Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock
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Molly Hooper has been kidnapped. – M.H.
Sherlock glanced at his phone and read the text then quickly deleted its contents from his mind like he did with most communications from his brother. He looked back out the side window of the cab. He did a double take. He opened up the full message menu on his phone and read the text from Mycroft again.
Just as he was writing a reply to ask what the hell is brother was trying to pull now another text came in.
And I need your help finding her. – M.H.
Sherlock leapt into action. He tapped the plastic divider to get the cabbie's attention and told him to head to Diogenes, the exclusive government member's only club in Westminster. He fired off a text to John that told him to meet him there.
When Sherlock finally pulled up to the curb of the MI6 front, John was waiting next to the entrance. He went forward towards the consulting detective as he joined him on the sidewalk.
"Sherlock, why are we here?" John knew only a small number of things would have Sherlock on the doorstep of his older brother.
Sherlock ignored his friend and charged straight for the front doors. Upon entering the man came to an immediate stop. John just about tumbled into his solid back. Mycroft sat expectantly before the two.
The usually boring and drab room filled with older associates of MI6 was nowhere to be seen. Instead a single table had been placed quite blatantly in the middle of the grand foyer. On its large surface was all the fixings for well-prepared tea. It was here Mycroft sat awaiting his brother's arrival.
"Well? Sit down." Mycroft instructed sharply.
Sherlock was momentarily distracted by the change in scenery but with a graceful ease, he fell into a chair at the table, John did the same at a slower rate. Mycroft pushed a cup and saucer of tea Sherlock's way. He briefly stared at the milky liquid and back to his brother. John mumbled about serving himself.
"Are you planning to explain that rather disturbing message?" He cut right to the chase.
"While I admit it was a bit dramatic, but the desired effect, you arriving here expeditiously, did pay off." He sighed briefly, "Though I do wish it were under different circumstances."
"I'm not sure what is more terrible, that Molly Hooper was abducted or that you seem to care about her wellbeing. Some context would be nice Mycroft!"
Unperturbed by Sherlock's outburst, Mycroft discreetly slid a laptop across the table to his brother. Sherlock flipped it open to a video already cued up. John shifted his own seat closer as he hit play.
The overhead view of the camera was of the pathology lab at St. Barts. Molly Hooper was easily recognized by her physical measurements and appearance. She was bent over a metal counter, dissecting something in a tray with a scalpel.
"That's Molly." John stated still rather confused about the current situation.
Mycroft nodded. "This is video footage from last night, while she worked the graveyard shift."
The CCTV provided no color or sound, so it was only when her head whipped up that they knew someone had joined her in the room. Molly began talking to the person out of view from the camera and Sherlock quickly deduced she was wary of them. Her gloved hand carefully slid the scalpel out of view to grasp tightly at her side.
She continued conversing with the person until she suddenly took a step back from the counter. Both her hands went behind her back and her fingers nervously tapped at her clothed forearm.
Molly's head turned rapidly from one side and then to the other. She seemed to deflate and started to shake her head in defeat. Then with an eerie slowness she tilted her head up and back to look straight into the camera. With her face finally in full view, Sherlock could read the words from her lips.
'Take care of Toby.'
Her head turned back to the front expectantly. The camera went black.
"We were notified within the hour of a disturbance at St. Barts. I arrived to discover the lab in shambles. I have not seen nor heard from her since."
Sherlock remained silent and stared unflinchingly at his brother. A white noise buzzed through his head that he was trying very hard to ignore and focus on the facts. Molly Hooper was missing and for some reason Mycroft was overly concerned about her wellbeing.
John looked between the two and knew he was missing something important but ploughed on ahead with his misinformed questions. "She's been abducted? Why? Is it because of her connection to you? She's only a pathologist and a perfectly normal one at that."
"It seems that's not entirely true." Sherlock supplied. "So dear brother, Molly Hooper, who is she really?"
"Simply, she's one of mine."
This time Mycroft slid a manila folder across the table. Sherlock flipped it open to see it was filled with personnel records and photographs. He skipped the majority of the lines of information that were redacted and opted to read what little was visible.
