Bolt Hole of Domesticity
Rating: T
Spoilers: Series 2 Finale "The Reichenbach Fall"
Summary: Molly continues to help Sherlock with his plan.
Disclaimer: All publicly recognisable characters and places are the property of Arthur Conan Doyle, Mark Gatiss, Stephen Moffatt and the BBC . This piece of fan fiction was created for entertainment not monetary purposes and no infringement on copyrights or trademarks was intended. Previously unrecognised characters and places, and this story, are copyrighted to the author. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
The phone had dinged earlier that morning indicating a message received. It was simple, two words, the two I'd been dreading seeing since I'd left the hospital the previous night.
It's time – SH
I willed myself to appear normal and inconspicuous as I left the safety of my lab and made my way to the main floor to give Dr Harris the blood analysis she'd requested. A scream just as I had reached the main doors alerted me to what had happened and my stomach twisted sickeningly inside.
I raced to the door in time to see the stretcher wheeled hastily passed me and through to one of the emergency rooms. John arrived in a few moments later, as white as a ghost, eyes unseeing and unfocused. A strange man was with him, helping him stay upright.
"He's banged his head off the road," the man told one of the nurses who took him aside for assessment.
"Molly," he spied me, and brushed and rubbed his eyes furiously.
"John?" I swallowed, scared I'd say something stupid. I followed him to the bed where he sat down heavily before trying to stand up again.
"No, you shouldn't be standing, John, you're not well," I told him forcefully.
"Sherlock," he said blearily, tears in his eyes, "he… Oh God, Molly. He said….the blood, Molly, the blood, it's everywhere."
I sent an alarmed look towards the doors Sherlock had just been pushed through and placed what I hoped was a comforting hand on John's shoulder.
"I-It's okay, John," he looked at me, devoid of any expression and I flushed feeling like a fool, "I mean, if they can save him, they will. But you, you have to let them take care of you too."
"Molly," he grabbed my wrist and I stared down at him, "can you, can you find out what's going on?"
"They'll tell you, John. I'll make sure of it," I reassured him and glanced at the nurse silently communicating with her to follow me out.
"Dr Watson's suffered a blow to the head and seems quite groggy. Make sure he stays overnight for observation."
"Of course," she replied before disappearing back behind the curtain to see to John.
I couldn't stomach seeing Sherlock, the image of his bloodied body as he'd been rushed passed me was enough. Like a coward, I turned on my heels and practically ran back to the comforting morgue waiting, and dreading, the phone call I knew would come.
In less than half an hour I'd received the call from Dr Stamforde and Sherlock Holmes' lifeless body was wheeled down. One of the orderlies stared at me and looked like he was going to say something but then thought better of it. Most of the staff, it seemed, knew of my…attachment to Sherlock.
I stood staring at the covered form for a good five minutes before I gathered the courage to pull back the sheet. The shock of seeing him there, lying on the cold metal bench was too much. A choked sob escaped and I couldn't stop shaking as I stepped back stumbling against the counter.
It took me a few seconds to pull myself together and remind myself that despite appearances, Sherlock Holmes was not dead. He'd had a plan and it would work. Sherlock's plans always worked. I pulled out the syringe in my left pocket and pushed it into his left bicep.
But I couldn't leave him to wake up with sticky blood matting his hair and crusting against his skin, which is why I decided to clean it off. It was a good distraction and helped calm me down.
He's so pretty. A ridiculous thing to say about a man and I knew he'd cut me to the quick if he ever heard me, but there are plenty of women who would kill for some of his features. Dark eyelashes resting against perfectly pale skin, framed by perfectly shaped dark arches. I paid special attention to his eyes, they've always fascinated me. He has cheekbones that Angelina Jolie would envy and his mouth… such a wonderful cupid's bow… those lips that spewed such amazing and, sometimes, hurtful words were…just perfect.
Is it wrong of me to have wished for some sort of imperfection? Some birthmark or anomaly I would have missed on the normal day-to-day interaction? Instead of a hidden mole or disfigured limbs, all I could find was pristine alabaster skin unmarred by any discolouration of foreign body. How unfair.
His skin beneath my fingertips was slightly warmer than a dead man's should be and I removed them quickly. I could just imagine him suddenly sitting up and glaring accusingly at me for having the audacity to touch him.
I pushed the bowl aside, satisfied all sticky substances have been removed, and patted him dry with a towel. I searched for a pulse and couldn't stop the grin spreading across my face as I detected it, weak, but there. He would be up and about in an hour or so.
