This is a re-write of a previous fan-fiction for a contest. Please, let me know what you think!
"Sherlock?" Molly Hooper pressed her ear against her basement door. She heard gunshots not even a minute ago and came running down her stairs to check on her temporary house mate.
"Sherlock," she repeated, her voice raised. "Sherlock answer me! Are you okay?"
"Fine," came the muffled response. "I'm fine, Molly."
"But I heard gun-"
"I'm fine!" She heard the anger in his voice. "Now just walk away!"
Molly sucked in air. Sherlock had been living in her basement for five months and she still wasn't used to this dark side of his personality. This was the second time he had shot a gun in her basement and she wasn't going to have it destroyed by this man.
It was an impulse decision to let herself into the basement. Sherlock wasn't completely unaware of the two-way lock that she had put on the door; he used the outside entrance most of the time.
Sherlock hadn't heard her turn the key in the lock; he was too involved in his own deep thoughts. When she entered the room, an instinct kicked in. He grabbed Molly and put her in a sleeper hold. She tried to kick at him and hit him with her balled fists.
"Sherlock..." Her voice came out in a strangled whisper but it was enough for him to let her go. Molly dropped like a rag doll to the floor, coughing and trying to catch her breath.
"Molly," Sherlock stared at her incredulously. Her features were highlighted in a sliver of moonlight that was streaming into the small basement window. She stared back at him, wide-eyed. "I thought I told you to walk away?"
"Sh-Sherlock," Molly coughed before going on. "I heard gunshots, I was worried."
"Well, I'm fine." He paced and took a deep breath, then knelt next to her as he put the safety on the gun and set it down. He grabbed her wrist and Molly was certain he would feel an elevated pulse as he inspected her neck. "You are going to be fine, as well."
Sherlock stood and turned on the lamp on the side table next to the couch and walked back to Molly who was staring at the gun. His hand came into focus as he grabbed the gun and sat it on the cabinet next to them. Molly looked up at Sherlock and noted that he was dressed in the same thing she saw him in three days ago when she made them lunch. His blonde tresses were still hard to get used too. She frowned and made another noise of protest when Sherlock tipped her head to look at her neck.
"You are going to have a little bruising, but you will be fine..." His voice faded and Molly locked her gaze on his mysterious grey eyes. She could see the conflict there. "I am sorry Molly Hooper. I hope you can forgive me." He leaned forward and kissed her cheek. A small smile touched his lips as he leaned back and watched her flush.
Molly turned away from his scrutinizing gaze.
"O-Of course I forgive you, Sherlock," She said as she stood and brushed herself off. "I just wish you would tell me why you are shooting at the walls of my basement."
Sherlock hung his head in defeat. He hated telling people the motives behind his actions. Sometimes he didn't even know and the feeling he had been experiencing since he faked his death five months ago was so confusing, it was killing him that he couldn't figure it out.
"I...went to see him. A couple evenings ago," He said as he stood and walked over to the couch. Molly crossed her arms as she watched him drape his long limbs over the small couch. "I only got a glance before they started shooting."
"They!"
"I was testing to make sure Mori-...to make sure HE made good on his threats." Sherlock found that it was better not to mention his name too often. Just like that damned woman...
Molly's eyes went wide. "Sherlock, you could have been killed!"
"I had to see him. I had to see... John." Sherlock also hated that he couldn't say John's name without chocking up inside. He turned over, his back facing Molly. She stepped over to him and rested her hand on his shoulder. She felt him tense up, but he didn't shrug her off as he continued.
"I put him in danger and the worst part," he suddenly turned back over. "John is still living at the flat. I would have thought he would move. I was hoping he would move. Mori- … HE still has people watching the flat! Stupid sentimental idiot."
"Sherlock!"
"Argh!" Was all Sherlock said as he rolled over again.
Molly sighed audibly.
"John misses you, a lot. You aren't the only one that's confused."