Molly had been flagged in university for her excellent scores and finally recruited after the death of her father, presumably when she was most vulnerable and alone. Since then, Molly Hooper had been groomed to become an exceptional field agent that had taken keenly to advanced anatomy and the more refined forms of espionage. There were several photographs of her in a training facility, some of her running obstacle courses and others of her performing autopsies.
The last parts of the folder contained a stapled document titled 'Operation Day-by-Day'. The summary description read: Agent Hooper, under the appointment of her majesty the Queen and by the discretion of the Agency is assigned to the detail of William Sherlock Scott Holmes. The Agent will supplant herself into the Target's everyday life and monitor his actions and report everything back to her handler, Mycroft Holmes. The Target has been flagged as a national security risk and though he has yet to commit treason against the country, the impetus is present.
At this part Sherlock closed the folder and passed it along to John so he could catch up.
For years he had played a chess game with his older brother but he had never recognized his most valued pawn.
"You detestable bastard."
Both other men jumped at the icy cold words Sherlock flung at his brother. Mycroft quickly recovered. "You must understand, Molly Hooper-"
Sherlock grabbed a delicate teacup in his hand and whipped it at the wall directly behind Mycroft. The resulting shatter was equally disconcerting. "There is no Molly Hooper! You thought her up, the perfect goldfish, so I would never suspect." He yelled and lost to the part of himself that swore never to let anger get the best of him.
John placed his hand on Sherlock's shoulder to calm him down but the man shook off the offending appendage and jumped to his feet to pace around the carpeted entryway. His blue eyes shone with roiling fury at having been deceived by his brother again and using the purposefully mundane pathologist to do so. Molly had been planted into his life with all the assuming features that he underestimated so he would consistently overlook her but with enough intelligence that he would also rely on her expertise.
At the moment he could not tell what angered him more; his brother interfering again or how thoroughly his agent had fooled him.
He had told her she counted. Sherlock shook his head to dislodge those creeping thoughts and turned back to Mycroft.
"Tell me what you know." He demanded.
He didn't need to explain further. Mycroft launched into a full account of what MI6 had discovered in their investigation of the missing agent. "Twelve days ago when I met with Agent Hooper for our monthly debriefing she intimated concerns that someone was watching her. I offered to add a detail to her movements but she declined on the basis of not wanting to arouse suspicion."
"Stupid!" Sherlock growled. "If she thought someone was following her she should have taken precautions."
"On the contrary, she assumed a shadow would tip off any observer to her identity. We both agreed it would be better to carefully monitor the situation further. She's not helpless Sherlock but obviously, there was credence to her concern." Mycroft eyed the security footage with a frown.
"Wait, back up a minute. Are you saying Molly is an agent, for the government? To spy on you?" John finally piped in.
Sherlock rolled his eyes, "Yes, John, do keep up." The dark-haired man resumed his seat and played the video back again, once more processing and cataloguing all the extraneous information. "You have no leads or you would never have told me about her status."
The British government sighed heavily and tipped his head forward in symbolic defeat. "The person who has taken her is highly skiled. They did not leave a trace. Considering recent events and her relation to you, I am inclined to believe that-"
"Moriarty is behind this." Sherlock finished for him.
"It would seem."
John's face fell with the certainty the Holmes' Brothers confirmed the suspect. Since the country-wide broadcast of the master mind returning everything fell silent. Months had passed and while Sherlock tried to trace the hack, most believed, including John, that some random person had done it as a prank. They had all got on with their lives.
Like all those months before, John was the first to state the obvious. "But Moriarty is dead."
"Confirmed by Agent Hooper herself." Mycroft supplied.
"Molly. Her name is Molly."
Both men looked to the consulting detective while he stared into the fine wood grain of the table and his fingers steepled in front of his unfocused gaze. Mycroft's eyes narrowed at his brother's correction. "It's best you forget that false life. Molly Hooper is an agent and one of my very best. Have you noticed the message she sent along through the security camera?"
Sherlock snorted, "Of course." He laid his arms out on the table and mimed the tapping of two fingers on his one forearm, like Molly had done behind her back so only the camera would see.
He tapped the words she had tapped out in Morse code.
You. Miscounted. Sorry. Sherlock.
"The message was intended for you. It was impossible for me to decipher it's meaning without calling you in. And currently it's the only lead we have." Mycroft spoke disdainfully.