The other body lay motionless in a drawer a few feet away. Same height, same weight, same general features. He was lucky really. This John Doe would get a proper burial and a proper funeral. True it wouldn't be for him, but it was better than what he would have gotten. I tried to comfort myself with that thought as I busied myself with finishing Sherlock's paperwork.
The near noiseless swinging of the mortuary doors grabbed my attention and I spun around, standing in front of Sherlock's body, obscuring him from view of this intruder.
"Can I help you?"
He smiled tightly, carefully removing his gloves and placing them on the umbrella handle in his right hand. Then I remembered. That man, the one who brought Sherlock to identify the naked body of Irene Adler.
"Miss Hooper."
"Dr Hooper actually," I don't know why I feel the need to assert myself with this man, who looked like he just walked in from the nineteenth century, and it seemed he wasn't too pleased with it either.
"Yes, well, Dr Hooper. I wonder if you might show me the body of Sherlock Holmes?"
"I'm sorry, I don't…who are you exactly?"
"Ah, I see my brother has been remiss once again."
"B-brother?"
"Mycroft Holmes." He smiled coldly again, and I suddenly saw the resemblance in the eyes, like he was barely managing to control his irritation with me.
I had the ridiculous urge to curtsey to him as he held out his hand to me, but I managed to quell it and his head moved to the side observing his brother behind me. He silently moved towards him, his umbrella tapping hauntingly against the floor and I swallowed my nervousness, knowing there was no way any brother of Sherlock Holmes' could be as easily fooled as us mere mortals. His eyes flicked over his brother's body and his posture suddenly relaxed.
"Please leave us alone for a few minutes," his dismissive voice was reminiscent of his brother but he was not Sherlock and I was not about to chased out my mortuary by him.
"I'm sorry, but I don't think that's-"
"I can assure you Miss," he paused the icy smile returning as he focused his attention on me again, "forgive me, Dr Hooper, I have no intention of making off with my brother's body in the middle of the day. You may wait outside if you wish. I will not steal him away from you."
He brushed me aside without a backward glance and I could feel the heat rising up from my neck to the roots of my hair. I could protest further but he was Sherlock's brother, I had no good reason to stop him. He'd already seen him so there wasn't much more damage that could be done, I reasoned to myself as I waited outside. After ten minutes of pacing and chewing my fingernails to stubs, I decided I'd had enough.
As I walked back into the morgue I was aware of two things. One, Mycroft Holmes was speaking, and two, Sherlock Holmes was answering him! He was sitting up with his back to me, appearing to button up a shirt that seemed to have appeared from nowhere, but it was definitely him.
The elder brother turned in my direction, walking out of the morgue.
"And for God's sake, Sherlock, try not to resurrect yourself before it's safe to do so."
"Your sibling concern is truly touching, Mycroft!" Sherlock called over his shoulder without looking up from his task.
Mycroft looked irritated but inclined his head in my direction as he passed. "Dr Hooper."
And with that I was left alone with the supposedly dead Sherlock Holmes. I approached him carefully, like I was afraid he might turn into dust if I moved too quickly. I rounded him and saw his face, his hair, his eyes, his mouth. Ohhhh.
"I…Can I just," I threw myself at him before I could think about it and change my mind. I heard the rush of air escaping from his lungs at the unexpected pressure but I didn't really care. It was such a relief to see him awake and okay.
He stiffened as I continued to hug him, until I felt a hand tap my shoulder uncertainly. I almost expect him to say 'there, there.' But he didn't. It was odd, almost like he'd never hugged anyone before. Which is ridiculous really, I'm sure he's hugged lots of people.
"Molly," his voice rumbled against my neck, "should I take this assault to mean you're attempting to rectify the fact that my plan worked by depriving me of oxygen?"
"What?, oh," I pulled back and moved away from him and his confused gaze, "Yes, yes, I mean no, I mean," I took a breath and sent him a shaky smile, "I'm just glad you're awake. Your plan worked."
"Of course it did," he frowned as if there was never going to be any other outcome and I'd lost what was left of my mind.
"Right. So, your brother knows what happened?"
"Obviously. I needed him to take care of the CCTV cameras."
"Oh, of course."
"Now that Mycroft has identified the body you can tag him and keep him out of sight," he shot a brief gaze towards John Doe. "I will rendezvous with you outside your house in forty minutes."
"Wait, I have the rest of my shift…" I trailed off as he rolled his eyes at me, zipping up a dark hoody.
"Molly, I've just jumped off the roof and you've completed my autopsy. I'm sure Stamford won't object to you leaving early."
"Of, of course," I stammered and turned towards the office to make the phone call. I suddenly realised that I hadn't told him where I lived, but by the time I turned around he'd already disappeared. How does he manage to do that?