Sherlock only grunted his response.
Molly clenched her jaw. "Well, you need to re-colour your hair. And you should probably get rid of that coat-"
"I will NOT!" Sherlock was sitting up faster than Molly could comprehend.
"Sherlock, do you realize how recognizable that coat is? And that scarf? It's almost as if you were wearing that silly hat that someone gave you."
"Deerstalker." Sherlock mumbled as a plan was forming in his head.
"What?"
"Deerstalker, it's called a Deerstalker and Molly Hooper," Sherlock stood and clapped his hands on her shoulders. Even after working with him for five years, she still wasn't used to his mood swings. "You are a genius!" Then he kissed her on her forehead and he disappeared into his bathroom. Molly could hear him rummaging and he came out with a box of hair color in his hands. "Now do you have any scissors?"
Molly gasped.
"You are right, I need to get rid of any thing that identifies the old Sherlock. I need to be a new person. Why hadn't I thought of this before? I'm slipping..."
"But, I've only cut my little brothers hair -"
"I have to trust you, Molly, no one else can cut it, right?"
Molly blinked at him. She wondered if those words had as much impact on him as they did on herself. Probably not, she thought as she nodded and walked up the stairs to grab the scissors she kept for emergency trims. Her mind wandered to the couple times that her and Lestrade and John had gone to the pub to talk about life and each other. Molly cringed as she thought of how hard John had to pretend to be happy. They had tried to avoid the topic of one Sherlock Holmes, but John had brought him up in their second outing. Molly had to swallow back her tears as she remembered watching the struggle on Johns face as he fought back tears.
"Sherlock," Molly said as she entered the basement a minute later. "Are you sure you want to do this so soon? I don't think John will be ready to see you..."
"Of course I'm sure." Sherlock gave her that small smile of his and sat down on a chair that he had brought down from Molly's dining room and handed her a towel. Molly threw it over his shoulders and tied it loosely around his neck, fighting the urge to give him a taste of what he did to her earlier.
"I just don't think you will get the reception that you want." Molly said as she hovered with the scissors over his soft thick curls. She ran her hands through his hair. It would probably be the opportunity she would have to do so and it was as soft and as thick as she imagined.
"Molly?" Sherlock's deep voice broke into her reverie.
"Sorry," she cleared her throat and shifted her feet. "So, how am I cutting this?"
Sherlock instructed her as she watched his long graceful hands gesture around his head.
"What did you mean by not getting the reception that I want?" Sherlock asked as Molly started cutting.
"Well, what kind of reception are you imagining?"
"He'll be shocked, angry. He might hit me, then I'll explain everything and he'll want to help."
Molly chuckled despite herself. "Oh, he'll hit you alright, and I don't think he'll be too accepting that you're alive. He really misses you, Sherlock."
Sherlock sighed.
'I think I miss him too...'
XXX
Three days later, Molly was putting the finishing touches on her makeup when she heard a loud crash in her basement. She closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath wondering what exactly it was that Sherlock was destroying now.
As she descended her basement stairs, she heard Sherlock talking to himself. The door to her basement was open and she could see random articles of clothing being thrown into view. Molly knocked on the door as she stood in the door way watching Sherlock try on a heavy cardigan.
"I need a disguise!" He turned to Molly as he unbuttoned the cardigan. "Something simple, yet layered. I'll go to the pub with you as a Frenchman. No, that won't do. My demeanor contradicts the very nature of the French. How about the German? Again, the dialect is not my strength. Maybe I should go as an American. Yes, cocky and arrogant with no regard for others. Simple enough. Next, I'll need an outfit. What do Americans like these days? Football? No, too basic and boring. Baseball, now that's an easy sport that anyone can respect. If I'm going with baseball, I need a jersey. Number 47? Yes, he should be popular enough to prove my fan-ness."
"Wait, Sherlock," Molly interjected. "How did you know I was going to the Pub?"