His eyes rose to the unaffected mask of his older brother. Mycroft was trying to hide his emotions but Sherlock heard the tiniest bit of anger when he mentioned she had left the code for Sherlock. His brother seemed truly upset that Molly had decided to leave a message with him instead of her handler. It raised questions as to how close the two were in reality.
"Seems Molly knew who she could trust to find her." Sherlock purposefully goaded his brother. "She was right of course." The consulting detective stood from his chair and gathered the manila folder and the laptop under his arm. "Alright Mycroft, I'll take it. The case of the missing pathologist."
He indicated John stand as well before sweeping to the front door of the club.
"Sherlock."
The man paused with one foot out the door and turned back to see Mycroft standing straight up. He regarded the younger man with flinty eyes. "The game is set for you to play, however, do not mistake Molly Hooper for a pawn that can be sacrificed to take the king."
"Have all of her records and reports sent to Baker Street." He responded and with a swish of his Belstaff he was out the door with John hot on his heels.
Out on the street, Sherlock was quick to flag down a cab. Both men slipped inside. "St. Barts Hospital, hurry." He ordered the driver. The cab sped away, headed towards the hospital.
"Sherlock, what the bloody hell just happened?" John snapped in annoyance.
The last fifteen minutes had ripped apart what remained of John's trust genuine people. Honestly, did everyone have a secret identity. Molly was not a pathologist at Barts, well, she was but only because she had been working for Mycroft and MI6 the entire time. All to watch Sherlock and report back to his brother.
John was reminded of the first time he met the elder Holmes and was asked to spy. It was not exactly the same. Molly had been trained for this, like a soldier, but in a worse way. She was skilled too. She had fooled everyone – Himself, Mary, and surprisingly of all, Sherlock. She seemed so accommodating and that was probably the point.
The world's only consulting detective had been fooled by a nervous stutter.
He glanced to his left and was not surprised that his best friend had decided to ignore his question in favour of reviewing the last few moments in his head. For once the rambunctious consulting detective was subdued against the back of the seat. His calculating eyes were still on the muggy grey sky just beyond the window. John knew he was working over the suddenly impossible puzzle that was Mousy Molly. He knew better than to ask more questions and left Sherlock to his thoughts.
They arrived at St. Barts twenty minutes later. Once the taxi came to a complete stop, Sherlock was out the door and stalking into the hospital, leaving John to pay the fare. Again. He jogged after him, nearly running into a maintenance worker standing outside the long corridor to the morgue that was cordoned off with bright yellow CAUTION tape. John frantically gestured that he was with Sherlock and without hesitating the worker indicated for him to go through.
He finally caught up just as Sherlock pushed open the door to the lab. Sherlock came to a complete stop just past the entrance and John wisely side-stepped to prevent a collision.
Without Sherlock's shoulders in his line of sight, the lab was in full view. The unobstructed sight sent a shiver down the doctor's spine.
Sherlock scanned the absolute mess of the usually pristine lab with grave eyes. Glass covered every inch of floor from broken petri dishes, microscope slides, and beakers. They were speckled with blood. Most were from the almost entirely empty counter that only last night, a 5'4 foot, brown-haired, keen pathologist had worked.
The CCTV footage was only helpful up until the point it cut out. The time after that moment he was keen on discovering. Sherlock took a step forward into the chaos and breathed deeply through his nostrils.
John was quick to follow. "Sherlock, what-"
"Silence John. Stay right where you are and do not move until I say so. You'll contaminate the scene."
His companion mumbled something that sounded suspiciously like 'jackass' but remained otherwise frozen and quiet. Sherlock closed his eyes and took another deep breath.
Packed dirt. Sweat. Aseptic cleaner. Honey and lavender. Blood. The scents bombarded his nose at different rates but all were present in the room in varying strength. His eyes slowly opened and he walked to the other side of the counter, the glass crunched under his shoes with each step.
There was no glass on this side but the ground was far worse. Nearest to him was a large pool of blood, enough to indicate the person whom it belonged to was no longer among the living. Also on the ground were the remains of Molly's work, a liver had landed in the far right and was already decomposing. Further off towards the opposite wall closest to the entrance of the lab was a bloody scalpel.
