Hi all! This is my second ever attempt at writing fanfiction. I've had this little nugget festering away in my head for the past couple of months until finally it just spilt out of me this past weekend. I've written out a plot outline for this, and I would love to continue it, so if you like it (or have any constructive criticism), please review.
And of course, the world of Sherlock does not belong to me. It belongs to the wonderful Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and to the Trolls Supreme - Mr Mark Gatiss and Mr Steven Moffat.
Enjoy!
Molly Hooper had had enough. She was sick of the lies. She was sick of the torment. It was eating her up inside. To have this secret and not be able to share it – especially with the one person she knew would help her keep it (and also make him whole again)… she just didn't know how she could do it anymore.
Molly was at home, resting, contemplating everything that had happened over the past 8 months. She reflected on all of the lies, hurt and the betrayal. She didn't know how she hadn't already cracked under the pressure of it all. She was strong willed. She knew that. But every person has a breaking point. And she had just about reached hers. She also knew that by letting this secret out, it could not only potentially hurt the one person to whom this whole situation pertained to, but could possibly put herself, John Watson, Mrs Hudson… basically anyone Sherlock Holmes had a vested interest in… they could all be killed. So she stayed silent. She went about her days, playing this charade. And it was eating her up inside.
The one person she wanted to talk to about all of this… could not be found. He couldn't be found. He was dead. And he was dead, thanks to her help.
Except… he wasn't dead at all.
Sherlock Holmes was very much alive, and hopefully, well. Thanks to one Miss Molly Hooper, Sherlock survived the fall off the top of St Bart's on that fateful day. Sherlock had come to her only a few hours beforehand, asking for her help. She could see it in his demeanour. In the look that he gave her. He wasn't playing her this time. Not like all of the other times when he used her, then abused her for… well… anything, really. He was always so charming when he wanted something from her. He always flung compliments her way when he needed full use of her laboratory or procuring a body part so he could conduct his weird and wonderful experiments. Then, once he got his way, he treated her like she was nothing. No… less than nothing. Sometimes, much like he did earlier that day, he didn't even notice her at all. He even referred to her as John. Sherlock may not see her, but Molly could see him. She could see the real Sherlock Holmes. She could see the sadness that the he was trying to hide from the world. Especially from the one person that truly mattered to him - John Watson. But Molly could see it. She even told him as much. She knew that she had thrown Sherlock a bit after her statement. And she wasn't going to lie. It thrilled her a little bit knowing that she had gotten to him. And it also pleased her that she had finally spoke up and showed Sherlock the true Molly. The Molly that was of strong mind, will, and was not mousy. The person she was when she wasn't around the one person that made her feel like a petulant child with a school girl crush. She did stutter and blither a little bit when she made her declaration, but she knew she got her point across.
So when Sherlock surprised her in her lab, declaring that she counted and he always trusted her, the mousiness left her and the strong willed woman rose. So when Sherlock asked for her help, she knew that she would do anything for this man no questions asked.
Well, except for one.
'What do you need?'
It wasn't really so much as a question, but a statement.
Yes, he treated her like she was less than dirt sometimes, but the man was brilliant and she was in love with him. As much as she didn't want to be and tried to deny it to herself time after time, she was. So, she did everything that was asked of her. She did it to the best of her abilities and just prayed that this little scheme of Sherlock's prevailed and she didn't end up losing Sherlock for good.
After the fall, Sherlock needed somewhere to hide and recuperate. She had offered Sherlock her place, but he refused, stating that if anyone had suspected that he had faked his death; certain people may put two and two together and come looking for her. Sherlock had declared that he had already procured a place. Not too far from her own apartment, in fact. So, she bandaged and stitched up his wounds, tended to his bruising, and helped him into a cab. They rode in silence, neither wanting to acknowledge what had transpired for them to end up where they were now.
After a short ride, they reached Sherlock's new lodgings. Molly paid the driver, quickly hopped out of the cab and ran around to help Sherlock out of the other side, but he had already managed to make his way out. Even now, he still wanted to be so stubbornly self reliant. But, even he had to admit that he needed some help. He had busted his right ankle quite badly, but he was able to put a small amount of pressure on it. Molly wanted to give him some crutches to use, but he refused, opting for a cane instead. So, with Sherlock's directions, she helped guide him up the stairs and walked him to his new front door. He handed her the keys and she unlocked it.
She didn't know what to expect when she opened the door. Sherlock only had a few hours to organise all of this. When she had the door fully opened, she glanced around and felt a pang of sadness. The place was empty and felt incredibly cold. There was a single oversized chair sitting in what she supposed was the lounge room facing the window. A rather small dining table with 2 missed matched chairs sat in the middle of the small kitchenette. Curiously though, over by the window, was a music stand with sheet music and beside that, on a small desk, was a violin. These were pretty much the only furnishings in the entire place. The walls had peeling wallpaper with a hideous pattern on it, the ceiling had a single light bulb with no shade and the floor was hardwood boards that had seen better days.
