St. Bartholomew's Hospital, London. Molly Hooper's lab. Molly, in her usual lab coat over a purple blouse and blue cardigan, is quietly moving around the place, sorting and putting away papers and printouts that litter the workbenches. There's music running in the background, a tinny rendition of a cheerful Strauss waltz from a computer loudspeaker. Passing back and forth in front of the door leading into the little office that adjoins the lab, Molly occasionally glances at the computer placed on the desk there. On the screen, a live broadcast of the Vienna Philharmonic Orchestra's New Year concert is running. Then suddenly, just when she has her back to it again, the music breaks off, and is replaced by a crackle of static. Molly swivels back towards to the computer – and freezes. The image on the screen has changed to display the face of Jim Moriarty in an infinite loop, his lips moving to form the words "Did you miss me?". For a long moment Molly stares, suddenly pale as death. Then, with sudden determination, she presses her lips together in a thin hard line, and leaving everything behind, she walks rapidly straight out of her lab. Outside in the corridor, she breaks into a run. Just then, Mike Stamford turns the corner. Seeing his colleague, he breaks into a genial smile, but it is wiped from his face when she hurries past him without a single word or look.
MIKE STAMFORD (calling after her): Molly? What are you -
But she doesn't turn back.
A moment later, Molly is descending an otherwise deserted staircase somewhere in a quiet part of the hospital building, still at run, perilously taking two or even three steps at a time, white coat flying. At the bottom of the stairs, she turns left and continues along a windowless corridor that looks like a part of the building's basement, with bare concrete walls, unmarked metal doors and cold fluorescent lighting. At the second door on her right, she stops, and fumbles for her keys. With trembling hands, she inserts one of the keys of the bunch into the lock. The door opens. She slips through, pulls it closed, and locks it again from the inside. Then she switches on the light. She's entered a store room, no bigger than her own lab, but filled with rows of plain ceiling-high metal shelves stocked with all manner of supplies needed in the day-to-day running of the hospital - boxes of tissues, liquid soap and disinfectant, and big packs of toilet paper.
Carefully stepping out of the direct line of the door, Molly walks over to a large cardboard box positioned against a wall, and sinks down on it. She closes her eyes for a moment, taking some deep breaths. Then she takes her phone out of her pocket, unlocks it, and begins to type a mobile phone number into the keypad from memory. The call is answered on the first ring, by a vaguely familiar female voice, sounding perfectly calm and composed.
WOMAN's VOICE (over the phone): Are you safe?
MOLLY: Yes.
Her voice only shakes a little.
WOMAN's VOICE: At work?
MOLLY: Yes.
WOMAN's VOICE: Very good. Someone will come and pick you up. But it may take a couple of hours.
MOLLY: Alright.
WOMAN's VOICE: Do you remember the code word?
MOLLY: Yes… yes, I do.
WOMAN's VOICE: Very good. We'll come for you as soon as we can.
The call is ended, and Molly lets the phone sink down. She leans her head back against the bare wall, and only then do her fear and her worry and her confusion really catch up with her. She begins to tremble in every limb, and she bites down hard on her fist to stop herself crying, but to no avail.
Mycroft's residence, on the evening of the same day. A wood-panelled sitting room, furnished comfortably with plush armchairs and a sofa, and cosily lit by a reading lamp and a pleasant fire crackling in the fireplace. Outside the diamond-paned windows, night has fallen.
Molly Hooper, still in the same clothes she wore to work that day, but minus her lab coat - is sitting on the thick carpet in front of the fireplace, as close to the warmth of the fire as possible. She has her arms around her legs, and is staring into the fire, which has burned down from a blaze into small flames, the logs on the hearth already charred white. Molly's face is flushed with the heat radiating off the fire, but by her hunched position and the way she's hugging herself, it doesn't seem to have warmed her to the core just yet. After a moment, she moves forward onto her knees and picks a fresh log from the wood basket that's been placed by the hearth. She weighs it in her hand, clearly uncertain whether to put it on, and how. The moment she reaches out to place it on the fire, a voice suddenly speaks up from the direction of the door.
SHERLOCK (off-screen): Don't burn your fingers.
Molly gasps in surprise, and the log she was holding clatters down onto the edge of the hearthstone. She quickly rises to her feet, her eyes on the figure of Sherlock standing in the open door. He's in his long dark coat as usual, but it somehow seems to weigh much more heavily on his shoulders than usual. His face is gaunt, the dim light casting it into a stark pattern of light and shadow.
MOLLY: You're alive!
SHERLOCK (wryly): So I'm being told.
He comes walking into the room and takes off his coat, folding it over the arm of a nearby chair. His movements are controlled and deliberate, but lack their usual energy.
MOLLY (haltingly): I thought - when I saw his face on the screen - (She breaks off, shaking her head.) I don't know what I thought, a hundred different things, but they were all horrible. (She attempts a smile.) You look a bit peaky.
SHERLOCK: I might say the same of you.
MOLLY: You sure you're alright?
