She wondered how long she would have to be small stuttering Molly Hooper for him. Four years was certainly enough to establish herself as such. Sometimes, she would wake up feeling very much like a Molly Hooper, and do things in a very Molly Hooper fashion. But others, she would wake up knowing she was not Molly Hooper, and still had to do those things as to not arouse suspicion for anyone who might be watching a silly invisible little pathology technician.
The name Molly wasn't too bad, but Hooper certainly wouldn't have been her first pick, but that was sort of the point. Her name couldn't be anything like her old one, which she loved far too much. It was rather overwhelming, suddenly having to change your accent and become a little pathologist named Molly Hooper, who had no living relatives and only a cat to keep her company. Then again, she had done it before, why was it any different? Maybe it was the sheer depth of the deception, or the fact that it was people of vast intelligence and observational skills that she had to fool.
Molly Hooper settled on her lab stool as she always did, and started to work on the stack of paperwork. She was efficient, but sometimes let silly daydreams and tangents brought on by Sherlock Holmes's visits would make her procrastinate it for a bit. The man she previously thought of appeared, making himself right at home in her lab, ignoring her for the most part. Molly would have wanted to engage, but the other girl did not want to. That was bad, to let her façade slip, even deep within the recesses of her mind. Sometimes she wondered if she would wake up, and only Molly Hooper would remain. That was an utterly terrifying thought.
"Coffee?" She had to ask something like that, to get her mind back to it.
"Black. Two sugars."
Of course. For a man who hated routine, Sherlock certainly kept his coffee regular. That thought was too cynical for Molly Hooper. She didn't care, she got his coffee, and returned, and tried to engage in a stuttering conversation with him.
"Molly, please keep such thoughts to yourself, I'm working."
Damn it, how much longer did she have to wait? As she thought that, her phone, set on silence, lit up. Molly Hooper had friends, and the irregular hours she could work often lead to them accidentally texting her during the day. However, this was not a text for Molly Hooper. She kept her face completely placid as she checked the message, as if it were about a blind date or from her mother or something equally uninteresting. It was written entirely in code, which looked like gibberish to any who would read it, except those who knew it.
Good Job.
Without thinking, she texted back; Am I done?
Almost instantly: Yes. You've been rewarded. I left some supplies in the safe house, along with your payment.
Thanks. My services are always available.
I know, that's why they won't kill you.
With that, the woman who had called herself Molly Hooper for so long, stood up, and abruptly walked out of the room. Fifteen million pounds was a decent amount for having to make up a whole different life, just to do a little surveillance. It was sad really, that all this time, Sherlock Holmes didn't realize that Mycroft wasn't the only one watching him. Sadder still, was that he was tricked by the poor stuttering little infatuated Molly Hooper. If she hadn't known better, she would have laughed.
Sherlock found that something was amiss, and he removed himself from his thoughts in order to determine what exactly that was. He scanned the room, but found that Molly was strangely absent. When had she left? Her purse still remained so obviously she would return shortly. It was possible she just needed to use the loo. He returned to peering at the slide beneath his microscope, and skipped out when he was finished as usual.
"Found the killer!" He declared proudly to Lestrade.
"Oh, good, care to enlighten us?" John asked almost lazily. This one had been rather easy, and there had been little danger for John to revel in.
"The uncle, obviously."
Sherlock often forgot that what was obvious to him did not come naturally to others. He sighed, wasting energy explaining it more thoroughly, and as usual he was proved to be correct. John and Sherlock returned to the flat, John doing something boring while Sherlock opted for the violin. It was three days before John got the text from Lestrade.
Have you see Molly?
John repeated the question to Sherlock.
"No, of course not, why is he asking such a silly question?"
No. Why?
She hasn't shown up at work, and her neighbor reported her missing. The cat's freaking out.
Again, John relayed the message to Sherlock. Abruptly, Sherlock stood up and the case began just like that, quickly texting to gather more information from the DI. Molly left her things behind, and strode out of the hospital doors of her own free will, but didn't return home. She wasn't impulsive, and wouldn't just leave her cat behind. There was something, some peculiar detail he thought he ought to remember but then didn't, not for a couple hours after learning of Molly's disappearance.
There was a text message. She reacted rather happily to a text message, perhaps one from a boyfriend who didn't turn out to be as charming as she hoped. Maybe he abducted her and- He suppressed a shudder or any other outward display of his discomfort with the idea even as he gave it to the DI.