Get it Right
Molly Hooper looked out her window thinking about all she'd done wrong in the past three years and how she could possibly make it right. Her eyes flickered over the tattered journal in her hand. The innocent round eyes of two Siamese kittens looked up at her from the pink background. It made her smile briefly before she remembered the reason why her cheeks mirrored the pattern of the rain sliding down the window.
#
Yes was the only answer she could possibly give Sherlock Holmes when he approached her in a darkened lab to say "I need you" in the velvety tone that had haunted her dreams. It hadn't taken long for her to identify a body that matched the medical records Mycroft gave her. She'd found out who the body actually was during the process and sent anonymous flowers to the family. Something Mycroft had given her hell about when he found out. With one signature, Mycroft took everything from there. She'd played her part well and rushed out when she got the call the body was on the ground ensuring it was identified as Sherlock.
She'd seen Sherlock one more time before Mycroft discreetly helped him leave London. He'd seemed antsy to go and uttered a litany of instructions at her. He had all of the energy he normally had when he was hot on the case but she saw the same look in his eyes he had the night before. You look sad, when you think he can't see you…
Sobs escaped her throat as she laid flowers on Sherlock's empty grave later that evening. She didn't know what he was up to but she knew it was dangerous enough to make this entire fiasco essential. When they said goodbye earlier she wanted to ask him so much more instead she'd just stood there like a bloody idiot muttering "ok."
She'd been thankful she had the strength to speak up when it counted. She'd been able to help keep him safe. Something tugged at her heart and she put her head in her hands. As dumb as it sounded a piece of her had hoped this may be the thing that would bring them together. More tears as she touched the mound of dirt beneath the flowers. She would miss him bursting into her morgue with a request that out of anyone else's mouth would seem strange. With that thought stuck in her heart, she walked away from the headstone wondering if she would ever hear from Sherlock again.
#
A few weeks past and she suddenly became aware that keeping this secret was going to be a lot harder than she expected. Greg came into the morgue to look at a stabbing victim and he attempted to make small talk with her. She'd practically dropped everything she put her hand on trying not to reveal the secret that attempted to claw its way up her throat. A month after Greg's visit Mycroft burst into her lap sporting a fresh bruise on the side of his face asking Molly if she'd said anything to John. Molly told him she hadn't seen John since that day. Mycroft informed her that John was shaking down leads, quite literally, to find out if Sherlock was still alive and where he was hiding. He warned her not to say anything and left.
John did show up in the morgue a few hours later. Molly thought he looked more apt to be lying on one of her tables than running around London. He'd rushed in and asked her about the day Sherlock died. She tried so hard not to look into his eyes as she politely fended off his questions. The raw hurt there made her feel sick with guilt and she knew he might see it on her face. She finally broke down in tears and that seemed to bring John out of his frenzy. He wrapped his arms around her and hushed an apology into her ear. After making sure she was alright, he left and Molly sank to the floor weeping into her lab coat.
After John's visit she decided she had to go about things differently if she wanted to keep her sanity. Her supervisor let her move her position away from the active morgue because she agreed working with the police was "upsetting to Molly's disposition." For the rest of the year she threw herself into her work. She'd never been praised as much by her bosses for her contributions to the school. To some extent the rushed pace helped. There were points over the year she forgot about the lie rotting in her gut.
A large distraction came at the beginning of Sherlock's second year away in the form of an employee exchange program with a university in Germany. She came back to London over winter break, resolute in seeing John. She'd gotten a lead on a job for him. She wanted to at least do that much to help him. Lestrad told her that John had moved out of Baker Street and was living in a half-way house for Veterans. She visited the large building one night to find John reading a book in the common room. He smiled up at her, a five o'clock shadow darkening a thinner face. They made small talk until Molly told him about a friend who was looking for help at a local clinic. She returned to Germany hoping the job might help John recover and wondering if Sherlock might return by the spring.
She started to see a therapist after she returned from Germany and the three year anniversary of Sherlock's "disappearance" loomed over her head. Sessions were awkward and unhelpful because she couldn't talk about what was really on her mind. Her "withholding" as her therapist had called it, lead to the tattered kitty journal in her hand. Her therapist suggested Molly write whatever she couldn't say out loud into a journal to start sorting out her feelings and letting go of her guilt. For a few months it did help and she finally had hope peace was on the horizon.
#
Everything came to a head four days ago. The person who'd taken over for her while she was in Germany had made a mess of her office. When her schedule slowed down enough to give it a thorough clean it she found a stack of yellowed notepaper stuffed inside of a red folder. After reviewing the papers she recognized the choppy scrawl across the pages as Sherlock's.