She had fought. But had she been injured? Was she already… Sherlock quickly dismissed the idea. Mycroft would have already tested the blood to determine if it was a match to Molly's and besides, if Moriarty or whoever this was wanted to kill her, a gun to the head would have been a more efficient mode.
The rigid postured man, stood in front of the counter as Molly had in the video. He checked to see the security camera up and to left behind him. So someone had come in through the door were John currently stood but she did not startle, only looked up and pulled her scalpel out of view.
Sherlock fell into a trance and imagined the series of events that unfolded after she looked up from her bench.
Words. Conversation. Can't deduce what was said, delete, not important. One step back…because the assailant took one forward. No. NO! Mousy Molly would be intimidated by a stranger taking a step forward but Agent Hooper would need something more threatening to cause her to back up.
A gun? Again no, no evidence of bullets and what use would a step backwards be against a bullet. Something else then… Words. Conversation. Don't delete. Something had been said and Molly stepped back in surprise, shock, anger, or any emotion that would cause a normal person to rebuff an arousing remark. Ask John later.
She stepped back and then signed that message in Morse code. Molly had to have known there was no way out or else she would not have bothered with the message. She was intimidated. Then she turned her head to the right and then the left. Someone on each side to corner her. That was when she knew they would take her.
But she did not make it easy.
The one on the right attacked first. Sherlock moved through the motions that made the most sense based on the state of the lab and Molly's defensive training outlined in her file. Her hand reached for the plated liver and sent it sailing at the attacker's head. She whipped around as the second person advanced and held her scalpel up, striking into his carotid artery. Sherlock's eyes briefly opened to confirm the arterial spray of blood on the sidewall, then fluttered closed. Good girl. First man advanced again while her back is turned. She didn't have enough time to turn fully, he reached for her scalpel and wrenched it from her hand sending it back to skirt along the floor.
Molly struck out with her arm into his chest. He came at her with his fist. She used the momentum to twist his arm and send him flying across the table, pulling the glass materials with him before collapsing on the other side. He's down momentarily but certainly not out.
The main man made his move while the henchmen distracted her. He moved silently across the lab as the struggle happened and when her focus is on the man lying amidst the broken class he sidled up behind her and injected a narcotic into her neck. Sherlock spotted the traces drops of blood on the floor from the needle. She went limp, falling into the arms of her attacker and was taken away.
Sherlock opened his eyes and looked over at a very still John Watson who watched pensively from his fixed spot at the door.
"She's alive. With a passion I might add. But she may have given her identity away."
"If Moriarty is really truly back she's in danger. Agent or not."
"Hmm."
John glanced at his watch and to the door. "So where does that leave us then? Any clues on where she's been taken?"
Sherlock walked back over to John's side and indicated the double swinging door. "They took her through the morgue's drop-off door and cleaned up their dead friend before security made their rounds to the basement."
"Ah-huh, so you haven't a clue?" John guessed and cast another look at his watch.
Sherlock frowned. "Something more pressing than the kidnapped pathologist, John?"
John dropped his head in shame. "No, no. Of course not. Molly may have lied to us but I don't believe she's a bad person. Hell she must be a saint to have dealt with two Holmes' for so many years."
"But you are late to get home to your family." Sherlock easily deduced.
"Mary had thought – I had thought when you texted that it would be a quick case, not something this serious. I can call her and-"
"Go home John." John winced at his friend's harsh command. Sherlock noticed and backpedaled. "I mean to say, for today it's enough. If Moriarty is behind it then he will start the game when he's ready. There's nothing to do but wait."
The doctor nodded slowly allowing Sherlock's words to make him feel slightly less terrible. "Text me if something happens, no matter the time."
"Though you are a family man now, I doubt my asking for assistance at all hours of the day will change." Sherlock said with a small smile. John smiled briefly and nodded his head.
The pair parted at the hospital, John heading home to his wife and newborn, and Sherlock destined for Baker Street. After a small pit stop on the way home, Sherlock walked into his flat and was immediately confronted by his landlady.
"Sherlock, these men came 'round while you were out and made a mess of your living room. Boxes are – is that a cat?!" The responding meow from beyond his wool coat was especially damning.
Mrs. Hudson put her hands on her hips and glared at the hidden feline. "Now see here, this is not a pet friendly flat. It's bad enough I put up with body parts in the fridge but a living-"
Sherlock walked past her with a charming smile upon his lips, "It's temporary, Mrs. Hudson! Not to worry." He quickly ascended the stairs and rushed into his home, closing the door soundly behind him. He would give it five days before she really became cross.