SHERLOCK (with a dismissive gesture of his hand): Oh yes. I spent the afternoon on a heart monitor, and I don't suppose you can fool those things into overlooking anything really serious.
MOLLY (aghast): What? What happened?
SHERLOCK (evenly): I shot a man in the head.
Molly stares at him, wide-eyed. After a moment, she frowns.
MOLLY: But that would put him on a heart monitor, not you. (She blushes instantly. Mortified) I - sorry. God. I meant -
Sherlock almost smiles, but only almost.
SHERLOCK: It's complicated.
He ambles over to the fireplace, picks up the log and places it on the fire, quickly withdrawing his hand when the flames threaten to lick along his fingers. Molly watches him with her brows drawn together.
MOLLY: So, are you stuck here now, too?
SHERLOCK (his eyes on the fire): Mmh.
MOLLY: That's good. I mean - (She blushes again.) I mean it's good to have you here. Everyone's been friendly, of course, but - (She gestures around the room.) - this place is so huge, and empty. Where's John, by the way? Isn't he with you?
Sherlock straightens up and perfunctorily dusts off his hands.
SHERLOCK (in a strangely indifferent tone): John's with Mary. Hospital. Eclampsia.
He moves to sit in an armchair that's been placed at a right angle to the fire. Molly, meanwhile, has clamped her hand to her mouth in sympathy.
MOLLY: Oh, no! Is she OK? And the little one?
SHERLOCK: I'm sure they are. I was sorry to hear about your mother's sudden death, too, by the way.
MOLLY (spluttering): What? (Her face blanches a ghostly white.) I - how -
SHERLOCK (lightly): Everybody gets a plausible cover story for disappearing suddenly, you know.
Molly gulps, but then flushes a deep red as she realises the meaning of his words. When she speaks, there is at least as much anger as embarrassment in her voice.
MOLLY (exasperated): Don't do that!
SHERLOCK (with a shrug): Just testing how well it works.
With sudden decision, Molly sits down again – not on the carpet, but on the sofa this time, facing Sherlock across the hearthrug.
MOLLY: So, what's your cover story then?
SHERLOCK: Oh, I don't get one.
MOLLY: Then tell me what really happened.
Sherlock regards her for a moment with his brows drawn together.
SHERLOCK: I don't see the point.
MOLLY: I do. Tell me.
The sitting room, half an hour later. The fire is low again, and even the reading light is off. The door which Sherlock left standing open when he first entered the room is closed now, and the place looks deserted at first. But then, in the dim light, Sherlock can be seen still sitting in his chair, but with his elbows on his knees and his chin resting on his hands now, staring into the fire as if there was a message written in its glowing embers. Molly is nowhere to be seen. After a moment, the phone in his pocket pings a text alert. With unhurried movements, he takes it out and checks the screen. The message reads
We have work to do. I'm waiting. MH
Sherlock pulls an annoyed face at the phone, but then – with none of his usual smooth elegance – clambers to his feet and makes for the door.
Mycroft's residence. The garden, on the following morning. The half-empty flowerbeds seem to be asleep and waiting for spring. The grass and the leaves on the scraggly bushes are glazed over with hoar frost. Faint sunlight struggles to make its way through the clouds, and there's a bit of a wind blowing, rustling the bare branches. On the back of a bench placed by a small pond in the middle of the garden, Sherlock is perched, wrapped in his coat. He has his back to the house, and he's smoking a cigarette, occasionally flicking a bit of ash onto the white gravel of the garden path. His eyes are on some point in the middle distance, contemplating things that only he can see. From afar, he looks like a large, tousled black migrant bird on a stopover en route to more hospitable surroundings. After a moment, there are small footsteps behind him. He straightens up, but doesn't turn around to look who it is.
MOLLY's VOICE (quietly): Good morning.
Molly comes into view, wearing a very elegant but slightly too large beige-coloured lady's overcoat that certainly doesn't belong to her, and that is strangely at odds with her casual trousers and trainers. The tip of her nose is pink with cold. She halts a few paces away from Sherlock.
MOLLY: The cook told me you were out here. If you want any breakfast, it's ready now.
SHERLOCK (in an oddly flat voice, avoiding her eyes): I don't eat while I'm -
On the last word, his voice suddenly fails him, and he snaps his mouth shut after it with grim determination. Molly frowns.
MOLLY: You know – (She fingers the buttons of her fine coat nervously.) About what you told me last night. I didn't mean - (She swallows.) It was all a bit much, so I may have said something that wasn't - I mean, I was shocked. Yeah. I was shocked.
SHERLOCK: You said what I did was wrong.
MOLLY (unhappily): Yes… yes, I did. But now that I've slept on it -
SHERLOCK (turning to look at her at last, in a bitterly sarcastic tone): - it all makes perfect sense, and I'm actually a better person for it?
MOLLY (shaking her head quickly): No. No. That's not right, either.
