Edited A/N: This story was thought out before S3 was released, and I'm proud to say that it is not AU :). I don't even have to change any of my thoughts for upcoming chapters. It is a very appropriate gap filler.
2017-01-29: This story will be continued shortly. Long ago, I had planned it to involve a subject which, soon after my posting of Chapter 6, became a globally sensitive issue. Out of respect for the issue, I put this story on hiatus. Now that this issue has blown over somewhat, I am ready to continue it again.
Rated T for paranoia. Base of cover image borrowed from tumblr user jinglebatch. Please PM me if you want it taken down.
Post-Reichenbach pre-Series 3 filler. Takes into account the contents of BBC canon blogs.
My first attempt at a proper mystery, spiced up with a scientifically philosophical (fun, eh?) perspective on Sherlock and Molly. Slow build. I hope you enjoy.
There may be some references to my Since the Shower vignettes, but nothing of importance. One thing you might want to know from my head-canon is that Molly draws.
Reviews are loved. Constructive criticisms are worshipped. Britpicks are thanked with ample tears of happiness.
Dear Antirealist,
"What's in a name?"
- Sincerely, from a Realist
-Chapter 1-
Sigmund Hooper
The keys turn and jingle. Molly Hooper stumbles from the menace of the storm into the comforts of home. She shuts the door and leans her soaked body against its splintered surface. She inhales deeply and allows her shoulders to sag; this day has been long. Fragrance from the potpourri basket by the door fills her lungs and chases away lingering formaldehyde scent from the morgue. She smiles.
"Miss Molly Hooper. Greetings."
Startled, Molly raises her gaze. She gasps and chokes a scream away. Her fingers grip nervously behind her, trying to find the doorknob. But her effort is overpowered by the paralysis of fear.
"Oh, my sweet, I wouldn't advise running now. It's far too late," a slick and muffled voice taunts.
A figure in black stands opposite to the pathologist, covered from head to toes by a hooded robe, the exaggerated smile from his Guy Fawkes mask terrifying to behold under the dim moonlight peeking through the sole window of Molly's flat.
Guy Fawkes takes a step forward. Molly tries to shuffle back, heels scraping hastily against the door.
"Who are you?" She stutters the predictable words, knowing full well the futility of inquiry.
Guy Fawkes sounds like he is smiling, and looks like he is smiling. "That's not for you to know, love. Curiosity is a dangerous drug."
The air brims with ominous silence. They stand and stare, for seconds, then for minutes.
"What do you want?" She steadies herself and ventures. Guy Fawkes does not move against her yet; she reckons his intention must not be to kill, nor is it likely to harm.
A soft laugh expires through the thin, unnatural gap that is Guy Fawkes's mouth. Guy Fawkes raises his left hand, a thin piece of paper clipped between two of his slender, bony fingers.
"You. On this train. Tomorrow night."
Molly squints at the ticket. It is too dark, and Guy Fawkes is too far; she cannot make out a word.
"And what if I refuse?"
Guy Fawkes pulls his right hand from his pocket and points a gun at Molly's chest.
"Um, excuse me..."
A timid, wavering baritone of a grown man. A lost tourist? Or a desperate passer-by searching for the loo? Abigail hastily mops her dry eyes and looks up impatiently from her pile of paperwork. She very nearly groans.
Ginger. Dirty cap. Hideous moustache. Tacky sweater. Faded jeans. Abigail can see the handle of a wheeled suitcase in front of her desk. Probably here for the loo, Abigail thinks, and asks with a perfect smile, "Yes, how may I help you today?"
The man glances nervously around the reception hall, and begins to fiddle with a camera in his hands. Abigail upholds her smile, feeling more pain in her facial muscles with each moment passed.
"Um, I'm looking for Miss Molly Hooper..."
Abigail frowns. "Sir, if this is another attempt at a Sherlock Holmes scoop in the papers, then not only do I have to inform you that Miss Hooper does not wish to be interviewed, I will also have to beg your employer to give it a rest. It's been months since the incident and no one really cares anymore."
