"Istanbul? Why can't we stick to the UK?" Sherlock asked, tossing the planes tickets back to Molly.
She sighed heavily. "You know why. W-we have to keep moving, Sherlock. That was a close call with Moriarty's men last week. If I h-hadn't pretended to, you know, we would've been seen," Molly replied, wringing her hands nervously.
"The man's name was Ackles," Sherlock replied wearily, flopping down on the too small hotel bed. "Yes, I'll admit, pushing me down in an alley & jumping on top of me, while unconventional & perhaps a bit reckless, proved quite effective. Although, next time I would greatly appreciate it if you would aim a little lower with your knee."
Molly blushed furiously. "I didn't mean to- I told you I was sorry for- oh god, I'm sorry," she stuttered.
Sherlock looked at her critically. "Relax, Molly, that was a joke," he sighed.
She sat down gingerly beside him & placed a hand on his knee. "Besides, you have to stop spying on John. I know you're worried about him, we all are, but you can't afford being spotted by him or anyone else," she began & he shot her an annoyed look. "I know you know, but I can't keep lying to him either," she looked at a loss for words for a moment. "Seeing the hurt in his eyes is just as hard for me as it is for you."
"It's necessary, Molly," Sherlock replied sharply.
"Don't pretend it doesn't bother you," she said exasperatedly. "I can tell it does, Sherlock. You're only torturing yourself by watching him."
Sherlock turned away from her without saying a word. Molly stood up & walked towards the door & paused for a moment with her hand on the handle, trying to think what to say.
"I'll bring you some food later," she said finally, then added sternly. "You need to eat." With that she opened the door & walked out silently.
'The ticking of that damn clock is driving me mad,' Sherlock thought as he sat with his knees brought up to his chest in a faux-leather armchair in a cramped hotel room on the outskirts of Istanbul. He reached over to grab his violin off the table but Molly shot him a stern look from over her book.
"That's how we got kicked out of the last hotel, remember?" she reminded him as she turned the page.
Sherlock sighed, fidgeting in his chair. "I'm bored," he said quietly.
"What?"
"I'm bored, Molly! God I'm so bored! I need something to do!" he protested loudly, positively squirming in his chair now.
"I could get you some more books from the library," she offered, setting her own book down to give him her full attention.
He huffed loudly. "I've already read nearly everything of interest there & we've only been here two weeks. I need something more substantial," he complained.
"Why don't you focus your energy on Moriarty's, organization?" she asked, as if unsure what to call it. "Wouldn't that take your mind off your boredom?"
"My focus would be wasted. There's nothing to be done at the moment. Turning my thoughts to something I can do nothing about is pointless, don't you see? We've been tracking them for six months already & we've made little progress."
"Well you could listen to music, that's better than playing your violin," she suggested, holding up her pink Ipod.
Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Yes, I've looked through your collection of what you call music & I'd rather not listen to Glee or that awful girl Adele's useless crooning again. I was surprised to see the Ramones though," he said with a smirk.
Molly blushed lightly. "Fine. I don't know why I offered," she retorted, picking up her book again. "Maybe you could go analyze tobacco ash or something."
Sherlock shot her an affronted look. He sat fidgeting in his chair for a while, alternating between biting his nails anxiously & drumming his fingers on the arm of the chair. "Molly," he said finally. "Get me cigarettes."
"I don't think that'd be the best idea, it's not really good for you," she replied apologetically.
"I'm dead, I don't think it really matters," Sherlock pointed out sarcastically.
She giggled. "I'm serious, Sherlock."
"So am I. Would you deny me such a simple pleasure in order to keep my sanity, just to preserve my health? Wasn't saving me twice enough?" Sherlock argued.
She sat her book down again. "Okay, I'll get you some cigarettes. I need to go get us food anyway," she said standing up & grabbing her coat. "I'll be back soon, okay?"
Sherlock grunted absently in reply & she rolled her eyes as she walked out the door. He waited for a few minutes after she left before hopping up from his chair. He strode over to the door & snatched up his coat & scarf. Walking out into the bright, cold day, he looked about him before making his way down a dirt lane next to the hotel.
Within ten minutes he was walking back into their room. The small brass box tucked into his coat that had once been empty now contained a syringe & a plastic baggie filled with a white powder with he would later refine into a beautiful clear liquid. He didn't know when he would need to use it, that wasn't important. It was a comfort just to have it. He always had an escape this way, an insurance policy against stagnation of the mind.
Not long after Sherlock had taken his coat off & flopped down into his chair, Molly walked in carrying a bag of takeaway. She tossed the cigarettes to him, which he caught & pocketed before taking the bag from her so she could take her coat off.
