My first Sherlock fic! Let me know if this needs an M rating. I'm American, so if you notice something that doesn't sound British, please let me know & I'll fix it. I've been working on this for far too long & not getting anywhere, so I decided to just post it. I may update it later. If there's anyone out there who wants to do a collaborative rewrite, send me a PM! Guess which character gave me the most trouble :P
Major thanks to my friend Mike for all his support & suggestions, and to all you lovely people who reviewed and/or faved this story.
John Watson, as usual, was following in Sherlock Holmes' wake. Luckily, this time it was at 11:00 am, rather than some unholy hour of the night. The detective was storming down the halls of the hospital, searching for Molly Hooper. The pair came upon Davis, Molly's boss.
"Ah, finally!" Sherlock said, halting before the man and throwing up his hands.
"We're wondering where Molly is, can you point us in the right direction?" John put in, before Sherlock could say something insulting.
"Molly isn't working today. Had a nurse call her, but she said she wasn't coming in. Probably caught that flu that's been going round."
Sherlock let out an exasperated sigh and turned away. John coughed to cover the sigh, then quickly replied, "Thanks, we'll see her some other time," and hurried after his long-legged flatmate.
"I can't wait. I NEED to see that woman's fingertips; a man's freedom is at stake," Sherlock muttered.
"Didn't you hear the man? Molly's called in sick, and you know that no one else will let you near the corpses. Not after the kidney incident, anyway."
"Oh, people are so squeamish and dull. It wasn't like the man was using the kidney anymore."
"But did you really need to-"
"Not the point, John. I knew Oliver wouldn't give it to me, so I didn't ask him."
John just rolled his eyes behind Sherlock's back.
"Stop that."
"What?"
"Rolling your eyes at me."
"How did you-" the ex-Army doctor gave up and just sighed.
"Well, where are we going, then?"
"The lab."
John knew Sherlock would only tolerate a certain number of "dull" questions before he'd go completely silent, so he decided to save his allowance of them for later.
Sherlock easily jimmied the lock of the lab, while John alternately looked around nervously and scolded his flatmate for breaking into other people's labs. However, he didn't hesitate to follow the taller man in once the door swung open.
Sherlock flipped on the light switch and glanced around. John knew he took more in with that quick glance than John himself could, even were he to stare at it for an hour. After browsing over the worktable a minute, & stealing a slide or two, Sherlock strode rapidly out of the lab. John closed the door behind them & followed.
"May I ask where we're going now?"
"Molly's apartment."
"Sherlock, you can't just barge in on the poor girl & demand her access card! She's sick! And how do you even know where she lives?"
"It's fairly obvious, when you notice the paper bag of bakery items she brings in occasionally."
"Of course! The bag, I should have known. It's so very obvious," John replied sarcastically.
"Besides, Molly didn't stay home because she was sick."
"What?"
"Her lab coat's gone."
"I'm afraid I don't follow."
"You hardly ever do…..The flu that's been prevalent lately begins with nausea up to twenty-four hours in advance of the fever and other obvious symptoms. Now, in case you haven't noticed, the obliging Miss Hooper is rather short."
"Yes, but what does that…"
"Let me finish! Result, she has a hard time finding a lab coat that fits her. The laundry staff cycles through the laundry in two days, and there being only one coat, Molly would be forced to use a larger one the second day. So, what does she do? Molly takes her coat home with her to wash it herself, except when she knows she won't be back the next day, such as weekends. If she had the flu, she would already be feeling ill & know she wouldn't be able to work today. Conclusion: if Molly had the flu, she would have left her coat behind."
Once at the rather squalid flat, Sherlock began to pick the lock. He frowned & made a small noise expressive of annoyance and puzzlement.
"What?"
Sherlock wordlessly pushed the door, which swung open. Glancing at each other, the two men walked warily in. A lamp was on, weakly illuminating an old chair.
"The light's still on…" John observed, turning to look in the kitchen.
His friend took long strides across the room toward a closed door. What were those marks on the doorjamb? Scratches… Sherlock carefully opened the door & looked inside. "John! John, come here!"
At his side in a moment, John breathed, "Oh…God help us."
The room was trashed. But the two men didn't pay much attention to it, being focused on one object.
Molly. She was lying on the bed, twisted up in the sheets. But something was very, very wrong.
John hurried over & spoke to the prostrate girl. "Molly, are you all right?"