She didn't know what to do with the crinkled remnants of Sherlock. Something in her gut said she couldn't throw them away. Mycroft finally returned her attempts to contact him with a gruff "do not bother me with such trivial things Miss. Hooper. I think you know where they should go."
She had no idea what Mycroft meant until that evening when she saw the picture taken at Christmas three years ago on her mantle. The gang finally coerced Sherlock into a group photo. Well, it was more John told him to stop being such a prat and take five minutes out of his brooding for a photo. He and John were at the back. John beamed at the camera; his smile was slightly askew because he'd just finished saying something to Sherlock, something that made Sherlock smile. She never found out what John said to him. Greg commented later in the evening that John was the only one who kept Sherlock from kicking them all out into the snow. She looked at the photo again and knew what Mycroft meant when he said she knew where the notes belonged. She hadn't seen John since last Christmas and it took a while for her to track down his new address.
She pulled up to a posh townhouse complex and checked the address she'd scrawled in her notebook to be sure. The last time she saw John he'd still been a mess and reeling from Sherlock's death in a group home only a few levels above a homeless shelter. She hoped this move was a good sign. The well dressed woman who answered the door introduced herself as John's sister, Harry, as she stepped aside to let Molly in.
"I think he will be happy to have a friend visiting. Things have been a bit slow since he moved out of the city." There was a slight lilt to her voice and Molly noticed her pick up a half empty glass of wine from a decorative table in the hallway. Harry led Molly down the corridor to a large open concept kitchen and living room area.
Molly stopped abruptly and tried not to let her mouth fall open. John sat curled up on the sofa with a blanket reading a book while the TV played in the background. If she'd run into him on the street, she wouldn't have recognized him. A full beard now covered his face but the shape showed it was obviously due to neglect. The only thing that looked like an improvement were his eyes, last time the orbs of blue stood out against black circles. Now they simply looked red rimmed and tired.
John looked up at her and a moment of confusion crossed his face before he gave her a genuine smile. "Molly, what a lovely surprise. Come to check up on the Doctor?"
John's smile was contagious and she found herself returning it even though she knew it was just an imitation of the happiness he use to have. He stood and walked towards her. His jeans hung lower on his waist and he appeared to be swimming in his t-shirt. He stumbled a bit as he walked and Harry passed a worn wooden cane to him over the couch.
Molly didn't recall him needing a cane either of the times she'd seen him in the past. "Did you hurt yourself?"
Sadness came over his face. "This is an old injury actually. I thought I had it licked, but I guess it will always be there."
"I'm sure it will get better now that you've stopped running around London at all hours of the night. Got himself kicked out of the last place he was in because he could never come back at curfew, always out hunting after some ghost. But that's over now. Sissy will take care of you." His sister patted him on the shoulder while taking a sip from the wine glass. Molly hazarded a look at the clock, not even two in the afternoon yet. Okay.
John closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration. "Let's go to the back porch. I could use some sunshine and air that doesn't smell like day old cabernet."
Harry made a sound of disgust as she plopped down on the sofa her eyes turning to the TV. Molly let John lead her to the glass doors at the back of the living room. They opened to a small wood patio overlooking a large common area in the center of the housing complex. He gestured to an ornate iron chair with orange padding under a matching umbrella. He grunted in pain as he eased into the chair next to her. After all this time, he was still a mess. She didn't know if she wanted to give him the notes now. It may bring up old feelings that would erase any progress he may have made.
"You still at the clinic?"
"I moved to one out here actually, just part time hours for now. There is a possibility that it might turn into something more permanent. I had to get out of the city. Harry needs someone around and I needed somewhere to live. I never got the chance to thank you for the lead on that job. So thanks." She hated it every time he smiled at her. She wished she could melt through the wood planks and sink into the ground with Sherlock's lie.
"Well I was out of the country." She tried to make it sound like a joke and John, bless him, had the courtesy to laugh.
"How was that?" He patiently listened to her talking about her time abroad and the program and anything she could think of to delay giving him the notes. His eyes kept falling on the envelope sticking out of her bag and it felt cruel to make him wait any longer.
She tried not to let her voice crack as she pulled the envelope out and put it on her lap. "I found some old notes of Sherlock's at the morgue during a flash of spring cleaning. I didn't know what to do with them. I'm sorry…"
John turned his face from her for a moment and his hand tensed on the side of the chair. He turned back to her with a neutral expression. "May I?"