Sherlock shrugs and turns away again, taking another drag from his cigarette. Molly hesitates, but then moves to sit down, too, on the opposite end of his bench, and on the very edge of its wooden seat.
MOLLY (after a moment): Is it safe to be sitting out here?
SHERLOCK (with an odd, slightly hysterical laugh): Perfectly safe.
Molly eyes the high brick wall that marks the boundary of the garden as if she's expecting the grinning figure of Jim Moriarty to come climbing across it any moment, but Sherlock doesn't elaborate. There is another silence, until Molly breaks it again.
MOLLY: But you don't like being here.
SHERLOCK (in a flat voice): Do you?
MOLLY (sincerely): It must be lovely in summer. Is that the river beyond there?
Sherlock nods. Molly draws a pattern into the gravel with the tip of her trainer.
MOLLY (her eyes on the ground): You know - when Tom and I split up...
SHERLOCK (immediately): You ended it.
MOLLY (blushing a little): Alright. When I broke up with Tom - he wanted me to explain things to him, too. But I couldn't. I knew I was doing the right thing, but I couldn't put into words why it was right. By all the usual standards, it didn't seem to be. He's such a decent guy, you know, nothing wrong with him at all. But still, I knew it was right to end it. (She turns to face Sherlock squarely.) I'd forgotten that, last night. That sometimes a choice can seem wrong but still be right. I remembered it when I woke up this morning. That's all I wanted to say.
Sherlock, still smoking and staring straight ahead, doesn't reply.
MOLLY: You know - I went to meet his parents, last summer, and they're lovely people, of course - they were so kind, and so welcoming, and showed me all around the place… They live in Lincoln, you know, they run a bookshop there, and of course Tom's going to go back and take it over one day… and it's a pretty town and all, but I just couldn't see myself there.
SHERLOCK (smiling wryly at her): People don't die in Lincolnshire?
MOLLY: Not like they do in London.
SHERLOCK: That's nonsense.
MOLLY: No, that's the point. (She holds his gaze for a moment.) It always comes down to the same thing, doesn't it? What are you willing to give, and what are you ready to give up. Some people are brave that way, and others aren't. I'm not.
SHERLOCK (blowing out a long plume of smoke): It's not about bravery. It's about illusions, and chasing ghosts.
Molly frowns.
MOLLY: Are you saying I threw Tom over for a ghost?
SHERLOCK (bitterly): It's an apt image, isn't it? (He grinds out his finished cigarette on the wrought-iron arm of the bench, and flicks the butt into the nearby pond.) You may think that it was right not to go and build your new life on a lie, Molly, but replacing one lie with another never works. You can finally stop kidding yourself about that. (Molly flinches, but it doesn't stop him.) We all have to live with the consequences of our choices. But you need to make sure they're truly worth their price. Or else you'll end up losing everything, even yourself.
He hops down from the bench, gathers his coat about him, and starts walking back towards the house with long firm strides and without another word.
MOLLY (calling after him): Where are you going?
SHERLOCK (over his shoulder, angrily): Trying to save another idiot from making the same mistake!
Molly stays behind, looking after Sherlock's departing back, and there are tears glistening in her eyes again.
Mycroft's residence. The entrance hall. Molly enters the spacious hall and quickly closes the massive wooden front door against the cold again. She's not crying, but her eyes are a little puffy and red. She makes for the wide, carpeted flight of stairs that leads up to the upper floor of the building, but then she realises with a little start that she's not alone in the room. On a small, gilded chair next to a side table by the wall to the left of the front door sits Mycroft's assistant Anthea, as usual in an impeccable navy blue skirt suit, her legs elegantly crossed, a stilettoed foot beating time as she types away at break-neck speed on her phone. She looks up at Molly, and smiles automatically.
ANTHEA (without pausing in her typing): Good morning. Did you sleep well?
Since the question is evidently more complicated to answer than it was meant to be, Molly remains silent. Anthea raises an eyebrow, and gives Molly her full attention.
ANTHEA: Is there anything you need?
MOLLY (remembering her manners): No… no, thank you. (Gesturing at the coat she's wearing) Is this yours? Sorry about that. There was no time to pick up mine.
ANTHEA: No problem. I've got more than the one. (She smiles again, and it is a more genuine smile this time.) You did well, yesterday, keeping your head like that, and remembering all the instructions.
MOLLY (with a blush): Well, you fairly drilled them into me three years ago. I couldn't forget something like that.
ANTHEA: Some people would do anything to forget something like that. You're much stronger than that. (Ignoring Molly's even deeper blush) So, have you had breakfast yet?
MOLLY: To be honest, no.
ANTHEA (rising to her feet): Well, then?
Mycroft's residence. The dining room. At one end of the long oak table, breakfast has been set for four. Molly has taken one of those places. There are a silver toast rack and jam pots, a butter dish, a fruit bowl, a jug of orange juice and - incongruously - a large glass jar of Nutella on the table, but Molly has little attention to spare for the food. Anthea sits opposite her, confining herself to a cup of tea. She has pocketed her phone, and is holding the fine china cup in both hands, blowing on it gently.
