Dr. Molly Hooper was already having a bad day when he showed up. He slid into the room with demands and took no notice of the work Dr. Hooper was already doing at the desk.
She watched as he tossed his coat followed by his suit jacket into the empty seat she kept nearby and began to walk around the room as if he owned the placed. Or was getting paid to do whatever ridiculous experiments he planned to run. He picked up various objects and asked why she was being purposefully obtuse.
Molly took in a deep breath, decided to ignore him and went back to the paperwork that was already late thanks to his visit the previous day. She had already indulged him quite a bit the past few weeks due to feeling slightly responsible for the fact her ex-boyfriend was apparently a psychopath that tried to kill both the man currently breathing down her neck and his now boyfriend, Dr. John Watson, who happened to be a sweet man that genuinely cared for the strange, quirky genius with horrible social skills.
"Sherlock, I'm busy," Molly informed him.
"It's all inconsequential," Sherlock returned. "Nobody reads any of that. Especially your supervisor who is waiting for retirement. He does the bare minimum required of the job and allows you to do everything else. However, none of that is important. I need a corpse. And a few pints of blood. John threw out some of my experiments while doing a thorough cleaning of the flat."
"Good for him," Molly muttered.
"Perhaps for his state of mind, but that sets me back weeks and now I need fresh samples."
"Sherlock, I really can't help you," Molly replied. "It's not just this paperwork, but I've got my own autopsies to work on and then there's this matter of an inquiry…"
"Boring," Sherlock interjected in the flattest voice Molly ever heard from him. "Give me a body."
Molly turned in her seat and gave Sherlock her best glare. "No."
"Yes."
"Sherlock, absolutely not. You were here yesterday and that little disruption in my day put me behind quite a bit."
"Then stay longer today," Sherlock said with a wave of his hand. "You have no one expecting you at home except a cat and I doubt there is anything incredibly pressing you must watch on television."
"I could have a date," Molly pointed out.
"You don't. You no longer frequent many of the after work bars that you did once before and you're wary of dating anyone from the hospital because of Moriarty. When you do leave here you will go home, make dinner, eat some of your favourite fattening ice cream and then have a cry before going to sleep. Though really you should cut out the sweets because you've gained a bit of weight over the past few months."
"Shut up," Molly gritted out. "And leave."
"I have work to do," Sherlock reminded her. "John threw out of my experiments and now I must start over. I do so hate repeating myself."
"And I'm getting a bit tired of it myself," Molly shot back, getting to her feet. "Go home to John and bother him."
"He went to work," Sherlock stated with a bit of a pout that disappeared quickly as his shoulders slumped just an imperceptible amount. "Apparently he feels he's fit enough to return to the clinic even if it's a few days before the doctors suggested he do any work. He's a stubborn man."
"So says the one who won't leave."
Molly sat back down and focused on the still unfinished paperwork.
"Give me a body."
Dr. Hooper gripped her pen tightly, closing her eyes and considered for a moment using it for something beyond its intended task. She reopened her eyes and they landed on the riding crop, hiding half-way under her keyboard, Sherlock still managed to leave behind after every visit despite his love for the object. At least he cleaned it before depositing it on her desk.
"I'm going to ask you one more time to leave."
"Or what?" Sherlock inquired. "You'll tell on me? I'm not the one allowing someone with no actual access to use hospital resources for their own purpose. Your job is on the line, Dr. Hooper. I simply wish for use of a body and a few pints of blood. I'll be gone in short order."
"And then you'll come back," Molly continued sounding on the verge of hysterics. "Again and again and again. If you don't have a case then you're here and if you do have a case you're here. You just won't go away."
She struck him so quickly with the riding crop he didn't have a chance to defend himself by even raising his arms. The sound of leather hitting flesh made a noise that strangely spoke to Dr. Hooper as she repeated her motion over and over. The woman was sure Sherlock was making some kind of noise of protest and probably pain, but she didn't care. Not anymore.