"Oh yes, well I was going to give them to you, if that would be alright." She passed him the envelope. He unraveled the piece of string at the top slowly as if every turn of the thread stripped energy from his body. He removed the several pages of handwritten notes and studied them.
"These are from some time ago." He flipped through a few pages. Molly didn't understand all of them but she knew these were some of Sherlock's theories about things that had happened in the past. He'd come down to look at bodies when he felt Lestrad was shutting him out of an interesting case or sometimes he wanted to run experiments. In the beginning he would scribble notes but as time passed he would come in, experiment, observe, and leave.
"Yes…" Her voice trailed off as John turned another page in the stack of notes. He wasn't listening to her anymore. His fingers traced over the lines as he read and his expression changed with each word. One illustration of a mallet hitting a man's foot drew a smile. Not the forced grin that he gave to her when they met in the living room. The same smile she'd seen him give to Sherlock, whether or not the genius was looking. Another few words down the page and his brow knotted together in concentration as he tried to absorb a badly scrawled bit of Sherlock's writing. After another few pages the smile came coupled with a soft laugh. His chin trembled and he covered his mouth with his hand. He stayed like that for a while, holding the pages in his hand but no longer reading them. He took a shaky breath and looked at her. Her heart stopped as she saw the beads of moisture at the corner of his eyes. "Thank you for this Molly."
The tears escaped down the side of his cheeks and he made no attempt to wipe them away. "This means…it means more than you know."
Molly had seen Sherlock have hundreds of epiphanies in front of her. His eyes would go wide; he would exclaim something, and then rush from the morgue like a horse from the starting gate. She never really got it until she looked into John's eyes. In a fraction of a second her mind whirred through the past several years focusing on one thing, John and Sherlock. She burned quickly through the long fuse of thoughts until they hit a conclusion that exploded through her being.
Oh god, she instantly felt like the stupidest person in the world as the realization washed over her. The way they seemed to say so much to each other without talking. John's patient attitude as Sherlock steamrolled over him with another one of his long winded deductions, both insulting and brilliant at the same time. John's kindness even when Sherlock didn't deserve it. The way even now, when the world believed Sherlock was dead, John continued fighting on for him.
I know how it feels to love someone as infuriating and captivating as Sherlock Holmes. I'm here for you. Let's talk about this. I'm so sorry. She wanted to say all these things but the only thing that came out as she squeezed the Doctor's hand was "John…"
He put his hand up to stop her sentence short, shook his head, and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. Not now, he wasn't ready. Maybe he hadn't even admitted it to himself yet. She took her hand back and let out a shaky sigh. John shifted in his chair and silence fell over the porch. Molly was content to listen to the sounds coming from the courtyard. She didn't want to have to think about what she'd just figured out and how much she was a part of the heartbreak she'd caused to the unfailingly kind John Watson.
#
Last night she'd thrown herself into the pages of her journal picking apart every moment she'd had with Sherlock. If something was going to happen between herself and the consulting detective, it would've happened by now. She loved him, but she knew the time had come to put aside something that would only remain in scribbled ink on a page. She had the chance to make something real for someone or at least she could give John the chance to tell Sherlock how he felt. After all she put him through, it was the least she could do. John should have gone with Sherlock when he disappeared. She should have spoken up and said something. Instead, her love for Sherlock had blurred everything else and she'd made a huge mistake, one that she intended to make right.
Molly looked out at the busy London street and let the soft pattern of beats on the window sync up with her heart. It was her call to battle. Molly turned from the window and grabbed her purse from the coffee table. She stuffed the kitten covered book inside and buttoned up her jacket against the rain. She caught her reflection in a framed picture hanging behind her couch. She hadn't slept and it was clearly written all over her face. But she looked more energized than she had felt in three years. She smiled at her reflection. "You're ok."
At first she tried the most discreet ways to reach Mycroft. But it quickly became obvious that the elder Holmes wasn't a man who wanted to be contacted. Any other day she might have walked away. Not today. Molly Hooper was on a mission. It took several other creative attempts until a few hours standing by the traffic cameras on Trafalgar Square holding a sign with the initials M.H. on them finally got a response. A black car pulled up in front of Molly, a woman's long lashes batted from behind a half open window. "I'll take you to him."
Molly didn't bother introducing herself when she got into the car. They rode in silence for well over an hour until they reached a country house clipped right from the pages of a magazine. Molly didn't address the man in the business suit that opened the car door when they parked in the driveway. She took a deep breath, held her head up and walked towards the ornate hardwood door at the entrance of the house. Her hand was poised to knock when it opened, revealing Mycroft looking very put out. "I believe you have something to speak with me about Miss. Hooper?"
