What if there was more to why Molly slapped Sherlock than just the drugs? Set at the beginning of His Last Vow.
Note: I love screenplay format, but try as I might, I just couldn't make this one work like that. So here it is in the original form it took when the idea hit my head. Reviews are greatly appreciated!
The pleasant rush that heralded the arrival of the drug cocktail he'd just injected had barely taken effect when Sherlock caught the silent buzz of a text message. Luckily he was still propped against the wall. It required no great effort or movement to swivel his head slightly until the phone's owner came into peripheral view.
The girl was slouching on a bare mattress directly next to him, her head propped up, a grubby pillow cushioning it from the crumbling wall. She slid the phone nonchalantly out of her pocket, her posture straightening only slightly as she viewed the message. Something about the way her body tensed ever so slightly struck him as wrong. Fighting the desire to slide his eyes closed and enjoy the euphoria settling over him like a warm blanket, he turned his head a bit further in order to observe her more closely.
Her hair was lank, falling in a thin veil over her forehead, but on closer inspection, it wasn't dirty, had in fact, been shampooed within the past day. Similarly, her clothing was worn and grubby, but not with the type of filth one might expect from a junkie. She didn't smell of sweat or vomit or sex. He noticed the traces of recently removed make-up under her jaw line and her nails...recently manicured and even more recently trimmed short, traces of pale lacquer showing around the edges. She didn't belong here, any more than he did. What's more, she wasn't high. She was a good actress, but it was obvious once he really looked that whatever she'd taken earlier had no intoxicating effects.
For God's sake, why hadn't he observed her more closely before now? It was the drugs, of course, the anticipation of the high, clouding his reason. The very appeal of the thing and it's dirty trap, one in the same. The fact of it being for a case didn't diminish the allure, didn't negate the overall pleasant dulling of his emotions. What use did he have of those anyway? All they ever did was cause pain.
He used the motion of discarding the syringe and removing the tourniquet as reason to shift in her direction, eyes covertly on her phone as he did so. She shoved it under her leg and out of sight, but not before he glimpsed the message. It was short, only four characters, "3 min" but he knew exactly what it meant. He didn't need to see the smug look in her eyes for confirmation.
What he needed was to get up. Get out. He had just over two minutes now. He needed to run. Being arrested at this point was not an option. It was too soon. It would spoil everything. It would mean Mycroft's involvement, which he might need eventually, but not yet. He needed to move. Now.
Pushing himself up against the wall, he heard her whisper, "Too late" as he stumbled out of the room into the corridor. A surge of adrenaline moved him forward, propelled him toward the room at the end of the hallway, the one with the broken out window. Now that he was moving, he felt graceful, invincible. It didn't take much effort to clamber out of the opening into the back alley.
Unfortunately, he was several seconds too late. Footsteps came running towards him through the darkness. Two sets, one heaver...male, one lighter, more spry...female.
As if to confirm his analysis of the footfalls, he heard the woman call to her partner as they ran, "I've got 'im. You take the other side." The man's steps veered off around a fence, in the direction of a side door as the woman came into view. It took a nanosecond to formulate a plan...run directly at her, drop at the last second and roll to knock her feet from under her, then spring up and run again. If he could make the end of the alleyway and cut through the storage yard behind the adjacent building, he'd be free.
And it might have worked had she not anticipated the move. He dashed directly at her as planned, but before he had a chance to drop and roll, she did so instead. He managed to make a clumsy leap over her, but stumbled none-the-less, giving her time to spring back up and grab his shoulder.
They scuffled, him off-kilter and simply trying to push out of her grip, her twisting his clothing in her fists, intent on wrestling him to the ground. He managed to push free of one of her hands and turn to face her, planning to use his height to his advantage. But as he turned, searing hot liquid hit him square in the face, burning like fire and immediately blinding him. A second later her fist connected with his mouth. The pain of the blow compounded the stinging heat that enveloped his sinuses and crawled down his throat, making it nearly impossible to breathe.
Somehow, he managed to keep his feet about him. Even more miraculously, she suddenly stumbled backwards, choking and coughing as well. As luck would have it, the breeze had blown some of the infernal spray back into her face. It allowed him just enough time to stumble away down the alley, squeezing behind a wheelie bin and into the storage yard before she recovered her bearings enough to call for back-up.
He blinked repeatedly, trying to clear his eyes, his vision clouded and blurry. At the same time, he swiped at the trail of mucus draining from his nose and sucked as much air in through his mouth as he could manage without making great gasping sounds that might alert her or the other police officers to his position.
He'd had the unfortunate experience of being pepper sprayed once before and recalled the allergic reaction that followed quite clearly. He knew he had mere minutes, maybe less, before both his eyes swelled shut. Thankfully, the majority of the vile stuff had hit him in the eyes rather than the mouth, which might have swollen his esophagus shut. Potentially fatal, that. Still, he needed a safe haven. Somewhere close by to hide and wait for the effects to wear off. Preferably some place with running water.
He shook his head, flinging tears and snot droplets, surveying the small gravel yard where he stood with the one eye he could still see out of. No good, a security light illuminated one side and on the other there was a lack of anything that might provide a hiding spot.
He skirted along the storehouse next to the yard and briefly contemplated breaking into it, but once the narcotics team cleared the abandoned office facility he'd just come from, they'd no doubt search the adjacent buildings for anyone who'd managed to elude their initial roundup. There would be other runners, there always were. He'd merely had the advantage of a head-start. Sticking carefully to the shadows, he worked his way from alleyway to alleyway, while his nose continued to drain and his eyes burned, becoming ever more blind.
It was evident he'd never make it home like this. He wasn't near a tube station and there was nowhere nearby to easily flag down a taxi. Even if there had been, it was doubtful one would stop for him looking like he currently did. He couldn't show up at Baker Street in this condition anyway. He might be able to evade Ms. Hudson's scrutiny, but Janine was likely still asleep in his bedroom. There would be no way to avoid her. He still needed her in order for his plan to work, and needed her to be attracted to him, which she probably wouldn't be any longer, were she to see him in his current state.
There was only one plausible solution, much as he disliked the idea. He turned one last corner, the neighborhood suddenly transitioning into one that was much nicer and safer than the old industrial area he'd just come from, and made his way as quickly as possible across the short distance to his destination.