"Oh, I got something else for you," she said as she took the food out of the bag & set it on the table. "I got this on my way back." She pulled out a little box & tossed it to him.
"Hair dye? What on earth would I want this for?" he asked, turning it over in his hands.
"So you don't look like, you know, yourself," she said, taking two more items out of the bag. "I got a bleaching kit & some special hair cutting scissors too. I, um, didn't know what color dye to get, I figured it would be best if it were something light. I would have asked you but I-I thought, well, I didn't think you would care much. Ginger is okay isn't it?"
He laughed. "Yes, it's fine. I suppose I should have thought of it sooner," he said, picking up the scissors & shooting her an inquisitive look.
"Don't worry, I used to do my cousin's hair all the time," she said in response to his look.
He nodded absentmindedly.
"Good, okay. W-we can do it after we eat, your hair I mean," she added awkwardly.
"I'm not hungry, you go ahead without me," he said & she gave him a concerned look. "I'll be fine, I've got cigarettes."
She gave a resigned sigh but didn't say any more. With that Sherlock slid a cigarette out of the pack & lit it carefully. He puffed it slowly as he watched her eat. She was evidently nervous about having Sherlock's attention focused on her so fully; for her face was continually pink & she dropped her fork several times. When she finished her food she gave him an unsure look.
"Um, s-shall we then?" she asked, standing up.
Sherlock ground out the cigarette in the nearby ash tray, then stood up & stalked into the bathroom. She gathered up the supplies & trotted after him. Molly found him perched on the edge of the bathtub.
"Oh I almost forgot!" she darted out of the room & returned with a small folding chair. "Here"
He pulled the chair over & sat down heavily on it & she sat behind on him where he'd just been sitting on the edge of the tub a moment ago. She looked at his reflection in the mirror in front of them, uncertain where to begin.
"I guess I should cut it first," she said quietly.
He stared at her impatiently as she grabbed a comb & the scissors off the counter. Her hands hovered over his head for a while; she was scared to touch his hair. She'd thought about it plenty of times, running her fingers through it, but actually doing it was another thing entirely. Finally she took a deep breath & started to comb it out. She caught a few snags here & there but Sherlock assured her that he wasn't tender-headed (though she could tell he was lying by his sudden sharp gasps).
As she started cutting his hair she felt less nervous, focusing entirely on the task itself. Sherlock watched in the mirror as curl after curl fell to the floor. He also watched the way Molly scrunched up her nose in concentration. It made her less clumsy, he thought, when she was focused on a task like this. He supposed this must be how she looked working at the morgue when he wasn't around to distract her & turn her into a nervous, stuttering wreck. Sherlock almost audibly scoffed at the thought. How could his mere presence produce such an unusual effect on someone? It was certainly understandable when he was trying to be intimidating or impressive to get what he wanted, but this just him, usually.
"All done," Molly's proud voice broke through his thoughts.
He returned his attention to his own reflection. The ebony curls that once framed his features were now gone & his hair stuck out in a less random way, falling in curious layers. He passed a hand through it, feeling the difference in texture. Finally he noticed Molly looking at him expectantly.
"It's still my hair I suppose. It feels lighter now," he said somewhat awkwardly, unsure what she was expecting him to say. "What do you think? Do I still look like myself?"
Molly looked startled at being asked her opinion. "Well, erm, your face looks, um, narrower now. I think Moriarty's men might still recognize you though, so we'll still have to dye it I guess," she said sheepishly.
"Yes, I suppose you're right, just cutting the curls off isn't much of a change," Sherlock replied with a laugh.
Molly smiled in reply. It took a while to bleach Sherlock's hair, long enough that even she grew tired of his complaining.
"Stop squirming, I don't want to get bleach in your eyes," she mumbled, although she'd almost dropped the container on him when he removed his shirt for the process.
"I'm not squirming," he pouted. "This is just taking too long."
"It's not like you've got anything better to do," she retorted sharply.
He folded his arms in sulking protest but said nothing more.
"I like your hair like this," Molly said once the bleaching process was finished & his hair was a golden-yellow, a shade or so lighter than John's.
"I don't," he complained. "It makes my eyes look too bright."
"I-I like your eyes," she muttered, blushing again.
Sherlock huffed but she ignored him & picked up the hair dye. She opened the box & took out a comb, a pair of plastic gloves, & the dye itself. She clumsily put on the plastic gloves & squirted some of the foamy dye into her hand. Slowly, she began working the dye into his hair, alternating between using the comb & her fingers. Once the bottle was half empty she used both hands to massage the dye down to the scalp. She found herself entirely focused again, though this time she was simply absorbed by the feeling rather than from trying to steady her own hands. Here she was in a bathroom of a hotel room, running her fingers through a shirtless Sherlock Holmes's hair. The thought made her sign in satisfaction.