"Yes." He stepped aside and let her enter. She followed him through the foyer taking a sharp right into a small sitting room between the kitchen and the entrance of the house. The windows at the rear of the room showed the grey mist left from the rain clinging to the sloping hillside that surrounded the back of the property. Molly stood in the middle of the room and wondered if this was a family house, if little Sherlock had stood where she stood now. She cast those thoughts far from her mind and got down to the task at hand.
"I know I'm not supposed to contact you but…"
"And yet here you are. I'm very busy Miss. Hooper so if you could kindly cut to the chase." Mycroft hadn't moved from the entryway to the room. He stood there with his arms crossed looking at Molly.
"I need to speak with Sherlock."
"That's not possible."
"It's important."
"I'm sure it is. I can relay a message if you'd like."
Molly hesitated, hugging her purse to her chest for support. "I need to speak with him directly. It's private."
Mycroft's eyes rolled as he sat down in a large leather armchair, blocking the view from the window. "Miss Hooper. We are dealing with a very delicate situation here. This isn't the moment to get sentimental."
Molly clenched her hands into fists and let her voice rise to a level just below a shout. "I know what we are dealing with. What you've gotten me into. I've had three years to think about it. I don't care. This is important. I need to speak with Sherlock."
A heated silence fell between them. Mycroft studied her face for a moment and the smallest hint of a smile crossed his lips. "I see you've been to visit the Doctor."
Molly didn't know what to say, she looked down at the purse in her arms.
Mycroft rose from the chair with a heavy sigh. "Follow me."
Molly's eyes went wide and her heart started to repeat the steady beat she'd heard the rain make earlier. "He's here?"
Mycroft didn't grace her with a reply; he walked past her into the foray then took a right leading to a carpeted staircase up to the second floor. When they reached the top Molly noticed the difference from the first floor immediately. The stairway came up to a comfortable landing space with two small occasional chairs turned to face a large bay window. Both of the chairs were stacked with books. Cardboard boxes were stacked four high next to them and several more stacks lead over to the window. Mycroft turned to the left and walked down a narrow hallway littered with stacks of various items. They passed two closed doorways before coming to the large mahogany French doors marking the master bedroom.
"This is where he is?"
"The master bedroom? Do you imagine my brother would let me put him anywhere else?" Annoyance saturated Mycroft voice.
Molly could hear the sound of the TV blaring through the doors. Mycroft knocked and waited the customary three seconds before opening the door. The room was half the size of Molly's entire apartment and contained twice the mess. The king size bed had the coverlet half off and was wedged by a large set of white bookcases at the back of the room at an odd angle. Uneaten food on fine china lay scattered around the floor like landmines. Stacks of books towered in the other corner along with a large wingback chair covered in clothing. The stacks of books seemed to be serving as makeshift desk, a laptop perched precariously on top of one, with a still steaming cup of tea on pile of newspapers. The wall to the right of the stacks had a large map tacked to it with a spider's web of red string connecting notes, articles and other things she couldn't quite make out.
Clothes lay strewn about the room in a half-hazard fashion condensing in smaller piles until they reached the large leather recliner in the southwest corner of the room that faced a large TV. Sherlock perched on the edge of the recliner, his hands running quickly through the mass of brown curls on his head.
He had on an ill-fitting button down shirt and khaki slacks. The pattern and style suggested that Sherlock had not picked them out. By the state of his room Molly guessed he'd run out of clean clothes and threw this outfit together as a last resort. He was in the middle of berating something on the television when they entered.
"Mycroft, my God. I think I've just witnessed the fall of western civilization. It is by far the most horrific thing I've ever seen." Sherlock grimaced as he turned to them spitting out, "Toddlers and Tiaras."
The second he saw Molly he was on his feet, rushing towards her. Molly's heart sank when she saw him. He was just as bad as John; his only saving grace was he still seemed to have the dignity to shave every day. His cheekbones jutted out from his pale skin taut against the bone. His eyes were red-rimmed and had dark hallows around them from lack of sleep. He looked like a man ready to collapse but he came at her with the speed of an Olympic sprinter, speaking even faster.
"Molly? What's wrong? What's happened? Where is John? Is he alright?" Sherlock grabbed her by the shoulders and squeezed, his eyes darting over her face and clothes picking her apart to find the answer she hadn't said yet.
"Mycroft what's happened?" Sherlock laid the same studious eye on his brother then he turned back to Molly. "Tired eyes, slapdash dressing effort today at best, you've been biting your nails again. What's happened? Molly you know you can't keep things from me. Molly! Tell me what's wrong!"
