This is what happens when I write under the influence of Nutella, a spoon, and a 102 degree fever. I cut my teeth on "Wuthering Heights" and it shows!
As always, my deepest thanks to Nocturnias (who's name should be a lunar deity!) for the inspiration and hand-holding!
Also, much thanks to Rocking the Redhead, Nan, SammyKatz, Katdemon1895, LucyH, Adi Who Is Mou, and Hihiyas! You guys make the keys less intimidating! LadyGracelyn, thanks for catching the Avengers reference! Nobody caught Freud, though! Mayacakaia, the knife was his. Butterfly knives lay flat so they don't ruin the line of a coat! And to all who read, thanks! Grab a tissue and get ready for a bumpy ride! Sometimes the worst trauma is in the mind!
Sherlock Holmes was furious. He hadn't believed for a moment that anyone would have died of something as interesting as anthrax, but he had wanted to see the body, see what had panicked an intern. By the time Molly returned and could get him inside the morgue, not only would the body have been removed, but all the samples and test results would be passed along as well. She texted that she'd try to get Mike Stamford to save him something, but without her there to bat her eyelashes, it wouldn't work. It was amazing what she could get Mike Stamford to do. Serious sulking was now required.
He checked his watch. Four hours until they were supposed to meet at the morgue.
What had possessed her to fly to Paris for only a weekend? (He was glad it was only a weekend, especially in view of the not-anthrax!) John had said something about "university friends", but that couldn't be right. If she were still close with any of those people, why were there no photographs of them in her flat or office? She should have been gushing about their weddings and thrusting new baby pictures at the woman who ran the cafeteria. Who did reunions in another country, anyway? Maybe he'd check the surface tension of his latest experiment in the refrigerator. Make sure it gleamed properly the next time John opened the door.
Three hours and fifty minutes.
He wasn't hopeful about the morgue anyway. With an anthrax scare, the "proper" authorities had undoubtedly cleaned out every possible closet, drawer, slab, trench, cupboard, and shelf. They would have started destroying whatever they found as quickly as they could to prevent contamination. He was resigned that his cultures would be lost to an abundance of caution. Maybe he'd ask Molly for the idiot intern's name. Make a reasoned argument why pathology was obviously not their field. He picked up the newspaper he'd already read twice to stop himself from piling the dirty dishes in the sink.
Three hours and forty minutes.
He would have to have a word with her about the whole matter. She had responsibilities and couldn't just take off for a weekend in Paris, leaving St. Bart's in the hands of such ludicrous incompetence. At least this had just been a scare; if it had been an emergency…
John came into the room at a run, skidded to a stop and grabbed the television remote, mumbling all the while. Sherlock rolled his eyes and sank lower behind the paper. Arsenal must have lost again. He wondered how much John had bet this time.
"Okay, Mike. As soon as you hear anything more, let us know, yeah?"
The television wasn't on Sky Sports and something was horribly wrong with John's voice. BBC was just beginning the graphics for breaking news. If it was a case they should have heard from Lestrade first. Footage of a plume of smoke over the English Channel. John couldn't seem to get his fingers to properly work his mobile phone.
Molly's plane, a BA flight, had landed safely forty eight minutes late last night. Sherlock had checked the website himself, starting at ten, then at regular intervals until it arrived at the terminal. Terrible word for an airport. He had even added an hour to his ETA at the morgue in case she slept late.
A small commuter plane, maybe thirty to fifty passengers. It had been in contact with air traffic control, complaining of smoke in the cabin. The usual assurances that there was no word of terrorist involvement.
"John…"
"Greg?" John's voice was getting tighter. "Did Mike get a hold of you yet?" A pause while he scrubbed at his forehead. "That's the flight number she texted me. Any chance she mixed up the numbers?"
"John!" Sherlock tried very hard to breathe. She flew in last night. He used his own mobile, calling her apartment. She should be awake by now. No answer. Maybe she was showering.
"If you can't get anywhere with them, let us know. There may be another way we can check." a pause. "I will. Keep in touch." John dropped into his chair. He couldn't remember for the life of him if he had told Sherlock of her changed plans.