Sherlock opened his coat and dropped Toby onto the wooden floors of 221B. Like any animal in a new environment, the feline dashed under the closest thing for safety, the client couch. After Redbeard, he had always considered himself a dog person but personality wise, Sherlock was more sympathetic to the plight of the cat.
He dropped the bag in his hand containing some of Toby's essentials that Sherlock had grabbed from Molly's flat.
He let the animal be for now and surveyed the boxes stacked amongst the furniture. Mrs. Hudson was right, Mycroft's men had certainly not spared much space, though after years and years of reports it was to be expected.
Finally, alone, Sherlock allowed himself feel the tiniest bit of panic deep in his gut. Someone had taken Molly Hooper, he would not entirely assume Moriarty, and much like Mycroft, he had few clues. He had no idea why they decided to take her or how much time there was before killing her outweighed the risk of keeping her captive.
The only place to start was her last written report and the first time she noted the feeling of being followed. Sherlock grabbed the box with the most recent dates and sat on the floor before tearing off the lid. The night would be long but it was worth it. Anything to solve the case and question the Pathologist. Whoever she was.
Sherlock found the file with the correct date and studiously read Molly's field report:
'As per the last reports, the target has been mostly absent from Molly Hooper's place of work for the past few months since the Moriarty broadcast (see Report #267). This is not abnormal behaviour for the target, though the few times he has made an appearance, the normally staunch and arrogant man is reduced to an anxious shell.
Another thing of note is the distinct and unrelenting feeling that Molly Hooper is being watched. After several night shifts, during the walk home the sound of footsteps has followed me. This concern has been relayed to Director Holmes. We both agreed to monitor it further before taking any action.'
Report after report from the last few months were along a similar vein, Sherlock discovered after an hour. Molly was incredibly detailed about any interaction she had with him or when he was mentioned in conversation with Lestrade or Stamford, her main sources of intel.
The report directly after the broadcast described a swift change in her daily operations as per the request of Mycroft. His brother insisted Molly spend longer days at the morgue in case something happened that would require her specific skill set. That included wrangling himself.
Sherlock concluded that the reports didn't shed any light on the current disappearance, so much as it provided information about Molly as an agent. However, due diligence had him reaching for the next white banker's box. He looked at the date on the side and noticed it was labeled differently than the others. After withdrawing the lid and peering inside, he found the box contained small black notebooks, neatly stacked. Sherlock opened one at random and scanned the page.
'Agent Bailey has been assigned as my paramour for now until however long deemed necessary. The decision has come straight from Mycroft in an effort to normalize Molly Hooper. I'm at that age. Though I understand the intention, I do believe, even as a dormant agent until Sherlock comes back to London, that this is excessive. But anything for the cover.'
These books were personal journals of Molly's undercover work. Unlike the professional reports he had thus far read, these were personal and shined some light into the true headspace of his pathologist.
He chose another book and flipped to a random page.
'John Watson invited me to a Christmas party and despite my polite decline, he pushed and I eventually relented. I am to impress myself on Sherlock yet again but I hardly see the point anymore. A man like Sherlock, so ruthlessly brilliant, could never love Molly Hooper. Yet I am supposed to try anyways. Anything for the cover.'
He skipped a few pages and started reading at random.
'Mycroft called me to the morgue in the middle of the night on Christmas eve. I can tell by his voice something important has happened. He needs to do an emergency debrief so he told me to hurry. When I arrived, he was waiting for me inside the exhumation room, with a body on the slab covered by a cotton sheet. I looked at it sparingly before glancing up at him.
"This is Irene Adler. A sort of love interest of my brother."
My eyes widened in disbelief. Sherlock feels love? And for this woman. How can he possibly love her? If he's to love anyone it should be Molly Hooper. This cover, and everything I've done in the last three years was for him!
I don't say any of this of course, my eyes are emotionless as Mycroft carried on.
"I've called him here to identify the body. But be forewarned that this could cause Sherlock to spiral out of control. You'll have to watch him extra carefully."
"Of course."
