A/N: I started writing this on the day that the orange b-hole was announced as the next president. I hope this can provide a few minutes of respite from the unrelenting faecal storm that is taking over pretty much all media right now. If you're reading this in the future, then I hope your new life on Mars with King Kanye is working out real good.
A Higher Calibre
by Flaignhan
It's something of a shock to see a man, standing there in her place. His cropped hair has outgrown its last cut, and is littered with strands of grey. His trousers are expensive, but too long in the leg, and there are large folds of pinstriped fabric collecting around his ankles.
"Who the hell are you?"
"I might ask you the same question," the man says, and he steps forward, his nose scrunched in disapproval.
"Scotland Yard," Lestrade says, sidestepping Sherlock and flashing his badge. "Where's Molly?"
"Manchester," the man replies with a shrug. "Secondment. There's been some sort of incident up there."
Sherlock looks towards Lestrade and raises a questioning eyebrow.
"Fire on an industrial estate is the only thing I've heard," he says, his voice low. "But they wouldn't need her for a fire. surely?"
Sherlock files the information away and turns back to the intruder. "And who are you, exactly?"
"Dr Reynolds." He looks at Sherlock with a narrowed gaze, beady eyes assessing him. "I haven't seen your identification."
"He's with me," Lestrade says, and he steps towards the slab, which this morning is playing host to a black body bag containing the cadaver of a 32 year old male.
"I'm sorry, Inspector," Dr Reynolds says in a soft, unctuous tone. "But I can't just allow anybody access to one of my patients. I'll need to see some identification." There is a hint of a smirk pulling at his thin mouth, and it takes every ounce of Sherlock's will power to remain calm. It's very tempting to chuck Reynolds into one of the cold chambers and lock him away until Molly gets back.
Having a Detective Inspector as a witness is unfortunate.
"Come on," Lestrade sighs. He glances towards Sherlock, who bristles at being checked up on, like a child with a track record of misbehaviour. "You've seen my identification, he's with me, and we need to take a look at the body."
"I've drawn up a full report of which I can provide a copy this afternoon. I don't know what kind of mortuary Molly was run-"
"Dr Hooper," Sherlock interrupts.
Reynolds looks confused, and so Sherlock takes a step forward. Reynolds takes a step back, into the corner of the slab. His face contorts as the corner of the metal table digs into the base of his spine, but Sherlock doesn't care.
"It's Dr Hooper, to you." He enunciates each word in a clear, clipped tone, all the better for Reynolds to hear him. He can feel Lestrade's eyes on him, can feel the question hanging in the air. Should he intervene?
Sherlock reaches into his pocket and soon finds what he's looking for. It's a little out of date, but it'll do. He flashes the badge at Reynolds, whose beady eyes settle on it. Sherlock holds the badge in his eye line just long enough for him to make out the words 'Detective Sergeant', but not enough time to spot the difference between Sherlock's face, and the small black and white photo of Anderson in the corner of the ID card.
Reynolds scowls, and then crosses the room to pull some surgical gloves from the dispenser. He grabs the one that is hanging limply from the opening, and then peers inside to find that the box is empty. He moves towards the nearest cupboard and yanks open the door, but there are no replacements in there. He goes to the next cupboard, and reaches towards the handle.
"Cold," Sherlock says, ignoring Lestrade's glare. With any luck, he'll have forgotten about Sherlock's possession of police ID by the time they get out of here, and as Reynolds moves along to the next cupboard, Sherlock calls out again. "Cold."
"I don't have time for this," Reynolds snaps. He crosses over to the next set of cupboards, the ones which Sherlock knows contain refills of gloves, hand sanitiser, paper towels, and everything else Reynolds could ever need to keep the mortuary up to scratch.
"Freezing," Sherlock says, and he feigns a shudder.
Reynolds moves away, and then he starts opening cupboards at random, slamming them shut when he doesn't find what he wants. He opens the same cupboard doors again and again, rooting through stacks of kidney dishes, tossing aside scales and test tubes and flasks, all while completely ignoring the cupboards he had approached earlier, but never opened.
At long last, after much frustration and muttered swearing, Reynolds heads back to the right unit, and pulls open the correct door. He takes out a fresh box of gloves and tugs at the perforations, peeling away the opening.
"You said 'freezing'," Reynolds says through gritted teeth. "When I was here before, you said 'freezing'."
"Yes. It's very cold down here. Brrr." Sherlock feigns another chill, and Reynolds looks as though he may be on the brink of murder. "It is a morgue after all," Sherlock adds. "They're usually chilly."
