Molly's not used to police arriving at the door. At the lab, yes, but not at home. She, like anybody else, feels that stab of panic, that terror where every worst case for every scenario comes flooding through her all at once, and stands wide-eyed with the door on the chain while D.I. Harrison produces his I.D. and lets her check it. He manages a terse half-smile, tells her she's in no danger, that nobody she knows is in any trouble. Then asks her to come with him to the morgue.
"It's my night off," she stammers, not understanding.
"I know that. This isn't work."
"Then-"
"I'd be much more comfortable discussing this down there."
Frankly, Molly's not happy with that. She'd like to know why she's being pulled away from Snog, Marry, Avoid and chardonnay, her only free night this week. She'd like some idea before she just trots off like a puppy. But Harrison stands back off the step, clearing the way, and she feels obliged to go. Says nothing. Follows.
He won't talk in the car either, except to confirm again that there's no direct threat. She doesn't like the wording of that. Wants to ask about the indirect threat, but she doesn't.
It's just like work.
He brings her in, and there's a body on a trolley. Molly almost reaches out to get her white coat from the hook. But Doctor Crossin is already standing over the corpse with his coat on, so he's taking care of this. She's feeling decidedly civilian, a little lost. "Now can you tell me what's going on?"
Crossin nods her over. "Evening, Molly."
"Yes, it is. Monday evening."
"They brought this one in an hour ago. He was already in the bag."
She lifts her eyes without looking up. "They always come in in the bag."
"No. When they found him." He stretches out a hand, unzips the body bag. Thankfully she doesn't recognize the corpse. But there's an envelope jammed between the man's teeth, small and thick and with her name in clear, spiky caps printed on it. Something about the writing is dimly familiar. She looks around, but both coroner and detective seem to expect her to take the lead now. It's addressed to her, after all.
So she tugs it free, reaches across the body for a scalpel and slits the edge. Two folded sheets inside, written back in front. She gives them a quick glance over, tucks them into her pocket and turns to leave.
Harrison calls her back. She can't do that. That's evidence.
She spins on her heel in the hallway and glares at him. "Well, it had my bloody name on it, didn't it?"
Two days later, Molly's back in her own lab, in her white coat, and feeling much more in control than before. Except that her left hand trembles and won't stop. She's running toxicology tests, and in between each has to mop up the spatter and make everything sterile all over again. It's not just the paper in her trouser pocket; it's Sherlock at the microscope. Behind her, but she knows too well he's there. And she knows exactly what she has to ask, knows it word for word, but when it comes to opening her mouth and actually saying it-
"There is something bothering you," he says. She jumps at the sound of his voice and almost spills an entire sample. Molly won't turn until she can straighten her face, until he can see how much his bloody superior tone annoys her. "Said irritation is currently in your left back pocket."
Molly opens her mouth. She's going to fob him off, tell him it doesn't matter. Forget the whole thing. It's probably better that way.
But whatever he sees on her face, in her posture, in the flutter of her hands, his expression softens. "You want to ask for my help with something, Molly." For once in his life he actually sits back away from his studies and holds out his hand. She's on the very edge of taking it in her own, trying to get some comfort from it, when she remembers herself and gives him the letter.
"Code," he mutters, the second his eyes focus.
"I can't make head or tail of it."
"Is this what the police wanted you for the other night?"
"How did you-?"
"Teethmarks, dampness, age, slight odour, little things. Addressed to you?"
"Yes."
"And you want me to… translate, as it were?" Molly drops her head, nods fast and silent. She can't even mumble. And it's not that she's ashamed, or afraid, or even annoyed anymore. He sees through her, he always has, there's no point getting upset about that anymore. No, it's just that Molly already has an idea of what he might decode, where she knew that writing from. All this must write itself on her clear as graffiti, because the letter disappears into his jacket and he tells her, "I'll bring it back tomorrow."
He could have read it to her there and then.
It's just he read ahead by a few lines and he didn't quite like the tone that was taken.
The letter begins; Sorry for the subterfuge, but I couldn't exactly address it to you personally. The code is a standard alphanumeric substitution; the new letters fell very quickly into place for him. Sherlock was sitting there, with Molly right next to him. Molly biting down on deep emotional upset, the kind that won't be defeated, that radiated off her so he couldn't miss it, and reading that. Using the woman to speak to him.
This is as much about her as you anyway. Molly was only ever an in. She was a way to meet you before we actually properly met. I'll admit it, I was showing off a bit. I'll admit it to you because you know all about showing off.
