Summary: Sherlock pitches a fit and Mrs. Hudson calls in reinforcement before he destroys Baker Street. Starts during His Last Vow, The day before Sherlock is set to leave for his "assignment" in Eastern Europe.
Notes: I've randomly decided it's New Year's Day. (Because Mycroft's superiors would have been on Christmas Holiday so it would have taken time for them to come to a decision about Sherlock's fate.)
This actually started out as a completely different story, but this scenario implanted itself in my head and just wouldn't let go until I wrote it, so here it is.
221A Baker Street. Mrs. Hudson's Kitchen. It's daytime. Mrs. Hudson is sitting at the table, looking bedraggled. She's talking on the phone. There are loud bumps and crashing noises coming from the flat above.
MRS. HUDSON:
I'm so sorry, I know it's New Year's and all... I just don't know what else to do. I've never seen him like this.
There's a pause as the person on the other side speaks.
No, no, I have no idea. It's been since Christmas. Maybe something at his parents'?
(Pause.)
Oh, I've tried. I even called Mary. He says he can't. Some codswallop about national security if you believe that! Terrible way to treat a friend, if you ask-
(Pause.)
No, his brother won't return my calls. It's all very odd. Will you come, then? Maybe you can calm him down. Please just for a little while?
(Pause.)
Oh good! Thank you! You're a godsend, I really mean it.
A particularly loud crashing noise sounds above and Mrs. Hudson flinches.
Oh, and Molly dear, do please hurry!
Cut to the foyer of 221, thirty minutes later. Molly enters. Mrs. Hudson closes the door and gives her a hug.
MOLLY: Oh my goodness, you look exhausted!
MRS. HUDSON: I know. It's been terrible. (looking up the stairs) At least he's quiet, for the moment. Go on up. I'm sure he'll behave himself better for you. I'll just put the kettle on, shall I?
She gestures at the stairs and disappears into her own flat. Molly looks upstairs hesitantly.
Cut to the hallway outside Sherlock's flat. Molly rounds the corner on the landing below and begins climbing the rest of the stairs.
SHERLOCK: (calls out from inside): Go away, Molly.
She climbs the last few steps. The door is standing ajar. She pushes it the rest of the way open and enters the room, stopping just inside the doorway. Her mouth falls open as she takes in the state of things.
The room is in a shambles. Books and papers are scattered everywhere. The contents of the bookshelves and desk have been haphazardly swept to the floor. There are cardboard boxes stacked in the corner and an empty one open on the floor. John's chair and its end table are both laying on their sides. One of the legs is broken off the table.
Sherlock is curled up on the sofa facing the wall. He's wearing a gray t-shirt, track bottoms and his blue dressing gown. His hair looks dirty and tangled. He doesn't move, or even look up.
SHERLOCK: If you've come to gawk, bravo. Job done. Now close your gob and go home.
Molly shuts her mouth, lips pressing into a thin line. She takes a hesitant step into the room, then stops, takes a deep breath and squares her shoulders.
MOLLY: Tell me what's happened.
Sherlock doesn't respond. She takes another step turning to face where Sherlock is lying. He doesn't move.
MOLLY: I can't help, if you won't tell me what's going...
SHERLOCK (angrily cuts her off): Who said I needed your help? Was it Mycroft? Tell him to sod off.
Molly pulls out one of the chairs from the table, drops her bag on the floor and calmly sits down, pushing some papers out of the way with her foot. She waits. Several seconds pass in silence.
SHERLOCK: I'm better at this than you. I can go all day. That chair will make your bum sore.
Molly doesn't respond, just continues to sit there watching his back.
SHERLOCK (after another long moment): So, silence is it? You think that's clever? It's not.
The corners of her mouth twitch up for just a second.
More time ticks by. Neither of them moves or speaks. Mrs. Hudson comes up the stairs with a tea tray. Molly gives her a silent shrug and a small appreciative smile. The older woman looks around at the disarray with a pained expression, sets the tray on the coffee table and retreats, muttering to herself as she descends the stairs.
Molly pours herself a cup of tea and takes a couple of sips. The silence is broken by the sound of a mobile phone ringing.
Sherlock digs it out of the pocket of his dressing gown. He doesn't shift his position, except to hold the phone up to view the screen.
SHERLOCK: At last! (makes a huffing noise) Privacy, Molly?
Molly aims a hard look at his back. She sets her cup back on the tray and stands up. She carries the entire tea tray into the kitchen and sets it alongside the bottles and boxes that litter the kitchen table.
Cut to the Kitchen. Sherlock's voice filters through the open doors as he speaks into the phone.
SHERLOCK (sounding suddenly placid): So, Big Brother, I suppose the verdict is in?
The kitchen is as big a mess as the main room. The sink is stacked high with unwashed dishes. The cupboards are hanging open and there is all manner of rubbish scattered on the floor.
SHERLOCK: Yes, of course I accept. Not that my say counts for anything. If it did it wouldn't have taken a minute, much less a full week. I would have had a bullet.
Molly finds a broom in the corner and sets about tidying up so it won't seem like she's eavesdropping, which she totally is.
SHERLOCK: Your powers of persuasion must be slipping, Mycroft.
Molly sweeps a pile of rubbish into a dust pan and carries it to the bin in the corner of the kitchen. As she dumps the pan's contents, she catches sight of a piece of blue plastic half buried under the rest of the garbage.