Reynolds glances towards Lestrade, and for the first time, Sherlock realises that his bumbling obliviousness might sometimes be intentional.
"Shall we have a look at the body?" he says, his tone upbeat. His hands are dug deep in his pockets, and he flashes a brief smile at Reynolds, who huffs and pulls on his gloves. Lestrade's gaze moves on to Sherlock. He's not amused.
"It's clearly a suicide," Reynolds says, and he tugs open the zip of the bag, revealing the pale cadaver inside.
Sherlock takes one look at the bruises on the bridge of the nose, then takes great delight in spending the next five minutes telling Reynolds all the reasons why he is inescapably wrong.
"It's looks like a suicide, but..."
Sherlock holds on to his breath. The 'but' has him intrigued. The small woman in the gaudy jumper might not actually be an idiot.
"But what?" he asks, his mouth dry with anticipation.
"Well, he fell on his left side," she begins, her brow furrowed as the cogs turn in her head. "But he's got a cracked rib on his right side. It's fresh. It doesn't quite fit together."
Sherlock's heart bursts with joy. He's found her. He's found the person to whom he can go for a reasonable conversation over someone's dead body. His happiness continues to swell as he talks her through his observations, and she listens carefully. It's a short conversation, but he learns a thing or two in the process as well.
It's a rare treat.
The phone rings, and it rings, and it rings.
Just as Sherlock is about to hang up, he hears motion at the other end of the line, the hum of a car engine.
"Hey," Molly says. "What's up?" She sounds tired, her voice a little dry from a long day in a chilly room, with not enough cups of tea.
"Your replacement's a moron."
"Oh dear," she laughs. "Who have they got?"
"Some idiot called Reynolds," Sherlock replies sourly. He slouches in his armchair and kicks off his shoes with couple of consecutive thuds. At the sound of Molly's disgust, Sherlock's mood lifts with validation. He's rarely heard her speak ill of a colleague.
"Didn't they have anyone else?" she asks. She stifles a yawn, and even the sound of it through the phone allows a small amount of tiredness to set in over Sherlock.
"I wish," Sherlock replies. "How the hell did he even qualify?"
Molly hesitates. "Well, he mostly deals with natural causes. Or car accidents."
"Obvious things," Sherlock adds. "Nothing that requires any amount of brain power."
"Nothing that makes a difference," Molly says. If this is the most diplomatic she can be, then Reynolds is, perhaps, worse than anticipated.
"What was it?" she asks. Despite her tiredness, Sherlock can hear the curious edge to her tone, and imagine the quirk of her eyebrow as she awaits an answer.
"Murder made to look like suicide." Sherlock pushes himself out of his chair and pads over to the kitchen. He clamps the phone between his ear and his shoulder and fills the kettle with water, then sets it to boil.
"That old chestnut," Molly sighs. Then, as the kettle begins to boil, "Are you at home? Have you solved it already?"
Sherlock hums in affirmation, takes a mug from the draining board, and chucks a fresh teabag into it. "Reminded me of when we first met, actually. D'you remember?"
"Yeah. Course I do."
He can hear the smile in her voice, and there is a tug at the corner of his mouth as he picks up the kettle and fills his mug, teabag bobbing on the surface. He fetches the milk from the fridge, then jabs at the teabag with a spoon, in the vain hope that it will brew faster. He focuses on the tea leaves swirling inside the bag, but the question nags at the back of his mind, no matter how much he tells himself it doesn't matter.
"You didn't tell me you were going."
"Erm..." Molly's voice trails away, and Sherlock regrets ever uttering the words. "Well, I mean, I only got told I was coming last night. Had an hour to pack. Plus..."
"What?"
"Well I didn't think you'd miss me."
Sherlock throws his spoon down on the counter with a clatter. "Of course I miss you," he says snippily. He sloshes some milk into his cup then picks up his spoon again and stirs. The edge of the spoon clinks against the inside of the mug, hot tea splashing over the rim.
"Really?"
"Yes," Sherlock replies. He lifts the teabag out of his mug with the spoon, gives it a good squeeze, then dumps it into the bin. "There's a blithering idiot running around your morgue making a complete mess of things. I want you back. Now."
Molly exhales softly, and Sherlock can feel the weight of her exhaustion. He glances at the clock - quarter to ten - and he'd wager she'll have been in from seven o'clock; eight at the latest.
"What's happened? Lestrade says there's been a fire up there, but they wouldn't need you for that, would they?"
There is a slight pause before Molly answers. "They do at the moment."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Sherlock stalks back into the lounge, sets his tea down and collapses into his chair.
