A Twist in the Tail

(Non)Standard Disclaimer: Anything you recognise belongs to Steven Moffat, Mark Gatiss, BBC and Hartswood Films.


Chapter 1: She was a cat person…until one ate her

It had been the most harrowing of days, watching Sherlock jump, timing the descent of the placebo corpse to make sure it hit the pavement at just the right moment, then doing the autopsy and pushing the paperwork through. So much could have gone wrong if they had been just a couple of seconds off…

And John…She had seen him in the hallway with his head in his hands, tears dripping from between his fingers. John was a soldier, a war hero…in the time she had known him, she'd always marvelled at his quiet strength. Somehow, the stoic army doctor had managed to simultaneously act as partner-in-crime(solving), conscience, and all-round wrangler to his temperamental genius of a flatmate.

She had stood there, frozen, unable to do anything as one of the strongest and most level-headed men she knew began to sob; harsh, wrecking sounds which clawed at her already frayed composure. Molly had squeezed her eyes shut against her own tears, knowing that there was nothing she could do or say that wouldn't leave her feeling like a liar and a hypocrite. Stepping back, she had forced herself to walk away from the sounds of the man whose world had just fallen apart.

It was already dark as she made her way out of the Tube station near her flat. There was a definite chill in the air, prompting Molly to draw her coat more tightly around her body. Out of the corner of her eye, she sensed movement, but when she turned, there was nothing there. The events of the day must have shaken her more than she had realised, and the bone-deep exhaustion was taking its toll. She picked up her pace, almost jogging the short distance to the entrance of her building. As she fumbled with her keys to the security gate, a slight noise behind her made her jump and whirl around, only to see a retreating shadow and the end of a black tail disappearing round the corner.

Molly took several deep breaths, trying to slow her racing heart. Probably just a stray dog or cat. From her brief glimpse of the tail, however, whatever it was had to be fairly large. She hoped that Toby never found himself in a confrontation with the stray. While her pet believed himself the master of all he surveyed (including her), he was but a pampered housecat and no match for an animal with instincts honed from living on the streets.


All thoughts of stray animals were driven out of Molly's mind over the next few days, with the inquest into the death of the "Fake Genius" and the media frenzy surrounding his apparent suicide. As the attending pathologist whose signature had been on the death certificate of one William Sherlock Scott Holmes, she had been called in to give expert witness testimony. They had even probed into her relationship with the deceased; it being well-known that the consulting detective refused to work with any other pathologist (and conversely, the fact that the other pathologists refused to come anywhere within fifty yards of Sherlock Holmes).

During this time, Molly had discovered a hitherto undiscovered talent for barefaced fibbing, although the tears had not been entirely put on, since she had no idea if she would ever see Sherlock again…

In those rare moments of honesty when he'd come to her for help, he had admitted to the fear that taking down Moriarty's criminal network would be a mission he might not return from. That day, beneath Sherlock's mantle of self-confidence and the grim determination to protect his friends, Molly had seen the terrified little boy who was trying to put on a brave face for the world.

And she had loved him all the more for it.

She had almost begged him not to go through with it; to walk away and refuse to play Moriarty's game, but before she could give voice to her plea, the shutters had come down again and he had switched into machine mode, telling her what he needed her to do. Moriarty had to be stopped, and Sherlock would play the game to the bitter end so that others could be safe. To Molly, he wasn't an angel…but he was definitely a hero, making the world a better place, one criminal at a time.

Most of Bart's had been aware of Molly's feelings towards the self-proclaimed high-functioning sociopath, and she constantly found herself on the receiving end of looks which ranged from pity, to disbelieving—if somewhat disgusted—admiration. According to the snatches of conversation she had overheard, it apparently took a special type of morbidly perverse professionalism to perform an autopsy on someone you were in love with.