"What? I can hear you through the ceiling as you pace and talk on your phone. It's a very irritating habit and I wasn't going to say anything but I've learned to tune out most of your conversations. Are you wearing make-up?" He squinted at her as she touched her lips.
"Yes," she started as she walked into the tiny bathroom. "Does it look bad?"
"No, I was wondering why? Ah..." He smirked at her as he walked up to her. "Greg Lestrade is going to be there isn't he?"
Molly opened her mouth to protest, but knew it wouldn't do her any good. She looked down at her feet.
"No matter, I need a baseball jersey, do you have one?" Sherlock said as he walked back over to the mirror.
"No Sherlock and I don't think it's a good idea for you to go to the pub."
"No one will recognize me-"
"But what if they do?" Molly had placed her hand on Sherlock's arm. She knew that if she didn't get his attention somehow, he would have kept talking over her.
"My hair and the way I dress. Plus, if I stay out of sight-" Molly started to interrupt again but Sherlock stopped her. "I just need to see John. I just need to make sure he is alright."
Molly sighed and pursed her lips. "He is not alright. He is barely surviving and it takes all my willpower not to tell him I have you in my basement."
Sherlock was breathing hard and his gaze was intense. She was able to hold it, but barely.
"I need to see him with my own eyes. To make sure he is alive and that everything that I am doing is to save his life. His and Mrs. Hudson's and Lestrade's."
Molly frowned. "Greg?" It came out as a whisper.
Sherlock pursed his lips. More sentiment. That's what got him in this mess in the first place.
"Molly, let me do this. Then I promise things will begin to get better after."
She bit her lip as he grabbed her by her forearms.
"I need you Molly," his words came out as a whisper. "I need you to be strong. Everything will be fine. Just give me time."
Those words were her Kryptonite and whether Sherlock knew it or not, Molly could never tell. She hated herself for it. She knew his words were true. He would make it better. He was the only one that could.
"Fine," Molly looked away, fighting her frustration. "I can't guarantee anything."
"Thank you, Molly." He spun back around to the mirror, his demeanor changing in an instant. "Now, do you have a baseball jersey?"
"No, but I have a ball cap." She said as she shook her head.
"No, I am not-"
"That's all I can do for you for now, Sherlock." Molly started to walk away and she could practically hear him pouting.
"Fine, I'll take the cap," he spat out as he ran his hand through his blonde hair. "I'm not going to like it."
"You should wear jeans. And ditch the coat." Molly called as she ascended the basement stairs.
"I am not wearing jeans...dammit." He started to call up to her but she was already gone. He looked at himself and rolled his eyes. He owned one pair of jeans that he doubted fit him. He took three long strides to his closet and dug through and found the dark blue jeans. He shed the black slacks and quickly donned the jeans. He was buttoning them when Molly came into the basement again.
She paused at the bottom of the stairs, contemplating whether she had ever seen the brilliant man in jeans and hoped to see more of him in them.
"Stop staring, Molly. It's unbecoming of you." He said as he threw a vest and blazer over the only t-shirt he owned.
Molly took a double-take at him, despite his words. "Is that my t-shirt?"
"Yes and it fits nicely, thank you." He smiled briefly at her.
"Sherlock! That was a souvenir I bought when I was in New York!"
"I believe that hat is one as well?" He took the hat gingerly from her hands and slipped it on.
Molly suppressed a giggle behind her hand. "It's good. It's a good disguise."
"The little things are infinitely the most important."
Molly threw him a sideways glance as he adjusted the hat on his head.
"I should go. It would be bad if we entered the pub together." She paused to let him answer, but he was too involved in his reflection to answer. She shook her head at him and climbed the basement stairs.
Sherlock frowned at his reflection. He hated that he had to disguise himself now. He hated that he let a madman win.
'All lives end...All hearts are broken...Caring is not an advantage...Sherlock...'
Mycroft's voice echoed in his head and he clenched his fists and closed his eyes.
