Sherlock opened his eyes, blinking slightly from the harsh lights above the metal examination tables of the morgue. He sat up, his head spinning slightly, the drug he'd taken to disguise his pulse, finally wearing off. Slipping his legs off the table, he got to his feet, taking a few deep breaths.
"S-sherlock?" Molly's voice sounded from a few feet behind him. She was still in her white lab coat and that ridiculous flowered blouse, her clipboard clutched to her chest. "Are yo-"
"I'm fine." He cut her off, not really in the mood for talking. He shrugged his coat off and threw it and his gloves onto the table. "Make sure no one comes in, will you?"
"I . . I've already locked the doors." She told him, gesturing to the door as she mentioned it.
"Good." He nodded and walked over to the sink at the far end of the room. His own reflection stared out at him from the mirror that hung above the faucet. His skin was deathly pale and blood was coating his face and hair and dripping onto his favorite suit. He sighed and turned on the water and began to carefully wash away all of the, of course fake, blood. Red trails flowed down the sides of the white ceramic sink as he worked.
"H-here." Molly held out a towel to him.
"Oh." He took it from her, water running down his face. "Thank you." He mopped up the water and remains of blood and ran the towel across his hair, leaving it unruly and sticking up in strange places. But he didn't care. He didn't care about much of anything at the moment.
His mind drifted to John. The look he'd imagined to be on his face as he talked, no begged, to Sherlock over the phone. The strained sound to his voice as he screamed his name. Sherlock shook his head, closing his eyes for a moment. It was necessary. Everything he'd done, he'd done for the best, and he would continue to do so, no matter the consequences. Because nothing would be worse than him having actually died.
He knew what lay ahead. He knew the rough path he was in for. He'd have to leave London. Leave his home. Baker Street. John. Everything he loved, though he'd never admit to that. Mycroft had already arranged for him to be on the next flight out of the city, and was in the process of procuring fake I.D.s for him. He supposed sometimes it did pay to have a brother in high places.
His head started spinning again, but this time not from drugs, but from all the thoughts going around in his head. His eyes snapped open and he stood up straight, pulling off his jacket to wash the blood out of it.
"A-are you sure you're alright? You . . . you don't look alright." Molly's voice was sweet and concerned, but still it managed to anger him.
"Of course I'm not alright!" He snapped harshly, immediately regretting speaking that way to the person who had helped him so much. Who had always helped him so much. He let out a long sigh. "Molly . . . I'm sorry."
"N-no. It's ok." She tried to smile. "I-I understand. I do. You've just lost everything. You're . . . remarkable, Sherlock. B-but even you can't be expected to handle that. I just . . . I'm here for you."
While she was speaking, he kept his eyes fixed on his jacket as he scrubbed at the red stain. Molly was famous for stumbling over her words and saying the wrong thing. But other times, her words rang so true it hurt.
"I know." He murmured, half to himself. "I know."
Going back to washing his jacket, his mind began to wander again. Well, wander wasn't quite the right word. Sherlock's mind never 'wandered'. It . . . processed information. Yes. That sounded better. His mind began to process the information of the last hour. He replayed the fall over and over in his head. How the adrenaline had coursed through his body as the pavement flew closer and closer to him, until he landed safely in the rubbish truck full of bags of foam. Everything was a blur from there. The lidocaine, an antiarrhythmic, he'd taken was coming into affect. He stumbled out of the truck and almost instantly there were people surrounding him, just like he'd planned. They successfully blocked him from view, and covered his face and the pavement by his head with fake blood. He was vaguely aware of voices and hands all worried and rushed. But it was John's hand that stood out. He knew his best friend's touch.
"I'm a doctor. Let me come through. Let me come through, please. No. He's my friend. He's my friend. Please."
John sounded desperate, full of despair, and his words reached Sherlock like he was speaking from the end of a tunnel. Then his hand was on Sherlock's wrist. He could tell. It was calloused still, from military service. He was checking for a pulse. It took everything in his power to stay still, keep his eyes looking dead and unmoving.
It wasn't long after that the St. Bart's medical team lifted him onto a stretcher and wheeled him away. The next thing he remembered was waking up in the morgue.
He was pulled from his thoughts by the sound of Molly's phone going off. It played some appalling remake of a song from that Broadway play. What was it? Wicked. His mind still wasn't working at full capacity.
"I-it's for you." She held her phone out to him.
It was a text from Mycroft. That's right . . . He'd thrown his own phone onto the roof of the building. Of course Mycroft would text Molly now.
'Your identification and passport is in place. Your new name is James Teach. I do believe you were fond of that surname when we were children. Your flight is at 1430. I'll be sending a change of clothes to the morgue. –MH'
Sherlock could almost see the smirk on his brother's face. James Teach. Teach. For Edward Teach, of course. Blackbeard. He scoffed and handed the phone back to Molly.
"Is . . . Do you have a plan?" She asked softly, slipping the phone into her pocket.
He nodded. "Of course."
He turned at the sound of a knock at the morgue doors. Molly gasped quietly. "It's alright. It's one of Mycroft's men. He should have clothes for me."
"O-oh." She nodded and hurried over to the door, coming back a moment later with a bag of clothes.
"These are ghastly." He muttered, peering into the bag. He stalked off to the bathroom to change. After a few minutes later, he walked out, cringing. He was wearing a pair of jeans and a black decal t-shirt with the name of a band he didn't care about. His feet were adorned with red converse high-tops and a black baseball cap was on his head. He groaned and put on the last bit, a black leather jacket.
"I . . . I think you look nice." She gave him a sweet smile and a nod.
"Oh, god . . . Don't, Molly." He shoved his own clothes into the bag and held it out to her. "Take these, will you? Hopefully someday I'll be back for them."
Molly reached out and took the bag from him, looking up at his face with wide eyes. "You . . y-you will come back, r-right?"
Sherlock stiffened slightly at her question before sighing softly. To be honest, he wasn't sure. Of course he would do anything in his power to return, but there was no way he could be sure. And after all she'd done for him, he couldn't lie to her. "I don't know."
Her bottom lip trembled and she put her clipboard and the bag onto the nearby lab table. He watched her, curiously. She walked up to him and stared into his eyes for a moment. It almost looked like she was asking permission, before she gently wrapped her arms around him. Normally he wouldn't have let her get away with that, but under the circumstances . . . And he found himself needing a hug. His own arms found their way around her waist and he held her close for a moment.
"Watch after John." He murmured. "And Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. Make sure they're ok."
"Of course." She whispered against his chest.
"Mr. Holmes." The man who had delivered his clothes was standing in the doorway. "We need to leave for the airport."
Sherlock nodded and stepped out of Molly's embrace. He gave her a small smile that he hoped was reassuring. "Make sure you're ok, too." He told her gently. He bent forward and kissed her cheek softly. "Thank you, Molly Hooper."
With that, he walked off, pulling the brim of his cap down to hide his face, and followed Mycroft's man out of the building, leaving Molly standing there, arms tightly crossed, and tears welling in her eyes.