"Oh no, no," the man stammers, reddening in embarrassment. "I'm... I'm Moll - Miss Hooper's cousin. Newly moved from Beverley. Just arrived from the train station, in fact. She... she told me to meet her here at three."
"Oh," Abigail mouths flatly and, on seeing the man chuckling diffidently to himself and refusing to meet her eyes, almost utters a sincere apology. But soon her eyebrows rise dubiously in recollection. "That's strange. Miss Hooper requested a long leave two days ago."
"What?" The man flutters with horror. "But she told me she'd... she said she'd meet me right here!" He begins pacing about repeatedly, soon seeming like he's about to cry.
To think I thought Miss Hooper was timid, Abigail flatly remarks to herself. "Well, now, sir, don't worry. You do have her phone number, don't you? You could just call her. Maybe she just forgot."
"But I have been calling her," the man squeaks agitatedly, lifting his large, bookish glasses and dabbing his eyes with a coffee-stained sleeve. "I've been calling her all morning, but she's not... she didn't..."
Abigail hastens to interrupt a potential monologue of gibberish in which she had no interest. "Sir, I'm sure she was simply in an area without signal. Maybe she was in the Tube on the way to meet you. Maybe you missed each other. I'd advise calling again - "suddenly her brows rise once more in recollection, " - though I do remember her saying that she wanted to be out of the city for some fresh air."
The man gapes. The camera in his hand suddenly drops to the ground with a loud crash. He jerks and crouches by the scattered parts, hands waving about wildly in the air. It seems that the shock of having been deserted by his cousin has clouded his ability to think; for a while he cannot attempt to pick anything up.
"What's going on here?" A jolly voice joins the scene. The unfortunate man looks up and sees a good-humoured, bespectacled round face.
"Ah, Dr. Stamford," Abigail greets, the dull tone of her voice betraying her decaying patience. "This young man here claims to be Miss Hooper's cousin who just arrived from Beverley, and insists that Miss Hooper has arranged to meet him right here, right now."
"Molly's cousin?" Mike Stamford curiously examines the man curiously, who hastily looks away and scrambles to collect bits of his precious camera. "Well, he does look like her a pinch, doesn't he? Maybe without the 'stache. Unfortunately, good sir, I regret to tell you that you won't find her here. She requested leave two days ago, and she definitely didn't come in today."
"That's what I said," Abigail points out. "He doesn't seem to want to believe me."
Stamford glances at Abigail with mild reproach. "Dear Abby, you're a little too hard on the poor chap. He just got here from Beverley, for God's sake." Then he turns to the trembling man and smiles. "Don't mind Abby; she's a little impatient at times, but she means well. Ever been to London before, Mr... uh..."
"Hooper. Sigmund Hooper," the man hastily reassembles his camera and rubs his nose as he mumbles. "No, I haven't, Dr. Stamford -"
"Call me Mike, please."
"Oh, um, yes, Dr - Mike. It's my first time here; I lost my day job back in Beverley and I'm looking for a fresh start. Moll - Miss Hooper's my only relative here, and she promised to settle me down and find me something to do, and she said..." He sniffles again and keeps rubbing his nose. His nose is turning very red.
Stamford extends a sympathetic hand to help Sigmund Hooper up from the ground. "Well don't worry now, Sigmund. I'm sure you'll reach her soon enough. Would you like to come into my office and have some afternoon tea while you try and get in touch?"
"M-May I?" Sigmund straightens his glasses and stumbles, almost as if taken aback by the kindness. Stamford nods with a warm, friendly grin.
"Oh thank you! Thank you so much!" Sigmund returns a hearty smile and bobs his head repeatedly, as he clumsily gathers his belongings and follows Stamford, nearly tripping over the untied laces of his worn sneakers. Abigail rolls her eyes at his hunched back and scoffs.
"So, Sigmund, huh." Stamford pours for his guest a mug of hot tea. "Bit of an unusual name."
"Yes," Sigmund squirms uncomfortably on his chair, and accepts the tea with a nervous smile. "Mum was a psychologist, and she used to really like Freud."