She would have toppled over if his hands weren't clamped around her shoulders. "Sherlock everything is fine…I…"
He released her shoulders and threw his arms up in the air. "Then why are you here?" He walked back, looked at the map, and started pacing the faded length of carpet behind the arm chair. He was still in the process of bringing out the answer from the details of her attire, shouting out bits of information. The dirt from Church Street market on her shoes, the fact she'd had too much wine last night with dinner…
"It's about John, Sherlock." Molly turned to Mycroft. "Could I speak with him in private?"
"John? What's wrong? Mycroft you said he was fine." Sherlock stopped pacing and put his hands in his pockets, giving his brother a stare that would make the devil shiver.
"He is fine." Mycroft gave Molly a smile that said good luck. "Miss. Hooper, I'll leave you two alone."
"Oh no, Mycroft you stay. I'm anxious to hear what part of this you've botched spectacularly. You hadn't told me that she'd even been to see him." He put his hands on his head in exasperation. "I couldn't even see that she'd been to see him. Oh god, my brain's gone to rot. I blame you Mycroft. I've been out of the city too long. I'm going back. We can pick up John on the way." Sherlock strode over a large armoire on the side of the room and threw it open, a stack of books toppled out. He pulled on his black trench coat and headed towards the door.
"Sherlock, we agreed, you aren't returning to London until we've teased out all the loose ends." Mycroft moved to stand beside Molly, both of their bodies blocking the only way out of the room.
"Try to stop me Mycroft. How many times have I bested you before?"
Mycroft let out an empathetic laugh. "As a child perhaps, I always let you win or you threw a tantrum that would last the length of the time I was assigned to watch you."
Molly faded into the floral wallpaper as she watched the Holmes brothers argue with the temperament of someone witnessing a stranger smash their fine China. Sherlock turned to her. "You were going to say something... Something about John? What's happened? Is he alright?"
Sherlock started rapid firing questions until the words just jumbled together into a tornado that made her head spin.
"He's in love with you!"
It came out of Molly's mouth as more of a vomiting of words rather than an actual sentence so she took a deep breath and said it again slowly, so it was easier to understand. Although, she wasn't sure if Sherlock would.
"It's John. He's in love with you, Sherlock."
Sherlock stilled for a moment before his face contorted into a comic expression of disbelief. "In love with me? John Watson? Molly do you even know what you're talking about? Of course you don't."
He walked back to the center of the room with a few quick strides and put his hands on his hips. He stood for a few moments rapidly tapping his foot and then let out a laugh. "Oh Molly. Really, is this what it's come down to? You're projecting your feelings onto someone else? I think the time for childish confessions has passed. I'm very busy trying to hunt down the men out there who still wish to put a bullet in my head and yours and John's as a matter of fact. If you think I'm going to stop all of that just because you feel a little lonely in your flat on a Saturday night then you're wrong. Seriously Mycroft why did you even…"
Molly shut him out the best she could as her emotions close off her throat. She looked down at the carpet and thought of John's face as he looked at the notes; Sherlock's brilliant notes. Wait, Sherlock was brilliant. It had been three years, was it possible he hadn't tracked them all down by now? The man who could tell you what you had for lunch three days ago by examining your left hand. The last time she saw him he was energetic and actually looking forward to the chase, flipping through notes and hardly paying attention to her…except when she mentioned John. Molly looked again at the bedroom which was slowly being filled by the ongoing monologue of a Sherlock who'd been cooped up too long. The map on the wall was faded, the books had dust on them, and the indentation on the recliner was far too pronounced. Then there was the mess. The only time she'd seen Baker Street like this was when he was in between cases, when he was bored. When he was on a case he was constantly moving things, inputting new junk into piles, things didn't have time to get dust. Was he finished? If he was finished, why was he still here? She thought back to what he'd said when she first came in. John. She looked like hell warmed over but his only concern was for John. Her breath caught in her throat as she looked at him. Was it possible?
Molly turned her head slightly as she studied Sherlock who had now changed course and was ranting about the state of his room. It took a few moments for the realization to sink in. With John it had been heartbreakingly obvious when she combined his reaction to Sherlock's notes to the Doctor's action towards Sherlock in the past. She thought back to her conversation with Sherlock when he cornered her in the lab and told her she did matter. For the longest time that had been the only thing that stuck out in her mind, Sherlock needing her. But now she examined the past without rose colored glasses and saw something much more vibrant.