It continues in that vein for a while. Even if the author hadn't made himself so patently obvious from the off, from the very first glimpse of his handwriting, the arrogance, the false honesty, the awful 'between you and me', is all too familiar.
Sherlock has sat for hours now. He knows the letter almost by heart. John's been in and out at the corner of his eye, making tea and food and probably talking, but the flat's all very far away. He's thinking, working very hard to find a solution for Molly.
Except he's not. He should be. But in a terrible way his mind just blanks. He's not used to it. Whole twenty minute blocks just vanish forever and he's no closer to an answer.
But I promise you, I didn't know you were close. I thought it was a work thing. I laughed when I realized what she was doing; she only went out with me to get at you, you know. Or to get over you. Actually, I'm not sure what she wanted. I don't know if she was either. I laughed, but the more I think about it, the closer we get to the end, I'm not laughing anymore. I swear I didn't know. That's not on, wheedling in where people are emotional or insecure. Don't get me wrong; the friend of my enemy is my enemy also. Don't think I won't take them all away from you someday. But I'll do it straight and with a bullet, not low down like that.
Sherlock tried counting the logical inconsistencies pointing to sociopathology and a possible psychotic break, stopped counting them while still in full flow. And there's more, of course, crazed, rambling passages and always this motif, 'the end'. 'Towards a close', 'going out', 'curtain', 'dimming'.
It dawns on him long after dark; the letter is a statement of intent. Negotiating the terms of combat. Murder is fine, seduction is not. Sociological manipulation fine, emotional manipulation not.
She'll be expecting some kind of answer from you. Make something up. You'll do better than me. Tell her I didn't mean to use her. It's not strictly true, but you know what I mean. Tell her I regret it. And that she's safe, and that is true, and you can believe that as well as her. I mistook Molly for fair game. She wasn't. But she's off the board now.
I think that's the best I can do for you. You can tell her I'm sorry.
He doesn't know what he can tell Molly, not really. There's two pages here, front and back. He has to give her something.
But the night just keeps disappearing, in those empty, thoughtless blocks.
Sherlock meets Molly back at the morgue the following morning. She's nervous, half-slept. Waiting for this. For the first in a long time, his confidence fails him. For far too long he can do nothing more than sit, awkward, trying to gather his thoughts. But they wouldn't coalesce last night and things are little better now.
"Molly, I-
"It's about you, isn't it?" she breaks. "I knew it. Had to be. After everything that happened, and the code, I knew I was just-"
"No. Stop, don't finish that." She doesn't, but her heartbeat shakes her shirt, her breathing too fast and shallow to be doing her any good. "Sit," he says. She does, and he feels better. More like himself, regaining composure. "I know what you were about to say. So does he. He knew you felt that way. That's… that was the whole point of this little exercise."
He could be doing the right thing or not. He's not used to uncertainty, but right now it's much easier to take than any of the things he's sure of.
He's sure that the most dangerous mind he's ever come across, barring his own, has suffered some further snap and spiral. He's sure that there's some kind of ending on its way. Most disturbingly of all, he's sure that he's been warned, in some twisted spirit of good sportsmanship.
So he passes on the madman's message to Molly, as it was intended, whatever scrap of truth or sanity might be in it.
"In the beginning, yes, you were a pawn, a messenger. Something changed his opinion of you-"
"What?"
"Come on, Molly… What was it, John said something when he met you… Sell snow to Eskimos, that was it. He… liked you, insofar as he has it in him to like anything. He regrets using you at all. He wants you to know that, whatever happens, you will in no way be involved. You have absolutely nothing to fear."
"Yes I do."
At first, Sherlock doesn't like the tone of that. Or the earnest way her eyes seek out his as he is giving back the letter. He knows what she means, what she's still afraid of, and he hates it.
But for the first time in all of this, a single independently thought steps out and crystallizes, becomes perfect. Because there are only two ways that a pawn may be taken 'off the board'. It can be taken by the enemy, most obviously. But Molly has patently not been taken. Molly is still standing. Molly is immune.
The other thing a pawn can do is cross right over. Through the onslaught, deep into enemy territory and out the other side. And when a pawn does that it can come back and rejoin the game as any piece it wants. A queen, even. A queen immune to all attack.
And if the game is all but over, if the end is coming…
He sees her all over again as if she just walked into the room and repeats, "You have absolutely nothing to fear."