Molly Hooper was tired of doing work that wasn't hers to do. She was tired of being cast as the pitiful woman in this horrible world. She was tired of letting people walk all over her. She was tired of the sad eyes that John gave her whenever they were in the same room these days. She was tired of it all and none of it would even matter if the man whimpering on the floor wasn't the cause of most of it or enjoyed pointing it out at every turn.
"Molly, you have to stop this. Please."
Sherlock's broken voice reached her ears and she paused mid-swing to look down at him. His face was bleeding from various cuts where the riding crop had dug into his skin. His white button down was torn on his chest and upper arms, revealing more blood and bruises. It was more probable he was still healing from the explosion at the pool and she had brought them back to the surface, back to his attention as he tried to forget them and focused on making sure John stayed in one piece.
"I'm sorry, Molly," he added quietly.
For a moment Molly could see the man that most likely John only saw with the compassionate eyes and gentle expression, but the anger and frustration took over and the riding crop smashed against Sherlock's head once more and he went limp.
Molly took a sip of her coffee and finished the last of her report with a flourish. She looked up at the door when she heard a gentle knock and frowned at the sight of John Watson slowly making his way into the morgue.
"Dr. Watson, what are you doing here?" Molly asked. She noted the slight limp as he moved further into the room, meaning he still wasn't completely healed. He'd fractured his femur in the explosion when he had attempted to keep Sherlock safe. The young woman watched as his eyes scanned the area.
"I think we know each other well enough for you to call me John by now," John replied with an unsure smile. "I was just, um, looking for Sherlock. He texted me to say he'd be out of most of the day since I decided to go to work myself and I've been checking out his usual hiding places."
"He was here," Molly told him. "Then he took off."
"Did he mention where he might be going? I only ask because he didn't even respond to Lestrade's text about a case and Mrs. Hudson certainly hasn't seen or heard him since he left the flat this morning."
Molly tilted her head a bit in curiousity as John moved towards her and the desk. He leaned against the corner and crossed his arms. The expression on his face was something of concern and there was that sadness in his eyes that set her teeth on edge.
"I'm just worried," John carried on. "Moriarty is still out there and I've asked Sherlock to be careful since he's still healing as much as I am. He doesn't seem to understand that burns, broken bones and major bruises don't exactly heal overnight."
"Of course," Molly agreed. "I'm sure Sherlock understands."
"It's really the question of if he'll listen," John retorted with a wry grin. "Though he's truly getting better. He treats most people like idiots still, but he's a little bit nicer about it."
Molly made a noncommittal noise and she took another sip of her coffee. It occurred to her that perhaps she should offer him a cup, but he was more a tea person as she had learned when he had been in the hospital. She could remember Sherlock constantly bringing the doctor tea even when John had been unconscious as if that would help the situation.
"Dr. Wat…," Molly stopped as John opened his mouth, "I mean, John, is there a point to this? I've already told you that Sherlock's gone. He left earlier."
"Yes. I know."
John's eyes surveyed the room once more before landing back on Dr. Hooper. She gripped her mug tightly, feeling the warmth from the liquid inside as John's gaze seemed to bore into her. Molly knew he wasn't a stupid man after going through medical school and surviving war, but it was easy for anyone to overlook the man wearing the cuddly jumper who stood next to the man who sucked up every bit of attention in the room and knew all the answers.
John leaned down closer to her with an expression that said he was not someone to be trifled with. This was the John Watson that killed for Sherlock Holmes.
"I'd be more inclined to believe you, Dr. Hooper, if there was footage to back you up," John whispered in hard tone. "Now, you are going to tell me where Sherlock is, Molly, or…"
He was interrupted as Molly threw her lukewarm coffee into his face. John sputtered in confusion then hit the floor as her mug made contact with the right side of his head. He curled into himself a bit as John fought to keep the pain that exploded in his skull at bay, but kept an eye on Molly who paced above him.
"He wouldn't stop," Molly told him. "He just kept pushing and I couldn't take it, John. You have to understand. You live with him. Sherlock Holmes doesn't quit. And he doesn't say thank you. He reminds you of how miserable your life is and doesn't stop until you're left a quivering mess. Then he laughs, John. He laughs at your pain."