MOLLY: You're not here just to make sure I eat and sleep well, are you?
ANTHEA (taking a sip of tea): No.
MOLLY: Can you tell me what's going on, then? With Moriarty, I mean? Has anything happened yet?
ANTHEA: No, nothing. We're faced with a rather baffling lack of activity, after his initial appearance yesterday.
MOLLY: He's lying low, and waiting for the right moment to strike?
ANTHEA: But that would of course beg the question, what is he waiting for? Whoever "he" is.
MOLLY: Not Moriarty?
ANTHEA (putting her teacup down, with absolute finality): Moriarty is dead.
MOLLY: But why the broadcast, then? Could it have been just a hoax?
ANTHEA: A mere end in itself, you mean? Well -
She breaks off, and eyes Molly attentively. Molly, uncomfortable under such close scrutiny, picks up a piece of toast and starts buttering it a little haphazardly.
ANTHEA (after a moment): You know why Sherlock had to leave?
MOLLY (looking up): Yes.
ANTHEA: And you know what he was called back from?
MOLLY: Yes, he told me that, too. (With the faintest trembling in her voice) And that it's only a respite. That he's only got until he's solved the case, not longer.
ANTHEA: In that case, you're probably entitled to know how far they've got. Please -
She nods at the piece of toast on Molly's plate. Molly hastily takes a bite, but barely remembers to chew.
ANTHEA: It's been established that the broadcast yesterday was made using a secret nationwide system that was devised to inform and warn people of any threats to the general public – natural disasters, or terrorist attacks, that sort of thing. It was implemented a number of years ago, and it's been tested successfully several times since. It allows a simultaneous broadcast via all the country's television and radio stations, and on all advertising and announcement screens in public places.
MOLLY: How do you test something like that without people noticing?
ANTHEA (with a smile): Nobody notices when the same shampoo commercial comes on everywhere at the same time. It's the sort of thing people automatically tune out. Now, few people know that this system exists, and even fewer have the authority to order it used. That limits the field of possible initiators considerably. You can surely imagine who one of them is. There are only a handful of others apart from him, and they would usually all be, as people like to put it, above suspicion.
MOLLY: Somebody hacked the system, then? Or bribed a technician to put the footage on?
ANTHEA: Both would leave traces. It wouldn't be the first time someone unauthorised tried to break into the system. The last attempt of that kind was about a week or so ago, in fact. But this time, no.
MOLLY (thoughtfully): But if the order came through the regular channels, then –
ANTHEA: - then we're left with only two possible explanations.
MOLLY (immediately): Mycroft did it.
As soon as the words are out of her mouth, she claps her hand to it, as if to keep them back. She even looks around nervously.
ANTHEA (calmly): That is one option, yes.
MOLLY: To keep Sherlock safe at home in England? Is that what you meant by "end in itself"? (Appalled) But if it came out –
ANTHEA: Exactly. The repercussions, if he of all people was caught abusing that system and causing a nationwide panic for his own private, personal reasons, would be enormous. He'd be finished. (She takes another sip of her tea.) Literally, maybe, seeing how he can't simply unknow everything he knows.
MOLLY (after a moment of dismayed silence): Then it can't have been him. He'd – he'd have found a more subtle way. He'd have found Sherlock, he'd have got him out, just like he did last time. He -
ANTHEA (drily): You're very sure. His brother seems to disagree.
As if on cue, somewhere towards the back of the house, there is a loud noise, as of a door being thrown open with considerable force. Mycroft's voice comes drifting towards them, raised in agitation.
MYCROFT's VOICE (off-screen): You're not seriously expecting me to answer that question, Sherlock, are you? This is my problem now, not yours! Can't you, just once, let a matter rest?
The door bangs again, and there's nothing more to be heard from outside. Molly puts her elbows on the table and her head into her hands.
MOLLY (in an undertone): He didn't mean me. He didn't mean me at all.
ANTHEA: I beg your pardon?
MOLLY (looking up at Anthea again): Sherlock. This morning. He talked about sacrifices, and how they were pointless, and I thought he was talking about me being silly about… about him. (She blushes slightly.) But it wasn't about me, it was all about Mycroft. He thinks Mycroft's thrown everything away for him now. (Almost pleadingly) But it's not true, is it?
ANTHEA (regretfully): I'm not privy to all Mr Holmes' secrets, I'm afraid.
MOLLY: But you don't believe it.
ANTHEA: I can't say I like the only other explanation much better.
MOLLY: What's that?
ANTHEA: That someone's trying to frame him for this.
MOLLY (aghast): Frame him? So you think someone's playing a power game to discredit him? Someone who's got access to that broadcasting system, too?
ANTHEA: Yes. They're above suspicion, but they're not above intrigue, I'm sorry to say. (She sighs.) Mr Holmes' affection for his younger brother used to be one of the best kept secrets of this country. When he went to fetch him home last year, we spent more time coming up with a plausible cover story for his absence from London than we did planning the actual mission. But his absence didn't go unnoticed, and neither did the fact that it coincided with his brother's return from the dead. It's entirely possible that someone drew the correct inferences, and is making use of that now.
