Molly knew that Sherlock was in trouble. Mycroft had only showed up at her flat once before, and that was to question her on her relationship with his younger brother. Now, when he showed up with pain in his eyes, she knew something was wrong.
The trip was an hour and a half long. Molly sat in the back of a black car. The windows were too dark for her to see outside, so she hadn't the faintest idea where the Holmes was taking her.
The trip really wouldn't have been that bad – besides her concern for Sherlock – if she had had someone to talk to. There was a woman who sat next to her, but she remained on her mobile, texting at the speed of light. Molly sat quiet, and as still as possible, for the entire car ride.
When the car finally stopped, two suited men opened Molly's door and she stepped out. The men escorted her to the door of a large, white home. Mycroft was already at the door, and when they reached him, he waved the men off and stepped inside.
"This way, Miss Hooper." He said.
Molly followed him through the house.
"Mycroft," She said. "What am I doing here?"
Mycroft didn't turn. He kept walking straight. "You have been requested."
"By who?" Molly asked.
Mycroft turned his head slightly. "Who do you think?"
"Sherlock?" Molly guessed.
"Indeed." Mycroft said.
"Why?"
Mycroft remained silent for a moment, as if trying to decide how much he should tell her. At last, as they reached a set of stairs going down, he said, "My brother has gotten himself into some trouble. While the government decides what to do with him, he is to remain here, locked in a room. He asked me this morning to speak with you."
"What kind of trouble?" She was frowning now, imagining all of the trouble the detective could get into.
"One that he wishes to tell you himself." Mycroft told her.
They walked down the stairs, and entered another hallway. This one was shorter, and Molly could see their destination. At the end of the hall was a room. A keypad was next to the door.
"Why me?" Molly asked when they reached the door.
Mycroft turned to her giving her a small smile. "God knows."
He typed a number into the keypad, and then twisted the doorknob, letting the door crack open. He took his hand away, and rested his hand on the umbrella's, which he had been carrying around, handle. Molly gave him a look, as if to ask for permission to enter. He simply nodded, and turned round, and began to walk back to the staircase.
Molly pushed the door open and stepped in. The floor was made from dark wood, and the walls were painted a dark green. A dresser stood at the foot of the bed, its head against the wall across from the door.
Sherlock himself lay in the middle of the bed, eyes closed and hands steepled in front of his mouth. He was in his normal suit jacket and trousers. He wore a white shirt, and although he was on his bed, he still had shoes on. His dark, curly hair was disheveled and he looked paler than usual. He had dark circles under his eyes.
"When was the last time you slept?" It wasn't a question to start conversing with, but she felt it was important.
"Molly," Sherlock said. "You've made it."
"Answer the question, Sherlock." Molly said in a stern voice.
He sighed. "Four days?"
Molly sighed, and walked closer to the bed. "Okay. Now, can you tell me why I am here?"
Sherlock's eyes opened and he removed his hands from is mouth, sitting up on the bed. "I've…gotten into a bit of trouble."
Molly sat down on the edge of his bed. "I get that bit. What happened?"
Sherlock looked down. "I shot someone."
Molly let out a small gasp. "Who?"
"Remember, a few months ago, when you tested me?" Molly nodded. "And remember how I told John that I was only using again for a case?" She nodded again. "Well, the man the case was against, Charles Augustus Magnusson was the man I shot."
Molly was silent. She was shocked, and she had no idea what she was supposed to say. Was she supposed to comfort him? Scold him? He looked sad. He felt guilty, and he was truly upset over it – shocked even. Molly could tell. He didn't even try to hide his emotions from her anymore. He knew it wouldn't work.
"Do you know what's going to happen to you?" Was all Molly could ask after a few minutes.
"Undercover work in Eastern Europe." He looked away from her.
"How long?"
"Six months."
Molly had a bad feeling. "And then. You'll come back…right?"
Sherlock looked back at Molly, and slowly shook his head. "Mycroft said he believed it would be fatal to me. He's always right."
Molly could feel her eyes gloss over, and she blinked, letting a tear fall from her eye as she spoke. "And, you're saying goodbye?"
He nodded.
Molly turned away, and wiped the tear off of her cheek. "How long until you leave?"
"Two days."
A few minutes of silence passed. Molly kept her eyes away from Sherlock, she couldn't bring herself to look at him, and she was ashamed of herself for that.
Sherlock was the first to break the silence. "The east wind is nearing, Molly."
Molly turned her head slightly, still not meeting Sherlock's gaze. "Sorry?"
"It was a story that my brother told me as a child," Sherlock told her. "The East Wind - This terrifying force that lays waste to all in its path. It seeks out the unworthy and plucks them from the earth – that was generally me."
Molly let out a small laugh. "Nice."
She turned back to him, and asked the question that was really on her mind. "Why ask for me?" She sniffed. "I mean, you could have asked for John, or Mary, or Greg – Or, maybe you already have."
"I picked you," Sherlock said. "Because I – as much as I dislike admitting it – will miss you. I'll miss you more than I care to admit, and I was told that I should tell you before I was exiled. I don't know if you know this Molly, but I have become quite fond of you."
"Why not tell me before, Sherlock?" Molly asked. "Why tell me now, when it's too late?"
He locked eyes with her. "I didn't have to tell you. If you knew how beautiful, how brilliant you are, then you would have figured it out much sooner."
Molly could feel more tears run down her hot cheeks. She didn't want to lose herself in front of Sherlock Holmes, but she was finding it very hard not to.
"I couldn't give you up," Sherlock continued. "But, I know it's too late now. I apologize, Molly Hooper."
She said nothing; she just turned and grabbed his jacket, and pulled him to her, welcoming his lips to hers. He was unresponsive for a moment, but soon turned towards her more, and put his hand on her jawline, kissing her back with more passion then he thought he was capable of. Molly let out a small sob against his mouth, and he pulled her closer, his other hand moving to the small of her back. Molly's hand moved into his hair, grasping his curls.
After what seemed like ages, their lips parted. Molly rested her forehead against Sherlock's. They both regained their breaths, still holding onto each other.
"Please," Molly said. "Don't let them take you."
"I wish I could resist the government, but I am already in enough trouble as it is." Sherlock said.
Molly sighed, and Sherlock pressed a kiss to her forehead.
"Remember me, Molly Hooper."