"Molly," Sherlock said sharply. "Do concentrate."
Molly blushed & instantly withdrew her hands. "S-sorry, I'm sorry, I was just thinking about- um, sorry," she took a deep breath. "You'll need to let that uh, sit awhile okay?"
Sherlock rolled his eyes & stood up, walking back into the main room. He sprawled out in a chair & lit a cigarette, staring out the window. He'd smoked three more by the time she let him rinse the dye out. Then he let Molly blow dry it for him so they could see what it looked like. It was an interesting shade of yellow-orange. At first it reminded Molly of autumn leaves, but those had the dull impression of life being sapped out of them. This was more vivid, more alive.
"It reminds me of those nice sunflower paintings," she said, turning off the hairdryer.
"Vincent Van Gogh's sunflower series, you mean," Sherlock replied.
"Uh, yeah," she said in a surprised tone. "I thought you didn't, well, know about that stuff?"
"I took a few classes for the sake of accurate scientific drawings," he said offhandedly. "The history of it is quite stimulating & I do find art a rather fascinating subject, surprising as that may seem."
"Oh I didn't mean to, it's just that John said-"
He laughed. "John does like to think I'm oblivious to everything that isn't crime. However, my work is my own art & therefore I highly appreciate the imagination of the artist, even if I put my own imagination to different use.'
"I guess I never thought about it like that," she said bashfully.
"Clearly," Sherlock said with a smirk. "Oh don't be like that, I wouldn't expect you to. It's not really your area Molly."
He gave her a small smile & a pat on the shoulder before grabbing his coat & walking out the door. Molly was used to him going out for hours with no indication of where he'd been. She suspected that he went out into the nearby woods but he always denied it when she asked, telling her it was absurd that he'd spend hours staring at trees, even when he came back smelling of dirt & grass or had bits of leaves & twigs in his hair. She supposed that he liked the solitude it offered, not wanting to be reminded of London by going into the city. She tried not to think about it too much though, who knew what went on in his head. John probably had a better idea than she did, she thought. Sometimes she wished John could have come with Sherlock instead, Sherlock would have liked that better. After all, why would someone like Sherlock Holmes need little mouse Molly's help?
"Do stop being so self-depreciating, Molly, you know I value your help," Sherlock said in a bored tone, collapsing lazily onto his bed.
"Thank you. But wait, how did you-? Was I talking out loud?" she asked nervously.
Sherlock smiled. "No. I've been standing here a few minutes, plenty of time to follow your train of thought," he smiled more at her perplexed expression. He moved to sit down across from her. "It's rather transparent really. When I first entered the room you made no movements to signal you'd noticed my presence, signaling deep thought. I stood by the door & watched your eyes. I followed your gaze several times to objects of my own, such as my violin. Obviously you were thinking about me. I would have interrupted you but I saw your eyes focus on the magnifying lens John gave me last Christmas & grow sad. At first I thought perhaps you were simply thinking of John again but your gaze shifted momentarily to the violin again & was still sad, thus I deduced you were thinking about John & I. The sadness of your expression now seemed to indicate that you were comparing yourself to John, since you looked down guiltily at your shoes once. Then you started biting your lip, a common sign of anxiety. So you were worrying that you're not as fitting a companion as John would be & now I'm telling you that you are wrong on that part. If John's help would have been more sufficient he would be here now instead of you. It was you who pointed out that even watching him was a danger. You're only being self-depreciating by assuming that I would benefit more from John's presence," Sherlock explained in a half annoyed tone.
Molly blushed deeply at this. She opened her mouth to thank him but he held up a hand to silence her. She nodded & simply smiled instead.
For the rest of the week Molly noticed Sherlock was oddly quieter than usual. Some days he barely uttered a word, simply lying on his bed staring at the ceiling. It was as though he was in a kind of trance & it worried her greatly. She tried bringing back books she thought he might find interesting & even read aloud crimes from the rare newspapers she found in English. It was all in vain though; he would simply stare blankly at her, looking sad like he had before the incident. She vaguely remembered John mentioning (or rather complaining about) Sherlock's depressed moods but he'd never explained much about them; likely because he didn't understand them well enough.