Thirty six hours earlier…
"There is no anthrax in the morgue, John. It was just an overexcited intern who overreacted, promise." Molly squeezed the mobile phone tighter and covered her other ear. Even the bathroom in Le Baron Rouge was loud. Her hand was beginning to cramp. Emails had been flying to and from her smart phone for most of the day; St. Bart's, Lestrade, Donovan, and of course, texts from Sherlock. Out of all of them, he seemed disappointed at the outcome. The man would let loose the zombie apocalypse if he got bored enough!
"I keep telling him, but he seems to think it's all a conspiracy to keep him out of the lab until you get back! You will be back on time, right?" John sounded on the near edge of desperate. "You land at ten pm Sunday?"
She winced. "Sorry, change of plan. BA overbooked the flight, but they offered me a great discount to give up my seat. I'm booked onto a smaller carrier for Monday morning."
"Be sure to text me the details. You alright, Molly? You sound a little down." John had thought this sudden weekend trip was strange from the moment she had mentioned it. It sounded like something she should be happy, excited about, yet it almost seemed to sadden her.
"I think I may be coming down with something." she admitted. "Too tired, no appetite. Surrounded by great food and I'm nauseous. Give me a couple days and I'll be fine."
"It's all those cream sauces. Get back here for a bacon…"
"Physician, heal thyself!" she laughed. "Go nursemaid Sherlock; he needs it more than me! I'll see the two of you Monday afternoon!"
"Cheers, Molly." John rang off.
She sent the text with her flight information to John, pocketed her phone and then made her way out to the table they had laid claim to upon arrival. She supposed it was wonderful for so many of them to be together again, but the ache hung heavy in the air. An empty chair that would always sit among them.
Molly reclaimed her wine glass from Alice, wondering if it was like this for John when he and his fellow soldiers got together. Camaraderie of a shared experience, yet the shadow of a tragedy that clung like spider webs and couldn't be brushed away. Wasn't time supposed to heal all wounds?
"All's well back in London?" Max asked from across the table. "Your phone seems to be chiming the hour!"
"Just a little office madness. Nothing that won't wait." She managed to not add 'unfortunately". She wanted to make her excuses, bolt out of the bar, run for home and never look back. Still, if it kept them from turning up on her doorstep, one meeting every five years could be stomached.
Max smirked. "Speaking of waiting, are we finally going to order? If I have any more of this ale, Peter is going to start looking good!"
"Not until you buy me a ring, jackass." Peter deadpanned, never looking up from the menu card.
"Nothing for me, thanks." Molly stood. "I'll just go get a refill."
Much to her consternation, Alice followed her to the bar. "It was him on the phone, wasn't it? Bright Eyes?"
"Don't start!" She should never have shown any of them John's website. True, it made explaining some of odder parts of her work life easier, but if Sherlock ever heard the nickname Alice had hung on him, well, 'hell to pay' wouldn't begin to cover it. "And, no. It was John Watson."
"You lucked out, Molly. You should see what I have to face at work. I'd trade you lab rats for corpses if I had two bits of eye candy like that as a bonus feature!" Alice smiled. "I still can't believe you keep your hands to yourself!"
"St. Bart's has a no harassment policy." She counted out coins to pay for the white wine, smiling inwardly. Lusting after a few photos was one thing; Alice might never recover from the full Holmes-Watson package. Sherlock would reduce her to a smoking grease spot on the floor as soon as she opened her mouth, and John seemed able to recognize Alice's type fairly quickly. Sometimes not until the second date, but quickly enough.
"But, seriously, hon." Alice wrapped herself around Molly's arm like a snake. "Life goes on! You haven't really had a man in your life since…"
Molly stilled, trying not to make a scene. "Come on, Alice. You've had enough husbands for our entire graduating class!" She tried to smile evilly, but it died on the way to her eyes. She never had been any good at that particularly bitchy form of combat.
"David loved you."
Molly couldn't breathe. She wanted to scream, lash out, and run from the agony that flared up her spine. It was none of the damned woman's business. She knew she shouldn't have come here. It was too much like probing an old wound for someone else's edification. Weak kneed, she went back to the table and dropped into a chair.
"Max, tell her!" Alice seemed to be trying to call the whole table together. Several of them visibly flinched. All went silent.
Peter snagged the glass from Alice's hand. "I think you've had enough for tonight, honey. Let's get you back to the hotel." The woman protested, but he maneuvered them both quickly out the door.