Stupid question, really. Any idiot could see she wasn't all right. There were traces of tears on her face, wet trails over deep purple bruises. Her pajama shirt was missing buttons & where it gaped, John caught a glimpse of angry red scratches on her chest. Blood spots were visible on the sheets, possibly from her injured lower lip. A dreadful suspicion was growing on his mind. Molly turned her head to him & opened her eyes. The dead anguish in them hit the doctor like a punch to the stomach. He noticed her breathing quickened as comprehension swept away the blank look. When John picked up her wrist to check the pulse, the autopsy technician winced. The wrist was swollen, possibly broken.
"Oh God, who's done this to you…. "
Her skin was cold and clammy & she seemed confused. Shock. She's in shock. John grabbed a fuzzy robe from the closet & wrapped it around the girl's petite body.
"Molly, Sherlock & I are here. You're safe now."
Sherlock had done a quick search of the room, and come upon an envelope placed conspicuously on the nighttable.
John patted Molly's shoulder & got up, retrieving his mobile from his pocket. He muttered in frustration,
"I can't get any bloody reception up here! Sherlock, stay with her, I'm just going downstairs to call the police."
Sherlock protested, but his friend was already gone.
Molly sat there shaking in the pink robe. Sherlock sat awkwardly down next to her on the edge of the bed.
Why did John leave him in this situation? He was the one in touch with his emotions. John always knew how to deal with people. Sherlock was the brains of their partnership. Find clues? Yes. Chase a killer? Definitely. Comfort someone who was hurt? No. And it just had to be Molly. He'd never been able to figure her out, not really. He could deduce certain things, based on her normal behaviors, but that was different from understanding her. Women in general were a mystery to him. They were bundles of tangled emotions and usually illogical, in his opinion.
A muffled sound escaped her. Oh, wonderful, now he was going to have a crying woman on his hands. Almost unconsciously, he let out a little sigh of exasperation.
Maybe he could get some useful information out of her before she collapsed completely.
"Molly, can you tell me what happened?"
-Flashback-
It was evening. Molly was just settling into her favorite chair for a bit of reading before bed. She caught a faint sound. That peculiar squeak that the stairs made. A pause. She went back to her book. Then the sound of her door opening & closing. She was sure it had been locked. Molly jumped up & faced the door. A man stood there.
"It might help us catch the person who did it."
She took a shaky breath. "I know who it was."
'Jim? What are you doing here?'
Sherlock turned her face toward him & made her look into his intense blue eyes. "I need to know everything."
'What, can't a fella come see his girl unannounced?' He strolled around the flat as if he owned it.
'Well, you were gone so long….I-I wasn't expecting to see you.' He was different; wearing a suit, as well as an unusual air of confidence. Molly tried to keep the chat going, but she felt awkward….and somehow fearful. This Jim was in control; cool & collected. He reminded her of a panther just before it pounces.
'Yes, I'm afraid I had to be…out of town for a while. Quite unexpected. Sorry I had to leave without saying goodbye.'
'Oh, well, I suppose it couldn't be helped. Duty calls, and all that?'
He smiled and continued his pacing around the room, coming just a bit closer all the time.
'Um, I'll make us some coffee.' She hurried to the kitchen. He followed & sat on the table, crossing his arms.
'Molly, you work with a lot of bodies. Have you ever seen someone with their heart burned out? I think it can be done. In fact, I'm going to conduct an experiment on it soon.'
'What are you talking about, Jim?' Her hands trembled a little as she dropped a lump of sugar in her cup. What was wrong with her? Why did she feel so threatened by him?
'Hm, never mind.'
She heard him push off the table and step across the kitchen.
'H-how many sugars do you want?'
Jim came behind her & lightly wrapped his arms around her.
'Just one, Molly.' He answered in a low tone, his breath hot on her neck. It made her skin crawl.
She twisted away, his arms seeming to tighten for a second. 'Let's go see what's on the telly, shall we?'
Molly quickly filled the cups, carried them to the next room and set them down.
His voice came from behind her.
'You look tired, Molly. Go lie down.'
'Oh, no thanks, I'm all right.'
He smiled, glancing down, then up again, hands in his pockets. 'I'm afraid that wasn't a request, my dear.'
Her breath caught in her throat & Molly stood rooted to the spot.
'I don't want to be cliché, but there really is no point in screaming. In fact, it would be quite hazardous to your health. Your neighbor found that out the hard way. '
'What did you do to Frank?'
'Don't worry, he'll wake up in a few hours with nothing worse than a bad hangover. Boring…. I've got something far more interesting planned for you.' Jim had a cruel smile spreading across his face.