MOLLY: And you know who? Or suspect?
Anthea doesn't reply.
MOLLY (with a frown): You don't seem very worried though. I mean, not as much as – sorry. Sorry. (She blushes again.) None of my business.
ANTHEA (evenly): As you thought I would be? Well, I've learned that displays of worry are rarely helpful when trying to master a crisis.
The two women look at each other for a long moment of silence, each searching the other's face. Then there are footsteps coming towards the dining room outside.
MOLLY (quickly, to Anthea): Can you tell me who those other people are? The ones that have access to the broadcasting system, I mean?
ANTHEA: I'm afraid not. Really, Doctor Hooper -
MOLLY: Molly.
ANTHEA: Molly. Please - for your own sake, however well-intentioned, don't get into -
MOLLY (cutting her off, urgently): If I gave you one particular name, could you say yes or no?
ANTHEA: What is it you have in mind?
MOLLY: A third option.
ANTHEA (doubtfully): You mean there's an explanation that both of them missed? Do you think that's even possible?
MOLLY (with a rueful smile): Oh yes. Because it's too simple.
At this moment, the door to the room opens, and Mycroft looks in. He nods "good morning" to Molly, glances a little absent-mindedly - one might almost say wistfully - across the breakfast paraphernalia on the table, then gives Anthea an expectant look, holding the door open for her. He seems preoccupied, but he doesn't have the air of a man whose career and possibly his very existence are under threat from obscure forces at work behind his back. Then again, he's Mycroft Holmes.
Anthea gets to her feet to follow her boss out. At the door, she turns back to give Molly a final look - of warning, primarily, but there is also a good measure of almost maternal concern in it.
Mycroft's residence. A guest bedroom, furnished in a luxurious way. The carpet, gilded furniture and floor-length curtains are all in matching tones of beige and cream-white, as if straight out of a glossy home decorating magazine. But in the gloom of the winter afternoon, there is something oppressive to their perfection. On the large, neatly made bed, Molly is lying propped on one elbow, reading a paperback - or rather, turning pages in a desultory fashion, like someone who is trying but completely failing to distract oneself. Outside the window, the wind has risen, and grey clouds are chasing each other across the sky. After a moment, raised voices can be heard in another part of the house. Molly looks up, and perks up her ears. One of the voices seems to be Mycroft's. Molly climbs off the bed, tiptoes to the door of her room on stockinged feet, opens it a crack, and listens intently.
MYCROFT'S VOICE (from downstairs): What do you mean, gone? Since when? How?
Another male voice replies, too low to discern the actual words, appeasing but deferential at the same time.
Molly slips out of her room and moves quietly down the wood-panelled corridor, until she arrives at the top of the stairs. She squats down and peers through the railing of the banister. In the entrance hall downstairs, three persons are gathered: Mycroft, a young man dressed in a plain black suit and equipped with an earpiece that marks him as a member of the place's security staff, and Anthea, who is already busy on her phone again.
MYCROFT (to the young man, angrily): Have that fixed double quick, if you don't mind! (The young man nods "understood" and departs, obviously glad to be going. Mycroft turns to Anthea.) Any trace of him yet?
ANTHEA (her eyes on the screen): Definitely not at Baker Street. I'm still waiting for the footage from three of his usual boltholes, but Camden Lock's clear, too, as is Parliament Hill…
MYCROFT (with an impatient scoff): Well, find him before he brings everything crashing down, with his -
ANTHEA (raising her eyes to him, with a surprising edge in her voice): Yes, I know.
She holds her superior's gaze for a moment, and it's he who backs down first. He nods curtly and then walks out of Molly's sight, disappearing towards the back of the house. A door closes. Anthea, her phone still in her hands, turns away towards the front door as if to leave. Molly straightens up quickly and rushes down the stairs to intercept her. Anthea, hearing her muffled but hurried steps on the stairs, turns back in surprise.
MOLLY (a little breathlessly): Sherlock? He's gone?
ANTHEA (holding up her phone): Yes, but I can assure you that we'll have traced his current location in ten minutes at most.
MOLLY (abruptly): Don't do that. I mean – please. Don't – don't hunt him down like that.
ANTHEA (raising an eyebrow): He's officially still under arrest. He knows that we will.
MOLLY (unhappily): Exactly. I – I think I know where he went. I mean, I don't know, but I have a hunch. (She's kneading the hem of her blouse in her agitation.) Don't rush up there and drag him back by force. Please.
ANTHEA (doubtfully): "Up there"?
MOLLY: We know what he believes his brother did. But we know he's wrong.
ANTHEA (doubtfully): You seem to know that.
MOLLY: Let me go, let me talk to him. Please. I'll get him home. We'll meet you there. (She hesitates, but then plunges on recklessly.) And ask her to come as well. I'm sure she will. (Anthea frowns at her. Urgently) If I'm right, but neither of them sees it, this could end in disaster, couldn't it?