Attending Sherlock's funeral had been tough; made all more difficult by having to see the very real grief written across the faces of the friends he had given up everything for. Being one of the only two people present who knew that Sherlock Holmes did not lie beneath the black marble headstone was of little comfort. Mycroft had solemnly inclined his head at her in acknowledgement of their shared secret before departing immediately after the service. John had lingered by the grave, but eventually even he left as well. Once she was sure that everyone had gone, she had doubled back and stood, looking down at the simple gold engraving. Molly wrapped her arms around herself, trying not to give in to her greatest fear: That the grave might soon hold the lifeless body of the man whose name matched the carving on the polished stone.

The day was overcast with the promise of rain, but as she turned to take her leave, a slight movement under a copse—why anyone would refer to such a grouping with a word sounding so similar to that used for a dead body mystified her—of trees on a small knoll caught her eye. She squinted, just in time to see a flash of black disappearing over the crest of the hill. Seconds later, a flock of birds noisily took flight from some unseen point on the other side, swiftly winging over her head and out of sight.

Wouldn't it be ironic if that had been a murder of crows? Stop it with the gallows humour! What was it that John always kept saying to Sherlock? Oh yeah…it's a bit not good.

The parking lot and chapel had been empty besides the minister and the small group mourning Sherlock, so she knew that there were no other visitors about. She shook her head and told herself not to be paranoid, seeing shadows where there were none.

It was probably just the groundskeeper's dog.

It would not occur to Molly until much later, that she had not heard any barking the whole time.


Pubs were generally nice places to be on weekends, but after the emotionally-fraught day she'd had, Molly found herself staring morosely into her barely-touched pint. She would be better off, she decided, going home and having a good long soak in the tub. Hopefully, the bath would ease some of the tightly-coiled tension in her body (not to mention quell the beginnings of a truly mind-blowing migraine) which she attributed entirely to Sherlock-bloody-Holmes. She had not seen him since the day of the Fall and had no idea where he was or if he was okay.

Not that she had expected him to show up at his own funeral—that would have been disturbing, to say the least—but she worried about him. Constantly.

Exiting the pub, she wound her scarf securely around her neck and walked briskly towards the Tube station, taking a short-cut through Russell Square Park. The park was quiet at night, and a gust of cold wind raised the goose bumps on her arms. A few of the lights along the walkway were not working, but she did not think much of it…until a man jumped out of the deep shadows left by a faulty light and clamped a hand around her arm.

Greasy hair, sweating profusely, badly cracked lips and watery, bloodshot eyes…Junkie looking for his next fix. He waved a switchblade in her face, "Hand over your bag, Love, and I'll let you be on your way."

Molly gulped, rooted to the ground as the man snatched the bag off her shoulder with the same hand holding the knife, almost nicking her in the process. He tightened his grip, hard enough to leave bruises, "You're not a bad looking bird, I think I'll have a kiss…" he said, eyeing her lecherously. In that moment, she realised that he would not be simply letting her go, nor would he stop at just a kiss.

I broke up with the Consulting Criminal; I spend my days cutting into dead bodies with a scalpel twice as sharp as that knife; I have the British Government on speed-dial…only to be raped and done in by some low-life junkie? Molly Hooper, your father raised you better than that!

Jolting into action, she stomped on her attacker's foot with all her might, aiming for the metatarsal bones. Those were relatively fragile and easily fractured. The man howled in pain and released her, causing her to stumble back.

Just as she was about to make a run for it, something large, black and furry lunged out of the darkness, knocking her would-be rapist to the ground. It wheeled around, lips pulled back to reveal wickedly sharp white canines.

"WHAT THE FU—?!" The man tried to defend himself with the switchblade, slashing blindly at the animal as it snapped its jaws at him. Her unlikely saviour twisted with sinuous grace, raking its claws down the length of the junkie's arm, leaving a truly impressive set of deep, bloody scratches. With a low, menacing growl, the big, black panther crouched to pounce.