"Where is he?" John asked through clenched teeth. Molly kicked him in the chest and John let out a gasping breath.
"I showed him how it felt, John."
"Molly, please," John begged, his words laced with fear. "Where is Sherlock?"
Molly looked down at John and admired the blood slowly dripping off his head onto the floor. It rolled off him like tears and stained the tiled floor. Sherlock's had done much the same before she cleaned it up only hours before.
"Molly Hooper, I suggest you step away from Dr. Watson with your hands up."
The woman instantly backed away as Lestrade, Sally and other members of the Yard trailed into the room as a few of Molly's co-workers moved to aid Dr. Watson.
"I'm fine," John informed the doctors tersely as he batted away hands and bandages. He attempted to push himself up into a sitting position. "I just need to find Sherlock."
"You've got a head wound, John," Lestrade pointed out while Sally cuffed Molly. "You're in no shape to go anywhere except your own hospital bed, mate."
"That doesn't find Sherlock," John shot back. "He could be anywhere. Who knows what Molly did to him."
"You need no longer concern yourself with my brother's whereabouts, John."
John let out a near growl as he glared at Mycroft, leaning in the doorway wearing a smug grin and letting his umbrella swing to and fro just a little bit.
"Where is he?" John asked.
"He's still in the hospital, John," Mycroft continued. "You'll be placed in the same room as him after you allow the doctors to patch you up properly."
"He's alive?"
"Yes, Dr. Watson, my brother is alive."
John gave Mycroft a relieved smile before sliding down onto the blood slicked floor as he passed out.
"Molly, Molly, Molly, you did a bad, bad thing."
Dr. Hooper's eyes shot open and she quickly scrambled away from the man lingering over her. He chuckled and took a seat on the small cot in the cell next to her.
"Go away," Molly told him. "You can't be here, Jim."
"I can be wherever I want to, Mollykins. Especially in a supposedly secure facility filled with some of London's finest. I just had no need to before."
"They'll get you," Molly said. "They'll arrest you and send you to jail for a long time."
Moriarty giggled.
"Oh, I hope not," he replied. "I've got loads of games I want to play and I can't do that if they hide me away. That would be dreadfully boring. Especially for Sherlock. Even if he's shacking up with the lovely Dr. Watson, I'm sure he's looking forward to unraveling whatever mysteries I give him."
Molly shivered at his words then bit back a scream as Jim's face darkened. His eyes seemed to turn completely black as he moved closer to her. She wrapped her arms around her legs and tried to back away further.
"You tried to kill Sherlock Holmes, Dr. Hooper. Nobody gets to kill Sherlock except for me and only after I'm done with him. I'm going to destroy Sherlock Holmes little by little and I will not stand for someone trying to do it before me. Sherlock and his pet doctor are my playthings. I'm not going to allow some random woman take away my toys."
"I'm sorry," Molly wept. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to."
Jim smiled softly and stroked her hair. "I know, love. I know. However, that doesn't change what I have to do now."
"Do?" Molly repeated in confusion. "What do you mean?"
"I can't exactly let this go, Dr. Hooper. You did a naughty thing. And people who do naughty things get punished."
"Please, no," Molly whimpered.
"Oh, Molly, I do feel so bad about this, but keep in mind you're just another pawn in the game. Another body for me to have fun with. Look on the positive side, maybe Sherlock will go to funeral."
"Help!" Molly screamed as she leapt off the cot and dashed for the bars. "Somebody help me!"
She felt Moriarty's presence behind her and the tears flowed more earnestly.
"No one's coming for you, love," Moriarty murmured into her ear. She didn't have time to react as he pushed a needle into her neck and she felt as if her body was slipping away from her. "If it's any consolation, I really did like you."
John gaped at Lestrade then looked over at Sherlock who stared straight ahead at the wall on the other side of the hospital room.
"Molly's dead?"