Anthea doesn't reply for a moment. Then -
ANTHEA (in a low voice): He does mean a lot to you, doesn't he?
MOLLY (equally quietly): I think you know something about that.
For a moment, Anthea's eyes flicker towards the door Mycroft has just disappeared through, but she recovers her former composure very quickly.
ANTHEA: Yes, of course. (Sententiously) "Caring is not an advantage." (She attempts a smile, but it comes out resigned and weary.) I keep telling him it's also not a choice.
MOLLY (after a moment): I can go, then?
ANTHEA (with a sigh): Yes, go.
St. Bartholomew's Hospital. The rooftop. Sherlock in his long dark coat is standing near the edge of the roof, facing the same spot that he jumped from three years ago, but a step or two back from the low ledge separating the roof from the street four floors below. He has his hands in his pockets, and has raised his face to the cloudy sky. The cold wind tousles his hair, but he doesn't seem to feel it. It carries up the remote noises of the city below his feet, the traffic of cars and buses, the occasional wail of an ambulance, and an intermittent metallic thumping from a construction site nearby. But all the same, everything up here is strangely quiet, as if the roof is a world of its own.
A moment later, at Sherlock's back, the door leading onto the roof opens, and out steps Molly Hooper. She breathes a sigh of relief when she sees him, then takes heart, closes the door behind her and approaches him, making no attempt at secrecy. Sherlock's back stiffens when he hears her approach, but doesn't turn to face her. She steps up to his side, not close enough to touch, but close enough for him to feel she's there. For a moment, they both just stand there, he looking at the sky, she looking straight ahead as if trying to marshal her thoughts. Then they both speak up at the same time.
SHERLOCK: I should have –
MOLLY: I used to –
They both break off again to let the other go first. Sherlock gives Molly a quick sideways glance.
MOLLY: I used to come up here, too. (A pause.) When you were away, I mean. (She runs her hand a little nervously across her hair, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear.) Every time I couldn't avoid meeting any of them. You know... (She looks down at her feet, shuffling them.) Greg's fiftieth... taking Mrs Hudson to the cemetery on the anniversary... running into John in a supermarket... Every time, afterwards, I'd come up here, and I'd wonder about exactly the same thing that you're wondering about now.
She raises her eyes again, and now turns her head to look at him. Sherlock, who has been listening with a frown on his face, waits for her to elaborate, but she doesn't.
SHERLOCK (after a moment): So, what am I wondering about?
MOLLY(quietly): Whether it would all have been easier if you'd done it for real.
Sherlock purses his lips and shifts his weight from one foot to the other, as if making up his mind whether to confirm or deny it. He looks away, across to the dome of St Paul's Cathedral. Molly's eyes never leave his face.
MOLLY: But the answer's always the same.
SHERLOCK (turning back to her, exasperated): Yes, I know! It's not done. Too much fuss. Too much mess. Like shooting people in the head.
MOLLY: Have you ever wondered why it's not working?
SHERLOCK (distractedly): What do you mean?
Molly takes a deep and somewhat shaky breath, but when she speaks again, her voice is steady.
MOLLY: You've tried really hard to get yourself killed, Sherlock, several times over the past couple of years. But you've never managed it. Have you noticed why?
SHERLOCK (returning to his contemplation of the sky, indifferently): Something always got in between.
MOLLY: No. Not something. Someone. That first time up here, I and two dozen others got you down in one piece. The next time you were in a really tight corner, your brother went and found you and got you home. When you went to that awful man's office, and Mary shot you, John was there. And he was there, too, when you nearly died again after wandering around London with an unhealed wound. Then when you shot that man in plain sight, someone must have told the officers to hold their fire. And only yesterday, that plane turned back at the eleventh hour. Don't you want to know why it didn't work this time, either?
Sherlock abruptly takes a step away from her, his face clouding over.
SHERLOCK: I know why it didn't work this time. (His eyes narrow.) He's sent you, hasn't he? To talk sense to me? To make me see reason? (He spits the word out contemptuously.) Come back to be a guest in his house? To witness how - (His voice cracks, and he breaks off and swallows hard.) - how they'll all come for him now, smelling blood, all those jackals out of the thickets where they've been waiting so long for their chance -
MOLLY: No one sent me, Sherlock. I'm just here to tell you that I think, yes, you had a guardian angel this time, too, when your plane took off to nowhere. And the least you could do before you throw that gift away again is say thank you. Anything else is just black ingratitude, you know.
SHERLOCK (harshly): It's not a gift, it's an insult. Every sacrifice is, by definition, an insult to the rational mind. (He turns away from her, avoiding her eyes.) Even if its cause isn't entirely worthless.
MOLLY (exasperated): How can you possibly be so generous yourself and yet be so absolutely pig-headed when someone tries to return the favour?