Anger rose and warmed her chest, rising to fill her cheeks with color. Anytime emotions came up around Sherlock he was the first to dismiss them. The only emotion Sherlock ever showed around her was towards his cases. Maybe that's why he was still here. He didn't understand. The irony of it all, the smartest man she ever knew not being able to understand the human heart. Instead he kept himself here and tortured John with his absence. Sherlock looked tortured too. They really needed each other.
Her heart cracked in half and she felt the yolk of her infatuation for Sherlock melt into the carpet beneath her feet. She'd been holding on to this impossible dream for too long. His actions the night before he jumped and his eyes the day after, he'd realized what this would do to John and possibly that had been the moment he realized his true feelings for him. He said he needed her and he'd meant it. The truth was that day and every day of the past three years who he really needed was John, but he'd been too afraid to ask.
Sherlock continued plowing through a good rant as he darted around the room, tossing things one way and knocking stacks of books over with his foot. There was a time that she would have scampered away like a little mouse when Sherlock went on like this. Now she saw him for the colicky child he was and she didn't envy John one bit. A laugh escaped her throat the absurdity of it all as a few tears escaped down her cheeks. She felt free in a way, changed. Shiny new Molly. Happy Molly. Brave Molly. Molly who was about to set things right.
Her laughter caused Sherlock to stop and look at her as if she was a student who spoke out of turn during a particularly serious lesson. "Oh I'm sorry Molly. What about this situation is so amusing? I fail to…"
"You stupid git." She let the laughter bubble up as she wiped at her eyes. "How do you think this is helping either of you?"
"What are you…?"
Molly joined him at the center of the room and put a hand on his arm. "He's a mess you know. Lost at least ten pounds since I saw him last. He misses you. He loves you."
"I well…uh." Sherlock Holmes at a loss for words, this day was just full of surprises. She smiled up at him. "He loves you Sherlock and you love him. So stop hiding and come back."
The fight left Sherlock with a sigh. His entire form sagged under the weight of Molly's words. "I've taken too long…"
"You don't think he'll understand?" She gave his arm a reassuring squeeze then tipped forward and kissed him on the cheek. "Goodbye Sherlock."
She crossed the room towards Mycroft who wore a neutral expression except for the smile hiding in the lines at the corner of his eyes. "I'll have my driver take you home Miss. Hooper."
"Molly!" She turned to look at Sherlock, his eyes filled with the spark she saw in them when he'd first charged into the morgue and changed her life. He gave her a tight lipped smile and quick nod of his head thank you. She smiled back before she walked through the doorway shaking her head, still as stubborn as ever.
#
It took another month before she received any word from the Holmes brothers on Sherlock's next move. Her phone rang while she was at one of the group lunches Human Resources put on for the new hires. She normally would wait in the morgue during any free time she had, hoping Sherlock would arrive, but things were different now. She excused herself from the table.
"See you around Molly," Chris, the newest hire to the biology department called out to her.
Molly blushed. "Yeah! I'll be down with the bodies." She answered the phone as she mentally hit herself in the forehead I'll be down with the dead bodies, so smooth Hooper. "Hello?"
"I'll have my car at your home tomorrow at 1400." Mycroft's voice hit her ear in a monotone.
"But I have to work."
"I'm sure you can find a way to get out of it." The line went dead. Molly looked at the phone in her hand and suddenly she had butterflies her in stomach. Was Sherlock finally coming home?
#
After the long drive out of the city Molly was greeted by Mycroft. They sat in the same room she'd made her original plea to talk to Sherlock a month ago. He poured her a cup of tea and in typical Holmes fashion said nothing.
"So I'm assuming Sherlock is coming home…"
Mycroft sipped his tea. "We are in the process of planning his resurrection presently."
"Then why bring me…"
The door opened and a police officer came in pushing a man who wore handcuffs and a black bag over his head. The man was making quite a fuss and above all the cursing Molly recognized the voice.
"John?" She put down her cup, walked over to him, and pulled the black hood off.
John blinked back at her, his eyes wide with surprise. "Molly?"
Molly gave him a sympathetic look as she motioned for the cop to take the handcuffs off. The officer looked to Mycroft who nodded and the cop quickly freed John's hands. He still looked as run down as the last time she saw him except he was clean shaven. As soon as John saw Mycroft his face went red with anger. "I told you three years ago. I'm out. I don't want to be a part of your political games anymore Mycroft. Take me home or things are going to get ugly."
John looked at Molly. "What are you doing here?"
"Well…" Molly trailed off. He didn't know. She knew she should probably hide her excitement but she couldn't stop the smile from sliding across her lips.