She stood in the doorway completely fixated. That was until she felt a cane in her back, pushing her forward. She quickly hopped out of the way and watched as Sherlock strode (yes, strode… even with a cane and a broken ankle he still was graceful and elegant as he limped) over to the couch by the window. He braced himself on the armchair as he sat, wincing at the pain. Molly wanted to go over and help, but at the same time she didn't want to fuss over him. She knew that was the last thing he wanted or needed, so she stood there in the kitchenette not knowing what to do or say.
Sherlock sat in his chair and stared out the window. There was a silence between them that seemed to span what felt like hours, but realistically was probably only a few minutes.
Not once did he look away from the window. His expression was forlorn and haunting.
Molly's heart broke at the sight. This poor man had just lost everything. Sherlock sacrificed everything he had to save the people that he cared about. His reputation was in tatters. His best friend thought he was dead. Molly knew that Sherlock tried to divorce himself of feeling and sentiment, but she knew something like this had to be eating away at him.
'Is there anything else you need?' Molly asked tentatively.
'I need you to keep an eye on John. And Mrs Hudson. Make sure that they're okay.' Sherlock did not look away from the window.
'Of course. Is there anything else?'
Sherlock didn't respond. He just continued to stare out the window.
Molly took that as her cue to leave. She told Sherlock that she would be back around tomorrow after she had organised a few things to change his dressings and check his wounds. Once again, Sherlock did not move or make any acknowledgement that he had heard her. With that, she made a move to leave.
'Thank you'.
It was said barely above a whisper. Molly wasn't quite sure that she even heard him.
'Wha… umm... sorry… what?' She stammered.
'I said thank you. For everything. I knew I could count on you.'
He slowly turned to look at her. His face had changed from being sad and forlorn to… she wasn't quite sure what. He had the same expression he had when he told her that he needed her in the morgue. Molly felt as if he was truly seeing her. Her resolve to help this man was instantly made stronger.
Molly gave Sherlock a slow nod of her head and a small smile, turned and left.
10 minutes later found Molly in her own apartment, slumped against the door, tears streaming down her face. In the space of 24 hours, her entire life had been turned upside down. She had just helped a man (a man that she cared deeply for) destroy his entire life by helping him fake his death. Now, she had to lie to the very people he was trying to protect. She had to convince John that the one person who gave him a purpose in life was really gone. She knew that she had to attend Sherlock's funeral. That in itself was going to be a horrendous experience, she knew.
But, she made Sherlock a promise. A promise she was going to keep, no matter what the cost. She knew why he was doing this. That made her all the more resolved to help him.
With that, Molly rose from her slumped position, stood up and walked to the kitchen. She opened the fridge and pulled out a bottle of red wine and poured herself a glass.
She walked to the lounge and sat crossed legged. She sat there and thought about all of the things that she needed to do the following day. She would need to get a hold of David, her boss, to see if she could have some bereavement leave. She was owed some time off, plus David did have a bit of a crush on her, so she couldn't see there being a problem. What she was dreading though was seeing John. She wasn't much of an actress. But she knew that she had to give an Oscar winning performance to try and convince that Sherlock really was gone. She had already filled out all of the paper work with Sherlock's help. As Sherlock said 'DNA tests are only as good as the records you keep'.
She finished off her glass of wine, laid her head down on the lounge and closed her eyes. She eventually fell into a fitful sleep.
The next day, as loathed as she was to do so, she went back to St Bart's to pick up some supplies that she would need to help Sherlock tend to his wounds. She had an oversized bag and filled it as much as she dared. She had left a cardigan in her office from a few days prior, so she put that on top of the bag to help conceal the contents inside. She prayed that she wouldn't run in to any of her colleagues, and thankfully, she didn't. She had already spoken to David over the phone that morning, putting in what she thought was a convincing performance. She seemed to have passed the task, but David was a pushover, so it wasn't really that hard.
On the way to see Sherlock, Molly stopped by the local Tesco's to grab a few more supplies. She finally made her way to Sherlock's new lodgings at around 11 that morning. She knocked on the door, all the while looking around to make sure that no one was watching nor following her. She'd seen enough spy shows and movies to know to watch out for a tail.
When there was no response from inside, she tried to turn the door handle, which to her surprise wasn't locked. She slowly opened the door and walked inside.
She had only taken one or two steps inside when she heard the click of something metallic, then felt cold steel pressed up against her neck.
Molly's blood ran cold. She dropped everything in her hands, swallowed hard, closed her eyes and slowly lifted her hands up as if to surrender.
This was it. This was as far as she goes in this tale. She helped Sherlock, someone found out, and now it was her turn to die. But she had no regrets. If she had to do it over again, she would do it all again in a heartbeat no questions asked.