As Stamford sits down behind his own desk, he catches a bit of disdain in Sigmund's knotted brows and laughs. "Ah yes, Molly's talked to me about that before; said her aunt in Beverley used to like pointing out phallic symbols in absolutely everything. Bet your mum regrets it now, doesn't she? Freud's becoming old-school. That's how science works; everything becomes old-school eventually. However, I assure you, while Sigmund's a bit of a strange name to be stuck with, it's not the most unusual I've heard."
Sigmund tries to chuckle, but manages only a light snort before venturing to speak again with a stammer. "Well, S-Sherlock's a pretty unusual name. I heard the receptionist talking about a Sherlock Holmes who's apparently famous in London. She mentioned that he was in the papers, and only famous people ever go in the papers. Does he work here with Molly? Do you know Sherlock, too?"
Stamford's grin quiets into a frown. "He was a friend," the good man says, sighing and lowering his gaze. "He... passed away nearly three months ago."
"Oh. Oh God," Sigmund jerks, spilling hot tea onto the saucer and his washed-out jeans. He reddens and glances nervously around the room, not knowing where to look. "I-I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to - oh God, did Molly know him too? I'm sorry, I shouldn't even be asking - "
"No, no, don't worry," Stamford hastens to pass him napkins, a well-meaning smile returning to his face to mingle with traces of melancholy. "Molly was... well, closer to him than most. When you see her, try not to mention his name. She'd withdraw into an awful daze."
Sigmund nods repeatedly and takes a large sip of the hot tea. It burns his tongue and he grimaces in pain, but Stamford is staring outside a window now and hardly notices. "Molly and I have grieved, but my friend John..." he shakes his head again and heaves a sigh.
"Who's John?" Sigmund ventures curiously, but soon stiffens and babbles, "Oh, I'm sorry, I don't mean to pry - "
Stamford chuckles. "Easy, Sigmund, I never accused you of it. In fact, I think it helps me to talk to someone about this, someone who isn't grieving and doesn't think Sherlock's a - " he takes a sharp breath and rubs his face with both hands. "I digress. John, John Watson. Old friend of mine; we went to school together. He was Sherlock's flatmate. I introduced them. We've all... moved on somewhat from the ordeal, I suppose. But John's still a terrible mess. Wouldn't go out drinking with me since it happened, and he hasn't ever before refused a drink. I worry about him."
Sigmund looks sadly at his worn sneakers and pulls uneasily at his moustache. "...I'm sorry."
"Thank you. You're very kind." Stamford chuckles, aware that he has made the atmosphere too solemn.
Sigmund returns an awkward chuckle and rubs his nose again with a sleeve.
"Has Molly texted back?" Stamford changes the topic and asks, "You texted her ten minutes ago. Molly replies lightning fast."
"No," Sigmund mutters as he holds up his phone and shows Stamford the one-sided conversation on the screen, panic building again in his voice. "I d-don't understand. There must be some kind of mistake - she said she'd meet - did she really request leave two days ago?"
Stamford scowls and fumbles through his drawers. "I still have her note somewhere - ah, here." He passes the paper over the desk to Sigmund. "Handwritten, too; she gave it to me personally. Said she wanted to have a little country fresh air. I'm not surprised; she hardly went on holiday for the past four years at least, always occupied with her research, specialist training, and Sherl - " he catches an alarmed glance from Sigmund and checks himself. "Anyway. She tacked all her accumulated holidays onto this one; she'll be away for two months at least. I gave her permission; she looked like she needed it."
Sigmund takes the paper and inspects it carefully, his moustache twitching, horror seeming to distort his features more with every moment passed. Suddenly he slams the paper on the desk and buries his head in his palms in despair. "This, this really is Molly's writing! I'd recognize it anywhere because we'd rather write to each other than email! She wrote... she wrote she'd be out of town for two months. Two months?! Why... why hasn't she told me this? Is she even okay? What will I do now?"
Stamford is alarmed at the suddenness of the outburst, and quickly offers him consolation. "Relax, Sigmund. I'm sure she's all right and everything will work out fine. Listen, if she doesn't reply, how about I drive you to her flat after my next lecture? Even if you don't manage to get in touch with her, you'll have somewhere to stay in until she responds."