Conversations had restarted when Max came to sit beside Molly. "She was only trying to help."
"I can't do this anymore, Max." she studied the bottom of her wine glass. "I know you all think that somehow seeing you helps, but it doesn't. I'm not…that person anymore."
"None of us are those people anymore." he smiled, taking her hand, absently drawing circles on her wrist. "We think getting the old gang together will be like going back to just how things were when we thought we had all the answers."
"We didn't even know the questions." Molly squeezed his fingers. "Think you could lose my number before the next reunion?"
Max nodded, standing and raising his glass. "To absent friends."
Molly echoed the toast. Maybe she was finally free.
John Watson was at a loss for what to do. He knew Kubler-Ross' five stages of grieving, hell, had gotten training on how to help the soldiers under his care come to terms with the death of comrades. Just this once, couldn't Sherlock come close to a shade of normal? Done something that would allow him to help?
Three days since the plane had dived, broken up and erupted into flame in the Channel. Sherlock hadn't eaten; hadn't slept. John would have expected that. What chilled him was that Sherlock hadn't spoken. Not even when Mrs. Hudson had clung weeping into his shirt. Sherlock had been texting occasionally, or at least had been until John had stopped him from launching his phone out the window to the street below. He saw a reply from Mycroft "There are always other pathologists." He wasn't answering Lestrade's calls or texts.
Sherlock was drinking phenomenal amounts of coffee, pacing in long bursts, but spent most of his time curled in his chair in positions that made John's joints ache. John knew he had left the flat once in the dead of night, because Molly's diary suddenly appeared on the living room table. Sherlock must not have read it yet; the lock was still in place and if he had opened it, it would have been pointless to relock it.
Not even his violin had spoken. John watched him lift it, try to play several times. The end of the bow trembled, dipped, and Sherlock gave up. The last time it had looked like he was going to fling it out the window as well, but at the last second he stopped and placed it back in its case. John had been very glad that he had removed his service revolver from the flat, locking it temporarily in a safety deposit box. The walls wouldn't have survived, he tried to tell himself.
Last night had been the worst so far. He had reminded Sherlock of the memorial service they were expected to attend Friday afternoon. He had already set up the traditional floral arrangement to be delivered to the chapel, and explained to people that he didn't think Sherlock would be saying a few words over the empty casket. John had been asleep several hours when the noises woke him.
He crept nearer the living room as the sounds repeated. The lamps were off but the flames in the grate gave enough light that he could see Sherlock's face. He had thought Sherlock was sobbing, maybe finally accepting what had happened. Not a tear to be seen. It chilled John to the core. He wasn't crying; he was screaming. Inarticulate fury almost escaping, gurgled back, silenced.
Sherlock was still perched in the chair when John went to make his morning tea. Tomorrow was the service and he was determined that they both attend. It was the respectful thing to do.
"We have to talk about tomorrow." John set the plate of toast close enough that the other man could steal off a piece even though he was sure that wouldn't happen. "The limousine will pick us and Mrs. Hudson up at one o'clock. Greg was asking if you'd serve as a pall bearer. He's…"
"No."
"I'm doing it. Molly's only family is an old infirmed aunt that probably can't even attend." John considered telling him Anderson had volunteered. "It would be the proper thing, Sherlock. Respectful of the dead."
"No."
"Are you not even going?" Social tone-deafness be damned! "You owe her this, Sherlock! It's what Molly would have…" John knew the moment the words had left him that they shouldn't have been said. It was like standing in front of a blast furnace.
"She's not dead, John." it came out as a snarl, hanging in the air.
The pause went on too long. He dropped his toast back on the plate, wiped crumbs off on his pants. "What, you think somebody, Moriarty maybe, kidnapped her? We would have heard something by now." John shuffled forward in his chair.
Sherlock didn't blink.
"She was on the passenger manifest." John was fighting to keep his voice even. "She got on the plane at Roissy de Gaulle Airport, we can prove it."
"I'd know. I'd f…" his eyes and mouth snapped shut simultaneously. His lower lip disappeared and a twitch began in his cheek. "I'm losing my mind." a monotone as he swept out to his room, the door slamming behind him.
"Not now." John whispered a prayer to the empty room. Don't let him figure it out now.