Just before she thought the person with the gun was going to pull the trigger, she whispered one name while a single tear swept down her face.
'Sherlock'.
'Yes Molly?'
Molly's eyes popped open.
She then slowly turned around.
'Sherlock? WHAT THE HELL?'
'Just wanted to see how well you did under pressure.' Sherlock uncocked the gun and put it down on the table, all the while acting as if nothing significant had happened at all.
Molly was furious. She was shaking like a leaf out of pure anger. Sherlock – the man she helped save yesterday – had just put a GUN TO HER HEAD just to see how well she did under pressure! She had never been more livid as much as she had been in that one moment.
'Just wanted… SHERLOCK! I HELPED YOU IN YOUR HAIR BRAINED SCHEME YESTERDAY TO HELP SAVE YOUR LIFE! I HAVE RISKED EVERYTHING FOR YOU! YOU REPAY ME BY PUTTING A GUN TO MY HEAD?' Molly was gasping for air by the time she had finished screaming.
Sherlock gave Molly a derisive look as he limped around her to face her. He rested his can on his arm while he held Molly by the shoulders.
'Molly, I am about to go and dismantle a terrorist cell which I cannot do on my own. Since asking John is most certainly out of the question, that only leaves one person. You. You are the only person that I can trust with the knowledge that I am indeed still alive and if anyone happens to find out that I'm not actually a corpse, they could very well come after you. I need to know that you can stand your ground. Clearly, you can't. Work on that.'
Molly was dumbfounded. Had she not proven herself enough yesterday? She would do anything for this genius of a man. And even though she envisioned wrapping her tiny fingers around his throat and throttling the life out of him, the world would be a terribly sad and desperate place without him. Plus, completely make everything that has led up to this point null and void.
'What do you need me to do?' she asked, resigning herself to the fact that staying mad was futile.
'I need you to be my eyes and ears. I can only use the homeless network for so many things. I need you to be able to analyse samples that I might not be able to do, considering where I will be going. We will need to organise a way so that we can do this discreetly without anyone finding out. I, of course, may have one or two ideas.'
Sherlock did try to pace like he usually would when he was on a roll like this, but his ankle would not allow it. Instead, he limped his way over to the lounge and proceeded to sit there with his fingers together, just under his chin. He looked as if he was praying, but Molly knew better. The only higher power Sherlock believed in was himself and himself alone.
Molly nodded her head. 'Okay. And I'm guessing you would also like me to tell you what's going on with John?'
The only acknowledgement that Molly received from Sherlock was him closing his eyes.
Molly shook her head. 'We can sort this out later. Here, let me have a look at your wounds.' With that, she picked up the strewn bags from the floor, quickly put the small amount of groceries away, then walked over and proceeded to tend to Sherlock.
While Molly was re-wrapping Sherlock's ankle, her phone rang. She fished the phone out of her pocket and checked the caller id.
Her heart stopped.
It was John.
She held up the phone to Sherlock so he could see who it was. She had been dreading this conversation, but knew it had to happen eventually. She didn't think it would be this soon, though.
Sherlock slowly nodded his head and looked away. Molly quickly stood up, took a deep breath and answered the phone.
'Hello'
'Hi Molly.. it's… it's John.' Just in those 5 words, Molly could hear how broken John was. It made her eyes slowly start to tear up.
'John… my God… how are you? Wait… sorry. That's a stupid question. What… what can I do for you?'
'I need you… to tell me. Is he… is he really…' The phone went silent.
Molly's heart was going out to the poor man. The moment had come where she had to start the lies to the very man who didn't deserve them.
'Yes… I'm sorry John. I performed the autopsy myself.'
'I see.' More silence. Just when Molly thought John had hung up, he continued.
'I know it's a bit soon, but Mycroft wanted this sorted as soon as possible. He's arranged for Sherlock's… funeral… for Thursday. Will you come?'
'Of course, John. You don't even have to ask.'
'Thank you.'
With that, John hung up the phone and Molly began to sob.
She slowly turned around to face Sherlock. He never said a word, but gave her a look that said that he was grateful. Molly collected herself, walked back to Sherlock and continued to re strap his ankle. Not a word on the subject was uttered, so Molly fixed Sherlock some lunch (which was left untouched) as well as herself, and they discussed ways in which they could communicate to each other once Sherlock had gone. Molly came up with the idea of a 'dead drop'. She tried to explain to Sherlock that she had seen the concept used on a television show called Alias. Sherlock responded by ignoring her completely.
After lunch, Sherlock moved back over to his chair and picked up his violin. He started playing a beautifully haunting song that Molly had never heard before. It was so sad… you could hear all of the emotion in this one song.
Molly could only hear so much. She called out to Sherlock to say that she would be back tomorrow, but he never stopped playing. She gathered up her things and left.
