It was a rather sad turn of events that led to Molly Hooper standing on the roof of St. Bart's with a gun pointed at her. It, however, wasn't very surprising considering it was Sherlock Holmes she was connected to and it was Sherlock Holmes who got her into this mess in the first place. She couldn't really blame him, not that she ever did, he hadn't exactly asked to be kidnapped. She suppressed the urge to rethink her life decisions once again as she tuned back into what the man holding the gun was saying. He really was droning on, but then again, they always do don't they? The cynical voice in her head sounded just like Sherlock and she wasn't sure if that was an entirely healthy development.
"You cannot stop me!" The raspy voice of her would-be killer hysterically yelled. She forced herself not to roll her eyes at that particular gem of insanity and instead asked the one question that kept popping up.
How had this all started?
Two Weeks Earlier
Mrs. Hudson sat down to tea at her usual spot on Thursdays. The cozy tea room was filled with soft sunlight and the faint buzz of conversation. Her usual table was covered in a delicate lace table cloth and a rose patterned tea set was gently placed before her. She had been coming here for years and they always expected her, always had her brew waiting, and even began providing her with complimentary tea sandwiches and cakes. She filled her cup and brought the saucer up preparing to take her first sip.
She was interrupted by the voice of a woman, soft and sophisticated. "Do you mind if I join you?" The woman didn't wait for her to respond and took the empty chair opposite. "We haven't met before but we have a friend in common." Mrs. Hudson put down her forgotten saucer and took in the woman opposite her.
The sleek black updo, the bright red lipstick, the skin tight black dress, and some of the highest heeled shoes Martha Hudson had ever seen told her this woman wasn't a common acquaintance of John's. That could only mean she knew her Sherlock.
Martha Hudson knew too well that the people who knew Sherlock weren't usually the most savoury of individuals. "What can I help you with dear?" She noticed how the young woman's lip twitched slightly at this appellation.
Her tone was conciliatory and put Mrs. Hudson on edge. "It isn't what you can do for me so much as what I can do to you." That made the skin on the back of her neck break out in goose flesh and her breath catch in her throat. The young woman leaned forward and grinned wickedly. "Mrs. Hudson," she reached out and placed her hand over Mrs. Hudsons. "There is only one thing you need to worry about right now. Your precious Sherlock."
This bit of advice shook her deep in her core. She had just gotten her Sherlock back, he can't be taken from her now. With more bravery than she knew she possessed she pulled her hand away from the woman seated across from her and rose to her feet. With the iciest tone she could muster she leaned forward and said the five words she would soon live to regret. "Sherlock is smarter than you." She meant it as a sign that she didn't need to fear for his safety. She knew he would be able to outthink this woman and anyone else who came after him. What she didn't know was this woman took it as a challenge.
One Week Later
Sherlock Holmes, the world's only consulting detective, sat in his Baker Street flat all alone. The silence was deafening and he was just beginning to regret his decision to not find a new flatmate after John had married Mary. Sherlock liked Mary, they got on quite well, and John was happy. That didn't keep Sherlock from having John along on cases at all hours of the night and for days on end, but it did cause Sherlock to suffer from boredom more often than before. John had always been there when Sherlock was bored, yammering on inanely, filling the silence with his sentimental drivel or pointless chit-chat. But alas, that was no more.
Sherlock sighed dramatically and repositioned himself on the sofa, hands under his chin, fingers steepled, eyes closed. To an outside observer, with the exception of one Dr. Molly Hooper, Sherlock would have appeared to be resting, peaceful even. The truth, as Molly would see it and as Sherlock would begrudgingly admit, was that he was going crazy. He was restless, his mind wouldn't stop wandering about, his mind palace was a complete mess, and his true, corporeal flat wasn't in any better shape.
The light rapping on his flat's door caused his left brow to raise slightly. He wasn't expecting any visitors and he wasn't looking for any cases just yet. Though he should be, he had promised Mary to not take a case this week so that she and John could go on holiday for their anniversary or some other such romantic nonsense. He pointedly ignored the second knock on his door and mental wished the intruder away. He only needed to wait until tomorrow afternoon. Then John's little holiday would be over and Sherlock could finally be cured of his boredom.
It was the fourth incessant knock that drew a huff of impatient air from his lips. "What do you want?" He was already quite bored with whoever this was and he hadn't even opened his eyes. He could tell it was a woman by the persistence of the knocking and the light pressure applied to it. He could hear the click-clack of high heeled shoes on his wooden floors and could smell the strongly feminine perfume wafting off of her. It smelled oddly familiar but his mind couldn't place it.
His mind raced to make the connection between the smell and some faintly unpleasant memory. It was only a matter of moments from when the person entered the flat to when Sherlock had placed the scent. The Woman. His eyes flew open just in time for him to feel the sharp prick of the needle in his neck and hear her bubbling laughter overtake him. He began to feel heavy almost instantaneously. She had drugged him once before and he had never forgotten the feeling. She leaned forward over his prone body and whispered in his ear.
Her warm breath tickled his ear causing him to cringe. He didn't like people to be so close to him and having her warm, wet breath on his face was most unwelcome. "Sherlock dear, you really should remind your lovely landlady that I don't like competition. If you think you're so much smarter than me you won't have too hard a time solving this little mystery." She moved away and placed a painfully hard kiss upon his left cheek. Her lipstick left a mark and she smirked. "Something to remember me by." The darkness finally claimed him and she left him where he lay.
Mrs. Hudson arrived in his flat twelve hours later with his morning tea. She saw Sherlock sleeping on the couch and thought nothing of it, he often slept there, letting exhaustion take over. She bustled about the kitchen, tidied up the living room, and even ran a small Hoover over the curtains. She hadn't realized how much time she had spent cleaning until she heard John come up the stairs. Usually Sherlock awoke quickly and shooed her out.
John took off his coat and hung it next to Sherlock's Belstaff and sat in his usual chair. He looked over to Sherlock and raised a questioning brow to Mrs. Hudson. She shrugged but then walked a little closer. While she stared intently at John she asked him why he was here so early. He chuckled and answered jovially.
"I'd hardly say half past one in the afternoon is early Mrs. H." He smiled at her before turning his focus back to Sherlock. A concerned look graced his features. "How long has he been asleep?"
Mrs. Hudson turned to John, a thoughtful expression on her face. "Since before I arrived, not sure how long though. I've been here since I brought the morning tea at quarter till seven. I've never seen him sleep this long whilst I'm here, I wasn't exactly silent either. He slept straight through the vacuuming of the curtains. I can usually only get that done when you are out of the city on a case." She turned back to him, a knot of fear growing in her stomach. The words of the woman from a week ago passed through her mind, "There is only one thing you need to worry about right now. Your precious Sherlock." What if this is what she had meant.
She hastily looked to his chest, breathing easier when she saw that it was moving up and down slowly. It wasn't until her mind settled once again, the fear for Sherlock's life momentarily subsided, when she noticed the rather unusual spot of coloring on his cheek. She stepped closer and gasped, bringing her hand to her mouth. She shook her head from side to side, refusing to believe what she saw. John was on his feet immediately, rushing to her side, checking to see if she was alright. He saw her look of horror and followed her gaze.
John noticed the lipstick print on the side of Sherlock's face. It was like a calling card, a signature, and it could only belong to one person. Irene Adler. That explained Sherlocks current state of unconsciousness, she must have drugged him again. John moved to his best friends side and took his vitals, noticing the small drop of blood on his neck where he had been injected. Sherlock seemed to be alright, they simply needed to wait until he awoke to find out what had happened.