"I'm not allowed to talk about it," she says, her voice quieter now.
Sherlock frowns. "Are you with someone at the moment?"
"I'm just on my way back to the hotel," she replies. "They're covering cabs for me, which is nice."
"But you'll tell me about it later?"
"Nearly back at the hotel now," she says, avoiding a direct answer.
Sherlock shifts in his chair, making himself comfortable. Why hasn't there been more coverage in the news? There was a short piece on the BBC website, but no mention of fatalities. If there's such a big job that they've had to drag Molly 200 miles up the country, why isn't a bigger deal being made of it? Why can't she talk about it? Are the GMP keeping it quiet? The questions rattle around in his head as Molly's cab rumbles towards the hotel, but Sherlock can't contain his curiosity for any longer.
"How serious is it?" he asks. "A lot of fatalities?"
"Hang on."
There's a rustle as Molly opens her bag so she can pay the driver, then waits for her receipt. After a few moments, she thanks the driver, then gets out of the car, the contents of her bag clunking against her hip. She closes the door, then raises her phone to her ear again as she trudges up the steps.
"It's quite serious," she tells him. "The fire was a cover, and the police haven't corrected anyone on it yet."
"How many dead?" Sherlock asks, as he hears the whoosh of automatic doors opening.
"23 on my list," Molly says. "But they're still looking through the wreckage."
As he's about to respond, Molly swears under her breath, and Sherlock sits up straight, senses heightened as he tries to make out what's happening.
"What's the matter?" he asks sharply.
"Restaurant's closed," Molly replies, and Sherlock sags in his seat once more.
"I thought it was something serious," he mutters.
"It is," Molly tells him, affronted. "I'm starving." She makes a sounds of disgust, and then starts walking again, her shoes clicking against the tiled floor of the reception. "Why are you so jumpy?"
"I don't know," he lies.
The lift doors ding in the background, and Molly steps in. Sherlock can sense her pulling a face at his answer, a sceptical frown sitting on her brow.
"Something that Sherlock Holmes doesn't know?" she says, her voice taking on a teasing tone. "Gosh."
It was a terrible lie. No wonder she can see through him from 200 miles away.
"I suppose," he begins, his words slow as he considers them carefully. "I suppose...I was worried when I turned up at Bart's and you weren't there." He ruffles his hair, exhaling softly as he tries to navigate that sick feeling that had engulfed him when he'd arrived to find Reynolds working Molly's shift. "And I'm not sure about them whisking you off in the middle of night," he adds. "The dead can wait. They can always wait."
The lift doors ding again as Molly reaches her floor, and she steps out into the corridor.
"Can you hear me?" she asks.
"Yes," he says. A sinking feeling sets in.
"Oh there you are," she says. "Lost you in the lift. What were you saying?"
"Doesn't matter," Sherlock replies. He's not sure he has the energy to skirt around the emotional arena all over again. "Tell me about the victims."
"You don't have clearance from the GMP," she says. There's a shuffle as she searches for her keycard, which is followed by the click and buzz of her unlocking the door to her room. "Scotland Yard won't cover you this time."
"I'm glad your restaurant's closed."
She laughs, and then she relents, and they don't say goodnight until it's gone midnight.
He stays away from Bart's. The place feels odd without her, uncomfortable. He doesn't like someone else walking around in her space. He doesn't have the temperament to keep his cool while rubbishing misdiagnosis after misdiagnosis.
He speaks to Molly again the second night, while she's eating a disappointing, overpriced sandwich courtesy of room service.
"They've found another two today," she says. She sounds exhausted already, run down, and fed up. "They've given me another assistant, so I can dictate reports during the autopsy. I've done four today." She yawns, and there is a rustle of feathers as she sinks back into her pillows.
"How long are they going to keep you there?" Sherlock asks, scowling with disapproval. "Don't let them overwork you."
Molly laughs a breathy, tired chuckle. "Sherlock, I work for the NHS. I'm always overworked."
It's a fair point. The sad fact is she's gotten used to working 60 hours a week, with sporadic night shifts thrown in for good measure. "Unfortunately I don't think Mycroft can help you on that front. He specialises in war, not health."
"Are you kidding?" she splutters through a mouthful of crisps. "He was the one who recommended me for this!"
Sherlock narrows his eyes. "He what?"
"He recommended me," Molly says again, the cadence of her voice changing as she sits up straighter. "Said he needed someone he trusts."
Sherlock rolls his eyes, but then he catches sight of the clock and sees that it's getting on for eleven o'clock. She'll be getting up in seven hours.