Molly panicked and ran for the door.
'Ah, going to run, are we? Run, little mouse, the cat's right behind you!' His mocking laughter seemed to fill her ears…..
She couldn't go on. She burst into sobs and hid her face in her shaking hands. Sherlock sat back, a little stunned. Moriarty was responsible for this?
Between gasps, Molly managed, "He….left you a….note…"
'Well, that was amusing… But I've gotta be off. I'm going to leave this here. Make sure it gets to our friend, Mr. Holmes.' He leaned over her, and whispered, his face only inches away from hers, 'If you don't give it to him, I'll just have to come back & remind you.' Then he kissed her with sickening slowness & sauntered away. He tossed back over his shoulder, 'Give Sherlock my best regards.'
The detective opened the letter with his black gloved hands.
Hello darling!
It's me, Jim! Thought you lost me back at the pool, did you? Well, you were wrong. Thanks for not telling Molly about me though. Made my job much easier. Remember, I said I don't like to get my hands dirty? Well, I made an exception, just for you. You may insist that Molly doesn't mean much to you, but she is one of the few people that willingly put up with you. And you don't object to working with her, however dull she is.
This is the first burn, Sherlock. Learn from it, & don't put those lovely fingers of yours near the fire again. Next time, it might be someone closer to you that feels the heat.
Ciao,
Jim M.
Suddenly, Molly lurched up from the bed, staggering, reaching to steady herself against the wall. "Molly, what-?" She crashed against the wall and fell to her hands and knees with Sherlock close beside, trying to catch her arm. Hair hanging lankly around her face, she started to retch. She threw up for several minutes, dry heaving between sobs at the end. The detective grabbed a towel from the nearby laundry basket & wiped her face. Molly sat on the floor, arms wrapped around herself, breath coming in raspy hiccups, utterly spent. This raw, visceral pain touched Sherlock, and he put an arm around her. The girl leaned, or fell, against his thin frame. He didn't know what to do, so Sherlock just sat there, letting Molly sniffle into his expensive black blazer. Like a child, she started to calm down out of sheer exhaustion, clinging to him as though she would never let go. To get her away from the puddle of vomit on the carpet, he picked her up very gently, his hands around her shoulders & the backs of her knees. Sherlock started to put her down on the bed, but Molly's eyes opened & dilated, & she whispered in panic, "No, no, not there!" So they ended up on Molly's couch, Sherlock propped up by the arm, and Molly lying half on top of him, clutching his shirt front. That was how John found them when he finally returned. He leaned against the doorjamb & observed them for a moment. Molly had stopped sobbing, and only once in a while did a tear trail from her eye & drip onto the white fabric beneath her head. Sherlock's hands rested on Molly's back, & he stared out the window, glancing down now & then at the disheveled head cradled on his chest.
The police arrived in another 20 minutes. After that, it was all confusion & scurrying officers, orange shock blankets & plastic gloves. A naturally shy person, Molly was intimidated by it all, & sought refuge in John & Sherlock. But Sherlock had hardened again into the sociopath, & avoided her, preferring to talk to Lestrade. John stayed by her side & when Molly refused to allow anyone to touch her, he performed the necessary examination himself. It was a foregone conclusion; rape, with all of the accompanying physical & mental trauma. The police found very few traces; Jim Moriarty was too clever.
When the two men left the crime scene, two hours later, Sherlock had a frown wrinkling his brow.
Sherlock was not used to feeling guilty. He could usually justify his actions & their results, even if the explanation was inadequate to other people. But there was no escaping it this time. What happened to Molly was his fault. He could say that Moriarty had done the deed, but without him, Molly would never have met Jim. The criminal would never have used her to get to Sherlock.
John spoke up thoughtfully, "Why did Moriarty trash the flat? He must have access to all sorts of sedatives and Molly didn't know who he really was. There were a thousand cleaner ways to…you know."
"He wanted her to suffer. He's sending me a message."
Horrible things happened to people every day. Sherlock was often there to see the aftermath. But they were just bodies to him; just corpses or victims that held clues, the pieces he needed to finish his puzzle. They weren't people he saw regularly, depended on, or verbally abused. They didn't have the face that watched his so intently, shining with admiration. Theirs were not the hands that brought him coffee, black with two sugars. Those other people weren't Molly.
Sherlock Holmes crumpled the letter in his hand.
He was going to bring Moriarty down.
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