"She was found this morning," Lestrade replied. "There was a note on her body."
"It was Moriarty," Sherlock said.
"How did you…?"
"She overstepped her boundaries," Sherlock continued over the officer. "Moriarty was never going to kill her before. He might have used her as a decoy at one point in the future to further the game, but he never saw her as a threat and she was a decent, innocent person that he might have considered at one point actually being able to care about."
"Moriarty killed her because she tried to kill you?" Lestrade responded.
"Yes," Sherlock answered quietly. He closed his eyes and John exchanged a worried glance with Lestrade. "Do you need anything further? I've been informed I need to rest an unreasonable amount of time as yesterday's incident as set my recovery time back further."
"No. I got your statements. I'll check in with both of you tomorrow."
"Thank you, Lestrade," John told the officer.
"Just doing my duty, John, but try to keep yourselves out of trouble for at least a month. And let us deal with Moriarty."
"You missed your opportunity to do so last night," Sherlock interjected as he looked at the officer, narrowing his eyes. "Molly Hooper died because your people let deranged killer infiltrate Scotland Yard. I'd worry more about your security measures instead of what John and I do with our free time."
"Sherlock," John reprimanded. "Lestrade is only trying…"
"Trying to do what, John?" Sherlock asked as he turned to the doctor. "Help us? Protect us? Make sure that we don't purposefully blow up another bit of London after trying to get rid of a man who would have killed us without a second thought? The very same man who would have killed you because he knew what I felt for you and what it would do to me if you were to die."
"Sherlock, I didn't mean to…"
"You never mean to do anything, John. And it's infuriating. You're as idiotic as the rest of the people on this planet, but it doesn't bother me. I enjoy you're company much more than I should and if you leave I'm afraid of the person I will become."
John smiled softly back at Sherlock, watching as Lestrade tip-toed out of the room with an uncomfortable expression.
"I love you, too, Sherlock."
"I didn't say that."
"Was it implied?" John inquired.
"Perhaps," Sherlock answered. "Would you enjoy such an implication?"
"I certainly would. Some acknowledgement that I mean more to you than just being your sexy, vivacious bed partner and occasional teddy bear could go quite a way in soothing my fragile ego."
"Then it is implied," Sherlock stated with an amused smile as his eyes drooped. "I'd suggest we'd seal it with a kiss, but the thought of moving and the idea of you touching me in my present state is currently unappealing."
"You'll owe me one then," John retorted. He took in a deep breath and saw Sherlock tense as if he knew what John would say next.
"You have to stop him, Sherlock. London does not need a vigilante serial killer roaming its streets. It was bad enough when Moriarty was killing people for fun, but now he's doing it in some way to avenge you so he can pick the precise date and time to kill you himself? That's sick, Sherlock. And it needs to end."
"I know, John. I haven't exactly been sitting around doing nothing during our mandatory bed rest. Mycroft has been tracking his various movements and I've been looking for patterns in his deeds. If it is the last we do, John, we will stop him."
"We, Sherlock?"
"Yes." Sherlock looked over at John. His face showing the possible worry that John wouldn't agree to this quite probable suicide mission. "I only assumed that with our romantic entanglement and your wish that Moriarty ceased to exit…"
"Sherlock, I wasn't trying to cause you any anxiety," John interjected, giving his partner a reassuring look. "I would very much like to stop Moriarty with you. It's quite the romantic offer coming from Sherlock Holmes."
Sherlock made a sound of agreement. "We'll have to send flowers."
"Flowers?" John repeated. "To who? Moriarty? No thanks. I'd rather send a grenade. Perhaps a tin of biscuits laced with anthrax."
"No. To Molly's parents. And give our condolences."
Sherlock didn't wait for John to say anything as he got himself into a comfortable position in the bed that didn't poke into bits of him that were newly bruised. A silence took over the room and Sherlock focused on his own breathing to keep himself from the vague sense he might fall apart if he did anything else.
In and out. In and out. In and out.
"That's a good thing, Sherlock," John told him softly. "A very good thing."