"Let's just say Miss. Hooper is her to see her hard work come to fruition. If you could follow me upstairs John."
"No bloody way. I'm not going to follow you anywhere until you tell me what the hell is going on."
"Well if you'd like to stay in the foyer all day, be my guest."Mycroft walked passed them and started to ascend the carpeted steps. John let out a huff of frustration and started to go next but Molly pushed passed him, a mumbled apology passing her lips. She wanted to get to the room before John.
Mycroft threw the double doors of the master bedroom wide open and stood to the side. He caught Molly by the elbow and lightly guided her to stand with him. The room had been cleaned since Molly last visited. The bed was back in its rightful place and the books were back on bookshelves. The large leather chair across the room had been turned to face the door and in it sat Sherlock, hands folded in his lap. The chair was just to the left enough he wouldn't be visible from the hall. He'd cut his hair and was wearing a purple button down top with black slacks and matching jacket. It used to be one of her favorites. She wondered if he suspected it was one of John's favorites as well.
John had been several steps behind them the whole time cursing Mycroft's name and he didn't let up when he got to the top of the stairs. "Run up the bloody steps, of course. Leave the guy with the limp far behind. Mycroft I'm going to…" John stood in the doorway with his mouth open the rest of the sentence dissolving in midair.
Molly's eyes kept darting from Sherlock to John then back again. After the initial shock John's expression transitioned into something she couldn't quite read. She knew from their conversation that there was always a piece of him that believed that Sherlock wasn't dead. She'd wanted to tell him so many times. A lump rose in her throat and she struggled not to cry. She put her hand over her mouth and waited for one of them to speak.
Sherlock smiled. "Hello John."
John grit his teeth and looked down at the floor. "You took bloody long enough."
Concern passed over Sherlock's face as he stood and crossed the room to meet John. "You knew?"
"Not for certain, no." John looked up at him. "So you're alive, you're really real then? This isn't another barking mad illusion of mine?"
"No."
"Good." John's fist connected with the side of Sherlock's face with enough force to send the consulting detective sprawling to the side. "You bloody selfish git!"
Sherlock stumbled to the left, lost his balance and fell into one of the bookshelves that lined the room. Molly jumped with surprise and moved her hand from her mouth so she could explain. Mycroft put a hand on her shoulder to signal her to stop.
"John, let me explain."
"You bastard!" John grabbed Sherlock by the front of his jacket and pushed him up against the bookcase, the force knocking several books off and onto the floor. Blood from the cut on Sherlock's bottom lip left a smear of red down his right cheek.
"Moriarty was going to kill you. I had to…"
"I don't give a shit about your explanations Sherlock. I don't care why you did it. You left me. You. Left. Me." John pushed him into the bookcase to accentuate each word.
Sherlock's expression softened. "I'm sorry John."
John looked up at Sherlock and shook his head. He let go of Sherlock and raised his hands to cover his face. John took several deep breaths. He rubbed his eyes for a second and looked back up at Sherlock, the light from the windows highlighted tracks of moisture on his cheeks.
"Never again Sherlock. Never again. We are…we are." John stumbled over the words. He paused and looked at Sherlock with an expression that broke Molly's heart. "We are a team. If you jump, I jump. End of story. Don't think you have to protect me from anything. This whole time… I waited. God Sherlock, I was so…so alone." John slumped forward, falling against Sherlock's chest. Sherlock leaned his head forward and wrapped his arms around John.
"I know. I…" Sherlock's breath hitched in his throat as he strained to get the rest of the words out. "I was too."
John pulled back to look up at Sherlock. They stood there looking at each other without speaking for a long time. Molly suspected the silence held a conversation only they could understand. Suddenly, John took a sharp breath and brought his lips up to meet Sherlock's. He tangled his fingers in Sherlock's unruly hair, pulling him closer and kissing him with an intensity that made Molly feel any of her previous romantic physical encounters had been dreadfully lacking. Sherlock wrapped his arms around John's waist and pulled him towards him with enough intensity to strain the fabric of the jumper John was wearing. Soon the kisses were coupled with soft sighs which gradually added more rumbling tones of hunger as time passed. Molly blushed and looked over at Mycroft.
"I think that's our cue to exit," he whispered to her. They silently left the room and Mycroft closed the doors behind them with a soft click.
A thought occurred to Molly as they descended the stairs. "You knew about this the whole time didn't you?"
"I suspected. I wasn't quite sure my brother was capable of a relationship until Dr. Watson came along. Even then, he's always been so stubborn." When they reached the bottom he turned, removed Molly's jacket from the coat rack on the wall and handed it to her. She put it on while they walked to the door.