Gibbering in terror, the man dropped the knife, scrabbled backwards and somehow managed to get to his feet, taking off at a stumbling run. The broken foot gave way, causing him to trip and fall face-first, but the fear of being mauled by a jungle cat was motivating enough for him to stagger back up and keep going.

Her heart was racing as the beast turned to face her. She wondered inanely whether it had escaped from the zoo or whether it was someone's exotic (and completely illegal) pet. My gravestone is going to say: Here lies Molly Hooper. She was a cat person…until one ate her.

And then, it did something entirely unexpected…it sat back on its haunches, drew its brows together in a remarkably human-like expression of annoyance, and gave her a most disapproving look.

Molly blinked; she had to be imagining things. It was a dangerous mistake to humanise wild animals, superimposing human sensibilities and emotions on them. However, she couldn't help but drink in the sight of the majestic creature now that it did not seem interested in eating her. Measuring at least two metres long from nose to tail, glossy raven fur covered the sleekly muscled body.

She knew she should back away slowly and make her way to someplace with more human traffic (safety in numbers and all that); take a cab home from there. There was, unfortunately, but one problem with that plan…her wallet, credit cards, mobile phone and house keys were all in the bag currently lying on the ground next to a lazily twitching tail.

As though realising her dilemma, the panther rose to its feet, letting out a hiss as it did so. It sounded…pained. Is it injured? The doctor in her eyed it with concern, but in the dark, it was difficult to tell what was wrong.

Again, the big cat gave her a look that—on a human—spelled distinct impatience. It huffed (in exasperation?), lowered its head and butted her bag towards her…before backing up slightly and deliberately turning away as if trying to project an air of aloof indifference. Gathering all her courage, Molly took a few cautious steps forward. Slowly bending down to retrieve her oversized tote, she could now see that "it" was undisputedly male.

"Not fixed, then..." she muttered aloud.

The long, elegant black tail went abruptly stiff, as the panther made a peculiar half-choking, half-coughing sound. Quick as a flash, the animal whipped its body around to face her again with an affronted snarl, immediately drawing her attention back to the end with the razor-sharp fangs.

Their gazes collided at point-blank range.

She suddenly felt like time had stopped; as though the rest of world had ceased to breathe (because she had certainly forgotten how to), when she found herself staring into eyes that beautiful, indescribable shade of not-quite-aquamarine brushed with gold…that elusive, beloved colour she'd only seen on one other living being.

Completely identical, right down to the sectoral heterochromia in the right iris, Molly-the-Specialist-Registrar dutifully noted with clinical precision somewhere at the back of her mind.

Shock held her suspended, as all her scientific and medical training raged against the sheer improbability of the notion unfolding in her mind. Yet, it was hard to discount the evidence that was, quite literally, staring right back at her. Unless I've dreamt all of this? Am I still in the pub, slumped over the bar and drooling into my hair?

A burst of loud laughter from a group of people coming up the path jump-started things back into motion. "Wait—!" Before she could get more than a word out, the cat had turned and bounded back the same way it had come.

"Oh…Bloody hell!" Determined not to be found standing in the middle of the park gaping like an idiot, Molly shoved her tote over her shoulder, stuffed her shaking hands into her coat pockets and hurriedly resumed her interrupted journey to the Tube station. She needed to get home, have her hot bath, and calm down (in that order)…

…But not before making a small detour to the pet store for some supplies.

She had a feeling that she was about to have company very soon.

She wondered if her sanity would survive the visit.

To be continued...


Notes:

1) This story is for MizJoely and all the other lovely people out there on Tumblr who sail on the Sherlolly ship. You continually astound me with your humour, creativity and dedication.

2) I have honestly no idea where this came from or when I found the time to bang this one out! (I can just imagine the incredulous looks on the faces of the people who are waiting for me to get my butt in gear and finish my other fics...)

Sherlock is not the fandom I usually write for, so please excuse any out-of-character behaviour. This story is also unbeta-ed and un-brit-picked. Any and all mistakes are mine. :D