as well. Mary Watson was her best friend, the person she would always turn to for support and strength. To whom could Molly go now for help? Not to Mary's grieving husband; certainly not to the consulting detective. She could only imagine what sort of shape they were in. She and Greg would have only each other now for consolation. "I'll let you know when I book a flight," she told him.

"I'll meet you at Heathrow," he told her. "I have to go—they're finished with this bastard here. I need to take him in and process him. Damn, the vultures are gathered outside! How did they find us? I'll see you soon, love." He hung up abruptly, leaving her sitting in the pub, alone, feeling light-headed as if she were in a dream. There in the chair across from her, Mary had sat, only two months ago, scarfing down a slice of pie with the same joyful exuberance with which Mary Watson did everything in her life. To imagine a world without Mary in it seemed ridiculous, colourless, surreal, empty. Dull.

"The mysterious Mary Watson, enigmatic wife of detective blogger Dr John Watson, was found dead yesterday," the telly suddenly blared. The pub owner had turned the sound up, intrigued by the news of this celebrity death. Molly raised her eyes to the screen to meet the sparkling blue of Mary's mischievous gaze—an old photo from a university year book the media had somehow dredged up for the occasion. It hurt to look at her, so far away and long ago.

"Officials say she died at the hands of this man." Suddenly there was live footage outside a hospital, and Molly stared at the man who had taken the life of her best friend, his head swathed in bandages, his lip cut and swollen, and his jaw puffing up into a huge, colourful bruise. Officers on either side of him tugged him along and put him into a panda car, none too gently: Mary Watson had been well-liked amongst the Yarders. Behind them, she could see Greg striding, looking completely professional and in control, a rather less savage bruise blossoming on his jaw. John had had the presence of mind, she thought grimly, to pull his punch a bit when addressing his friend. She realized that she had not asked after John or Sherlock while talking to Greg, but it did not take a detective to deduce John Watson's state of mind.

The news reader continued, his intensity of tone giving Molly a sharp pain in her head. "There has been no official statement released from the authorities or from the family of the deceased. But a co-worker of Mrs. Watson has stepped forward to give us some details of the events that led to the untimely death of this sometime companion of the famous detective, Sherlock Holmes."

Another switch of scene, and a cheerful female reporter was standing in front of Mary's clinic with a cheerful man in a white coat. "Dr Blenkensop, is there any indication that this crime has any connection with Sherlock Holmes?"

"Oh, I don't know," the doctor hedged. He didn't even know Mary was John Watson's wife, Molly thought, annoyed. He didn't know anything about her. She always tried to stay under the radar. "I mean, why would they target THIS clinic, out of the all the clinics in London? Suspicious, I say." He had been in profile, but now he turned his head and Molly could see the colourful, swollen bruise he was sporting on his jaw. More of John's handiwork. She didn't care what this idiot had to say, if John had felt it necessary to punch him.

"Tell us what happened," the reported prompted, and Molly found herself rooted to her chair, in spite of herself.

"Well, this chap runs in waving a gun, doesn't he? And takes all the medicines we had on hand in the place. Someone must've pressed the silent alarm, 'coz pretty quick we hear the police sirens in the distance. This chap panics, grabs one of our patients, some little boy, for a hostage, and starts to run out, waving his gun around at us all. Well, not one of us could move-we were all paralyzed with fear for our lives, weren't we? All but Mary Watson. She walks right up to this chap, blocks the door so he can't leave, and won't let the chap alone until he takes her as hostage instead of the child. Bravest thing I ever saw in my life. Dr Watson, she was a saint, that's what I say." He rubbed his jaw, looking aggrieved. "She must have been, to put up with that brute of a husband of hers. . . ."

"So there you have it, folks," the reporter interrupted quickly. "Dr Mary Watson, wife of the famous blogger John Watson, associate of internet sensation, Sherlock Holmes, and a true hero in her own right—dead at age 32, tragically murdered whilst saving the life of a child."

Another still shot, a picture from a news article several years old, flashed onto the screen: Mary and John, holding hands, with Sherlock in the background stooping over a body. It had been a rare, unguarded moment, the trio unaware of the presence of camera-bearing intruders—Sherlock's expression was ecstatic, and the Watsons were gazing at each with undisguised admiration. It was a beautiful shot. Molly turned her face away.

Hitting a button on her phone, she called a colleague at the medical college. "I'm sorry, I have to take a few days off," she heard herself say, her voice sounding as if it belonged to someone else. "There's been a death . . . a death in the family."

Why had it taken her so long, so much distance, such an event, to make her understand that this was what Mary was to her—family?