It was boredom. Maddening, sickening, boredom. It ate away at him, dragging him down into the darkest, emptiest pits of his soul. Doldrums of the worst kind. The image, or sensation, it always conjured for him was of himself standing in a dark cavern. But the longer he stood, the further he seemed to sink down into it. The very air felt suffocating & it burned his skin with a dull, searing pain. The walls of the cavern would begin to melt as he sank deeper into the mire. And all the while there was a faint murmuring, barely more than a whisper. He'd try to run, but it made no difference. So he'd sit, allow it to envelop him in its comforting sadness for a while. Resisting only made his mind work uselessly against itself, after all. Sinking further & further down was alright for a while, he'd always find a way out. He'd soon become restless though, looking for the exit.
Molly noticed that his lethargy was followed by a burst of high energy. But it wasn't like the excited energy he exhibited in the midst of a case, it was horrible & desperate, like an animal trying to claw its way out of a cage. He paced around for hours, mumbling to himself sometimes. Other times he would rant about things for which she had no context, but she would listen anyway due to the excited passion with which he spoke. The only time he really seemed to notice her presence though were ones in which he would wear a sad smile & speak to her in low tones about the commonplaceness of life. Those were the times that worried her most, for even though it seemed like he was talking to her, her attempts at comfort or changing the subject seemed to fall on deaf ears.
"Istanbul is just a stepping stone, Sherlock," she said in a calming tone. "Just a couple more weeks & we can start working again. We just have to lie low for a bit, just for a bit."
There was the sad smile back in place again. Molly endeavored to stay out of the hotel room as often as possible after that. She checked in on him occasionally, but didn't stay long since the state of high energy was back. This was the chance Sherlock had been waiting for though. The frenzied babbling had partly been an act, & partially him working out solutions to old cases he hadn't been able to solve.
One day a few days later Molly had popped in to check on him, but she seemed eager to leave. She'd met someone clearly, at a café by the smell of her clothes. That meant she likely wouldn't look in on him until much later.
He sat plucking the strings of his violin for a while after she left, then suddenly jumped up from his chair & rushed over to his bed. He dropped to his hands & knees & ran a hand gently across the dusty floorboards until he found it: the loose floorboard. There were several he had discovered around the musty old hotel room since they had arrived but this one was most conveniently located under his bed. He lifted & moved it aside with quick precision & removed the brass box contained underneath. He carried it over to the table & opened it to reveal the syringe & a little bottle of what he had already refined into its purer form a few days earlier: cocaine. A carefully prepared 7% solution. He held the little bottle reverently in his nimble fingers for a moment before removing the syringe as well. He stuck the needle in the bottle with the same careful attention he would give to his experiments & slid the plunger slowly up. Then he held the needle level with his eyes & with a look of deep interest flicked the base so that the bubbles floated happily up to disappear. It was beautiful, he thought, staring at the crystal clear liquid. He stared at it a moment longer, satisfied that there were no more bubbles, & set it down gently on the table. He unbuttoned the cuff of his left shirt sleeve, and then slowly, deliberately, rolled the sleeve up; he was in no hurry. After pushing up the sleeve as far as it would go he picked up the needle with his right hand. He flexed his fingers a few times, choosing the proper vein. Finally he decided on the right one & with his long, slender fingers he sunk the needle into his arm. He left it sitting for just a moment, relishing in the slight pain, before pushing down on the plunger, sending the drug pumping into his body. He flexed his fingers again in anticipation of the end to his boredom. It crept upon him slowly at first, boiling warmly up inside him. Then it hit him & it was as though a flame had sparked at the very center of his being, spreading out to his fingertips & down to his toes. He felt lite, like a weight was being lifted from him & he could see everything clearly & detailed again & he could practically hear his heartbeat drumming along.
Suddenly he jumped up from his chair & strode over to the window & with a swift movement threw the thin, ratty curtains open to let in the bright afternoon sunlight. Had he been back as 221B he would have typically shut himself away from the outside world, opting to stretch out on his bed, or if John was away, drape himself lazily across the couch. But out here away from the gloomy, all too public atmosphere of London, he welcomed the invigorating sunlight. He sat sprawled out in the armchair for hours, watching dust particles swirling & dancing in the sunbeams streaming through the window. The sun had well set when the high finally started to wear off, but he simply turned his attention to the slow movements of the shadows now that he could no longer focus on the light. He didn't even bother to turn on the lights & when Molly returned he was sitting in the dark, plucking the strings of the violin, in the same position he'd been in when she left.
"Have you been out at all?" she asked hesitantly.
"No," he replied, not even looking up.
"Oh, okay then," she said with a confused expression.
During the next two weeks they stayed in Istanbul Sherlock used cocaine three times. Once he took a walk through the woods, examining everything in detail. Another time he took his violin to a secluded field in the country & played a piece by Paganini with such fervor he actually broke the A string. The last he simply laid on the floor of the hotel room, studying the scars & acid stains on his hands from various experiments. And each time Molly was none the wiser.