SHERLOCK (bitterly): I told you this morning, Molly. Without me, my brother would -
MOLLY (talking over him, impatiently): - still be reigning supreme in his office, unassailable, under no greater threat than running out of his secret supply of Nutella? (Sherlock stares at her in disbelief. Molly shakes her head at him.) God, you're such children sometimes, the two of you. Sherlock, open your eyes, please. Now you're insulting his intelligence, and your own. You're not in his debt this time, but someone is risking their career and everything that matters to them right now, and you'll have a hard time convincing her that her cause was worthless.
SHERLOCK (after a moment, utterly at a loss): "Her"?
MOLLY (firmly): Yes.
SHERLOCK: What – what do you -
He breaks off, looking past Molly into the distance, as if recalling something in his mind. He closes his eyes for a moment in concentration, then opens them again, and refocuses them on Molly, deeply unsettled.
SHERLOCK: God. God, no.
He blinks, and a storm of emotion passes across his face – regret first, then guilt almost to the point of physical pain, finally settling on simple disbelief at the extent of his own stupidity.
SHERLOCK (quoting): "We brought you back to deal with this. What are you going to do?"
MOLLY: She asked you that?
SHERLOCK: Yes. Last night. It was the first thing she said to me when we got to her office, Mycroft and I. And I had no answer. (He shakes his head helplessly.) I had no answer.
MOLLY: Well, you misunderstood the question.
There's another silence. They look at each other, searching each other's faces.
SHERLOCK (after a moment, very earnestly): Thank you.
MOLLY (in a deliberately cheerful tone): Yes, that's it. Tell her. They're waiting at Baker Street.
SHERLOCK: No, I - (He raises his hands, and after a short moment of hesitation, he very gently places them on her upper arms, not pulling her close, but holding her all the same. Quietly) I meant, thank you.
Molly blushes, her former reassurance suddenly threatening to go to pieces under his touch. She visibly fights the impulse to wind out of his hold.
MOLLY (with a crooked smile): Oh, I don't count.
There is another pause.
SHERLOCK: You do count. You've always counted.
And then he does pull her close, and she lets him.
221B Baker Street. In front of the house, two cars are parked at the kerb. Both are large, black cars with tinted windows, polished to sparkling perfection. They face each other, having obviously arrived from opposite directions, their fenders almost touching, as if they've only narrowly avoided a collision.
A moment later, a cab pulls up on the other side of the street. Sherlock and Molly exit it, cross the road side by side and walk up to the front door of 221B.
Inside 221B Baker Street, in the upstairs living room, the presumable passengers of the two cars are sitting in silence in the armchairs on either side of the fire, facing each other across the hearthrug. The one in Sherlock's chair is Mycroft, his fingers tapping out a slow rhythm on the armrest. The other sits in John's chair, as on a throne, head held high – none other than Lady Smallwood. The curtains have been opened, but it does little to lighten the gloom of the early winter evening. The two visitors sit in silence, appraising each other, but neither of them willing to break the silence. At last, Mycroft does, and states the obvious.
MYCROFT: I'm somewhat at a loss what to say.
LADY SMALLWOOD: I'll take that as a compliment. (She leans back in her chair and crosses her legs, assuming a more comfortable position than before.) Pride, revenge, love… We think highly of ourselves, don't we, not to let our decisions be governed by such base instincts and impulses? (With a wry smile) And yet, here we are, unable to escape our human nature after all, and getting worse and worse at hiding that little fact.
Mycroft bites his lip, but doesn't reply. The idea seems to cause him physical discomfort, but he has nothing to say in his defence.
LADY SMALLWOOD: He was right, that man, wasn't he? Everyone has a weak spot, you just have to find it, and
MYCROFT (almost snappishly): - they're in your hand. Yes, I know that I am.
LADY SMALLWOOD: But I'm in yours, just as much. (There's a quizzical smile playing around her lips again.) Are you saying that you didn't think me capable of such a lapse?
MYCROFT (honestly surprised): Is that what it was?
LADY SMALLWOOD (still smiling, almost indulgently now): You're seriously still waiting for me to state my price, aren't you?
There is the unmistakable sound of the door opening and closing again downstairs, and then footsteps on the stairs outside. Lady Smallwood, not waiting for Mycroft's reply, turns in her seat to see Sherlock and Molly enter the room. The two newcomers are still in their coats. The cold has pinched their noses and cheeks, and the wind has ruffled their hair. They stand there side by side for a moment, Molly slightly intimidated by the presence of two magnates of the realm looking expectantly at them, Sherlock grimly determined not to be impressed, but still tense as a bowstring. His eyes dart back and forth between Lady Smallwood and his brother, as if trying to read what has passed between them and where they stand now, but Mycroft has nothing to offer him. He looks very much caught on the wrong foot.
Lady Smallwood straightens up, resuming her previous almost regal posture, and raises her eyebrows expectantly at Sherlock. Molly shifts, as if to shrink back a step or two to get out of the limelight. But Sherlock almost instinctively makes the smallest movement with his hand, as if to catch her sleeve and keep her where she is, at his side. She feels it and complies, although with a visible effort.