"Get some sleep," he says. "I'll talk to you tomorrow."
She bids him goodnight, and hangs up. Sherlock stays in his chair, phone clutched in his hand. He wants to call Mycroft, wants to tell him that him sending Molly away was stupid, but he knows he's fighting a losing battle. Reynolds' existence in the field of pathology is all the justification needed for sending Molly off to deal with a catastrophe. Sherlock's protests will achieve nothing, other than Mycroft scrawling another page of spurious conclusions into his notebook.
Sherlock won't give him the satisfaction.
The stench of charred and chilled flesh will not leave her alone. Even in the cab on the way back to the hotel, with the little pine tree air freshener dangling from the rearview mirror, she can still smell it. It clings to the inside of her nostrils, burns the back of her throat, and she's starting to feel like she's had enough.
She's dealt with fires before, but never with this many victims, and never this many who required such extensive investigation. She barely gets any respite - for the few hours she's not in the hospital, she's fast asleep and the world whizzes by. Before she knows it, she's back in the morgue, with another scorched corpse awaiting her examination.
Her days are solid and constant and it's too much, but she knows she must grit her teeth and get through it because it's her job.
But that thought doesn't make it any easier.
She adds the driver's receipt to the stack in her purse, and heads into the hotel, pondering which sandwich she might order from the room service menu tonight. Maybe she'll go wild and have some soup.
She jabs her thumb at the lift button, and leans against the wall while she waits for the doors to open. At least she can look forward to a conversation with Sherlock before bed. She's concerned his brain might be rotting with his self-imposed exile from Bart's, and she simply doesn't have the energy to keep him entertained.
When she reaches the fifth floor and steps out onto the dated peach coloured carpet, she stops, and rummages through her bag for her key card. She looks up at the sound of a quiet hiss, but then realises it's just another air freshener, just another sickly scent that won't dampen the feeling of death in her lungs.
She walks along the corridor until she reaches her room, then inserts her card into the lock. The green light flashes and she opens the door.
She stops, breath caught in her chest.
The lights are on.
The TV is on.
She wonders for a moment if she's somehow gotten into the wrong room, but then she sees her brogues, tucked neatly at the end of the bed.
She walks into the room, past the ensuite, and then the room opens up.
He's laying on the bed, half a dozen pillows propping him up so he can see the TV. There's an enormous pizza box on his lap, and Molly's mouth begins to water. She inhales deeply, the aroma of the dough soothing her senses, and she shrugs off her coat, then slings it over the back of the chair.
"What are you doing here?" she asks, unable to keep her grin at bay. She slips off her shoes, and pads back towards the door, pushing it shut, before she goes to join him.
"Thought you might like something more appealing for dinner," he says. Once she's settled, he opens the box, and Molly takes the first slice, her eyes closing in bliss as she takes a bite.
She leans back against the headboard, then opens her eyes and turns to Sherlock. "What about dessert?"
He swallows a mouthful of pizza, then leans over the edge of the bed. He produces a box of four cupcakes, topped with perfectly piped frosting, each a different flavour.
"Good?" he asks, as he pushes the lamp to the far side of the bedside cabinet to make room for the cakes.
"Very good," Molly replies. "But I still can't give you access to the morgue." She takes another bite of pizza, and as she chews it, she realises she is very vulnerable to persuasion right now. She makes a promise to herself, to eat his pizza, and eat his cupcakes, and still deny him regardless.
"I know," Sherlock says. "This isn't a bribe," he gestures to the pizza. "This is..."
"What?" Molly asks. She takes a bite of the crust, chews it rapidly, then swallows it down. "What is it?"
Sherlock shrugs. "A higher calibre of room service?"
"I can live with that," Molly replies with a smile, and she reaches across to take another slice of pizza.
They eat quietly, with sitcom repeats playing on the TV. Once they've polished off the pizza and tackled the cupcakes, a carb coma sets in on Molly, and her eyelids grow heavier with each passing moment. Soon she gives in, and she curls up against Sherlock's side.
Time disappears, but at some point he turns down the volume of the TV, and gets up to fetch a blanket from the wardrobe. He drapes it across her, and climbs back into bed. There's another gap in time that could be five seconds or five hours, and Sherlock places his arm around her shoulders.
Molly breathes in the scent of him, the scent of another living human being, one who feels like home in this godforsaken hotel. The tension in her body loosens, just a little, and she resolves to tackle her work head on tomorrow.
A soft kiss brushes the top of her head. Molly smiles into the fabric of Sherlock's shirt, then gives in entirely, and allows herself to become lost to the world.
The End