Mycroft held the door open for her. "I suspect we will need your assistance again very soon. As I said before, Sherlock was insistent that this incident not reflect badly on you and you have my word that it won't. Anyways, good work Miss. Cooper. You are a more valuable asset than Sherlock led me to believe."
Molly nodded as she walked through the doorway. Her mind not really paying attention to what Mycroft said. She was more focused on the notes in the Morgue. Sherlock would never do something so careless. She'd never thought of it before. She stopped and looked back at Mycroft.
"You left the notes in the morgue, didn't you? Because you knew I'd give them to John and you knew that would start the process of them coming together."
Mycroft answered her with a coy smile. "Goodbye Miss. Hooper."
#
"Clearly he didn't get beaten to death with a printer so why is there ink all over him? Really John, this should be obvious even for you."
Molly leaned back against the counter and watched John and Sherlock look over the subject of their latest case with rapt attention. John shot back a quip and crossed behind Sherlock to get the medical notes from the table. She noticed his hand rest on Sherlock's hip for a second longer than necessary.
"Is something amusing Molly?" Sherlock's eyes pierced her over the corpse.
Oh drat, she'd caught him. "Nothing just watching you two… in action again. It's nice."
John beamed at her. "Don't miss the peace and quiet?"
"Never!"
"If you two girls want to have a chat, go do it in the hallway. Some of us are trying to figure out why someone is lying on a slab covered in about a half liter of ink."
John walked over to her and lowered his voice. "I never got the chance to thank you. This month has been quite hectic."
She smiled at him. "You two back at Baker Street then?"
"Yes and, oddly enough, Mrs. Hudson wasn't surprised when we told her we'd use the second bedroom for storage."
Molly giggled and playfully swatted John on the arm. He beamed at her and she realized she'd never seen him this happy.
Sherlock made a sound of displeasure. "John, are you quite finished? I need you."
John gave her a look and walked back to the table where Sherlock pointed to the victims head and mumbled something Molly couldn't understand.
The door swung open and Chris entered. He wore a faded blue t-shirt with the rolling stones tongue under his lab coat and blue jeans. He glanced at the floor and fingered the edges of the white fabric of his coat when his eyes found her. "Hey Molly."
Molly looked at her watch. "Oh, is it that time? I totally forgot it was my turn to get coffee."
"Oh God." Sherlock's voice echoed out from behind her.
"Yeah well that probably wouldn't have helped. James just told me that the coffee machine is broken so…"
"Broken. Oh that's red alert right there." Stupid joke Hooper.
"Molly just say yes to dinner so you both will leave and stop distracting me with this inane conversation." Molly turned to see Sherlock leaning against the autopsy table.
"Sherlock." John chastised.
"Oh stop it! Look at him. Outfits new, there are still remnants of the tag on the leg of his pants. His hair, even that amount of product would've worn out over the course of the day but it's still impossibly pointy. So he's fixed it then. That and the fact that he asked you to coffee last time that I was around, so he's been skirting around this for a month or so. Also Lestrad got a cup of coffee when we got here. The chances of the machine breaking down within a fifteen minute time frame are highly unlikely. Too timid to ask you out so he makes up a story. Say yes now Molly, you two are perfect for each other. Then get out so I can think." Sherlock shot the comment out in his usual deadpan fashion.
John glanced at Sherlock and then back at Molly. "Actually I kind of agree with Sherlock on this one. We can lock up."
Molly smiled at Chris who seemed totally thrown off kilter by the entire exchange. "So where are we going to dinner?"
Chris looked at Sherlock for a moment and then back to Molly. "He's not a crazy ex-boyfriend is he?"
"No, no. Not ex-boyfriend. Mine. My boyfriend." John grabbed Sherlock's hand and smiled at Chris. Sherlock looked at their joined hands, horrified. "John, I hate that term. I told you that." Sherlock shook John's hand off and grabbed the file from the table.
"But you are."
"Yes I am. Now will everyone just get out or shut up so I can think!"
Molly held out her hand to Chris. "Why don't I explain over dinner?"
He grinned at her and wrapped his large hand around hers. "I can't wait to hear it."
Molly turned back as they walked through the door to see John bending over the corpse studying something with Sherlock. Sherlock glanced up at her and gave her the faintest hint of a smile. Then he was gone, replaced by the silver metal of the door. Molly looked up at the handsome man walking beside her. She hadn't been on a date in so long. But something inside of her said with everything she'd been through in the past three years, getting through a first date would be a nice change of pace.
The end