Both of us turn as the faintest footsteps are heard down the deserted hallway. I take a deep breath and put on the face of a woman I know almost as well as myself. It's easy to pretend I'm her most days, than to be the real me. I hate that person. The true Molly. She envies a dead woman because unlike her, Sherlock doesn't see everything. Why can't he see past my lies? This is the one thing he can't deduce.
…Anything for the cover.'
Sherlock stared at the words written in a penmanship he knows is not similar to Molly's. The words were tinged with emotion, a deep raw ache, that for the last five years has been completely suppressed only to manifest on these pages.
He starts digging through the box of journals, intent on one particular day. It takes forever but eventually he's holding the little black book and reading the pages.
'Sherlock Holmes is dead. Well at least to the rest of the world. He came to me last night and said things that people only say when they are about to disappear from your life. In that moment when he said I counted, I thought he could finally see me for who I was, the real me that no one, save Mycroft and Anthea, know. A person to be depended on.
My heart soared. I could finally offer him help, help that he has never asked me for because he's never known.
"What do you need?"
I think I understand Molly Hooper now. She was reserved in every way except for her love of this man. For that, she would do absolutely anything. I never approved of her doormat status of course but I think I understand now. That fierce need to protect him. I understand.
I promise to do whatever to keep this man alive, including falling further undercover. If everything goes according to plan this could change things.'
Sherlock sucked in a sharp breath before placing the notebook back in the box. The anxiousness from earlier had intensified with every new piece of information about Agent Hooper. He moved from the hard ground to his leather chair. Carefully his fingers steepled together and he immersed himself in his mind palace.
Sherlock winded down the staircase to the second floor, intent on seeking Molly's small corner room at the back of the hallway. He closed in on the door and pushed inside.
The mind palace was of his mind's creation and because of that every single place was made up by him to fit the needs of his vast memory and incoming information. So he was startled that Molly's room had completely changed. Normally when he sought out her related files, he found them in a neatly organized drawer located in a room of the pathology offices at Barts.
The smell of honey and lavender always accompanied the space unlike the stinging scent of bleach and death the office had in reality.
He stepped into a room of severe darkness instead. A single lamp was switched on atop a small end table next to an emerald coloured recliner. The light was not strong enough to illuminate the walls and he squinted to see that almost bare bookcases lined them. Every other shelf was home to a mess of paper.
Sherlock approached the chair and fingered the green cloth before sitting down. This room was suffocating with mystery when before it had been familiar and comforting.
He inhaled deeply and a burst of honey and lavender and something sharper invaded his senses. A metallic scent that assaulted the otherwise pleasant smells.
"Hello."
He popped one eye open to glare at the smiling woman standing directly in front of him, just barely within the reach of the light. Sherlock scanned her form for noticeable tells that she was the agent she had been trained to be. Like every other time in his mind palace, Molly was dressed in her usual lab coat and grey slacks. The only thing that changed was the hideous jumper. Today it was a moderately tamer, black knitted sweater he remembered her wearing twenty-three days ago. Their last encounter.
The similarities ended with her clothes, Molly had changed in demeanor. She stood with her arms crossed, her chest pushed forward, and a wry smile on her lips. Gone was his mousy pathologist.
"Molly Hooper, a mystery wrapped in an enigma." He mused. She inclined her head in greeting. "So why were you taken?"
Her finger tapped against her chin thoughtfully. "Why? Maybe I did it to protect you. After all that's why I was assigned to you all these years."
"You were assigned to make sure I didn't destroy London." He corrected sharply.
"A little of that too." She playfully smirked.
Sherlock pointedly ignored the woman standing before him by closing his eyes and mumbling the facts he had amassed in the last day. However, his deep thinking did not keep him from noticing her movements. Molly moved to sit on the armrest of the chair with her back to him.
"Not to protect you then. You miscounted, sorry Sherlock?" She mused aloud.
"I miscounted? Hardly a helpful thing to sign in Morse code."
"But it was important. It was the last thing I said before I was taken, something I didn't want them to see." Molly leaned back until her body touched his outer arm. Sherlock stiffened but otherwise did not rebuke the physical contact.
"Sentiment." He bit out like a bad word.
She tutted him. "Sentiment Sherlock. For most people it rules in an emergency. So if I was scared by that person, me, a highly skilled agent, why did I need to send you that message above all else?"