Sigmund looks at Stamford incredulously, tears in eyes, and Stamford feels for a moment like a great saint. "Would that... really be okay? I mean... wouldn't that trouble you?"
"Of course it wouldn't trouble me. Molly's a good colleague and friend; this is the least I can do."
"Oh thank you! A million 'thank you's' from the bottom of my heart!" Sigmund rises from his seat and shakes Stamford's hand violently, still sniffling. Friendly though Stamford is, he still can't help but wince a bit as he watches Sigmund mops away snot with his other hand.
When Stamford returns from his three-hour lecture, he perceives Sigmund sitting in the same chair, staring blankly at a photograph of Stamford himself, John, Sherlock, and Molly. The poor chap must've been bored to death, he thinks to himself, before offering once more to escort Sigmund to Molly's flat in Shoreditch.
After a smooth drive, they are greeted by Molly's white-haired landlady, Mrs. Crawford.
"You're asking me where Molly is?" she exclaims surprisedly, after giving Stamford a hearty hug. "Mike, she told me the day before yesterday that she was going to give you a note. Didn't she?"
Stamford glances uncertainly at Sigmund. "Well, she did. But for some reason she's also told her cousin to meet up with her today at the hospital. He's been trying to get in touch with her for the whole afternoon, but she still hasn't replied to his texts. Sigmund, this is Mrs. Crawford, Molly's landlady. Mrs. Crawford, this is Sigmund Hooper from Beverley. He said he'll be staying with Molly while looking for a place to settle down; it'll be a temporary thing. I hope you don't mind."
Mrs. Crawford examines him and smiles. "Of course I don't mind. I'd welcome darling Molly's family anytime. Hullo, Sigmund; how do you do?"
Sigmund is mouthing a barely audible "how do you do" when Mrs. Crawford walks forward and takes his hand in hers. "Oh dear, you're just as timid as her when she first met me. Molly has mentioned you to me a few times, but she doesn't talk about her family much, and I'm looking forward to getting to know you. You certainly seem to me like a very sweet young chap, though I'd shave the 'stache."
Sigmund blushes and tries to wiggle his hand out of hers, but Mrs. Crawford laughs. "Don't be shy, dear. Came to stay with Molly, did Mike say? We'll be seeing each other quite often then. Won't you come over to my place with her on the weekends? You probably can't knit scarves, but we can have tea parties."
"Um," Sigmund stumbles and wonders whether he should agree, as Stamford chuckles heartily beside him. "He's a grown man, Mrs. Crawford. Spare him the knitting and the tea party!"
"I thought you liked my tea party, last time you were here for Molly's birthday," Mrs. Crawford exclaims as if she were offended, but Stamford soon puts an end the budding chiding, for another thought has caught his mind. "Never mind tea parties, Mrs. Crawford. Molly did say she'd be away for two months, yes?"
Mrs. Crawford frowns and stares sympathetically at Sigmund. "I'm afraid so. She's put me on a strict, long Toby-feeding schedule. This is quite out of character of her, to leave her poor cousin alone in London like this."
Sigmund looks like he is about to burst in tears.
Suddenly, a beep sounds from his pocket, and he quickly seizes his phone from his jeans. "It's Molly!" He exclaims in relief, and Mrs. Crawford and Stamford press in unison, "What did she say?"
Sigmund reads the text, and reddens with every second passed.
"Oh God. Oh God," when he finally collects himself enough to speak, he stammers practically every word. "I-I'm so, so sorry! I... I misread her last letter. She wrote... she wrote May 29th, not Mar. 29th! Oh God I'm such an idiot. I-I'm so sorry for all the troubles I've caused, I don't even - "
Mrs. Crawford and Stamford exchange glances and, to his surprise, burst out laughing.
"That's all right, dear," says Mrs. Crawford through a few chuckles of relief, "Now we all know that Molly is safe. What are your plans now, Sigmund? Molly made it quite clear to me that she won't be back until May. Will you go back to Beverley?"