LADY SMALLWOOD (to Sherlock, in a business-like tone): Well, Mr Holmes. Have you come to report any progress on the task that I set you?
SHERLOCK (squaring his shoulders, in a firm voice): No, Lady Smallwood. On the contrary, I'm afraid.
MYCROFT (shifting uncomfortably in his seat): Sherlock, we -
But Lady Smallwood holds up a hand to stop him.
LADY SMALLWOOD (to Sherlock): Elaborate, please.
SHERLOCK: You asked me to find out who the culprit behind yesterday's broadcast was. I find myself unable to answer that question.
LADY SMALLWOOD (to Sherlock): You remember the terms on which we allowed you to return from your exile, don't you?
SHERLOCK: I do.
LADY SMALLWOOD (to Sherlock): Repeat them to me.
SHERLOCK: You said I had until I'd solved the case. But - (He clears his throat.) - but I can't, and I'm willing to bear the consequences.
LADY SMALLWOOD (after a tense moment of silence, in a carefully neutral tone): Well, it's true. Sometimes, Mr Holmes, all we can hope for is to fail honourably.
Sherlock glances almost anxiously across at his older brother, as if for reassurance that they haven't horribly misjudged Lady Smallwood after all, but Mycroft, equally at a loss, again isn't helping. Seeing it, an expression of secret amusement passes across her face. Then she takes pity on them, rises from her chair and holds her hand out to Sherlock.
LADY SMALLWOOD (to Sherlock, graciously): I see that you stand by your word. So will I. I said you had until you'd solved the case, and you do. You may take the rest of your life.
Sherlock hesitates, not trusting himself to speak. But then he takes her hand. Molly lets out a low breath of pure relief, and in Sherlock's chair, Mycroft does the same, visibly deflating in the face of such magnanimity, and looking suddenly rather small. Lady Smallwood releases Sherlock's hand, then turns back to Mycroft.
LADY SMALLWOOD (with a slightly reproachful undertone): You may consider it a test of loyalty, if you find that easier to accept than mere sentimental gratitude.
Mycroft grimaces guiltily, but doesn't respond.
LADY SMALLWOOD: And there are those that will say instinct and impulse form stronger bonds than any rational reasoning can. (She straightens her jacket, and continues in a deliberately matter-of-fact tone.) Well, I believe the way's clear again now for us to cooperate as fully as we should. I'm afraid that this is a threat that we can only meet united.
Mycroft, frowning, also rises from his seat.
MYCROFT: A threat? I thought -
LADY SMALLWOOD (with a rueful smile): Oh, yes. Where do you think I got the idea from? As you know, someone did try to hack into the emergency broadcasting system very recently. They may try again. (She looks around, encompassing both Holmes brothers in her glance.) I trust both of you to put your best efforts into finding out who it was, and why. I'll see you in my office.
Without waiting for an answer, she strides to the door. Molly draws back to let her pass, and when she does, Lady Smallwood flashes her a very brief smile, but a genuine smile nonetheless, warm-hearted and deep. Then the door of the living room closes behind her.
Baker Street, seen from above, from out of the living room window of No. 221B. In both black cars, the engines are started. Then the first of them moves out quickly into the roadway, and the other follows, the driver hastily reversing it in a narrow circle to head in the same direction. A moment later, they're both speeding down the street, one after the other, out of sight.
Upstairs in No. 221B, Sherlock steps away from the window he's been watching them from.
MOLLY: Shouldn't you have gone with them?
Sherlock takes a moment to look around the familiar room, silently taking in the bison skull on the wall between the windows; the violin case on a bookshelf in the corner; the fireplace with its two chairs in front of it, empty now but invitingly so, rather than sadly; the kitchen, with the remnants of a chemical experiment still cluttering the table; and the wall behind the sofa, the stark contrast of the black-on-white ornaments of the wallpaper, light and dark, day and night, almost blurring into one in the twilight.
MOLLY (quietly): Sherlock? Are you alright?
Sherlock's eyes return to Molly's face. There is an almost child-like, quiet wonder in his expression.
SHERLOCK (slowly): Yes. Yes, I am. Just – just appreciating a gift. That's...
MOLLY (tentatively): - good?
SHERLOCK (after a moment's consideration): - new.
MOLLY (with a sudden laugh): Look, you're learning. (She walks over to him, takes both his hands into her own, stands on tip-toe and places a quick, light kiss onto his forehead. Surprised, he lets it happen.) Now go save our country. I'll be here when you get back.
THE END
October 2016
Author's Note:
This story is for my beta reader Cooklet. I wish I had a better gift for you, dear. It really doesn't feel like an appropriate return for all the time and effort that you've put into making my stories better, over the course of the past two years and I don't know how many hundred thousand words. But please accept it all the same, as a long overdue official token of my gratitude for your invaluable advice, encouragement, and friendship. :)
As always, all feedback is much appreciated!