'...Are you really so obvious? … The promise of love, the pain of loss, the joy of redemption; give him a puzzle and watch him dance...'
'Sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side...'
Sherlock suddenly found himself facing a broken mirror and a bloody fist. He was breathless and was grateful that Molly had already left the house. Biting his lip and cursing under his breath, he walked over to the small basement bathroom and cleaned his hand. He had to keep it together if everything was going to work to plan. He dried his hands and rummaged through the medicine cabinet, finding the box of nicotine patches. Empty.
Taking a deep breath, he dropped the box and walked back out to the broken mirror and picked up the biggest pieces, making a mental note to find a way to clean the smaller pieces.
Sherlock dug for a black piece of paper and a pen and wrote two things on it, then stuck it to Molly's refrigerator.
XXX
When he arrived at the Pub an hour later, it was crowded and loud. As Sherlock walked slowly through the pub looking for three particular people, he found that the only people that gave him a second glance were older women, jocks and gay men. He smirked despite himself. He read this crowd like a book and was bored in five minutes; until he heard Molly's nervous laugh and looked in that direction. He saw Molly and Lestrade on one side of a booth and John's profile on the other as he made his way to a spot at the bar where he could watch the booth. He observed Molly smiling and laughing along with Lestrade. The way she touched shoulders with him whenever he made a joke, she was blatantly flirting with Lestrade.
What piqued Sherlock's interest even more, however, was John. He hardly moved, hardly smiled, he just sat and drank, a lot. John was a casual drinker. This, was not casual.
Molly's wave caught Sherlock's eye and he waved back. It felt weird, a relaxed wave and a smile. He watched as Lestrade moved so Molly could get out of the booth, and Lestrade squinted at him. Then John turned in his seat. It took all of Sherlock's inner strength to not smile and acknowledge John like he usually would. He clenched his jaw and cut his eyes to Molly and smiled what felt like the smile for an old friend.
Molly approached him with her usual nervousness.
"Hi," she said as she looked at her shoes and played with the drink straw in her hands. "Did they see you? Did they recognize you?"
"So far I've seen no sign of acknowledgment from either men. Does John usually drink this much?" Sherlock cut his eyes to the booth just as John was turning back around.
"Most of the nights that we get together, yes," Molly glanced over her shoulder at the booth and Sherlock noticed a passing look between her and Lestrade. He narrowed his eyes and knew it wouldn't be long for these two. He watched as John glanced over his shoulder and Molly turned back to Sherlock who held John's gaze longer than he should have. John squinted his eyes and tried to get a good look at Sherlock who looked back at Molly.
"I should get going," he leaned over and hugged Molly. "John is looking too hard."
"Oh, okay," Molly said then parted and brought out her phone. "We should pretend to be exchanging numbers. I told them you were an old friend of mine."
"Won't Lestrade be jealous?" Sherlock brought his phone out and looked over at the booth again. John and Lestrade seemed to be engaged in a deep conversation.
Molly looked up at Sherlock and shuffled her feet and stuttered. "N-No, why would he be jealous? That's just silly! Course he wouldn't be jealous, he's married."
"Uh-huh," was all Sherlock said as Molly's lip trembled. "Oh don't do that, Molly, it's obvious you two like each other. Besides, his wife is going to leave him for that P.E. Teacher anyway."
Sherlock stood and put his phone in his pocket and glanced up at the booth again. Lestrade was looking in their direction and John was finishing his pint. He looked back down at Molly whose jaw was clenched.
She drew in a deep breath and hugged Sherlock for show and whispered in his ear: "You're lucky I like you too much Sherlock. You wouldn't have a basement to hide out in."
Molly was pretty sure it was the alcohol talking. She would never have the courage to say such a thing otherwise. She smiled to herself as she let go of Sherlock and walked away.
Sherlock could only watch Molly walk away. He hoped it wouldn't be the last time.