"I..." Sigmund tugs nervously at his moustache. "I suppose I'll have to, but I can't go back for the next two weeks at least. Mum and Dad are in Dartmoor and... I don't have the key to our house." He looks sheepishly at the screen of his phone again, and stutters with a blush, "A-Actually, Molly asks you in her text if you could let me in for today at least? She's at an Itzhak Perlman concert and she can't phone."
Stamford smiles. He finds himself not at all surprised by the fact that Sigmund, thirty at least, lives still with his parents. "Today? I don't think so. I think, Mrs. Crawford, that you've got a new tenant in Molly's flat for the next two weeks."
"That is just what I think as well," Mrs. Crawford echoes cheerfully, and quickly takes Sigmund's hand again. She begins to drag him into the stairway, while Stamford wheels in Sigmund's luggage behind them.
"Is this really all right?" Sigmund asks uncertainly as they ascend a flight of stairs. He squeaks as Mrs. Crawford laughs and gives him a very tight squeeze on the wrist.
"Of course it is! Lending darling Molly's baby cousin a hand is the least I can do for her. And quickly, dear, text Molly and tell her not to worry; Mrs. Crawford's got it all down!"
Sigmund's moustache twitches uncertainly. His lips involuntarily curl to form a grin of his own.
They stop before a door on the second floor. Its green paint is peeling off, and it is rather splintered. Sigmund's brows are entangled in a soft scowl as he inspects the door, but once Mrs. Crawford turns her keys, a faint fragrance of potpourri envelops him and his new friends. He feels refreshed and smiles.
Mrs. Crawford and Stamford spoke with him for over an hour, asking silly family questions that he had to improvise answers to based on his knowledge of Molly. Though he did not dislike the presence of good Mike and kind Mrs. Crawford, Sigmund felt only too glad when they finally walked out of the door and waved him goodbye. The only living presence he has to tolerate, then, is Toby the cat, who, thankfully, has no problem staying silent (most of the time).
Sigmund shuts the door and almost immediately breathes a long, quiet sigh. His hazed eyes suddenly become lucid, and they scan the flat warily. Dust lines are intact. Furniture and belongings are organized. There's been a strange blackout two days ago that affected even mobile devices, Mrs. Crawford said during an earlier conversation. And Sigmund, while chatting with Mike and Mrs. Crawford outside, received a one-word text from the embodiment of the British Government: "Clear. M"
All this could mean only one thing. The flat is not bugged.
Suddenly his back is no longer hunched as he kicks off his shoes and bolts to the bathroom, throwing his cap on the ground and peeling off his moustache. "For the love of God, that was beyond tedious," he spits through his teeth as he arrives at the sink, swiping off his fat glasses and slamming them by Molly's toothbrush cup. He stares at the red hair and the freckles in the mirror for a moment, before he groans and rips forcefully at his hairline. The red wig falls, revealing tangled, dark curls underneath. He snatches a towel by the bathtub (hardly registering that it has his most loathed cartoon cats printed on it) and turns on the tap. He scrubs frantically at his face for some minutes, until water in the sink has turned from all strange shades of pink back to clear and colourless, until he looks up into the mirror again and finally sees him.
Yes, that's better. Much better.
Sigmund Hooper can for now retire.
Sherlock Holmes has returned.
Sherlock stares for a few seconds at his reflection with a satisfied smirk, cheek bones high as always, eyes gleaming with confidence. It has been a long day. It is a relief to be free from the shy and sentimental Sigmund Hooper at last. It is liberating, even for a few moments, to have himself back, the world's only and most brilliant consulting detective, the Sherlock Holmes who cares for naught but the excitement of intellectual sparks.
He spins around contentedly, producing his phone from his pocket. Perhaps he should send Mycroft a clever and demeaning message telling him that he's made it in, before changing out of these hideous jeans? He shuffles absentmindedly through his inbox and whistles a new tune he was just composing in his head, until a single line pops onto his screen - the line of text that called for, no, demanded his immediate return from his hiding in Iceland to the battlefield that is London.
'The wolf has taken the rabbit.
M'
Sherlock surveys Molly's small flat and frowns.