SHERLOCK: Yes, I'll be ready. One condition, Mycroft. I want to see John first.
She carefully fishes the blue plastic item out of the bin, holding it up for a closer look. It's a hypodermic syringe.
SHERLOCK: Alright...
Molly drops the syringe back into the bin with disgust, walks to the sink and scrubs her hands.
Cut back to the main room as Molly returns. Sherlock is slouching sideways on the sofa, facing her. He is unshaven with dark smudges beneath red rimmed eyes.
SHERLOCK: Go on then, get it over with.
MOLLY (confused): What?
SHERLOCK (testily): You swept up the kitchen. You looked in the bin. Now you're going to slap me. Might as well get on with it.
MOLLY (shakes her head, glances around at the mess): Not this time. It does explain things some.
SHERLOCK: Oh, it was like this before, well mostly. I was bored.
MOLLY: You've run out, then?
Sherlock rolls his eyes, fixes his gaze on the wall. More silence.
MOLLY: Look, I don't know what you're on about, but if you want to slowly kill your brain that's fine. I won't watch you do it though. (She picks up her bag, steps towards the door) Besides, it sounds like you and your brother have plans.
SHERLOCK: You haven't offered me the cigarettes yet.
Molly freezes, looks back at him.
SHERLOCK: In your bag, purchased along with a lighter, on the way here. They're low tar.
MOLLY: You looked in my purse when I was in the kitchen.
Sherlock gives the barest hint of a smile, just a quick twist of one side of his mouth. Molly pulls the cigarettes and lighter out of her bag.
MOLLY: So are you going to tell me?
She sets the cigarettes in the middle of the coffee table, notices a thick woven strap showing beneath the hem of his track bottoms. Something hard-edged and square bulges under the fabric just above.
SHERLOCK (gesturing to the thing strapped to his leg): Ankle monitor. House arrest. Haven't left the flat for six days. 8,539 minutes, approximately, with nothing to do but contemplate the east wind. (He starts to become agitated) No cases, no experiments, nothing but the telly and the landlady for company, so is it any great wonder?
He gestures dramatically to the state of the room, then crosses his arms in a sulk. Molly waits for him to continue talking, but he doesn't. She puts her bag down, sits back down in the chair.
MOLLY: So house arrest? Why?
SHERLOCK (angrily): Because apparently Mycroft's superiors are incapable of making expedient decisions. It explains a lot about the state of a nation.
Sherlock sees the frustrated look on Molly's face, jumps up and shouts at her.
SHERLOCK: Oh For God's Sake! I shot an unarmed man. In the face. On Christmas Day. And I've accepted exile in the form of a suicide mission so the British government can sweep the whole ugly business under the rug. Is that what you're so eager to learn? Happy now?
Molly is shocked at his outburst. She stands up too quickly, knocks her chair over backwards.
MOLLY: Sherlock? What have you...
He rounds the coffee table, stalks towards her. She backs up until she hits the edge of the dining table, looks up at him, eyes wide. He stops mere inches from her, looming over her.
SHERLOCK (in a low threatening tone): It's not the first time, just the first time there were witnesses. I'm not a nice man, Molly. I'm a sociopath. Just your type, Remember? (She flinches) Oh, don't pretend to be shocked, sweet little Molly Hooper. Of course I heard you. It was obvious anyway.
MOLLY (flustered): Sherlock, I...I...just... stop it.
SHERLOCK (ignores her and continues): Come off it, Molly! You like brilliant, dangerous men. You with your nice little job and your ordinary little life! You're drawn to dangerous people like bees to nectar, but you're too afraid to deal with the consequences. What would you know about anything at all? About what it means to give up everything for someone you lo- (He stops abruptly, knows he's gone too far.)
Molly raises her hand to slap him. He clenches his jaw, juts his chin a little. He wants her to do it. It's a challenge.
She stops, her hand hanging in mid air. They glare at one another for a second.
Suddenly, Molly reaches up, grabs the back of his neck, pulls him down and kisses him hard on the lips. After a second of surprise, he kisses her back. The kiss grows more passionate. He hikes her up so she's sitting on the table, her legs straddling his. She runs her fingers through his tangled curls.
She breaks the kiss, pushing him a few inches away. They're both breathing heavily, staring at each other.
There's a resounding CRACK! as she slaps him hard about the face. He takes a step back and rubs his cheek. There's the hint of a smile behind his fingers.
SHERLOCK: Well, good that we finally got all that out of the way.
She lets out a little laugh and they both genuinely smile at each other.
MOLLY: You're not, you know.
SHERLOCK: Not what?
MOLLY: A sociopath. You should do some research. You're not one, never have been. Some poor over-worked therapist probably gave you that label as a child, and it suited you, so you've held onto it, using it because it's convenient. But it's...it's just a mask.
Sherlock looks at her, more than a little impressed.
MOLLY: So you shot a man. And, I'm sure you had a reason, probably a really good one. It doesn't matter. I want to know about this "suicide mission".
She walks over and sits in Sherlock's chair, looks up at him sweetly and gestures to John's chair.
MOLLY: Do sit down and tell me about it.
Sherlock sets John's chair to rights, picks up the cigarettes and lighter off the coffee table, and slowly sits across from her. He lights a cigarette, takes a drag and exhales.
SHERLOCK: And then what?
MOLLY: Then, Sherlock Holmes, I'll decide whether to take your case.