Molly leaned further back until her head was almost touching his, "Think about it. Who am I?"
"Molly H... Agent Hooper."
"Yes, and what do I mean to you?"
His vision tunneled with the realization of what his mind was trying to communicate to him. "Nothing. You don't count." Molly jumped up and spun to face him head on. Her hands landed on either side of him. Her face was much too close and surprisingly happy.
"So what did I really mean, Sherlock Holmes?"
Blue eyes met brown unflinchingly. "You don't want me to save you."
She smiled sadly this time and leaned back on her haunches. "You said Molly Hooper counted. Who I really am isn't someone you bother with, in fact you might say I deserve it - the man who hovers on the side of angels. Dear Sherlock, you've miscounted."
Sherlock was speechless. He swallowed thickly and opened his mouth to say something, anything. She closed her hand over his lips. "Don't say something your mind disagrees with Sherlock. You'd only be deceiving yourself." She whispered.
Sherlock's eyes popped open with a start. He blinked rapidly to acclimate from the sudden and unexpected shift from his mind palace to the real world. Molly had literally pushed him out of his head. How the bloody hell had she managed that?
He frowned deeply. It was not her fault really. After all, you can never contradict your own logic without fundamentally denying what you are thinking. He knew that was absolutely true, unless it wasn't your mind disagreeing but some other part of you that was removed from thought.
Blasted sentiment!
Sherlock jumped up and nearly toppled over the animal at his feet. At some point Toby had come out of hiding to park right along his feet. Sherlock awkwardly stepped out to prevent the small feline from being stepped on. With a curse, he found his balance on the edge of one stack of boxes. Toby darted back under the couch for fear of his safety. Just as well, the evil feline had almost killed him.
He stood fully up again and decided he needed to clear his head, or go deeper into thought, he could never tell which, with a shower. Maneuvering through the maze of boxes, Sherlock doubled back to his chair and grabbed his phone. The green blink in the pitch black of the flat had flared and caught his attention. He went to the message menu and found what he had been hoping for and dreading all the same.
'Everything is prepared. Let the game begin.' – Anon.
The phone started ringing.
"Who is this?" Sherlock demanded after picking up on the second ring.
"H-hullo Sher-lock." Molly whispered. At least she was alive which meant she had not been discovered, he hoped. If they found out she worked for MI6 it would be a whole new game.
"Molly." He answered into the receiver.
"L- long time no see." She stuttered out before taking a shaky breath, her voice caught. "You fooled me once, s-shame on me. This time you w-won't b-be so lucky. To save the p-p-pathologist, y-you must take the p-plunge. You have s-sixteen hours."
There was a slight pause where another voice started speaking but it was not clear what was being said. Molly started to cry harder and through her tears she begged. "No! S-stop it. I'm a pathologist! I've never gotten anything wrong, never! P-please, please, l-let me go!"
The call ended abruptly.
His mind started racing with the new clues and the information provided by the short call. Two things stood out above all others. Sherlock went into his mind palace and increased the volume to the highest setting and played back the conversation. This time, amongst the static, Sherlock could just make out the words spoken to Molly.
"Say goodbye to lover boy, Miss Molly."
Sherlock paused. The voice was male, deep, but refined. Not possible to determine presence of an accent. Not Moriarty? Might be his henchmen. Cannot rule it out yet. He pressed play.
"No! S-stop it. I'm a pathologist! I've never gotten anything wrong, never. P-please, please, l-let me go!"
Pause. He thought it was odd the first time. Up until that part of the conversation, Molly had consistently stumbled over her words in fear. Real or pretend, he could not tell. But she had one perfect sentence, uttered without mistake.
'I'm a pathologist! I've never gotten anything wrong, never.'
She was trying to tell him something.
Sherlock started filtering through all the possibilities but as he dismissed each one, several more popped up and then Mind Palace Molly threw evidence back in his face as to why he was wrong. Too many damn possibilities! Without knowing her, Sherlock had no way of understanding why she would communicate certain things. It all came down to sentiment but he was oblivious to anything related to Agent Hooper.
He needed to think! And move! And hurry!
Sherlock stuck his hand into a white box and fisted several black journals before storming out of his flat.
.
.
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A/N: My first foray into Sherlock fanfiction.